But they’d been like one of those photographs that one takes and looks at. One knows the people vaguely who are in it, but it’s so faded that you really can’t recognize them or remember who they were. And she couldn’t remember now whether Sir Something Ravenscroft and Lady Ravenscroft, born Molly Preston Grey, had entered much into her life. She didn’t think so. But then… Mrs. Burton-Cox was still looking at her. Looking at her as though disappointed in her lack of savoir-faire, her inability to remember what had evidently been a cause celebre.
“Killed? You mean—an accident?” “Oh, no. Not an accident. In one of those houses by the sea.
Cornwall, I think. Somewhere where there were rocks. Anyway, they had a house down there. And they were both found on the cliff there and they’d been shot, you know. But there was nothing really that the police could tell whether the wife shot the husband and then shot herself, or whether the husband shot the wife and then shot himself. They went into the evidence of the—you know—of the bullets and the various things, but it was very difficult. They thought it might be a suicide pact and—I forget what the verdict was. Something—it could have been misadventure or something like that. But of course everyone knew it must have been meant, and there were a lot of stories that went about, of course, at the time—” “Probably all invented ones,” said Mrs. Oliver hopefully, trying to remember even one of the stories if she could.
“Well, maybe. Maybe. It’s very hard to say, I know. There were tales of a quarrel either that day or before, there was some talk of another man, and then of course there was the usual talk about some other woman. And one never knows which way it was about. I think things were hushed up a good deal because General Ravenscroft’s position was rather a high one, and I think it was said that he’d been in a nursing home that year, and he’d been very rundown or something, and that he really didn’t know what he was doing.” “I’m really afraid,” said Mrs. Oliver, speaking firmly, “that I must say that I don’t know anything about it. I do remember, now you mention it, that there was such a case, and I remember the names and that I knew the people, but I never knew what happened or anything at all about it. And I really don’t think I have the least idea…” And really, thought Mrs. Oliver, wishing she was brave enough to say it, how on earth you have the impertinence to ask me such a thing, I don’t know.
“It’s very important that I should know,” Mrs. Burton-Cox said.
Her eyes, which were rather like hard marbles, started to snap.
“It’s important, you see, because of my boy, my dear boy wanting to marry Celia.” “I’m afraid I can’t help you,” said Mrs. Oliver. “I’ve never heard anything.” “But you must know,” said Mrs. Burton-Cox. “I mean, you write these wonderful stories, you know all about crime. You know who commits crimes and why they do it, and I’m sure that all sorts of people will tell you the story behind the story, as one so much thinks of these things.” “I don’t know anything,” said Mrs. Oliver in a voice which no longer held very much politeness, and definitely now spoke in tones of distaste.
“But you do see that really one doesn’t know who to go to to ask about it? I mean, one couldn’t go to the police after all these years, and I don’t suppose they’d tell you anyway, because obviously they were trying to hush it up. But I feel it’s important to get the truth.” “I only write books,” said Mrs. Oliver coldly. “They are entirely fictional. I know nothing personally about crime and have no opinions on criminology. So I’m afraid I can’t help you in any way.” “But you could ask your goddaughter. You could ask Celia.” “Ask Celia!” Mrs. Oliver stared again. “I don’t see how I could do that. She was–why, I think she must have been quite a child when this tragedy happened.” “Oh, I expect she knew all about it, though,” said Mrs.