Her brows drew together. It was as though what Poirot had just said aroused her interest. “I have wondered, you know. I have wondered so much since, and at the time, really. They were identical twins, you know. They had a bond between them, a bond of mutual dependence and love and in many ways they were very alike. But there were ways also in which they were not alike.” “You mean? I should be glad to know just what you mean by that.” “Oh, this has nothing to do with the tragedy. Nothing of that kind. But there was a definite, as I shall put it, a definite physical or mental flaw–whichever way you like to put it.
Some people nowadays hold the theory that there is some physical cause for any kind of mental disorder. I believe that it is fairly well recognized by the medical profession that identical twins are born either with a great bond between them, a great likeness in their characters which means that although they may be divided in their environment, where they are brought up, the same things will happen to them at the same time of life. They will take the same trend. Some of the cases quoted as medical examples seem quite extraordinary.
Two sisters, one living in Europe, one, say, in France, the other in England, they have a dog of the same kind which they choose at about the same date. They marry men singularly alike. They give birth perhaps to a child almost within a month of each other. It is as though they have to follow the pattern wherever they are and without knowing what the other one is doing. Then there is the opposite to that. A kind of revulsion, a hatred almost, that makes one sister draw apart, or one brother reject the other as though they seek to get away from the sameness, the likeness, the knowledge, the things they have in common. And that can lead to very strange results.” “I know,” said Poirot, “I have heard of it. I have seen it once or twice. Love can turn to hate very easily. It is easier to hate where you have loved than it is to be indifferent where you have loved.” “Ah, you know that,” said Mademoiselle Meauhourat.
“Yes, I have seen it not once but several times. Lady Ravenscroft’s sister was very like her?” “I think she was still very like her in appearance, though, if I may say so, the expression on her face was very different. She was in a condition of strain as Lady Ravenscroft was not. She had a great aversion to children. I don’t know why. Perhaps she had had a miscarriage in early life. Perhaps she had longed for a child and never had one, but she had a kind of resentment against children. A dislike of them.” “That had led to one or two rather serious happenings, had it not?” said Poirot.
“Someone has told you that?” “I have heard things from people who knew both sisters when they were in India. Lady Ravenscroft was there with her husband and her sister. Dolly, came out to stay with them there. There was an accident to a child there, and it was thought that Dolly might have been partially responsible for it. Nothing was proved definitely, but I gather that Molly’s husband took his sister-in-law home to England and she had once more to go into a mental home.” “Yes, I believe that is a very good account of what happened.
I do not of course know it of my own knowledge.” “No, but there are things you do know, I think, from your own knowledge.” “If so, I see no reason for bringing them back to mind now.
Is it not better to leave things when at least they have been accepted?” “There are other things that could have happened that day at Overcliffe. It may have been a double suicide, it could,have been a murder, it could have been several other things. You were told what had happened, but I think, from one little sentence you just said, that you know what happened of your own knowledge. You know what happened that day and I think you know what happened perhaps–or began to happen, shall we say?–sometime before that. The time when Celia had gone to Switzerland and you were still at Overcliffe. I will ask you one question. I would like to know what your answer would be to it. It is not a thing of direct information.