Oliver. “I can’t keep up with all of them, I mean. And then she asked me a most worrying question. She wanted me–oh, dear, how very difficult it is for me to tell this–” “No, it isn’t,” said Poirot kindly. “It is quite easy. Everyone tells everything to me sooner or later. I’m only a foreigner, you see, so it does not matter. It is easy because I am a foreigner.” “Well, it is rather easy to say things to you,” said Mrs.
Oliver. “You see, she asked me about the girl’s father and mother. She asked me whether her mother had killed her father or her father had killed her mother,” “I beg your pardon,” said Poirot.
“Oh, I know it sounds mad. Well, I thought it was mad.” “Whether your goddaughter’s mother had killed her father, or whether her father had killed her mother.” “That’s right,” said Mrs. Oliver.
“But–was that a matter of fact? Had her father killed her mother or her mother killed her father?” “Well, they were both found shot,” said Mrs. Oliver. “On the top of a cliff. I can’t remember if it was in Cornwall or in Corsica. Something like that.” “It was true, then, what she said?” “Oh, yes, that part of it was true. It happened years ago.
Well, but I mean—why come to me?” “All because you were a crime writer,” said Poirot. “She no doubt said you knew all about crime. This was a real thing that happened?” “Oh, yes. It wasn’t something like what would A do—or what would be the proper procedure if your mother had killed your father or your father had killed your mother. No, it was something that really happened. I suppose really I’d better tell you all about it. I mean, I can’t remember all about it, but it was quite well known at the time. It was about—oh, I should think it was about twenty years ago at least. And, as I say, I can remember the names of the people because I did know them. The wife had been at school with me and I’d known her quite well. We’d been friends. It was a well-known case—you know, it was in all the papers and things like that.
Sir Alistair Ravenscroft and Lady Ravenscroft. A very happy couple and he was a colonel or a general and she’d been with him and they’d been all over the world. Then they bought this house somewhere—I think it was abroad but I can’t remember. And then there were suddenly accounts of this case in the papers. Whether somebody else had killed them or whether they’d been assassinated or something, or whether they killed each other. I think it was a revolver that had been in the house for ages and—well, I’d better tell you as much as I can remember.” Pulling herself slightly together, Mrs. Oliver managed to give Poirot a more or less clear resume of what she had been told. Poirot from time to time checked on a point here or there.
“But why,” he said finally, “why should this woman want to know this?” “Well, that’s what I want to find out,” said Mrs. Oliver, “I could get hold of Celia, I think. I mean, she still lives in London. Or perhaps it’s Cambridge she lives in, or Oxford. I think she’s got a degree and either lectures here or teaches somewhere, or does something like that. And–very modern, you know. Goes about with long-haired people in queer clothes.
I don’t think she takes drugs. She’s quite all right and–just very occasionally I hear from her. I mean, she sends a card at Christmas and things like that. Well, one doesn’t think of one’s godchildren all the time, and she’s quite twenty-five or six.
“Not married?” “No. Apparently she is going to marry–or that is the idea– Mrs.–what’s the name of that woman again?–oh, yes, Mrs.
Brittle–no–Burton-Cox’s son.” “And Mrs. Burton-Cox does not want her son to marry this girl because her father killed her mother or her mother killed her father?” “Well, I suppose so,” said Mrs. Oliver. “It’s the only thing I can think. But what does it matter which? If one of your parents killed the other, would it really matter to the mother of the boy you were going to marry which way round it was?” “That is a thing one might have to think about,” said Poirot. “It is–yes, you know it is quite interesting. I do not mean it is very interesting about Sir Alistair Ravenscroft or Lady Ravenscroft. I seem to remember vaguely–oh, some case like this one, or it might not have been the same one. But it is very strange about Mrs. Burton-Cox. Perhaps she is a bit touched in the head. Is she very fond of her son?” “Probably,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Probably she doesn’t want him to marry this girl at all.” “Because she may have inherited a predisposition to murder the man she marries–or something of that kind?” “How do I know?” said Mrs. Oliver. “She seems to think that I can tell her, and she’s really not told me enough, has she? But why, do you think? What’s behind it all? What does it mean?” “It would be most interesting to find out,” said Poirot.