Elephants Can Remember

There does not seem to have been any large amount of money anywhere. There are various stories of love affairs, women who were attractive to the husband, men who were attractive to the wife. An affair there one side or the other could have led to suicide or to murder. It very often does. Then we come to what at the moment inclines me to the most interest. That is why I am so anxious to meet Mrs. Burton-Cox." "Oh. That awful woman. I don't see why you think she's important. All she did was to go being a nosey-parker and wanting me to find out things." "Yes, but why did she want you to find out things? It seems to me very odd, that. It seems to me that that is something that one has to find out about. She is the link, you see." "The link?" "Yes. We do not know what the link was, where it was, how it was. All we know is that she wants desperately to learn more about this suicide. Being a link, she connects both with your godchild, Celia Ravenscroft, and with the son who is not her son." "What do you mean-not her son?" "He is an adopted son," said Poirot. "A son she adopted because her own son died," "How did her own child die? Why? When?" "All these things I asked myself. She could be a link, a link of emotion, a wish for revenge through hatred, through some love affair. At any rate I must see her. I must make up my mind about her. Yes. I cannot help but think that is very important." There was a ring at the bell and Mrs. Oliver went out of the room to answer it.

"This, I think, could be Celia," she said. "You're sure it's all right?" "By me, yes," said Poirot. "By her also, I hope." Mrs. Oliver came back a few minutes later. Celia Ravenscroft was with her. She had a doubtful, suspicious look.

"I don't know," she said, "if I-" She stopped, staring at Hercule Poirot.

"I want to introduce you," said Mrs. Oliver, "to someone who is helping me, and I hope is helping you also. That is, helping you in what you want to know and to find out. This is Monsieur Hercule Poirot. He has special genius in finding out things." "Oh," said Celia.

She looked very doubtfully at the egg-shaped head, the monstrous moustaches and the small stature.

"I think," she said rather doubtfully, "that I have heard of him." Hercule Poirot stopped himself with a slight effort from saying firmly, "Most people have heard of me." It was not quite as true as it used to be, because many people who had heard of Hercule Poirot and known him were now reposing with suitable memorial stones over them in churchyards. He said: "Sit down, mademoiselle. I will tell you this much about myself. That when I start an investigation I pursue it to the end. I will bring to light the truth and if it is, shall we say, truly the truth that you want, then I will deliver that knowledge to you. But it may be that you want reassuring.

That is not the same thing as the truth. I can find various aspects that might reassure you. Will that be enough? If so, do not ask for more." Celia sat down in the chair he had pushed towards her, and looked at him rather earnestly. Then she said: "You don't think I'd care for the truth, is that it?" "I think," said Poirot, "that the truth might be-a shock, a sorrow, and it might be that you would have said 'why did I not leave all this behind? Why did I ask for knowledge? It is painful knowledge about which I can do nothing helpful or hopeful.' It is a double suicide by a father and a mother that I-well, we'll admit it-that I loved. It is not a disadvantage to love a mother and father." "It seems to be considered so nowadays occasionally," said Mrs. Oliver. "New article of belief, shall we say." "That's the way I've been living," said Celia. "Beginning to wonder, you know. Catching on to odd things that people said sometimes. People who looked at me rather pityingly. But more than that. With curiosity as well. One begins to find out, you know, things about people, I mean. People you meet, people you know, people who used to know your family. I don't want this life. I want… you think I don't really want it, but I do-I want truth. I'm able to deal with truth. Just tell me something." It was not a continuation of the conversation. Celia had turned on Poirot with a separate question. Something which had replaced what had been in her mind just previously.