"Oh, Mrs. Oliver," she said in a high-pitched voice. "What a pleasure to meet you today. I have wanted to for so long. I simply adore your books. So does my son. And my husband used to insist on never traveling without at least two of your books. But come, do sit down. There are so many things I want to ask you about."
Oh, well, thought Mrs. Oliver, not my favorite type of woman, this. But as well her as any other.
She allowed herself to be conducted in a firm way, rather as a police officer might have done. She was taken to a settee for two across a corner, and her new friend accepted coffee and placed coffee before her also.
"There. Now we are settled. I don't suppose you know my name. I am Mrs. Burton-Cox."
"Oh yes," said Mrs. Oliver, embarrassed, as usual. Mrs. Burton-Cox? Did she write books also? No, she couldn't really remember anything about her. But she seemed to have heard the name. A faint thought came to her. A book on politics, something like that? Not fiction, not fun, not crime. Perhaps a high-brow intellectual with political bias? That ought to be easy, Mrs. Oliver thought with relief. I can just let her talk and say, "How interesting!" from time to time.
"You'll be very surprised, really, at what I'm going to say," said Mrs. Burton-Cox. "But I have felt, from reading your books, how sympathetic you are, how much you understand of human nature. And I feel that if there is anyone who can give me an answer to the question I want to ask, you will be the one to do so."
"I don't think, really..." said Mrs. Oliver, trying to think of suitable words to say that she felt very uncertain of being able to rise to the heights demanded of her.
Mrs. Burton-Cox dipped a lump of sugar in her coffee and crunched it in a rather carnivorous way, as though it was a bone. Ivory teeth, perhaps, thought Mrs. Oliver vaguely. Ivory? Dogs had ivory, walruses had ivory and elephants had ivory, of course. Great big tusks of ivory. Mrs. Burton-Cox was saying:
"Now the first thing I must ask you - I'm pretty sure that I am right, though - you have a goddaughter, haven't you? A daughter who's called Celia Ravenscroft?"
"Oh," said Mrs. Oliver, rather pleasurably surprised. She felt she could deal perhaps with a goddaughter. She had a good many goddaughters - and godsons, for that matter. There were times, she had to admit as the years were growing upon her, when she couldn't remember them all. She had done her duty in due course, one's duty being to send toys to your godchildren at Christmas in their early years, to visit them and their parents, or to have them visit you during the course of their upbringing, to take the boys out from school perhaps, and the girls also. And then, when the crowning days came, either the twenty-first birthday at which a godmother must do the right thing and let it be acknowledged to be done, and do it handsomely, or else marriage, which entailed the same type of gift and a financial or other blessing. After that godchildren rather receded into the middle or far distance. They married or went abroad to foreign countries, foreign embassies, or taught in foreign schools or took up social projects. Anyway, they faded little by little out of your life. You were pleased to see them if they suddenly, as it were, floated up on the horizon again. But you had to remember to think when you had seen them last, whose daughters they were, what link had led to your being chosen as a godmother.
"Celia Ravenscroft," said Mrs. Oliver, doing her best. "Yes, yes, of course. Yes, definitely."
Not that any picture rose before her eyes of Celia Ravenscroft, not, that is, since a very early time. The christening.
She'd gone to Celia's christening and had found a very nice Queen Anne silver strainer as a christening present. Very nice. Do nicely for straining milk and would also be the sort of thing a goddaughter could always sell for a nice little sum if she wanted ready money at any time. Yes, she remembered the strainer very well indeed. Queen Anne - Seventeen-eleven it had been. Britannia mark. How much easier it was to remember silver coffeepots or strainers or christening mugs than it was the actual child.
"Yes," she said, "yes, of course. I'm afraid I haven't seen Celia for a very long time now."
"Ah, yes. She is, of course, a rather impulsive girl," said Mrs. Burton-Cox. "I mean, she's changed her ideas very often. Of course, very intellectual, did very well at university, but - her political notions - I suppose all young people have political notions nowadays."
"I'm afraid I don't deal much with politics," said Mrs. Oliver, to whom politics had always been anathema.
"You see, I'm going to confide in you. I'm going to tell you exactly what it is I want to know. I'm sure you won't mind. I've heard, from so many people how kind you are, how willing always."
I wonder if she's going to try and borrow money from me, thought Mrs. Oliver, who had known many interviews that began with this kind of approach.
"You see, it is a matter of the greatest moment to me. Something that I really feel I must find out. Celia, you see, is going to marry - or thinks she is going to marry - my son, Desmond."
"Oh, indeed!" said Mrs. Oliver.
"At least, that is their idea at present. Of course, one has to know about people, and there's something I want very much to know. It's an extraordinary thing to ask anyone and I couldn't go - well, I mean, I couldn't very well go and ask a stranger, but I don't feel you are a stranger, dear Mrs. Oliver."
Mrs. Oliver thought, I wish you did. She was getting nervous now. She wondered if Celia had had an illegitimate baby or was going to have an illegitimate baby, and whether she, Mrs. Oliver, was supposed to know about it and give details. That would be very awkward. On the other hand, thought Mrs. Oliver, I haven't seen her now for five or six years and she must be about twenty-five or -six, so it would be quite easy to say I don't know anything.
Mrs. Burton-Cox leaned forward and breathed hard.
"I want you to tell me, because I'm sure you must know or perhaps have a very good idea how it all came about. Did her mother kill her father or was it the father who killed the mother?"
Whatever Mrs. Oliver had expected, it was certainly not that. She stared at Mrs. Burton-Cox unbelievingly.
"But I don't -" She stopped. "I - I can't understand. I mean - what reason -"
"Dear Mrs. Oliver, you must know... I mean, such a famous case... Of course, I know it's a long time ago now, well, I suppose ten - twenty years at least, but it did cause a lot of attention at the time. I'm sure you'll remember, you must remember."
Mrs. Oliver's brain was working desperately. Celia was her goddaughter. That was quite true. Celia's mother - yes, of course, Celia's mother had been Molly Preston-Grey, who had been a friend of hers, though not a particularly intimate one, and of course she had married a man in the Army, yes - what was his name? - Sir Something Ravenscroft. Or was he an ambassador? Extraordinary, one couldn't remember these things. She couldn't even remember whether she herself had been Molly's bridesmaid. She thought she had. Rather a smart wedding at the Guards Chapel or something like that. But one did forget so. And after that she hadn't met them for years - they'd been out somewhere - in the Middle East? In Persia? In Iraq? One time in Egypt? India? Very occasionally, when they had been visiting England, she met them again. 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 célèbre.
"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. Burton-Cox. "Children always know everything. And she'd tell you. I'm sure she'd tell you."
"You'd better ask her yourself, I should think," said Mrs. Oliver.
"I don't think I could really do that," said Mrs. Burton-Cox. "I don't think, you know, that Desmond would like it. You know he's rather - well, he's rather touchy where Celia is concerned, and I really don't think that - no - I'm sure she'd tell you."
"I really shouldn't dream of asking her," said Mrs. Oliver.
She made a pretence of looking at her watch.
"Oh, dear," she said, "what a long time we've been over this delightful lunch, I must run now. I have a very important appointment. Goodbye, Mrs. - er - Bedley-Cox, so sorry I can't help you, but these things are rather delicate and - does it really make any difference anyway, from your point of view?"
"Oh, I think it makes all the difference."
At that moment, a literary figure whom Mrs. Oliver knew well drifted past. Mrs. Oliver jumped up to catch her by the arm.
"Louise, my dear, how lovely to see you. I hadn't noticed you were here."
"Oh, Ariadne, it's a long time since I've seen you. You've grown a lot thinner, haven't you?"
"What nice things you always say to me," said Mrs. Oliver, engaging her friend by the arm and retreating from the settee.
"I'm rushing away because I've got an appointment."
"I suppose you got tied up with that awful woman, didn't you?" said her friend, looking over her shoulder at Mrs. Burton-Cox.
"She was asking me the most extraordinary questions," said Mrs. Oliver.
"Oh. Didn't you know how to answer them?"
"No. They weren't any of my business anyway. I didn't know anything about them. Anyway, I wouldn't have wanted to answer them."
"Was it about anything interesting?"
"I suppose," said Mrs. Oliver, letting a new idea come into her head, "I suppose it might be interesting, only -"
"She's getting up to chase you," said her friend. "Come along. I'll see you get out and give you a lift to anywhere you want to go if you haven't got your car here."
"I never take my car about in London, it's so awful to park."
"I know it is. Absolutely deadly."
Mrs. Oliver made the proper good-byes, thanks, words of greatly expressed pleasure, and presently was being driven round a London square.
"Eaton Terrace, isn't it?" said the kindly friend.
