Elephants Can Remember. Agatha Christie

for goodness’ sake dust yourself as well. You’ve got six cobwebs in your left ear.’

      She glanced at her watch and rang the Islington number again. The voice that answered this time was purely Anglo-Saxon and had a crisp sharpness about it that Mrs Oliver felt was rather satisfactory.

      ‘Miss Ravenscroft?—Celia Ravenscroft?’

      ‘Yes, this is Celia Ravenscroft.’

      ‘Well, I don’t expect you’ll remember me very well. I’m Mrs Oliver. Ariadne Oliver. We haven’t seen each other for a long time, but actually I’m your godmother.’

      ‘Oh yes, of course. I know that. No, we haven’t seen each other for a long time.’

      ‘I wonder very much if I could see you, if you could come and see me, or whatever you like. Would you like to come to a meal or …’

      ‘Well, it’s rather difficult at present, where I’m working. I could come round this evening, if you like. About half past seven or eight. I’ve got a date later but …’

      ‘If you do that I shall be very, very pleased,’ said Mrs Oliver.

      ‘Well, of course I will.’

      ‘I’ll give you the address.’ Mrs Oliver gave it.

      ‘Good. I’ll be there. Yes, I know where that is, quite well.’

      Mrs Oliver made a brief note on the telephone pad, and looked with some annoyance at Miss Livingstone, who had just come into the room struggling under the weight of a large album.

      ‘I wondered if this could possibly be it, Mrs Oliver?’

      ‘No, it couldn’t,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘That’s got cookery recipes in it.’

      ‘Oh dear,’ said Miss Livingstone, ‘so it has.’

      ‘Well, I might as well look at some of them anyway,’ said Mrs Oliver, removing the volume firmly. ‘Go and have another look. You know, I’ve thought about the linen cupboard. Next door to the bathroom. You’d have to look on the top shelf above the bath towels. I do sometimes stick papers and books in there. Wait a minute. I’ll come up and look myself.’

      Ten minutes later Mrs Oliver was looking through the pages of a faded album. Miss Livingstone, having entered her final stage of martyrdom, was standing by the door. Unable to bear the sight of so much suffering, Mrs Oliver said,

      ‘Well, that’s all right. You might just take a look in the desk in the dining-room. The old desk. You know, the one that’s broken a bit. See if you can find some more address books. Early ones. Anything up to about ten years old will be worth while having a look at. And after that,’ said Mrs Oliver, ‘I don’t think I shall want anything more today.’

      Miss Livingstone departed. ‘I wonder,’ said Mrs Oliver to herself, releasing a deep sigh as she sat down. She looked through the pages of the birthday book. ‘Who’s better pleased? She to go or I to see her go? After Celia has come and gone, I shall have to have a busy evening.’

      Taking a new exercise book from the pile she kept on a small table by her desk, she entered various dates, possible addresses and names, looked up one or two more things in the telephone book and then proceeded to ring up Monsieur Hercule Poirot.

      ‘Ah, is that you, Monsieur Poirot?’

      ‘Yes, madame, it is I myself.’

      ‘Have you done anything?’ said Mrs Oliver.

      ‘I beg your pardon—have I done what?’

      ‘Anything,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘What I asked you about yesterday.’

      ‘Yes, certainly. I have put things in motion. I have arranged to make certain enquiries.’

      ‘But you haven’t made them yet,’ said Mrs Oliver, who had a poor view of what the male view was of doing something.

      ‘And you, chère madame?’

      ‘I have been very busy,’ said Mrs Oliver.

      ‘Ah! And what have you been doing, madame?’

      ‘Assembling elephants,’ said Mrs Oliver, ‘if that means anything to you.’

      ‘I think I can understand what you mean, yes.’

      ‘It’s not very easy, looking into the past,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘It is astonishing, really, how many people one does remember when one comes to look up names. My word, the silly things they write in birthday books sometimes, too. I can’t think why when I was about sixteen or seventeen or even thirty, I wanted people to write in my birthday book. There’s a sort of quotation from a poet for every particular day in the year. Some of them are terribly silly.’

      ‘You are encouraged in your search?’

      ‘Not quite encouraged,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘But I still think I’m on the right lines. I’ve rung up my goddaughter—’

      ‘Ah. And you are going to see her?’

      ‘Yes, she is coming to see me. Tonight between seven and eight, if she doesn’t run out on me. One never knows. Young people are very unreliable.’

      ‘She appeared pleased that you had rung her up?’

      ‘I don’t know,’ said Mrs Oliver, ‘not particularly pleased. She’s got a very incisive voice and—I remember now, the last time I saw her, that must be about six years ago, I thought then that she was rather frightening.’

      ‘Frightening? In what way?’

      ‘What I mean is that she was more likely to bully me than I would be to bully her.’

      ‘That may be a good thing and not a bad thing.’

      ‘Oh, do you think so?’

      ‘If people have made up their minds that they do not wish to like you, that they are quite sure they do not like you, they will get more pleasure out of making you aware of the fact and in that way will release more information to you than they would have done if they were trying to be amiable and agreeable.’

      ‘Sucking up to me, you mean? Yes, you have something there. You mean then they tell you things that they thought would please you. And the other way they’d be annoyed with you and they’d say things that they’d hope would annoy you. I wonder if Celia’s like that? I really remember her much better when she was five years old than at any other age. She had a nursery governess and she used to throw her boots at her.’

      ‘The governess at the child, or the child at the governess?’

      ‘The child at the governess, of course!’ said Mrs Oliver.

      She replaced the receiver and went over to the sofa to examine the various piled-up memories of the past. She murmured names under her breath.

      ‘Mariana Josephine Pontarlier—of course, yes, I haven’t thought of her for years—I thought she was dead. Anna Braceby—yes, yes, she lived in that part of the world—I wonder now—’

      Continuing all this, time passed—she was quite surprised when the bell rang. She went out herself to open the door.