"Who else was there living in the house?" "A housekeeper, elderly, rather blind and rather deaf, a foreign girl, an au pair girl, she'd been my governess once- she was awfully nice-she came back to look after my mother, who had been in hospital- And there was an aunt whom I never loved much. I don't think any of them could have been likely to have any grudge against my parents. There was nobody who profited by their deaths, except, I suppose, myself and my brother Edward, who was four years younger than I was. We inherited what money there was, but it wasn't very much. My father had his pension, of course. My mother had a small income of her own. No. There was nothing there of any importance." "I'm sorry," said Mrs. Oliver. "I'm sorry if I've distressed you by asking all this." "You haven't distressed me. You've brought it up in my mind a little and it has interested me. Because, you see, I am of an age now that I wish I did know. I knew and was fond of them, as one is fond of parents. Not passionately, just normally, but I realize I don't know what they were really like. What their life was like. What mattered to them. I don't know anything about it all. I wish I did know. It's like a burr, something sticking into you, and you can't leave it alone. Yes.

I would like to know. Because then, you see, I shouldn't have to think about it any more." "So you do? Think about it?" Celia looked at her for a moment. She seemed to be trying to come to a decision.

"Yes," she said, "I think about it nearly all the time. I'm getting to have a thing about it, if you know what I mean. And Desmond feels the same."

Helercule Poirot let the revolving door wind him round.

Arresting the swing of it with one hand, he stepped forward into the small restaurant. There were not many people there.

It was an unfashionable time of day, but his eyes soon saw the man he had come to meet. The square, solid bulk of Superintendent Spence rose from the table in one corner.

"Good," he said. "You have arrived here. You had no difficulty in finding it?" "None at all. Your instructions were most adequate," "Let me introduce you now. This is Chief Superintendent Garroway. Monsieur Hercule Poirot." Garroway was a tall, thin man with a lean, ascetic face, gray hair which left a small round spot like a tonsure, so that he had a faint resemblance to an ecclesiastic.

"This is wonderful," said Poirot.

"I am retired now, of course," said Garroway, "but one remembers. Yes, certain things one remembers, although they are past and gone, and the general public probably remembers nothing about them. But yes." Hercule Poirot very nearly said "Elephants do remember," but checked himself in time. That phrase was so associated in his mind now with Mrs. Ariadne Oliver that he found it difficult to restrain it from his tongue in many clearly unsuitable categories.

"I hope you have not been getting impatient," said Superintendent Spence.

He pulled forward a chair, and the three men sat down. A menu was brought. Superintendent Spence, who was clearly addicted to this particular restaurant, offered tentative words of advice. Garroway and Poirot made their choice. Then, leaning back a little in their chairs and sipping glasses of sherry, they contemplated each other for some minutes in silence before speaking.

"I must apologize to you," said Poirot, "I really must apologize to you for coming to you with my demands about an affair which is over and done with." "What interests me," said Spence, "is what has interested you. I thought first that it was unlike you to have this wish to delve in the past. Is it connected with something that has occurred nowadays, or is it sudden curiosity about a rather inexplicable, perhaps, case? Do you agree with that?" He looked across the table.

"Inspector Garroway," he said, "as he was at that time, was the officer in charge of the investigations into the Ravenscroft shooting. He was an old friend of mine and so I had no difficulty in getting in touch with him." "And he was kind enough to come here today," said Poirot, "simply because I must admit to a curiosity which I am sure I have no right to feel about an affair that is past and done with." "Well, I wouldn't say that," said Garroway. "We all have interests in certain cases that are past. Did Lizzie Borden really kill her father and mother with an ax? There are people who still do not think so. Who killed Charles Bravo and why? There are several different ideas, mostly not very well founded. But still people try to find alternative explanations."

His keen, shrewd eyes looked across at Poirot.

"And Monsieur Poirot, if I am not mistaken, has occasionally shown a leaning towards looking into cases, going back, shall we say, for murder, back into the past, twice, perhaps three times." "Three times, certainly," said Superintendent Spence.

"Once, I think I am right, by request of a Canadian girl." "That is so," said Poirot. "A Canadian girl, very vehement, very passionate, very forceful, who had come here to investigate a murder for which her mother had been condemned to death, although she died before sentence was carried out. Her daughter was convinced that her mother had been innocent." "And you agreed?" said Garroway.

"I did not agree," said Poirot, "when she first told me of the matter. But she was very vehement and very sure." "It was natural for a daughter to wish her mother to have been innocent and to try and prove against all appearances that she was mhocent," said Spence.

"It was just a little more than that," said Poirot. "She convinced me of the type of woman her mother was." "A woman incapable of murder?" "No," said Poirot, "it would be very difficult, and I am sure both of you agree with me, to think there is anyone quite incapable of murder if one knows what kind of person they are, what led up to it. But in that particular case, the mother never protested her innocence. She appeared to be quite content to be sentenced. That was curious to begin with. Was she a defeatist? It did not seem so. When I began to inquire, it became clear that she was not a defeatist. She was, one would say, almost the opposite of it." Garroway looked interested. He leaned across the table, twisting a bit of bread off the roll on his plate.

"And was she innocent?" "Yes,." said Poirot. "She was innocent." "And that surprised you?" "Not by the time I realized it," said Poirot. "There were one or two things-one thing in particular-that showed she could not have been guilty. One fact that nobody had appreciated at the time. Knowing that, one had only to look at what there was, shall we say, on the menu in the way of looking elsewhere."* Grilled trout was put in front of them at this point.

"There was another case, too, where you looked into the past, not quite in the same way," continued Spence. "A girl who said at a party that she had once seen a murder committed, "if "There again one had to-how shall I put it?-step backward instead of forward," said Poirot. "Yes, that is very true." "And had the girl seen the murder committed?" "No," said Poirot, "because it was the wrong girl. This trout is delicious," he added with appreciation.

"They do all fish dishes very well here," said Superintendent Spence.

He helped himself from the sauce boat proffered to him.

"A most delicious sauce," he added.

Silent appreciation of food filled the next three minutes.

"When Spence came along to me," said Superintendent Garroway, "asking if I remembered anything about the Ravenscroft case, I was intrigued and delighted at once." "You haven't forgotten all about it?" "Not the Ravenscroft case. It wasn't an easy case to forget about." "You agree," said Poirot, "that there were discrepancies about it? Lack of proof, alternative solutions?" "No," said Garroway, "nothing of that kind. All the evidence recorded the visible facts. Deaths of which there were several former examples, yes, all plain sailing. And yet-" "Well?" said Poirot.