Her sister Molly was extremely upset and bitterly unhappy about this, but I would like to say, which you probably want to know, I do not think that this can in any way be held responsible for the subsequent suicide of the married couple who were living so happily together. Grief for a sister's or a sister-in-law's death would hardly lead you to commit suicide.

Certainly not to a double suicide," "Unless, perhaps," said Hercule Poirot, "Margaret Ravenscroft had been responsible for her sister's death." "Good heavens!" said Dr. Willoughby, "surely you are not suggesting-" "That it was Margaret who followed her sleepwalking sister, and that it was Margaret's hand that was stretched out to push Dorothea over the cliff edge?" "I refuse absolutely," said Dr. Willoughby, "to accept any such idea." "With people," said Hercule Poirot, "one never knows."

Mrs. Oliver looked at Cheltenham with approval. As it happened, she had never been to Cheltenham before. How nice, said Mrs. Oliver to herself, to see some houses that are really like houses, proper houses.

Casting her mind back to youthful days, she remembered that she had known people, or at least her relations, her aunts, had known people who lived at Cheltenham. Retired people usually. Army or Navy. It was the sort of place, she thought, where one would like to come and live if one had spent a good deal of time abroad. It had a feeling of English security, good taste and pleasant chat and conversation.

After looking in one or two agreeable antique shops, she found her way to where she wanted-or rather Hercule Poirot wanted her-to go. It was called The Rose Green Hairdressing Saloons. She walked inside it and looked round. Four or five people were in process of having things done to their hair. A plump young lady left her client and came forward with an inquiring air.

"Mrs. Rosentelle?" said Mrs. Oliver, glancing down at a card. "I understand she said she could see me if I came here this morning. I don't mean," she added, "having anything done to my hair, but I wanted to consult her about something and I believe a telephone call was made and she said if I came at half-past eleven she could spare me a short time." "Oh, yes," said the girl. "I think Madam is expecting someone." She led the way through a passage down a short flight of steps and pushed a swing door at the bottom of it. From the hairdressing saloon they had passed into what was obviously Mrs. Rosentelle's house. The plump girl knocked at the door and said, "The lady to see you," as she put her nose in, and then asked rather nervously, "What name did you say?" "Mrs. Oliver," said Mrs. Oliver.

She walked in. It had a faint effect of what might have been yet another showroom. There were curtains of rose gauze and roses on the wallpaper and Mrs. Rosentelle, a woman Mrs.

Oliver thought of as roughly her own age or possibly a good many years older, was just finishing what was obviously a cup of morning coffee.

"Mrs. Rosentelle?" said Mrs. Oliver.

"Yes?" "You did expect me?" "Oh, yes. I didn't quite understand what it was all about.

The lines are so bad on the telephone. That is quite all right. I have about half an hour to spare. Would you like some coffee?" "No, thank you," said Mrs. Oliver. "I won't keep you any longer than I need. It is just something that I want to ask you about, that you may happen to remember. You have had quite a long career, I understand, in the hairdressing business." "Oh, yes. I'm quite thankful to give over to the girls now. I don't do anything myself these days." "Perhaps you still advise people?" "Yes, I do do that." Mrs. Rosentelle smiled.

She had a nice, intelligent face with well-arranged brown hair with somewhat interesting gray streaks in it here and there.

"I'm not sure what it's all about." "Well, really, I wanted to ask you a question about, well, I suppose in a way about wigs generally." "We don't do as much in wigs now as we used to do." "You had a business in London, didn't you?" "Yes. First in Bond Street and then we moved to Sloane Street, but it's very nice to live in the country after all that, you know. Oh, yes, my husband and I are very satisfied here.

We run a small business, but we don't do much in the wig line nowadays," she said, "though my husband does advise and get wigs designed for men who are bald. It really makes a big difference; you know, to many people in their business if they don't look too old and it often helps in getting a job." "I can quite imagine that," said Mrs. Oliver.

From sheer nervousness she said a few more things in the way of ordinary chat and wondered how she would start on her subject. She was startled when Mrs. Rosentelle leaned forward and said suddenly, "You are Ariadne Oliver, aren't you? The novel writer?" "Yes," said Mrs. Oliver, "as a matter of fact-" she had her usual somewhat shamefaced expression when she said this, that was habitual to her-"yes, I do write novels." "I'm so fond of your books. I've read a lot of them. Oh, this is very nice indeed. Now tell me in what way can I help you?" "Well, I wanted to talk about wigs and about something that happened a great many years ago and probably you mayn't remember anything about it." "Well, I rather wonder-do you mean fashions of years ago?", "Not exactly. It's a woman, a friend of mine-actually I was at school with her-and then she married and went out to India and came back to England, and there was a tragedy later and one of the things I think that people found surprising after it was that she had so many wigs. I think they had been all supplied by you, by your firm, I mean." "Oh, a tragedy. What was her name?" "Well, her name when I knew her was Preston-Grey, but afterwards her name was Ravenscroft." "Oh. Oh, yes, that one. Yes, I do remember Lady Ravenscroft.

I remember her quite well. She was so nice and really very, very good-looking still. Yes, her husband was a colonel or a general or something and they'd retired and they lived in-I forget the county now-" "And there was what was supposed to be a double suicide," said Mrs. Oliver.

"Yes. Yes, I remember reading about it and saying, 'Why, that's our Lady Ravenscroft,' and then there was a picture of them both in the paper, and I saw that it was so. Of course, I'd never seen him, but it was her all right. It seemed so sad, so much grief. I heard that they discovered that she had cancer and they couldn't do anything about it so this happened. But I never heard any details or anything." "No," said Mrs. Oliver.

"But what is it you think I can tell you?" "You supplied her with wigs and I understand the people investigating, I suppose the police, thought four wigs was quite a lot to have, but perhaps people did have four wigs at a time?" "Well, I think that most people had two wigs at least," said Mrs. Rosentelle. "You know, one to send back to be serviced, as you might say, and the other one that they wore while it was away." "Do you remember Lady Ravenscroft ordering an extra two wigs?" "She didn't come herself. I think she'd been or was ill in hospital, or something, and it was a French young lady who came. I think a French lady who was companion to her or something like that. Very nice. Spoke perfect English. And she explained all about the extra wigs she wanted, sizes and colors and styles and ordered them. Yes. Fancy my remembering it. I suppose I wouldn't have except that about-oh, it must have been a month later-a month, perhaps, more, six weeks-I read about the suicide you know. I'm afraid they gave her bad news at the hospital or wherever she was, and so she just couldn't face living any more, and her husband felt he couldn't face life without her-" Mrs. Oliver shook her head sadly and continued her inquiries.