Once more Hercule Poirot stood on the cliff overlooking the rocks below and the sea breaking against them. Here where he stood the bodies of a husband and wife had been found. Here, three weeks before that a woman had walked in her sleep and fallen to her death.

"Why had these things happened?" That had been Superintendent Garroway's question.

Why? What had led to it?

An accident first-and three weeks later a double suicide.

Old sins that had left long shadows. A beginning that had led years later to a tragic end.

Today there would be people meeting here. A boy and a girl who sought the truth. Two people who knew the truth.

Hercule Poirot turned away from the sea and back along the narrow path that led to a house once called Overcliffe.

It was not very far. He saw cars parked against a wall. He saw the outline of a house against the sky. A house that was clearly empty, that needed repainting. A house agent's board hung there, announcing that "this desirable property" was for sale. On the gate the word Overcliffe had a line drawn over it and the name Down House replaced it. He went to meet two people who were walking towards him. One was Desmond Burton-Cox and the other was Celia Ravenscroft.

"I got an order from the house agent," said Desmond, "saying we wanted to view it or however they put it. I've got the key in case we want to go inside. It's changed hands twice in the last five years. But there wouldn't be anything to see there now, would there?" "I shouldn't think so," said Celia. "After all, it's belonged to lots of people already. Some people called Archer who first bought it, and then somebody called Fallowfield, I think.

They said it was too lonely. And now these last people are selling it, too. Perhaps they were haunted." "Do you really believe in haunted houses?" said Desmond.

"Well now, of course I don't think so really," said Celia, "but this might be, mightn't it? I mean, the sort of things that happened, the sort of place it is and everything…" "I do not think so," said Poirot. "There was sorrow here and death, but there was also love." A taxi came along the road.

"I expect that's Mrs. Oliver," said Celia. "She said she'd come by train and take a taxi from the station." Two women got out of the taxi. One was Mrs. Oliver and with her was a tall, elegantly dressed woman. Since Poirot knew she was coming, he was not taken by surprise. He watched Celia to see if she had any reactions.

"Oh!" Celia sprang forward.

She went towards the woman and her face had lit up.

"Zeiie!" she said. "It is Zeiie? It is really Zeiie! Oh, I am so pleased. I didn't know you were coming." "Monsieur Hercule Poirot asked me to come." "I see," said Celia. "Yes, yes, I suppose I see. But I-I didn't-" she stopped. She turned her head and looked at the handsome boy standing beside her. "Desmond, was it-was it you?" "Yes. I wrote to Mademoiselle Meauhourat-to Zeiie, if I may still call her that." "You can always call me that, both of you," said Zeiie. "I was not sure I wanted to come. I did not know if I was wise to come. That I still do not know, but I hope so." "I want to know," said Celia. "We both want to know.

Desmond thought you could tell us something." "Monsieur Poirot came to see me," said Zeiie. "He persuaded me to come today." Celia linked her arm in Mrs. Oliver's.

"I wanted you to come, too, because you put this in hand, didn't you? You got Monsieur Poirot and you found out some things yourself, didn't you?" "People told me things," said Mrs. Oliver; "people whom I thought might remember things. Some of them did remember things. Some of them remembered them right and some of them remembered them wrong. That was confusing. Monsieur Poirot says that that does not really matter." "No," said Poirot, "it is just as important to know what is hearsay and what is certain knowledge. Because from one you can learn facts even if they are not quite the right facts or had not got the explanation that you think they had. With the knowledge that you got for me, madame, from the people whom you designated elephants-" He smiled a little.

"Elephants?" said Mademoiselle Zeiie.

"It is what she called them," said Poirot.

"Elephants can remember," explained Mrs. Oliver. "That was the idea I started on. And people can remember things that happened a long time ago just like elephants can. Not all people, of course, but they can usually remember something. There were a lot of people who did. I turned a lot of the things I heard over to Monsieur Poirot and he-he has made a sort of-oh, if he was a doctor I should call it a sort of diagnosis, I suppose." "I made a list," said Poirot. "A list of things that seemed to be pointers to the truth of what happened all those years ago.

I shall read the various items to you to see perhaps if you who were concerned in all this feel that they have any significance.

You may not see their significance or you may see it plainly." "One wants to know," said Celia. "Was it suicide, or was it murder? Did somebody-some outside person-kill both my father and my mother, shoot them for some reason we don't know about, some motive. I shall always think there was something of that kind or something else. It's difficult, but-" "We will stay here, I think," said Poirot. "We will not go into the house as yet. Other people have lived in it and it has a different atmosphere. We will perhaps go in if we wish when we have finished our court of inquiry here." "It's a court of inquiry, is it?" said Desmond.

"Yes. A court of inquiry into what happened." He moved towards some iron seats which stood near the shelter of a large magnolia near the house. Poirot took from the case he carried a sheet of paper with writing on it. He said to Celia: "To you, it has got to be that way? A definite choice.

Suicide or murder." "One of them must be true," said Celia.

"I shall say to you that both are true, and more than those two. According to my ideas, we have here not only a murder and also a suicide, but we have as well what I shall call an execution, and we have a tragedy also. A tragedy of two people who loved each other and who died for love. A tragedy of love may not always belong to Romeo and Juliet. It is not necessarily only the young who suffer the pains of love and are ready to die for love. No. There is more to it than that." "I don't understand," said Celia.

"Not yet." "Shall I understand?" said Celia.

"I think so," said Poirot. "I will tell you what I think happened and I will tell you how I came to think so. The first things that struck me were the things that were not explained by the evidence that the police examined. Some things were very commonplace, were not evidence at all, you'd think.

Among the possessions of the dead Margaret Ravenscroft, were four wigs." He repeated with emphasis, "Four wigs." He looked at Zeiie.

"She did not use a wig all the time," said Zeiie. "Only occasionally. If she traveled or if she'd been out and got very disheveled and wanted to tidy herself in a hurry, or sometimes she'd use one that was suitable for evening wear." "Yes," said Poirot, "it was quite the fashion at that particular date. People certainly when they traveled abroad usually had a wig or two wigs. But in her possession were four wigs.

Four wigs seemed to me rather a lot. I wondered why she needed four. According to the police whom I asked, it was not that she had any tendency to baldness. She had the ordinary hair a woman of her age would have and in good condition.

All the same, I wondered about those. One of the wigs had a gray streak in it, I learned later. It was her hairdresser who told me that. And one of the wigs had little curls. It was the latter wig she was wearing the day she died." "Is that significant in any way?" asked Celia. "She might have been wearing any of them." "She might. I also learned the housekeeper told the police that she had been wearing that particular wig almost all the time for the last few weeks before she died. It appeared to be her favorite one." "I can't see-" "There was also a saying that Superintendent Garroway quoted to me, 'Same man-different hat.' It gave me furiously to think." Celia repeated, "I don't see-" Poirot said, "There was also the evidence of the dog-" "The dog-what did the dog do?" "The dog bit her. The dog was said to be devoted to its mistress, but in the last few weeks of her life, the dog turned on her more than once and bit her quite severely." "Do you mean it knew she was going to commit suicide?" Desmond stared.