A tall girl was standing on the mat outside. Just for a moment Mrs. Oliver was startled, looking at her. So this -was Celia. The impression of vitality and of life was really very strong. Mrs. Oliver had the feeling which one does not often get.

Here, she thought, was someone who meant something.

Aggressive, perhaps, could be difficult, could be almost dangerous perhaps. One of those girls who had a mission in life, who was dedicated to violence, perhaps, who went in for causes. But interesting. Definitely interesting.

"Come in, Celia," she said. "It's such a long time since I saw you. The last time, as far as I remember, was at a wedding.

You were a bridesmaid. You wore apricot chiffon, I remember, and large bunches of-I can't remember what it was, something that looked like goldenrod." "Probably was goldenrod," said Celia Ravenscroft. "We sneezed a lot-with hay fever. It was a terrible wedding. I know. Martha Leghorn, wasn't it? Ugliest bridesmaids' dresses I've ever seen. Certainly the ugliest I've ever worn!" "Yes. They weren't very becoming to anybody. You looked better than most, if I may say so." "Well, it's nice of you to say that," said Celia. "I didn't feel my best." Mrs. Oliver indicated a chair and manipulated a couple of decanters.

"Like sherry or something else?" "No. I'd like sherry." "There you are, then. I suppose it seems rather odd to you," said Mrs. Oliver. "My ringing you up suddenly like this." "Oh, no, I don't know that it does particularly." "I'm not a very conscientious godmother, I'm afraid," "Why should you be, at my age?" "You're right there," said Mrs. Oliver. "One's duties, one feels, end at a certain time. Not that I ever really fulfilled mine. I don't remember coming to your confirmation." "I believe the duty of a godmother is to make you learn your catechism and a few things like that, isn't it? Renounce the devil and all his works in my name," said Celia. A faint, humorous smile came to her lips.

She was being very amiable but all the same, thought Mrs.

Oliver, she's rather a dangerous girl in some ways.

"Well, I'll tell you why I've been trying to get hold of you," said Mrs. Oliver. "The whole thing is rather peculiar. I don't often go out to literary parties, but as it happened I did go out to one the day before yesterday." "Yes, I know," said Celia. "I saw mention of it in the paper, and you had your name in it, too, Mrs. Ariadne Oliver and I rather wondered because I know you don't usually go to those sort of things." "No," said Mrs. Oliver. "I rather wish I hadn't gone to that one." "Didn't you enjoy it?" "Yes, I did in a way because I hadn't been to one before.

And so-well, the first time there's always something that amuses you. But," she added, "there's usually something that annoys you as well." ' "And something happened to annoy you?" "Yes. And it's connected in an odd sort of way with you, And I thought-well, I thought I ought to tell you about it because I didn't like what happened. I didn't like it at all." "Sounds intriguing," said Celia, and sipped her sherry.

"There was a woman there who came and spoke to me. I didn't know her and she didn't know me." "Still, I suppose that often happens to you," said Celia.

"Yes, invariably," said Mrs. Oliver. "It's one of the-hazards of literary life. People come up to you and say, 'I do love your books so much and I'm so pleased to be able to meet you.' That sort of thing." "I was secretary to a writer once. I do know about that sort of thing and how difficult it is." "Yes, well, there was some of that too, but that I was prepared for. And then this woman came up to me and she said, T believe you have a goddaughter called Celia Ravenscroft.' " "Well, that was a bit odd," said Celia. "Just coming up to you and saying that. It seems to me she ought to have led into it more gradually. You know, talking about your books first and how much she'd enjoyed the last one, or something like that. And then sliding into me. What had she got against me?" "As far as I know she hadn't got anything against you," said Mrs. Oliver.

"Was she a friend of mine?" "I don't know," said Mrs. Oliver.

There was a silence. Celia sipped some more sherry and looked very searchingly at Mrs. Oliver.

"You know," she said, "you're rather intriguing me. I can't see quite what you're leading into." "Well," said Mrs. Oliver, "I hope you won't be angry with me." "Why should I be angry with you?" "Well, because I'm going to tell you something, or repeat something, and you might say it's no business of mine or I ought to keep quiet about it and not mention it." "You've aroused my curiosity," said Celia.

"Her name she mentioned to me. She was a Mrs. BurtonCox." "Oh!" Celia's "Oh" was rather distinctive, "Oh." "You know her?" "Yes, I know her," said Celia.

"Well, I thought you must, because-" "Because of what?" "Because of something she said." "What-about me? That she knew me?" "She said that she thought her son might be going to marry you." Celia's expression changed. Her eyebrows went up, came down again. She looked very hard at Mrs. Oliver.

"You want to know if that's so or not?" "No," said Mrs. Oliver, "I don't particularly want to know.

I merely mention that because it's one of the first things she said to me. She said because you were my goddaughter, I might be able to ask you to give me some information. I presume that she meant that if the information was given to me I was to pass it on to her." "What information?" "Well, I don't suppose you'll like what I'm going to say now," said Mrs. Oliver. "I didn't like it myself. In fact, it gives me a very nasty feeling all down my spine because I think it was-well, such awful cheek. Awful bad manners.

Absolutely unpardonable. She said, 'Can you find out if her father murdered her mother or if her mother murdered her father?' " "She said that to you? Asked you to do thatf" "Yes." "And she didn't know you? 1 mean, apart from being an authoress and being at the party?" "She didn't know me at all. She'd never met me, I'd never met her." "Didn't you find that extraordinary?" "I don't know that I'd find anything extraordinary that that woman said. She struck me," said Mrs. Oliver, "if I may say so, as a particularly odious woman." "Oh, yes. She is a particularly odious woman." "And are you going to marry her son?" "Well, we've considered the question. I don't know. You knew what she was talking about?" "Well, I know what I suppose anyone would know who was acquainted with your family." "That my father and mother, after he had retired from India, bought a house in the country, that they went out one day for a walk together, a walk along the cliff path. That they were found there, both of them shot. There was a revolver lying there. It belonged to my father. He had had two revolvers in the house, it seems. There was nothing to say whether it was a suicide pact or whether my father killed my mother and then shot himself, or my mother shot my father and then killed herself. But perhaps you know all this already." "I know it after a fashion," said Mrs. Oliver. "It happened I think about twelve-fifteen years ago." "About that, yes." "And you were about twelve or fourteen at the time." "Yes…" "I don't know much about it," said Mrs. Oliver. "I wasn't even in England myself. At the time-I was on a lecture tour in America. I simply read it in the paper. It was given a lot of space in the press because it was difficult to know the real facts-there did not seem to be any motive. Your father and mother had always been happy together and lived on good terms. I remember that being mentioned. I was interested because I had known your father and mother when we were all much younger, especially your mother. I was at school with her. After that our ways led apart. I married and went somewhere and she married and went out, as far as I remember, to India or some place like that, with her soldier husband.