Elephants Can Remember by Agatha Christie Page B

I shouldn’t dream of telling the odious woman anything of the sort. I shall tell her quite firmly that it is not any business of hers or of mine, and that I have no intention of obtaining information from you and retailing it to her.’
    ‘Well, that’s what I thought,’ said Celia. ‘I thought I could trust you to that extent. I don’t mind telling you what I do know. Such as it is.’
    ‘You needn’t. I’m not asking you for it.’
    ‘No. I can quite see that. But I’ll give you the answer all the same. The answer is – nothing.’
    ‘Nothing,’ said Mrs Oliver thoughtfully.
    ‘No. I wasn’t there at the time. I mean, I wasn’t in the house at the time. I can’t remember now quite where I was. I think I was at school in Switzerland, or else I was staying with a school friend during the school holidays. You see, it’s all rather mixed up in my mind by now.’
    ‘I suppose,’ said Mrs Oliver doubtfully, ‘it wouldn’t be likely that you would know. Considering your age at the time.’
    ‘I’d be interested,’ said Celia, ‘to know just what you feel about that. Do you think it would be likely for me to know all about it? Or not to know?’
    ‘Well, you said you weren’t in the house. If you’d been in the house at the time, then yes, I think it would be quite likely that you might know something. Children do. Teenagers do. People of that age know a lot, they see a lot, they don’t talk about it very often. But they do know things that the outside world wouldn’t know, and they do know things that they wouldn’t be willing, shall we say, to tell to police enquirers.’
    ‘No. You’re being quite sensible. I wouldn’t’ve known. I don’t think I did know. I don’t think Ihad any idea. What did the police think? You don’t mind my asking you that, I hope, because I should be interested. You see, I never read any account of the inquest or anything like that or the enquiry into it.’
    ‘I think they thought it was a double suicide, but I don’t think they ever had any inkling as to the reason for it.’
    ‘Do you want to know what I think?’
    ‘Not if you don’t want me to know,’ said Mrs Oliver.
    ‘But I expect you are interested. After all, you write crime stories about people who kill themselves or kill each other, or who have reasons for things. I should think you would be interested.’
    ‘Yes, I’ll admit that,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘But the last thing I want to do is to offend you by seeking for information which is no business of mine to know.’
    ‘Well, I wondered,’ said Celia. ‘I’ve often wondered from time to time why, and how, but I knew very little about things. I mean, about how things were going on at home. The holidays before that I had been away on exchange on the Continent, so I hadn’t seen my mother and father really very recently. I mean, they’d come out to Switzerland and taken me out from school once or twice, but that was all. They seemed much as usual, but they seemed older. My father, I think, was ailing. I mean, getting feebler. I don’t know if it was heart or what it was. One doesn’t really think about that. My mother, too, she was going rather nervy. Not hypochondriac but a little inclined to fuss over her health. They were on good terms, quite friendly. There wasn’t anything that I noticed. Only sometimes one would, well, sometimes one gets ideas. One doesn’t think they’re true or necessarily right at all, but one just wonders if –’
    ‘I don’t think we’d better talk about it any more,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘We don’t need to know or find out. The whole thing’s over and done with. The verdict was quite satisfactory. No means to show, or motive, or anything like that. But there was no question of your father having deliberately killed your mother, or of your mother having deliberately killed your father.’
    ‘If I thought which was most likely,’ said Celia, ‘I would think my father killed my mother. Because, you