“Nothing,” I said. “I thought it was always done. It is in detective fiction anyway. The super-detective always has his rooms littered with rubies and pearls and emeralds from grateful Royal clients.”
“It’s very interesting to hear about these things from the inside,” said my sister complacently.
It would be—to Caroline. I could not but admire the ingenuity of M. Hercule Poirot, who had selected unerringly the case of all others that would most appeal to an elderly maiden lady living in a small village.
“Did he tell you if the dancer was really a Grand Duchess?” I inquired.
“He was not at liberty to speak,” said Caroline importantly.
I wondered how far Poirot had strained the truth in talking to Caroline—probably not at all. He had conveyed his innuendoes by means of his eyebrows and his shoulders.
“And after all this,” I remarked, “I suppose you were ready to eat out of his hand?”
“Don’t be coarse, James. I don’t know where you get these vulgar expressions from.”
“Probably from my only link with the outside world—my patients. Unfortunately, my practice does not lie amongst Royal princes and interesting Russian émigrés.”
Caroline pushed her spectacles up and looked at me. “You seem very grumpy, James. It must be your liver. A blue pill, I think, tonight.”
To see me in my own home, you would never imagine that I was a doctor of medicine. Caroline does the home prescribing both for herself and me.