I felt a distinct pleasure in passing on my own discomfiture.
Raglan stared at me for a moment or two uncomprehendingly. Then a grin overspread his weaselly countenance and he tapped his forehead significantly.
“Bit gone here,” he said. “I’ve thought so for some time. Poor old chap, so that’s why he had to give up and come down here. In the family, very likely. He’s got a nephew who’s quite off his crumpet.”
“Poirot has?” I said, very surprised.
“Yes. Hasn’t he ever mentioned him to you? Quite docile, I believe, and all that, but mad as a hatter, poor lad.”
“Who told you that?”
Again a grin showed itself on Inspector Raglan’s face. “Your sister. Miss Sheppard, she told me all about it.”
Really, Caroline is amazing. She never rests until she knows the last details of everybody’s family secrets. Unfortunately, I have never been able to instil into her the decency of keeping them to herself.
“Jump in, Inspector,” I said, opening the door of the car. “We’ll go up to The Larches together, and acquaint our Belgian friend with the latest news.”
“Might as well, I suppose. After all, even if he is a bit balmy, it was a useful tip he gave me about those fingerprints. He’s got a bee in his bonnet about the man Kent, but who knows—there may be something useful behind it.”
Poirot received us with his usual smiling courtesy. He listened to the information we had brought him, nodding his head now and then.