“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.

“Damn my liver,” I said irritably. “Did you talk about the murder at all?”

“Well, naturally, James. What else is there to talk about locally? I was able to set M. Poirot straight upon several points. He was very grateful to me. He said I had the makings of a born detective in me⁠—and a wonderful psychological insight into human nature.”