“To The Larches, of course.”

 

“My dear Caroline,” I said, “what for?”

 

“Mr. Raymond wanted to see him very particularly,” said Caroline. “You might

hear what it’s all about.”

 

I raised my eyebrows.

 

“Curiosity is not my besetting sin,” I remarked coldly. “I can exist comfortably

without knowing exactly what my neighbors are doing and thinking.”

 

“Stuff and nonsense, James,” said my sister. “You want to know just as much as I

do. You’re not so honest, that’s all. You always have to pretend.”

 

“Really, Caroline,” I said, and retired into my surgery.

 

Ten minutes later Caroline tapped at the door and entered. In her hand she held

what seemed to be a pot of jam.

 

“I wonder, James,” she said, “if you would mind taking this pot of medlar jelly

across to M. Poirot? I promised it to him. He has never tasted any home-made

medlar jelly.”