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quite recently?”
    â€œBeginning of May—or it may have been the end of April.”
    â€œHad she been ill some time?”
    â€œOn and off—on and off. She was on the sickly side. Nearly went off a year ago with that there jaundice. Yellow as an orange she was for sometime after. Yes, she’d had poor health for the last five years of her life.”
    â€œI suppose you have some good doctors down here?”
    â€œWell, there’s Dr. Grainger. Been here close on forty years, he has, and folks mostly go to him. He’s a bit crotchety and he has his fancies but he’s a good doctor, none better. He’s got a young partner, Dr. Donaldson. He’s more the newfangled kind. Some folk prefer him. Then, of course, there’s Dr. Harding, but he doesn’t do much.”
    â€œDr. Grainger was Miss Arundell’s doctor, I suppose?”
    â€œOh, yes. He’s pulled her through many a bad turn. He’s the kind that fair bullies you into living whether you want to or not.”
    Poirot nodded.
    â€œOne should learn a little about a place before one comes to settle in it,” he remarked. “A good doctor is one of the most important people.”
    â€œThat’s very true, sir.”
    Poirot then asked for his bill to which he added a substantial tip.
    â€œThank you, sir. Thank you very much, sir. I’m sure I hope you’ll settle here, sir.”
    â€œI hope so, too,” said Poirot mendaciously.
    We set forth from the George.
    â€œSatisfied yet, Poirot?” I asked as we emerged into the street.
    â€œNot in the least, my friend.”
    He turned in an unexpected direction.
    â€œWhere are you off to now, Poirot?”
    â€œThe church, my friend. It may be interesting. Some brasses—an old monument.” I shook my head doubtfully.
    Poirot’s scrutiny of the interior of the church was brief. Though an attractive specimen of what the guidebook calls Early Perp., it had been so conscientiously restored in Victorian vandal days that little of interest remained.
    Poirot next wandered seemingly aimlessly about the churchyard reading some of the epitaphs, commenting on the number of deaths in certain families, occasionally exclaiming over the quaintness of a name.
    I was not surprised, however, when he finally halted before what I was pretty sure had been his objective from the beginning:
    An imposing marble slab bore a partly effaced inscription:
    SACRED
    TO THE MEMORY OF
    JOHN LAVERTON ARUNDELL
    GENERAL 24TH SIKHS
    WHO FELL ASLEEP IN CHRIST MAY 19TH 1888
    AGED 69
    â€œFIGHT THE GOOD FIGHT WITH ALL THY MIGHT”
    ALSO OF
    MATILDA ANN ARUNDELL
    DIED MARCH 10TH 1912
    â€œI WILL ARISE AND GO TO MY FATHER”
    ALSO OF
    AGNES GEORGINA MARY ARUNDELL
    DIED NOVEMBER 20TH 1921
    â€œASK AND YE SHALL RECEIVE”
    Then came a brand new piece of lettering, evidently just done:
    ALSO OF
    EMILY HARRIET LAVERTON ARUNDELL DIED MAY 1ST 1936
    â€œTHY WILL BE DONE”
    Poirot stood looking for some time.
    He murmured softly:
    â€œMay 1st… May 1st… And today, June 28th, I receive herletter. You see, do you not, Hastings, that that fact has got to be explained?”
    I saw that it had.
    That is to say, I saw that Poirot was determined that it should be explained.

Eight
I NTERIOR OF L ITTLEGREEN H OUSE
    O n leaving the churchyard, Poirot led the way briskly in the direction of Littlegreen House. I gathered that his role was still that of the prospective purchaser. Carefully holding the various orders to view in his hand, with the Littlegreen House one uppermost, he pushed open the gate and walked up the path to the front door.
    On this occasion our friend the terrier was not to be seen, but the sound of barking could be heard inside the house, though at some distance—I guessed in the kitchen quarters.
    Presently we heard footsteps crossing the hall and the door was opened by a pleasant-faced woman of between fifty and sixty, clearly the