Harry wasn’t usually maudlin, but when he read Agatha Christie he craved Pernod. Poirot’s postulations made him reach for “The Green Beast” and once started down that path he was well on his way to a sappy night. Lady Smock had banned the books from the house but Harry had a library card and she couldn’t watch him every second, could she?
“Darling, I’m off to town to do a few errands”, Harry hollered.
Later, the scent of anise and the dregs of green in the tea cup beside the sink told her she was in for a long night.
Propped up in bed, Murder on the Orient Express open on his chest, Harry bemoaned trampled gardens, wormwood run amok, and ex-wife Melissa’s (the bitch) theft of his beloved collection of vintage custard crockery.
The next day, fur-tongued and contrite, Harry relinquished his library card. Lady Smock made salmon with fennel and Pernod for dinner, and the trustees of the Balthazar Herbert Hyssop-Smock Memorial Library were delighted to welcome her to the board of directors.