"What sort of a place is Chipping Cleghorn?" asked Sir Henry.
"A large, sprawling, picturesque village. Butcher, baker, grocer, quite a good antique shop--two tea shops . . . Cottages formerly lived in by agricultural laborers now converted and lived in by elderly spinsters and retired couples . . . "
"I know," said Sir Henry. "Nice old pussies and retired colonels. Yes, if they noticed that advertisement they'd all come sniffing round at 6:30 to see what was up. Lord, I wish I had my own particular old pussy here. Wouldn't she like to get her nice ladylike teeth into this? Right up her street it would be."
" Who's your own particular pussy, Henry? An aunt?"
"No." Sir Henry sighed. "She's no relation." He said reverently: "She's just the finest detective God ever made. Natural genius cultivated in a suitable soil."
He turned upon Craddock.
"Don't you despise the old pussies in this village of yours my boy," he said. "In case this turns out to be a high-powered mystery, which I don't suppose for a moment it will, remember that an elderly unmarried woman who knits and gardens is streets ahead of any detective sergeant . . ."
from A Murder is Announced by Agatha Christie, 1950