by M C Beaton
“I’ll go over there anyway and look around. I’ll say it’s a private visit. I’ve got an elderly relative who might be interested.”
“You could get that reporter lassie to check the obituaries of people in Braikie who died within the last year,” she said.
“Let me have a look around first.”
“Very well. Go and make tea.”
Hamish called in at the newspaper office after he had left Mrs. Docherty’s. Elspeth had a pencil stuck through her hair and was scowling at her computer. “I’m wasted here,” she said when she saw Hamish. “How can I put a bit of drama into the latest Mothers’ Union meeting?”
“Why don’t you apply for a job on one of the Glasgow papers?”
“I’ll think about it. Why are you here?”
“I want a favour. Could you check up your obituary files and give me the names of old people who died in The Pines during the last year?”
“Why?”
“Can’t you chust do it, lassie?”
“I’m a reporter, remember? What’s happening? Someone going in for euthanasia?”
“Could be. It’s an idea of Mrs. Docherty’s.”
“I thought she was gaga.”
“It’s an act, but don’t tell anyone. She uses it to get rid of people who bore her.”
“Oh, really?” said Elspeth crossly. “She pulled that one on me. I went to do a piece on Lochdubh in the old days and she just stared at me vacantly.”
“Some people don’t like reporters.”
“Okay, I’ll do it if you promise to let me know if there’s a story.”
Hamish drove over to Braikie that afternoon. The Pines was situated far back from the road at the end of a long drive. Hamish now remembered reading a year ago about it being built. The pine forest from which it took its name stretched all around him. Sunlight flickered down through the trees as he drove steadily towards the house. At last it came into view, a long two-storey building. He parked in front of it and entered the main door. A dark-skinned male nurse came forward to meet him. Hamish tried to guess his nationality. Indian? Pakistani?
“How can I help you?” asked the nurse.
“I’ve an elderly mother who might have to come here,” said Hamish. “I wondered if I could look round.”
“Come up to the office and I’ll introduce you to our manager, Mr. Dupont.”
Hamish followed him up the stairs, noticing that they were uncarpeted. The nurse knocked at a frosted glass door at the top. A voice called, “Come in.”
A small dapper man wearing a blazer with a crest rose to meet them. “I am Mr. Dupont,” he said. He had thinning brown hair and a large nose and a small rosebud of a mouth. His eyes were black. His voice had a faint accent.
“I wanted to see round the home,” said Hamish. “My mother will soon need to go into care.”
Mr. Dupont laughed. “Strange. One does not think of policemen having mothers.”
“You know who I am?”
“You are Hamish Macbeth and you are the policeman who is based at Lochdubh.”
“This is a private matter. May I see around?”
“I will take you round myself.”
Mr. Dupont came round from behind his desk. His grey trousers had knife-edge pleats and his small black shoes were polished like black glass. He dismissed the nurse and then led Hamish back down the stairs.
“You’re not from here,” said Hamish. “What brought you to the Highlands?”
“I had been managing a nursing home in Kent. The terms of employment offered here were better.”
“And is the owner from around here?”
“Mr. Frazier is from the south of England as well. Property and land here are much cheaper than elsewhere in Britain. All patients have their own private rooms and expert nursing care. The ones who are not bedridden can make use of the grounds and the gym. Yes, we have a trainer to take them through gentle exercise. If I say so myself, the food is excellent and all tastes are catered for.”
He pushed open a door. “I do not want to disturb any patients, but this room is unoccupied at the moment.”
The room had a hospital bed, two hard chairs, one small table, and one comfortable armchair. Chintz curtains were drawn back from the window, revealing a view of that pine forest. There was a television set and a radio. The floor was thickly carpeted.
“How much do you charge?” asked Hamish.
“Two thousand pounds a month.”
“Man, I couldnae afford that!”
“Well, we have an interesting little scheme. We don’t like to turn anyone away who is in need. Does your mother own her own home?”
“Yes.”
“Then all she needs to do is sign it over to us and we will guarantee to give her the best treatment until the day she dies.”
“And are all your patients under this scheme?”
He laughed. “No, we could not afford that. Most of our patients pay or their relatives pay.”
“I wouldn’t think folks up here could afford that for care.”
“But we get people from all over. That is why this site was a stroke of genius. People are very romantic about the Highlands.”
He shut the door of the room and led Hamish down a long corridor. He pushed open another door. “This is the dining room for those who are still mobile.”
It was not a very large room, laid out with only ten tables. “And then we come to the gym,” said Mr. Dupont. He opened another door, revealing an airy room.
“I wouldn’t think any of them would be fit enough for all those machines and weights,” said Hamish.
“Oh, we run a gym class for people in Braikie. Ah, here is our trainer, Jerry Andrews.”
Jerry walked in. He was a fit young man with hair of an improbable gold. He was wearing a white track suit and his tanned face was so square and so regular and his skin so smooth he looked like a plastic doll. Mr. Dupont introduced him and Jerry explained in a lisping voice that he specialised in giving the elderly simple Pilates exercises and also massage.
Mr. Dupont set off again rapidly on the tour, his little shiny feet twinkling in front of Hamish. “And this,” he said, throwing open another door, “is our piece de resistance.”
Hamish surveyed a large swimming pool. It was empty of people, the water blue and pristine.
“Very fine,” he said. “I’ll discuss it with my mother and let you know.”
As he was escorted back to the entrance, Hamish said, “I haven’t seen any of the patients. I mean if some of them are mobile enough to use the gym and the swimming pool, why aren’t they walking about?”
Mr. Dupont gave a merry laugh. “In the afternoon they all go to their rooms for a siesta.”
“I thought the old didn’t sleep much. I know my mother doesn’t.”
“They don’t sleep much at night but they do like their nap or their quiet time in the afternoon. The old like discipline and order.”
What was that odd accent? wondered Hamish. No, not French. Maybe German. And was his name really Dupont?
Once outside, he gave himself a mental shake. Mrs. Docherty was giving him unrealistic suspicions.
He drove back to Lochdubh to find Elspeth approaching the police station. “I’ve got something for you,” she called out as he got down from the Land Rover.
“Come inside,” said Hamish, “and let me have a look at what you’ve got.”
Elspeth sat down at the kitchen table. “I’ve got four names, all from Sutherland, who died at The Pines within the last year.”
“Let me see. Mrs. Hudson, Jones, Chandler, and Price. Two from Braikie and two from Cnothan. All listed in the obituaries as having died peacefully.”
“One of those at least is a lie,” said Elspeth, her eyes gleaming. She pushed forward a printout. “There are articles about Mrs. Price. She was seventy-three, not a great age. She was found dead in the swimming pool at the deep end. Daughter quoted as saying Mother couldn’t swim. Subsequent enquiry. Nursing home st
ates that Mrs. Price had become confused and must have wandered into the pool. The nurse who should have made sure the door to the swimming pool room was locked when not in use was fired. Unfortunate accident. And, of course, there’s Maisie Freeman.”
“Leave these articles with me,” said Hamish. “I’ll check out the other three women.”
Elspeth triumphantly, with the air of a conjuror producing a rabbit, pulled out another sheet of paper. “I have their relatives’ addresses here.”
“That’s grand. I’ll get onto it right away.”
“Don’t I get a kiss?” She grinned at him.
Hamish flushed slightly but pretended not to hear. “Thanks a lot, Elspeth. You’ll be the very first to know if I come up with anything.”
Mrs. Price’s daughter, a Mrs. Sarah MacPherson, lived over in Cnothan. Hamish knew he should telephone Sergeant Macgregor. But Macgregor would demand to know all about it and, being a lazy man, would shoot it down. Hamish fed Lugs, promised the dog a long walk when he got back, and set off for Cnothan, a small town he considered the dreariest and nastiest in the Highlands. Mrs. MacPherson lived in a trim bungalow at the back of the church.
A small, round woman answered the door. She was wearing an apron and her grey hair was done up in plastic rollers. “Mrs. MacPherson?”
“Yes, can I help you?”
“I am Police Constable Hamish Macbeth from Lochdubh,” said Hamish, who was not in uniform. He did not want any of the locals to report to the sergeant that a policeman had been seen in Cnothan. “May I come in?”
“It’s not bad news?”
“No, no,” said Hamish soothingly. “Chust the wee matter.”
“Come ben.”
Once seated in a small overfurnished living room, Hamish began. “It’s about your mother.”
“About her death? I thought the police weren’t going to do anything about that.”
“Some things have just come to light. Now, did she have a house she signed over to the nursing home?”
“Yes, she had a nice wee cottage, Rannoch Lodge, down by the loch. It was to come to me after she died but she said it would be better to spare me the expense of paying the fees at the nursing home.”
“How ill was she?”
“She was fair crippled with arthritis and she had brittle-bone disease. It was getting difficult for her to move around without help. But she had all her faculties, whatever that damn nursing home says. She could never swim and had a mortal fear of the water.”
“When did you last see her?”
“It was the day afore she died.” A fat tear rolled down Mrs. MacPherson’s plump cheek and she brushed it away. “She said they were giving her pills which had eased her pain. She was very chatty and she seemed to be enjoying her stay. “I’ll live a grand long time and I’ll get my money’s worth,” that’s what she said.”
“I don’t want anyone, Sergeant Macgregor in particular, to know I’m investigating this case again,” said Hamish. “I don’t want you to say a word about this to a soul. If the nursing home gets wind of this and if they’ve been up to any funny business, they’ll cover their tracks.”
“I’ll do anything you say, Officer, just so long as I get justice at last for my poor mother’s death.”
As Hamish walked his dog along the waterfront after his return to Lochdubh, he wondered what to do. If he talked to Strathbane, Blair would come on the phone and howl at him for wasting time over a case which had already been dealt with. If he sent old Mrs. Docherty to the nursing home and if anything happened to her, he would have her death on his conscience. And then what if nothing happened? What if she didn’t find anything out? She would be trapped in The Pines for the rest of her life and she would have lost her cosy cottage and her independence. He took Lugs back to the police station and fed the dog a hearty meal of lamb’s kidneys before making his way to Mrs. Docherty’s cottage.
The old lady listened carefully to his report. “What about the other three?” she asked when he had finished. “You’ve only told me about Mrs. Price.”
“I decided to leave them alone at the moment. I don’t want word to get back to the nursing home.”
Mrs. Docherty’s eyes sparkled with excitement. “I’m going to do it. I’m going to check myself in there.”
“But you could lose your house!”
“I’ve always wanted to be Miss Marple. I’ll put all my stuff in storage.”
“It’s an awfy risk,” said Hamish, scratching his fiery hair. “I cannae even check you in myself, for I said I was making enquiries for my mother.”
“Get that wee newspaper lassie. She can say I’m her aunt. Take a risk as well, Hamish. You’ll never find out otherwise. So what if I’m there for the rest of my days? If there’s nothing up with the place, I’ll have people to look after me when I get really frail. If there is something, I’ll find it out.”
“If you’re sure…”
“Sure as sure.”
SIX
Death pays all debts.
—Eighteenth-century proverb
Elspeth was amazed at the speed with which Mrs. Docherty was established at The Pines. She had taken her along the day after Hamish had spoken to her, and Mrs. Docherty had signed the necessary papers and said she would move in the following day. Mrs. Docherty had taken a case of books along with her clothes, her computer, and a mobile phone. She told Elspeth that as she was doing her bit, it was up to Elspeth as her supposed niece to pack up her remaining belongings and furniture and put them into storage.
Hamish had told Mrs. Docherty to phone him at the first sign of trouble while he made arrangements with Angela Brodie, the doctor’s wife, to look after his sheep and hens while he was in Stoyre. “Not that I want anyone to know I’m going up there,” he cautioned her.
“Well, I think you’ve gone daft,” exclaimed Angela. “If you’re right and there’s something going on, you are putting her life at risk.”
“I think she can take care of herself,” said Hamish crossly—cross because he was beginning to fear he had made a terrible mistake.
“On your own head be it. I’ve got an idea all the same. As the doctor’s wife, it wouldn’t look strange if I dropped in to see Mrs. Docherty.”
“Oh, would you? That would be grand, Angela.”
“You don’t deserve it. Mind you, I thought she was gaga.”
“She puts on an act from time to time so that people will leave her alone.”
“I’ll go to see her anyway but I’ll tell her I think she’s made a big mistake.”
“Just as you make sure no one is listening to you. I’m not off to Stoyre for a bit yet. I’ll be around.”
Mrs. Docherty, once established at The Pines, was already beginning to feel she had made a big mistake. There seemed to be nothing sinister about the place. It was a bit regimented and she did not like the idea of being forced to retire to her room in the afternoon for two hours’ sleep, and the other inmates, such as were still able to leave their rooms and walk about, seemed like frail ghosts.
She put on what she considered a very good act—only a few periods of lucidity and then being generally dithering and forgetful. There was, however, another new inmate, a Mr. Jefferson. A man was a rare sight among these mostly senile women patients. On her first day she had been encouraged to go to the recreation room. The less mobile patients were pushed in in wheelchairs and lined up in front of a large television set and left. Mrs. Docherty found this sight very depressing. The sun was shining outside and she longed to escape into the pine woods for a breath of fresh air.
But she could not wander outside, for, since the staff thought her wits were addled, she was sure they would come after her. She went back to her room and opened the window. The window was low, and as her bedroom was at ground level, she was able to step outside with only a little creaking and groaning. She took a deep breath of pine-scented air and walked across the grass with faltering steps, just in case anyone should see her, until she was in amo
ngst the pines. She found a fallen log some little way into the woods and slowly sat down to consider her situation. She had really thought that it would be all right. If nothing was going on, she would have her books and computer to keep her amused. But she had not allowed for the depressing effect so many frail, elderly, and nearly mindless old people would have on her. To be surrounded by so much living death, she feared, might make her lose her own wits. If only she could get the papers back, the ones she had signed giving the nursing home her cottage, along with the deeds to her house. Suddenly she could feel the hairs rise on the back of her neck. She had a feeling of being watched. Mrs. Docherty turned around slowly.
The other new inmate, Mr. Jefferson, was standing there, leaning on his stick and surveying her. When he saw her looking at him, he came up and sat down next to her. “Grand day,” he said.
Mrs. Docherty pinned a vacant look on her face.
“It’s quite an act,” he said amiably. His accent was faintly Cockney. “But my room is next to yours. I was leaning out of my window and I saw you climbing out of yours. What’s your game?”
Mrs. Docherty drooled a little and made bleating sounds. “They’ll come looking for us in a minute,” he said. “They do that. It’s a sort of well-padded prison. Do you want to know why I’m in here?”
Curiosity made Mrs. Docherty drop her act. “Because you’re old?”
“I’m only eighty-eight,” he said crossly. “It all started when I was up in court for the last time.”
“What for?”
“Theft.”
“Are you a burglar?”
“Forcibly retired. I went under various names. The last was Colonel Fforbes-Peters.” His accent changed to upper-class. “I was good at ingratiating myself with the horsy set. Got invited for weekends. Lifted a bit of Spode here, a bit of silver there, often some jewellery. But I got caught.” He reverted to his usual accent. “Now, my son is a barrister, thanks to all the money I got from my illegal life. He’s not like me. He’s pompous and strict and has a social-climbing wife. He managed to get a pet psychiatrist to diagnose me as suffering from mild kleptomania. He told me he would arrange this if I would bugger off to a nursing home of my choice and never darken his career again. So here I am. What’s with the act?”
