Death of a Nurse

by M C Beaton

  “But why would Elsie lie?” asked Charlie.

  “Maybe her boyfriend works at the hotel and got sweet on Gloria. I’d like to question her again.”

  “I’ll go, if you like,” said Charlie.

  “No!” said Fiona with unnecessary force. “You go now, Macbeth.”

  Hamish left with his pets following at his heels.

  At the hotel, Priscilla was in the gift shop and saw him driving up and ran out to meet him. “What a horrible woman!” she exclaimed.

  “Oh, herself is all right,” said Hamish awkwardly. “I’d like another word wi’ that maid, Elsie Dunbar.”

  “I’ll see if she’s still in the hotel. Wait in reception.”

  After a few minutes, Priscilla reappeared with Elsie in tow.

  “Now, Elsie,” said Hamish, “let’s go into the lounge and sit down. I’d like to go over your statement again.”

  “I’ve said all I’ve got to say,” said Elsie stubbornly.

  “Aye? Just a few more wee questions.”

  When they were settled in a corner of the lounge, Hamish studied her mulish face and then said gently, “I know you were lying. And that’s a crime. Defeating the ends of justice can mean a prison sentence. So let’s have the real story.”

  Elsie began to sob. Hamish waited patiently until she had dried her eyes and said, “If you tell the truth now, I’ll make sure no charges are laid against you.”

  She twisted her sodden handkerchief between her fingers. “My boyfriend, Graham Southey, works in the bar. She was always flirting with him and he was not charging her for drinks. I was sure he was going to propose, but after Gloria started her tricks, he stopped dating me. I hated the bitch. I wanted everyone to know she was nothing but a cheap hoor.”

  “So you lied,” said Hamish.

  She nodded dumbly.

  “And to your knowledge, did she ever go upstairs to any of the bedrooms?”

  Elsie shook her head.

  “No evidence in any of the beds that there had been any malarkey?”

  “No, sir. I’m right sorry.”

  “I’ll see what I can do, but don’t ever lie to the police again.”

  When Hamish reported back to Fiona, she said furiously, “Why haven’t you arrested her?”

  “It’s like this,” said Hamish wearily. “The lassie would have a criminal record. I understand why she lied. You see, ma’am, up here, it’s better to sort out these things without hauling people off to prison. That way, they feel safe to tell me things they might not otherwise think of doing.”

  “It is a good way of doing things,” said Charlie gently. “You see, the way things usually go, if Macbeth sends over a report, Mr. Blair will get his hands on it and before you know it, the lassie will be dragged in and accused of murder. Mr. Daviot is under such strong pressure from the press that he’ll go along with it.”

  “Surely not!”

  “It’s happened in other cases,” said Hamish.

  “I’ll let it go for now. Now, Anderson called while you were out. The gamekeeper, Harry Mackay, said he called in at the kitchen with a brace of pheasant just before she was murdered. She was twirling round the kitchen, laughing and singing and saying she was going to be rich. But she didn’t say how or why.”

  “I wonder if the seer knows anything,” said Hamish.

  “Good God!” exclaimed Fiona. “Are you going to consult the spirits?”

  “It’s Angus Macdonald. He relies on a lot of local gossip so that it looks as if he knows everything. I’d better take him a present. I’ve a box of shortbread. That’ll do.”

  “We’ll all go and see this Angus,” said Fiona. “I’m intrigued.”

  “We’d better all go in my Land Rover,” said Hamish. “Otherwise, it’s a steep climb up the brae.”

  Angus opened the door as they arrived. “He certainly looks the part,” remarked Fiona.

  “Looks daft,” muttered Hamish. For Angus’s latest addition to his wardrobe was a long white gown decorated with silver moons and stars. His grey beard seemed to have grown even longer.

  “Sorry to have got ye out o’ bed,” said Hamish maliciously.

  Angus ignored him. “Come ben, Miss Herring,” he crooned.

  Fiona walked in and Angus slammed the door in Hamish’s face.

  “You shouldnae have hurt the auld man’s feelings,” said Charlie.

  “I’ll hurt more than that if he goes on like this.” Hamish opened the door and he and Charlie walked in.

  “Sit by the fire,” Angus was saying to Fiona. “It is the grand thing to have an experienced police officer in Lochdubh. If that is that cheap shortbread from Patel’s, Macbeth, put it in the kitchen.”

  Hamish walked to the kitchen, ducking his head under the low beams. A lit cigarette was burning in an ashtray on the counter. I didn’t know the auld fool smoked, thought Hamish. Although he had given up smoking some time ago, he suddenly felt a sharp longing to pick up that cigarette and take just one puff. He shook his head angrily, stubbed the cigarette out, and returned to the living room.

  “So have you heard anything?” Fiona was demanding.

  “I will need to consult the spirits.” Angus closed his eyes. Hamish stared at him in irritation, but Charlie was wide-eyed.

  “It is the money,” crooned Angus. “Thon nurse meant to get the old man to marry her. But he found out about her peddling her arse and they had a row. He got an anonymous letter.”

  “Who told you that?” snapped Hamish.

  Angus opened his eyes. “Now you’ve scared the spirits away.”

  “I am afraid we will need to take you in for questioning,” said Fiona.

  The seer’s eyes suddenly held a mean look. “I wonder what your husband would say to that?”

  Fiona turned scarlet and Charlie looked shocked. Hamish looked quickly from one to the other.

  “May I have a word with you outside, ma’am?” said Hamish.

  Fiona followed him outside. “You take that fraud in and I’ll tell you what will happen. Folk in Sutherland believe he has the gift. It’ll be meat and drink to the newspapers because, trust me, Angus will call a press conference. During that conference, he will get a visit from the spirits, and if there is anything in your private life you do not want made public, then he will broadcast it. People come to him from all over and he has a gift of picking up juicy gossip.”

  “How do I stop him?”

  “Leave him alone in future. But he’s given us something to go on. Someone from Harrison’s must have spilled the beans. We’ve got to interview Harrison again.”

  Inside the cottage, Charlie was looming over the seer. “If you ever say anything to upset that lady again,” he said, “I will break your neck.” Then he turned and stalked out, crashing the door shut behind him.

  Hamish remained tactfully silent. It was not his business to ask a senior officer about her private life. But when he had said all that about Angus maybe holding a press conference and maybe revealing details of Fiona’s private life, he had noticed a flash of fear in her eyes. And was there anything going on between Charlie and Fiona? She must command great respect to be allowed to investigate murder along with two local coppers.

  He almost missed Blair. Blair’s interference and insults usually spurred Hamish on to greater efforts.

  A damp mist was settling down over the countryside. The stunted trees of Sutherland, blasted to near extinction by the severity of the gales, occasionally loomed up at the side of the road in the headlights like crouching old men. Hamish was driving. He had said bad weather was forecast and they would all be safer in the Land Rover.

  As he swung in at the gates, a wind sprang up and the fog shifted and danced in front of them. Then the Gothic horror that was the hunting box appeared out of the mist.

  “Castle Doom,” said Hamish. “Here we are again.”

  Chapter Five

  But onwards—always onwards,

  In silence and in gloom,

  The
dreary pageant laboured,

  Till it reached the house of doom.

  —William Edmondstoune Aytoun

  As they waited for the door to be opened, Hamish felt suddenly weary. He had a longing for his usually lazy life. He wondered what it would be like to stop being a policeman, buy a bit of land, and become a crofter instead. But as the door opened, a cynical voice in his head said, Buy land? With what?

  Juris stood looking at them. “I don’t know if I should let you in,” he said. “The master is in a fair taking because of that detective who came earlier. He had to stop me being arrested. It was a Detective Chief Inspector Blair and he said, quote, ‘Them damn immigrants are the curse o’ this country and I am taking your Latvian back to headquarters for questioning.’”

  “Stay in the hall,” snapped Fiona. “I have urgent calls to make.”

  Hamish and Charlie waited under the glassy stare of the stuffed heads. “This’ll be the end of Blair,” said Charlie gleefully.

  “Don’t bank on it,” said Hamish. “That cheil would wangle his way out o’ anything.”

  Fiona came back in. “Juris, that detective had no authority being here. I can only apologise on behalf of the police force. Please explain matters to Mr. Harrison and say we have only a few questions to ask.”

  After only a few minutes, the nurse, Helen Mackenzie, appeared. She was wearing her usual blue dress with a white collar and cuffs, thick black stockings, and flat, lace-up shoes with thick rubber soles.

  “Only a few minutes,” she warned. They followed her into the room with the French windows where Hamish had been before.

  Mr. Harrison was seated in his wheelchair with a tartan rug over his knees. “Now what is it?” he barked.

  “We believe you received an anonymous letter from someone, saying that Miss Dainty hoped to marry you and was after your money. And that she was chasing other men. Do you still have that letter?”

  “I burnt it.”

  “Now, that is a pity. You had a row with her on the night she disappeared, did you not?”

  “I’ll fire that Latvian!”

  “It was nothing to do with Juris.”

  “So who told you?”

  “We cannot reveal our source. Did you have a row with her or not?”

  “So what if I did? How the hell do you think a poor cripple like me could strangle the girl, take her to the cliffs, and throw her over?”

  “How did you know she was strangled, sir?” asked Hamish. “That was never in the newspapers.”

  “This is the Highlands, or did you forget, laddie? Gossip, gossip, gossip. I think by now the whole o’ Sutherland knows how she died.”

  “You said to Juris that Gloria Dainty had gone out for a walk. Had she?”

  “I don’t know. She wasn’t around.”

  “Have your fingerprints been taken?” asked Fiona.

  “No, they haven’t. I’m tired. Show them out, Mackenzie.”

  “Either we take them here or you will come with us to Strathbane.”

  “Get Andrew in here,” barked Mr. Harrison. “He’s in the library. Andrew is my son and he’s a lawyer.”

  “Under Scots law,” said Fiona, “you cannot ask for a lawyer until we say you can.”

  The door opened and a tall man walked in. He had a large white face, a large nose, and a small pursed mouth. He was completely bald. He was dressed formally in a charcoal-grey suit and striped shirt with a silk tie.

  “What is going on, Father?” he asked. His voice was plummy.

  “These coppers want to take my fingerprints.”

  “It is simply a process of elimination,” said Fiona.

  “Get a warrant, dear lady,” said Andrew. “I have already phoned Superintendent Daviot and put in a complaint. This is police harassment.”

  “When did you arrive?” asked Hamish.

  “Yesterday, with my wife, Greta. I practise in London, and no, I was not up in the Highlands strangling a nurse. Now, if that is all, please leave.”

  Outside, Hamish asked, “Do you think you can get a warrant?”

  “If Mr. Harrison was Jock McSporran, a crofter, I’d get it like a shot. But there’s still a lot of class snobbery around, so I doubt if I’ll get the permission.”

  “But why didn’t the forensic boys take the old fool’s prints?”

  “They got Juris, his wife, the new nurse, the cleaner, the gamekeeper, and the shepherd. Harrison probably claimed to be ill.”

  “I’ve an idea!” said Hamish. “Wait here.”

  Before Fiona could protest, he darted off. The wind was getting stronger, soughing through the heather like the sound of the sea. He was glad that Harrison was not interested in gardening, because although there was a lawn at the front, the side and back of the house, along which Hamish silently made his way, were thick with heather. He saw a large square of light from the French windows and crept up. There was one large rhododendron bush by the windows. Hamish stood behind it and leaned forward.

  Andrew, Mr. Harrison, and the nurse were there, all laughing at something. Then Mr. Harrison threw aside the tartan rug. He slowly rose to his feet and made his way to a tray of drinks, where he poured himself a large whisky.

  Why have I stuck with this mobile dinosaur phone? mourned Hamish. Why didn’t I have one of the ones that take photographs? And I left my iPad back at the station.

  He made his way swiftly back to where Fiona was impatiently waiting. “What do you think you are doing, Macbeth?” she demanded angrily. “You have no right to—”

  “The auld bugger can walk!” said Hamish.

  “What?”

  “I crept round and looked in the windows and he threw aside his rug, got to his feet, and helped himself to a whisky.”

  “Now I’ll get a warrant, and for his DNA as well. Let’s go. I’m hungry.”

  “There’s a good restaurant in Lochdubh,” said Hamish.

  “Right. That’ll do.”

  “I have a dinner date,” said Charlie.

  “Cancel it,” ordered Fiona.

  Blair stood miserably in front of Daviot’s desk. “I’ve had one rocket after another. What the hell were you thinking of? You are suspended from…oh, what is it, Helen?”

  “Your wife’s on the phone.”

  Still glaring at Blair, Daviot picked up the phone. “Darling,” his wife cooed. “To think I thought you had forgotten my birthday. French perfume and red roses! And such a lovely card. I’m making your favourite dinner tonight. Kiss, kiss!”

  Daviot had in fact forgotten her birthday. “Did you send birthday presents to my wife?” he asked Blair when he had rung off.

  “I thought you might ha’ forgot,” said Blair, all fake humility.

  “That is very kind of you,” said Daviot, thinking of the tremendous and tearful row that Blair had saved him from. “Look, we will say no more about this. Leave the investigation to Miss Herring.”

  “Where is our Charlie?” demanded the colonel at dinner that night.

  “Still working,” said Priscilla.

  “You know, my dear, I am not a snob.”

  “Of course not,” said Priscilla, suppressing a smile.

  “He’s a thoroughly decent lad. I would be proud to have him for a son-in-law.”

  “Not much chance of romance up here,” said Priscilla. “I’m off to London tomorrow. I see Elspeth Grant and her television team have arrived.”

  Elspeth was furious at being once more taken off her job as presenter to report on the murder. She was always uneasy when she was away from Glasgow, fearing that she might return and find someone had pinched her job.

  Priscilla waved to her. Don’t see any rings, thought Elspeth. Wonder if Hamish is still hankering after her. After dinner, her crew headed off to bed, but Elspeth felt restless and decided to go to the bar for a nightcap. As she was crossing the entrance hall, a giant of a policeman in uniform walked across the hall and disappeared behind a screen at the far corner.

  Curious, Elspeth wa
lked behind the screen and found herself facing a door. She opened it and walked down the steps. She found herself in a musty unlit basement, stumbled over a trunk¸ and cursed loudly.

  A door opened at the far end and the tall figure of the policeman loomed up against the light. “Who’s there?” he demanded.

  “A friend of Hamish Macbeth,” said Elspeth. “I’m Elspeth Grant.”

  She walked forward. Charlie stood aside to let her enter his apartment.

  “Is this yours?” asked Elspeth, looking around.

  “I’m too big for the police station,” said Charlie. “Oh, you’re thon woman from the telly. You’re not to tell anyone about this.”

  “I can see the headlines now,” said Elspeth. “Policeman lives in hotel basement. Don’t be daft.” She looked up at him in sudden dismay. “You haven’t replaced Hamish, have you?”

  “Come ben. Take a seat by the fire. No, no, I’m Hamish’s constable. I mind now, you used to work up here and you’re a great friend o’ Hamish’s.”

  “You’ve made yourself very cosy,” said Elspeth.

  “Funny. I don’t break anything here. I’m right clumsy usually. Drove Hamish mad. A dram?”

  “Yes, thanks.”

  Elspeth relaxed in her chair. There was something soothing about the big, fair-haired policeman with his lilting accent. “You’re from the isles, aren’t you?” she said.

  “South Uist.”

  “And how do you like Lochdubh?”

  “Oh, it’s the grand place.” He handed her a glass of whisky.

  “I am surprised the colonel allows you to stay here.”

  “Oh, George is a grand fellow. We go fishing together.”

  “George! I thought that fussy little snob would never allow anyone to call him anything but Colonel.”