by M C Beaton
“But you’re as fit as a fiddle,” said Charlie.
“I can pretend to have had a fall.”
“That would be grand if you could do that,” said Hamish.
“Anything for Charlie,” said the colonel, eyeing him coldly.
The colonel went upstairs to phone. The agency said it would normally be difficult to find a nurse for only a week, but fortunately Nurse Betty Freeme was just between jobs and could attend immediately. She would bring the necessary papers with her.
The colonel sat back at his desk, feeling excited. He could see all the suspects gathered in the library and he would say, “You did it!”
Chapter Eleven
Many a woman has a past, but I am told she has at least a dozen, and that they all fit.
—Oscar Wilde
Betty Freeme was a sturdy woman in her late twenties with ginger hair, freckles, and pale-blue eyes. She did wonder why the colonel needed a nurse. He asked to be pushed around in a wheelchair, but any suggestion of bathing him or putting him to bed was met with horror. At last, she decided he was lonely with his wife being away. He seemed to want to talk a lot.
The colonel got her to talk about the agency and then asked if the late Gloria Dainty and Helen Mackenzie had been friends.
“Oh, them!” laughed Betty. “I’d say they hated each other. They were all right for a bit. Both were working locally and got together on their nights off. Then Gloria started dating that chap Malky, the one who murdered her, and I saw them out in front of the agency one day shouting at each other, but I couldn’t hear what they said.”
“And what did the police say when you told them this?”
“They didn’t ask me. It’s just gossip anyway. I mean, Helen is one of the strict-type nurses, everything by the book. I couldn’t ever understand her friendship with the likes of Gloria. Gloria was flighty. Goodness, it’s not yet dark, sir. I’ll just pull those curtains back.”
“Leave them!” shouted the colonel. “The light hurts my eyes. Ask one of the waiters to bring me a whisky and soda.”
Betty reached for the phone. “No,” barked the colonel. “You’ll lose the use of your legs. Get it from the bar.”
When she had gone, Charlie and Hamish emerged from behind the curtains. “Ask her if Helen has any family,” said Hamish. “We need to find a lot more about her.”
Charlie and Hamish retired behind the curtains as Betty returned with the drink.
“The reason for all these questions,” said the colonel, “is because I am a friend of Mr. Harrison and he is in a terrible state over the killing of his son. I trust this Helen will look after him?”
“She’s highly qualified, I believe,” said Betty.
“Got family in Scotland?”
“I remember she said she was an orphan, but she sometimes took time off to visit her aunt in Kinlochbervie.”
“What is the aunt’s name?”
“I forget. But the aunt was her father’s sister and hadn’t married, so she’d be a Miss Mackenzie.”
“I might take a run up there tomorrow,” said the colonel. “I really am concerned for Mr. Harrison’s welfare.”
“You could ask the agency for her details,” said Betty.
“No, no. I couldn’t do that. Run along now. I’ll ring if I need you.”
When she had gone and Hamish and Charlie had emerged from their hiding place, the colonel said excitedly, “Kinlochbervie! Now there’s a coincidence. I’ll go up there and—”
“No!” exclaimed Hamish. “If by any chance Helen should turn out to be a killer, you’ll be next. Leave it to me and Charlie.”
“Please, George,” begged Charlie. “It could be awfy dangerous. Hamish and I will go up there.”
After they had left, the colonel sat in his wheelchair, feeling frustrated. He had this rosy dream of unmasking the killer.
He had to move quickly before his wife came back to demand what he was doing in a wheelchair. Then he hit on it. There was nothing to stop him paying a visit to old Harrison. He would get Betty to drive him over. Harrison would surely be sympathetic to what he would see as a fellow sufferer. And he could have a chance to examine Helen closely. He rang the bell.
On the road to Kinlochbervie, Hamish and Charlie discussed how they should approach the aunt. “We don’t want to alert Helen,” said Hamish.
“We could say there’s been a report of a couple of burglaries,” said Charlie, “and we’re just going from door to door.”
“Aye, that might just do,” said Hamish. “I hope your friend George leaves things alone.”
“Nothing he can do,” said Charlie. “We’re on the only lead.”
By asking around, they finally located Miss Mackenzie’s home. It was a small bungalow, a box of a place, on the outskirts of the village. There were no flowers in the garden fronting the house, only two squares of grass intersected with a brick path.
Hamish tucked his cap under his arms and rang the bell. A tall, gaunt woman answered the door, leaning on two sticks. Hamish introduced them and explained about the fictitious burglaries.
“The first I’ve heard of it,” she said. “But come ben. I’ve just put the kettle on and I never have much company.”
She led the way into a sunny front room. A comfortable old sofa and chairs flanked a low coffee table. In one corner was an old-fashioned television set and in another a set of shelves crammed with paperbacks.
“I’ll get the tea,” she said. “Sit down.”
“I’ll help,” said Charlie.
“I can manage.”
When she had left the room, Hamish looked around. There were no photographs. Above the fireplace was a Russell Flint print. The carpet was beige and fitted. An arrangement of pinecones decorated the fireplace. Outside, the wind had risen and they could hear the noise of waves on the beach and the scream of the plunging and flying gulls. A newspaper pressed against the window as if staring in before being whipped away again by the wind.
Miss Mackenzie came back in pushing a laden trolley, her two sticks lying on the bottom ledge. Charlie would have risen to help, but Hamish put a hand on his arm to stop him. He was frightened that clumsy Charlie might start breaking things.
She handed them each a thin china cup decorated with roses. They waited patiently until she poured cups of tea and handed round a plate of scones before recovering her sticks and lowering herself into an armchair.
“Arthritis?” asked Hamish sympathetically.
“Bad today,” she said. “My niece is a nurse and she was supposed to bring me some medicine.”
“Who would that be?” asked Hamish.
“Helen. She’s working for a man called Harrison down near Braikie.”
“That’s where all those murders have been,” said Hamish. “Aren’t you worried about her?”
“No, she’s as tough as old boots. Turned out well, mind. I used to worry about her.”
“And why was that?” asked Charlie.
“Oh, she was a bit o’ a handful at one time. My poor brother and his wife were killed when their house went on fire and Helen was put out to foster parents. I wasn’t considered suitable, being a maiden lady. Mind you, I had her here on holidays until…Well, never mind.”
“Lovely scones,” said Charlie. “Light as a feather. Did she do something bad?”
“It was odd. I had this cat, Tufty. I was right fond of it. Helen was only eight. I used to smoke. I had one of those Ronson lighters you fill with petrol. Helen was out in the garden one day. I looked out of the window. She poured petrol over the cat and set it alight. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I sent her packing and told her never to call again. But she turned up last year and told me she was a qualified nurse, and she cried over Tufty and said she must have been jealous of my affection for the cat. After that, she called from time to time and brought me drugs for my arthritis.”
“Was an awful business about that poor second sight woman being killed,” said Charlie.
“Oh,
poor Jessie McGowan. Never harmed a soul. Now, what about these burglaries?”
Hamish gave her a fictitious story. “It’s drugs,” said Miss Mackenzie when he had finished. “The pushers are always looking for new markets.”
“Did you ever consult Miss McGowan yourself?” asked Hamish.
“No, the poor woman was mad. Helen believed in that rubbish.”
They thanked her and went outside and drove out of town to the café on the beach where Hamish let the dogs out to play. He watched them sadly. He could not banish the hope that one day, he would look up and see Sonsie playing with them.
They ordered coffee and sat looking at the glassy waves curling on the beach. “What about this,” said Hamish. “Maybe Malky was romancing the two of them to get drugs. But he drops Helen for Gloria because he’s thought up this scheme with Gloria of trying to get old Harrison to leave her money in his will, or even to marry her. Helen set that cat on fire. Psychos often start off with killing animals. She gets Gloria out of the way. Then she hears about the witness in Kinlochbervie and gives her a present of wine laced with antifreeze.
“Now, we know Harrison is an old scunner. He treats everyone like dirt. But he’s led Helen to believe that she’ll get something in his will. Then she finds out it all goes to Andrew. So out goes Andrew. Harrison will be a shattered man and might begin to cling to her. But surely she must come under suspicion. Now that your friend George has done his bit, I hope he keeps out of it.”
“Oh, he’ll be all right. What can we do now?” asked Charlie.
“We wait until the dust settles and keep an eye on the lodge until, say, next Sunday when Helen gets her day off, and see where she goes and try to have a word with her.”
“Got a name for the poodle yet?”
“Cannae think o’ anything,” said Hamish.
“What about Bella? Pretty wee thing.”
“I’ll think about it.”
Betty Freeme heaved a sigh of relief as she turned into the drive leading to the hunting lodge. The colonel had criticised her driving every few yards. She pulled up in front of the house, glad the journey was over.
Juris answered the door and to the colonel’s request said that Mr. Harrison was not seeing anyone. The colonel handed over his card. “He’ll see me,” he said. “Hop to it.”
They waited in the hall. Betty wished they could leave. The hall was as dark as usual with only glimmers of light shining on the glass eyes of the stuffed animals. The wind moaned around the building like a banshee.
Juris came back. “He can give you a few moments,” he said.
Betty seized the handles of the wheelchair and pushed the colonel towards the drawing room.
Mr. Harrison was seated by the French windows, staring out. Helen was standing on guard behind him.
“Colonel Halburton-Smythe,” announced Juris.
Harrison slowly turned round. “What’s up with you?”
“Strained my back,” said the colonel. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Well, well,” said Mr. Harrison, his old eyes bleak. “He wasn’t much of a son but he was all I had and now he’s gone. I wish I’d never come to this cursed place. As soon as the coppers are finished, I’m selling up and going back to Yorkshire. I should never have left.”
“Will you be taking your staff back with you?” asked the colonel.
“Probably not. I’ll always wonder if it was one of them who killed my poor son. Helen, make yourself useful and get me a whisky and soda.”
The colonel studied Helen, but her face was like mask.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” asked the colonel. “Perhaps you might like to stay at the hotel as my guest? Change of scene and all that.”
“I’ll think about it,” said Mr. Harrison fretfully. Helen handed him a whisky and soda and he took a great gulp. “That’s better. I’ll never know what came over Andrew.”
“What did he do?”
“He was trying to get power of attorney. Said I was past it. I told him I’d see him in hell first. Mind you, I blame Greta. Always plotting and scheming to get my money.”
Juris came in. “The police are back again, sir.”
“Oh, God, will this never end? Sorry, Colonel, but I might take you up on that offer.”
“Anytime,” said the colonel. “You are lucky to have such an efficient nurse.”
“Oh, Helen’s all right. Only one around here I trust.”
To Betty’s surprise, when they arrived back at the hotel, the colonel told her he did not need her services any longer. He assured her she would be paid for the whole week.
When Charlie and Hamish joined him later, the colonel was bursting with ideas. Hamish was, however, alarmed. “You’re putting yourself in danger,” he said. “If Harrison accepts your invitation, then Helen will come to the hotel with him. Then there is Harrison himself. He can walk. Andrew trying to get power of attorney might have turned his brain and the wretched Helen might be his accomplice. Let’s hope he doesn’t turn up.”
The following Sunday was one of those grey days in the Highlands when all colour seemed to have been bleached out of the landscape. All was silent except for the occasional mournful call of a curlew. Hamish and Charlie in plainclothes, and with Charlie at the wheel of his old car, lay off the road near the hunting box and waited. At last, they saw a small Ford with Helen at the wheel driving past. She did not notice them. They gave her plenty of time to get ahead and then set off in pursuit. She drove steadily on and took the road to Strathbane. Fortunately, there were one or two cars on the road and Charlie hung well back.
“I wonder if she’s going to the agency,” said Hamish.
“Why?”
“She might want to get in touch with Betty and find out all about the colonel.”
“Let’s hope not,” said Charlie.
They followed Helen to the agency, parking carefully round the corner. “We’ll watch until she leaves,” said Hamish, “and then go in and see if we can find out what she was trying to find out.”
He peered round the corner, but after only a few moments, he said, “She’s out again. There’s a truck coming along. Tuck in behind it, Charlie, so she doesn’t see us.”
After a few streets, the truck turned off, leaving them feeling exposed. Charlie hung back before setting off again in pursuit. Finally Helen stopped outside a large villa on the outskirts. Again, Charlie parked around a corner. Hamish got out to discreetly watch the villa. Helen was inside for a quarter of an hour before coming out again and getting in her car.
“Right,” said Hamish. “Let’s go in and see if Betty is working there.”
It was Betty herself who answered the door. She looked at them in surprise as Hamish produced his warrant card and said they would like to speak to her.
“Only a few minutes,” said Betty. “I’ve just started work here and my gentleman will be wanting tea soon.”
She led them into a gloomy Victorian front parlour dominated by a large stuffed owl in a glass case. The room was cold and damp.
“We wondered why Helen Mackenzie called on you,” said Hamish.
“I’d been working for Colonel Halburton-Smythe,” said Betty. “Helen said she was tired of Mr. Harrison and wondered if the colonel would be needing a new nurse. I told her there seemed to be nothing up with him and he was all right now. She asked if the colonel had been curious about the murders and I told her everyone was. That’s all. I’ve really got to go.”
Hamish begged her to say nothing about their enquiries, and he and Charlie took their leave.
“I don’t like this at all,” said Hamish. “We’ve got to keep an eye on the colonel.”
They went back to Lochdubh and straight to the hotel to find the colonel triumphant with news. Mr. Harrison had phoned him and had decided to accept the colonel’s invitation to stay at the hotel.
“That nurse Helen had been asking questions about you,” said Hamish. “She may not hesitate to murder again.”
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br /> “Pooh! Charlie will look after me,” said the colonel.
But Hamish fretted. “There’s so many ways she could get at you. Poison, a blow on the head, anything.”
Mr. Harrison was allocated one of the large rooms on the ground floor. Its barred windows looked out over the back. Hamish saw that there were several laurel bushes outside the windows and decided to watch and see what happened when Helen was alone with her patient. If only, he thought, they had enough on her to get a search warrant. And yet her room at the hunting lodge had been searched twice along with all the other rooms.
He and Charlie were told they could have dinner that evening, but at another table. To Hamish’s dismay, he heard the colonel moving into Poirot mode and beginning to question Harrison and Helen all about the murders. They were on first-name terms, but at last Harrison seemed to weary of all the questions and said sharply, “Look, George. I am still mourning the death of my son. I don’t want to talk about it.” The colonel reluctantly dropped the subject. Helen did not contribute to the conversation.
When Harrison retired for the night, Hamish went out to take up his post outside the bedroom window. It had begun to rain, steady drenching rain, pattering down on the laurel leaves and dripping down the back of his neck. To his dismay, thick curtains had been drawn across the windows. He pressed his ear to the glass.
“I think you would be more comfortable in your own home,” he heard Helen say.
“Nonsense,” came Harrison’s voice. “The food’s great here and I need a change of scene. Leave me. I’m tired of your fussing around.”
“Now, then. What would you do without your Helen?”
“Find another nurse. Like taxis in a rank.”
“Now, aren’t we cruel? You said you loved your Helen.”
“Oh, shove off. I want to be on my own. I wish George would stop playing detective. I believe he thinks you’re a murderer, Helen. What do you think of that?”
