Read Online Death of a Nurse by M. C. Beaton - Free Book Online Page B

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,”