IV
It was a very short time afterwards that Hercule Poirot found himself sitting opposite to the
woman who certainly must know more about the circumstances that had given rise to the
rumours1
than anyone else.
Nurse Harrison was still a handsome woman nearing forty. She had the calm
serene3 features
of a Madonna with big sympathetic dark eyes. She listened to him patiently and
attentively4. Then
she said slowly:
“Yes, I know that there are these unpleasant stories going about. I have done what I could to
stop them, but it’s hopeless. People like the excitement, you know.”
Poirot said:
“But there must have been something to give rise to these rumours?”
He
noted5 that her expression of
distress6 deepened. But she merely shook her head
perplexedly.
“Perhaps,” Poirot suggested, “Doctor Oldfield and his wife did not get on well together and it
was that that started the
Nurse Harrison shook her head decidedly.
“Oh no, Doctor Oldfield was always extremely kind and patient with his wife.”
“He was really very fond of her?”
She hesitated.
“No—I would not quite say that. Mrs. Oldfield was a very difficult woman, not easy to please
and making constant demands for sympathy and attention which were not always
justified7.”
“You mean,” said Poirot, “that she exaggerated her condition?”
The nurse nodded.
“Yes—her bad health was largely a matter of her own imagination.”
“And yet,” said Poirot gravely, “she died. . . .”
“Oh, I know—I know. . . .”
He watched her for a minute or two; her troubled perplexity—her palpable
uncertainty8.
He said: “I think—I am sure—that you do know what first gave rise to all these stories.”
Nurse Harrison flushed.
She said:
“Well—I could, perhaps, make a guess. I believe it was the maid, Beatrice, who started all
these rumours and I think I know what put it into her head.”
“Yes?”
Nurse Harrison said rather incoherently:
“You see, it was something I happened to overhear—a
scrap9 of conversation between Doctor
Oldfield and Miss Moncrieffe—and I’m pretty certain Beatrice overheard it too, only I don’t
suppose she’d ever admit it.”
“What was this conversation?”
Nurse Harrison paused for a minute as though to test the accuracy of her own memory, then
she said:
“It was about three weeks before the last attack that killed Mrs. Oldfield. They were in the
dining room. I was coming down the stairs when I heard Jean Moncrieffe say:
“ ‘How much longer will it be? I can’t bear to wait much longer.’
“And the doctor answered her:
“ ‘Not much longer now, darling, I swear it.’ And she said again:
“ ‘I can’t bear this waiting. You do think it will be all right, don’t you?’ And he said: ‘Of
course. Nothing can go wrong. This time next year we’ll be married.’ ”
She paused.
“That was the very first inkling I’d had, M. Poirot, that there was anything between the doctor
and Miss Moncrieffe. Of course I knew he admired her and that they were very good friends, but
nothing more. I went back up the stairs again—it had given me quite a shock—but I did notice that
the kitchen door was open and I’ve thought since that Beatrice must have been listening. And you
can see, can’t you, that the way they were talking could be taken two ways? It might just mean
that the doctor knew his wife was very ill and couldn’t live much longer—and I’ve no doubt that
that was the way he meant it—but to any one like Beatrice it might sound differently—it might
look as though the doctor and Jean Moncrieffe were—well—were definitely planning to do away
with Mrs. Oldfield.”
“But you don’t think so, yourself?”
“No—no, of course not. . . .”
Poirot looked at her searchingly. He said:
“Nurse Harrison, is there something more that you know? Something that you haven’t told
me?”
She flushed and said violently:
“No. No. Certainly not. What could there be?”
“I do not know. But I thought that there might be—something?”
She shook her head. The old troubled look had come back.
Hercule Poirot said: “It is possible that the Home Office may order an
exhumation10 of
Mrs. Oldfield’s body!”
“Oh no!” Nurse Harrison was
horrified11. “What a horrible thing!”
“You think it would be a pity?”
“I think it would be dreadful! Think of the talk it would create! It would be terrible—quite
terrible for poor Doctor Oldfield.”
“You don’t think that it might really be a good thing for him?”
“How do you mean?”
Poirot said: “If he is innocent—his
innocence12 will be proved.”
He broke off. He watched the thought take root in Nurse Harrison’s mind, saw her frown
perplexedly, and then saw her brow clear.
She took a deep breath and looked at him.
“I hadn’t thought of that,” she said simply. “Of course, it is the only thing to be done.”
There were a series of
thumps13 on the floor overhead. Nurse Harrison jumped up.
“It’s my old lady, Miss Bristow. She’s woken up from her rest. I must go and get her
comfortable before her tea is brought to her and I go out for my walk. Yes, M. Poirot, I think you
are quite right. An
autopsy14 will settle the business once and for all. It will
scotch15 the whole thing
and all these dreadful rumours against poor Doctor Oldfield will die down.”
She shook hands and hurried out of the room.
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