The Labours of Hercules

‘Oh, sir, then the doctor did do her in?’

‘You’ve thought so for some time, haven’t you?’

‘Well, sir, it wasn’t me. It was Beatrice. She was up there when Mrs Oldfield died.’

‘And she thought there had been’ –Poirot selected the melodramatic words deliberately–‘“foul play”?’

Gladys nodded excitedly.

‘Yes, she did. And she said so did Nurse that was up there, Nurse Harrison. Ever so fond of Mrs Oldfield Nurse was, and ever so distressed when she died, and Beatrice always said as how Nurse Harrison knew something about it because she turned right round against the doctor afterwards and she wouldn’t of done that unless there was something wrong, would she?’

‘Where is Nurse Harrison now?’

‘She looks after old Miss Bristow–down at the end of the village. You can’t miss it. It’s got pillars and a porch.’

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 rumours than anyone else.

Nurse Harrison was still a handsome woman nearing forty. She had the calm serene features of a Madonna with big sympathetic dark eyes. She listened to him patiently and attentively. 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 noted that her expression of distress 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 rumour?’

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 justified.’

‘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 uncertainty.

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 scrap 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?’