Free Death of a Nurse by M. C. Beaton

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