Death of a Nurse by M. C. Beaton Page B

to the left. Hamish followed her in. It was a conventional living room with a rather battered three-piece suite in brown corduroy, a coffee table, a fireplace with ornaments on the mantelpiece, and lace curtains at the window.
    “I am Miss McGowan.” She sat down on the edge of one of the armchairs and surveyed him. Despite her long grey hair, he guessed she might be in her late thirties. She was wearing a white Aran sweater over faded jeans. Her long thin face was very white, her grey eyes hooded with thick lids.
    “A body was found at the foot of the cliffs,” said Hamish, putting his cap on the coffee table. “I believe you might have seen something.”
    “That I did,” she said. Hamish felt hopeful. The woman seemed perfectly sane.
    She continued, “It was Auld Nick himself.”
    Hamish’s heart sank. But he asked, “Are you sure it was the devil?”
    She nodded. “Describe him,” said Hamish.
    “All black. Black face, black everything.”
    “And what was he doing?”
    “He was standing on the top of the cliffs, looking down. Then he turned away and disappeared.”
    “Where were you?”
    “I was down on the beach hiding behind a rock. I go there sometimes to talk to the dead. The seals, you know. Folk come back as seals.”
    “Did you hear the sound of a car or any vehicle?”
    She looked at him solemnly out of her odd grey eyes. “Himself just goes back down to the nether regions. When I peeked round the rock again, he had gone.”
    Hamish thought quickly. It could all be nonsense, or the murderer could have been dressed in black with the face covered by a black balaclava.
    “The thing that puzzled me,” she said in her thin voice, “is why he did not take her down to hell.”
    “Why would he want to do that in the first place?” asked Hamish patiently.
    “She caused hatred and fear.”
    “Did you know the nurse?”
    “No, but I saw it all in my mind.”
    “Pictures or emotions?”
    “Feelings. Nasty feelings. And there is more to come. Death is coming.”
    “Who’s going to die?” asked Hamish.
    “A man.”
    “What man?”
    “I don’t know. Just a man. There is danger surrounding you, Mr. Macbeth.”
    “From the devil?”
    “Often the devil’s instruments are human.”
    She began to rock back and forth, mumbling incomprehensible things. Hamish got to his feet and walked out. He had just reached the front door when her voice stopped him.
    “Mr. Macbeth!”
    He swung round.
    “I have not offered you any tea.”
    Once more, she looked quite sane.
    “Another time,” said Hamish, and made his escape.
      
    He drove back to the hunting box to join Fiona, who was standing in the hall, telling her about his odd interview but saying it might be wise to search the house for any black clothing. Two detectives and three policemen who had been searching the house after the forensic team had finished their work and were just packing up were told about Hamish’s discovery and told to go back in and look for black clothing.
    They were confronted by Andrew. “I thought you had finished here,” he said angrily.
    “Macbeth’s found a witness up at Kinlochbervie, some daft woman with the second sight, who says she saw the killer up on the cliffs. Mind you, she thought it was the devil.”
    “Oh, I am so sick of all of you. I have complained to the procurator fiscal,” said Andrew, and he went into the drawing room to report to the others this latest outrage.
      
    When they all moved outside, Hamish said to Fiona, “What do you hope to get from all the fingerprints and DNA? Was there anything on the body?”
    “They can maybe get fingerprints off the neck.”
    “But they think she was strangled with a scarf or some sort of material.”
    “Damn. I’d forgotten that.”
    They were joined by Jimmy Anderson. “I’ve got heavy expenses,” he said. “I had to take that lawyer, Cameron Tinety, out for a lot of drams to get information out of him. He says there was a will leaving