Blood on the Marsh (DI Susan Holden 3)

‘Did you at that time or later wash out the flask?’

A frown crossed the nurse’s face. ‘No.’

‘You are sure about that?’

‘Yes. But I do not understand. Should I have washed it out? It was a great shock to me, and I had other patients to look after and—’

Holden cut across her. ‘I understand that the following morning, Mrs Wright’s son and daughter-in-law came here and collected Mrs Wright’s possessions, including her hip flask. Did you help with this?’

She shook her head firmly. ‘No. I am on nights last week. They come in the daytime.’

Holden nodded. She was inclined to believe the Polish woman. There was no doubt that she was nervous, but who wouldn’t be, being interviewed by the police in a foreign country far from home? That Ania might now consider Oxford home did not occur to Holden. ‘Thank you,’ she said, her tone softening. ‘You can go now.’

Dr Alexander Featherstone was busy with a patient. That was what Fran Sinclair had told Holden when she had appeared at the door and offered her another coffee. Holden had thanked her, not because she needed or even wanted another coffee, but because it was either that or have a cigarette, and it really was too early to be smoking the first of her two. She stood up and waited, looking through the window at the cars parked out the front. What was it Yeats had written in his poem about the Lake Isle of Innisfree? ‘I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow.’ At school Mr Malone had insisted they all learn it, and now she had forgotten it all except that bit. Peace comes dropping slow. Not in her life it didn’t! Peace had always been elusive for her, and it felt like it always would be.

‘Excuse me,’ a voice said behind her. ‘I’m looking for Inspector Holden. You don’t happen to know where he is?’

‘Jesus!’ she said out loud, and immediately felt guilty. Her mother would be horrified if she heard her, especially with her renewed zeal for church. But it was anger she felt more than guilt. ‘I’m Inspector Holden, and in case you’ve not noticed I’m a she.’

‘Ah!’ he said, covering his error with a grin. ‘It’s an easy mistake to make.’

Holden did not grin back. ‘I expect you make it all the time.’

The smile disappeared deep within a choleric-looking face. ‘I’m Dr Featherstone,’ he said, his voice now stripped bare of bonhomie. ‘I understand you want to see me.’

‘I do,’ she said, surveying the man in front of her. He was short, with a flourishing moustache, largely bald pate, and a lazy left eye. He was dressed in a dull grey suit, white shirt, heavily patterned tie and black shoes. And he couldn’t, she thought, be far off retirement age.

‘Please, sit down,’ she said, though it wasn’t politeness that made her say it. Fran Sinclair was hovering at the door with coffee. Holden moved towards her, heading her off and ushering her out as she took control of the tray. She put it down, poured coffee into a cup, added milk, and then thrust it in front of the doctor. ‘Here you are,’ she said brusquely. She hoped he hated milk and liked three spoons of sugar.

She remained there, standing over him, so that he was forced to crane his neck upwards to look at her. ‘When did you last see Nanette Sinclair alive?’ she demanded.

‘Monday, the day before she died. I think.’ His furrowed brow furrowed even more. ‘Yes, definitely, it was Monday. It’s just that when you’re seeing so many people …’

‘Quite,’ Holden said sharply. She turned, went and poured herself a coffee, and sat on the sofa opposite. She had made her point. Besides, she wanted to be sure she could see his face.

‘So why did you go and see her?’

‘I was doing my rounds. I’m a doctor. That’s what I do. I go round and check on my patients.’ There was irritation in his voice.

‘Did she have a lot wrong with her apart from being old and feeble?’

He took a sip of coffee, made a face, put it down on the table, and leant forward as if finally getting down to business. ‘Old and feeble. That covers a lot. Do you not have a mother?’

‘I do indeed,’ she replied. ‘I alwa

ys have had a mother, as a matter of fact, and she is still alive.’

‘Well, ask her what it’s like being old and feeble. She’ll tell you better than I can.’

‘She does, regularly.’

‘Well, good for her.’ He picked up his cup again and drained it. ‘Delicious,’ he said.

Holden felt herself warming to him despite her innate suspicion of anyone who reminded her of her father. ‘Why don’t you tell me about Nanette?’

‘She was a nice old lady.’

‘I’m more interested in her health.’