Spotted Hemlock

‘You mean by a bone-head, I suppose,’ said Laura, with resignation. ‘When shall I expect you back?’

‘Oh, you are welcome to come with me to Scotland. Carey’s Jenny will take care of Hamish while we are gone. All I meant was that I do not wish you to accompany me to the hospital. There I shall function very much better without you.’

They set out on the following morning, proposing to spend the first night in the city of York.

‘I could get you to Newcastle easily, if you wished, madam,’ said George. ‘Then you could hop into the Highlands from there.’

‘No, no. York for the night, then Edinburgh, then on to our destination,’ said Dame Beatrice.

‘The police will beat us to it,’ Laura pointed out. ‘You know Gavin has passed on my great thought about Piggy and the holiday camp.’

‘I particularly wish the police to reach Mr Basil before we do, child.’

‘Oh, you think their visit will put wind up him, and soften him up, do you? Something in that, perhaps. Anyway, it will make a much more enjoyable trip if we don’t rush it.’

‘And, of course, we may have to allow for bad weather at this time of year, madam, I suppose,’ said George respectfully. As it happened, the only bad weather they encountered was a certain amount of rain. They reached the village of Tynmally at three in the afternoon, had tea at an hotel which seemed too big for the place and then, while Laura took a short, brisk walk before it grew too dark to admire the prospect from the bridge over a salmon river, Dame Beatrice drove to the hospital.

It was considerably smaller than the hotel and was perched at the top of a sharp incline which rose just out of the village on the north-east side. The matron had had notice of her coming and her welcome was cordial but dignified, after the manner of the Highlands. She was pressed to take tea, declined it and was conducted to the patient.

He could walk, but was still in hospital, he explained. They were keeping him under observation because of an obscure complication which had caused severe dermatitis on the injured limb. From the matron Dame Beatrice had already learn that (a) he had been a model patient, (b) he had been in hospital since the last week in August, (c) they would be extremely sorry to part with him, (d) he was terribly shy and could scarcely bear her young nurses to look at him, (e) that the leg had shown a compound fracture and that, owing to a night’s exposure in wet weather on the mountainside, he had been in very poor shape when he had been brought in, and that that was the reason why he had not been discharged.

Dame Beatrice felt considerable interest in the picture thus presented. Compared with the description she had already received of Mr Basil, the picture of the patient seemed strangely out of focus. She analysed the evidence she had just received of the characteristics of the man in hospital and cross-checked it with the stories she had heard, either vicariously or at first-hand, of Piggy Basil. Her interest mounted. A model patient might or might not be a fair description of Piggy in hospital. It was her experience that people who behaved with the utmost selfishness in their own homes and to their wives or mothers, often did become model patients in hospitals. There was nothing extraordinary in that.

The time-sequence fitted. There were no comments to be made, either, upon the matron’s second heading. August— yes. That would be right.

Even the reflection that they would be sorry to part with him could go by the board. Nurses—even Sisters—said such things. Matrons, a law unto themselves (on the whole) could concur, and, knowing no better, frequently did. But that Piggy Basil was shy was a shot so wide of the mark that the truth was obvious, she thought. This man was not Basil.

Dame Beatrice had then announced that she would be very pleased to visit the patient. He was a thin, attractive young man but he greeted her, as she had expected, with a certain amount of reserve. After the news of his injury:

‘Awfully nice of you to come and see me. Let’s see—you must be — ”

‘ “Thy evil spirit, Brutus!” ’

‘Oh, no, surely not! I mean to say…’

‘So do I,’ said Dame Beatrice, seating herself beside the bed. ‘I mean to say that you are an impostor, Mr…’

‘Simnel.’

‘Extremely apposite.’

‘Basil,’ explained Mr Simnel, ‘needed an alibi. I supplied it, that’s all.’

‘Have you read the papers since you have been in hospital?’

‘More or less. I’ve read the football reports and the racing news. Why?’

‘The sister of a girl at the agricultural college where Mr Basil was employed has been murdered. I think you had better tell me where he is.’

‘You don’t mean he had anything to do with it!’

‘We do not know whether he had or not, but you yourself have just used the word “alibi.” Why did he need an alibi? Can you tell me that?’

‘Well, yes, I could, but I don’t think he’d want me to.’

Dame Beatrice rose.

‘In that case, I have no option but to leave you with my curiosity unsatisfied.’

‘Old Basil wouldn’t hurt a fly, you know. Tell me about this girl. Why should it be supposed that he even knew her? You don’t know that he knew her, do you?’

‘No, but the circumstances are so serious that I consider you would do better to assist the police.’