“To hurt his head! To hurt his head!” Professor Burnett was now pointing his finger squarely at Poirot. Or... could it be that he was pointing at Bee Haskins, who was now hurrying toward the exit door of the ward as if she could not escape fast enough?
It took about ten minutes for the two nurses on Ward 6 to calm Mr. Hurt-His-Head. Finally, they were able to lead him away, making soothing noises. They planned to take him back to Ward 7, no doubt.
When Poirot returned to his room on Ward 4, he found Bee Haskins sitting in a chair by his bed, drinking a cup of tea. “I hope you have recovered from the unpleasant incident,” he said, and the word “recovered” made him aware that he had not had a stomach spasm for some time.
She nodded. “Can you explain it? You are a detective.”
“Explain what?”
“Why Professor Burnett has so thoroughly taken against me. I have been nothing but kind to the man, but every time he sees me, he does what you saw him do just now: points and yells those words at me: ‘To hurt his head! To hurt his head!’ He does it to no other nurse or doctor here.”
“You entered his room and stood by his side immediatelyafter he had watched through his window as someone killed Stanley Niven,” said Poirot. “It is possible that the sight of you reminds him of the murder for that reason.”
“I do not believe that is it, and I cannot explain why,” said Nurse Bee. “Do you know what it seems like to me? It feels as if he is accusingmeof killing Stanley Niven—and I did no such thing! Professor Burnett of all people ought to know that, if he witnessed the crime. You might not understand this, Monsieur Poirot, but I start to panic and... well, it feels a lot like wanting to die. Whenever anything resembling true hostility is aimed at me, that is how my body feels. It is my body more than my mind. As I say: it is nearly impossible to explain. I imagine I must deserve it—that is the worst part. I have been this way ever since—” She broke off abruptly. “The point is, I am driving myself quietly mad, and trying to make sure no one else notices. I did not kill Stanley Niven, and have dedicated the whole of my working life to saving lives, but the way Professor Burnett is carrying on, I can sometimes almost believe I must be guilty somehow.”
“You have been this way—easily disturbed by hostility—ever since when, mademoiselle?”
Bee Haskins looked uncertain for a second. Then she said, “Very well, Monsieur Poirot. Though it will be agony to do so, I shall tell you the whole horrible story.”
23 December 1931
Chapter 26
Deep and Dreamless Sleep
Dr. Osgood had news for me when he arrived in the dining room at a quarter past seven the following morning: a nurse from St. Walstan’s had telephoned to say that Poirot was fully recovered and well enough to leave the hospital.
I don’t know what it was that prompted me to ask, “Which nurse?”
“Why does that matter? It was Nurse Olga Woodruff,” Osgood said with no trace of emotion in his voice.
“Your fiancée,” I said.
The doctor scowled. “Do you want me to drive you to the hospital to collect your friend, or not?”
“No, thank you,” I made sure to match his offhand and ungracious tone. “I shall make a different arrangement.”
I stood up, happy to abandon my lumpy, inedible breakfast. Goodness only knew what species of meat Enid had used, or what she imagined she had turned it into. Certainly it was no recognizable dish.
“Take my car, Catchpool,” said Douglas Laurier. “I’msure you and Poirot have much to discuss and would rather not have any of us listening in, eh?” Apart from Dr. Osgood and me, Douglas was the only other person in the room. I assumed most people were still asleep. I had only risen as early as I had in anticipation of a long walk by the sea, followed by a swim and a hot bath—but I thought no more about these things once I heard that Poirot was fit and healthy again.
I had neither looked at nor spoken to Mother since she had given me her vile “Freedom Oil” to dispose of yesterday. I had hardly thought about her either; it was as if there was some sort of hazy barrier in my mind that prevented me from thinking in that direction. That is the only way I can describe it: a strange kind of mental numbness that I had not experienced before.
I drove to the hospital in Douglas’s car and found Poirot in his room, elegantly dressed and standing to attention, like a visiting dignitary waiting to be taken to his next official engagement. He looked recovered, but preoccupied.
“It is wonderful to see you restored to health,” I told him.
“I slept well,” he said. “For the first time since arriving in Norfolk I had, to put it in the words of the well-known Christmas carol, the Silent Night.”
“I am delighted to hear it.”
“I did not dream, but I did a lot of thinking in my sleep—about Bee Haskins and the young man to whom she was engaged to be married.”
“Ah, yes. The story you would not tell me yesterday,” I said.
“It is a sad story. The death of Nurse Bee’s fiancé was only one part of the tragedy.”
“Died, did he?”
