The Yellow Mistletoe

by Walter S. Masterman

  Sinclair gave a start. “Go on,” he whispered to the doctor. “I’ll join you.” He had seen something which startled even his iron nerves.

  Carelessly thrust into a small vase was a sprig of mistletoe, but the berries instead of being dirty white in colour, were a bright golden yellow.

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE ATHENS HOTEL

  THE inquest on the Rev. George Shepherd excited little interest. It was all so commonplace. There were just the witnesses, a few people drawn by curiosity, and a couple of reporters.

  The Coroner was old and suffering from a stiff neck; he wanted to get the case over quickly.

  Ronald had identified the body and sworn his evidence; the porter, Jenkins, and the constable did not take long.

  Then the attendant at the cloak-room at the head of the stairs gave his testimony. He had seen the parson going down the stairs; he had noticed him particularly as he had thought he was coming to leave his bag, and he was surprised that he did not use the lift in the ordinary way.

  The Coroner had invited Sinclair to sit by him. He was honoured to think that so important a man had come to his dusty court.

  “Will you ask him whether he saw anyone else go up or down the stairs?” Sinclair asked.

  The Coroner put the question.

  “No,” the man replied. “No one came to the cloakroom or went down the stairs at all for at least ten minutes. You see, sir, during what we call the ‘rush hours’ people are going home mostly, and seldom use the cloak-room. It’s in the morning they come to me.”

  “Quite so; quite so,” the Coroner said.

  Doctor Smart was the next witness. He had not forgiven Sinclair for his curt dismissal at the Yard, and was inclined to be surly.

  “You examined the body of the unfortunate man?” the Coroner asked.

  “Yes, sir, he was quite dead when I arrived. But the body was still warm. In my opinion he had tripped on the winding iron stairs, and fallen head first. There was blood on the stairs some ten feet higher than where the body was lying, and a wound in the head.”

  “Which caused his death?”

  The doctor hesitated. “As a matter of fact there was no fracture and the neck was not dislocated. I rather fancy he must have died of shock coupled with the head injuries.”

  “There has been a post-mortem?”

  “Yes — all the organs were in normal condition and there was no trace of heart disease — I may say he appeared to be a vigorous, strong man, although small.”

  “Were there any other marks on the body?”

  “Just a few bruises such as one might expect with a fall like that. The right arm and shoulder were badly bruised, but no bones were broken.”

  “So that you think the head-wound coupled with shock caused his death?” Sinclair asked quietly.

  “That is my opinion, but of course the Home Office specialist is the doctor whose opinion you should take. He will tell you the same,” the doctor said sententiously.

  Sir John Smithers, the great Home Office doctor, corroborated Dr. Smart.

  Superintendent Elliott gave evidence as to having received a letter from Shepherd asking for an appointment.

  “Do you propose to put the paper in as evidence?” he was asked. His eyes met those of Sinclair.

  “I think not,” he said. “It is of a confidential nature, and has no bearing on the accident — he wished to see me on a personal matter, the nature of which he did not disclose.”

  The Coroner was satisfied. The jury returned a verdict of accidental death and expressed sympathy with the relatives.

  Ronald had insisted on Diana remaining outside the Court in a small room which had been placed at her disposal. Their only relation — Reginald Shepherd — brother of the dead man — had been summoned by telegraph, but could not arrive in time for the inquest since he was touring in Greece and Macedonia, and his address had been hard to come by.

  He would be back in time for the funeral — he had wired.

  Sinclair and Ronald remained in the Court for a few moments when the case was over.

  “Well?” the older man asked.

  “What do you think, Sir Arthur? I am convinced now that it was an accident — anything else seems fantastic, doesn’t it — like a detective story.”

  Sinclair stroked his fast-greying moustache. He evaded a direct answer. “Well, you must take your sister back to Skipton. If you like I will make arrangements about the body. I can perhaps do it cheaper and better than you.”

  “That’s awfully good of you, Sir Arthur,” Ronald said in surprise.

  “Not at all — Doctor Simpson will see to things the other end. I would like to spare you all I can, and I want you to be with your sister.”

  Those who knew Sinclair well had many times experienced his acts of gratuitous kindness and generosity, always done without ostentation; but Ronald was puzzled.

  “When the funeral is over — you must hunt up your friend Carstairs. I expect there is some quite simple explanation about that conversation, but we must find out,” Sinclair said. “You see it took us all by surprise when we were upset by the news. Don’t say anything about it to your sister.”

  Ronald thanked him again, but in his mind was a feeling that a man with the reputation of Sinclair had rather made a mountain out of a molehill at the time, and had been the first to suggest things. Still, he had been very kind.

  One better acquainted with the methods and mind of the first detective in Europe would have doubted his apparent simplicity.

  Sinclair saw, the brother and sister off in a taxi, with instructions to go straight to their hotel and then to Skipton.

  He made his way to the nearest post office and wired to Simpson. “Shepherds returning to-day. Meet express train and watch. Better stay with them till uncle arrives if possible. Sinclair.”

  “And now for the Athens Hotel — Frith Street,” he muttered.

  The proprietor of the Athens Hotel, half-restaurant and half-unsavoury “Hotel” was a cosmopolitan Italian-Greek named Ganzani, on whom the police had kept an eye for some time. It was a place to which no respectable citizen would go, least of all a parson, except in complete ignorance, or from curiosity.

  Sinclair knew it well, and unfortunately the proprietor knew Sinclair, but this was no time for disguise, at which he was an adept. He went straight in. There were looking-glasses round the walls, and tables in two rows on which were dirty tablecloths, and foreign newspapers in wooden clips. The windows displayed chops and sausages and other delicacies, and a notice to say that table d’hôte lunch might be had for a shilling and a five-course dinner for half a crown. It was not by bread alone that Ganzani made his living. A frowsy waiter was leaning idly against a table holding a table napkin.

  “Yes,” the waiter said, “Signor Ganzani is in. I will call him — what name, please?”

  “Never mind a name. I know him, and he knows me.”

  Ganzani entered in shirt sleeves. At the sight of Sinclair he turned pale beneath the dirt from the kitchen. All his offences stood up in his mind and mocked him. “Good morning, sir,” he bowed obsequiously.

  “I want a word with you, Ganzani,” Sinclair said, ignoring the outstretched hand.

  “Come into my little room, sir.” He led the way, his knees trembling beneath him.

  “What can I do for you, sir? Will you have a glass of sherry, sir?”

  Sinclair waved him aside. His manner was stern. “I know a good deal about you, Ganzani — perhaps more than you think. You have a fairly long list of convictions. How you have escaped deportation I don’t know. You make money out of unfortunate women, and there have been several robberies unexplained, eh?”

  “Oh no, sir,” the wretch answered. “Indeed I have now given up bad ways — I conduct my cafe — just a respectable place for good meals — the police are pleased with me. They come in here frequently — they drink my wine and say they find everything good.”

  Sinclair gave a grunt. “Yes — so
I’ve heard. Now tell me the truth — it will be better.” He took out the telegram from his pocket and gave it to the other quickly, watching his face with narrowed eyes. Few men or women could lie to Sinclair with success.

  A look of blank astonishment showed on the face of Ganzani.

  “But I know nothing of this, sir. Nevair has one Shepherd stayed at my little hotel. I would tell you, sir.”

  There was great relief in his voice — he had feared worse things.

  Sinclair was satisfied thus far. “Do you know anything about that telegram?”

  “Nothing at all,” he began to protest vigorously. “It is someone playing a practical joke. Who is this Mistaire Shepherd?”

  Sinclair ignored the question.

  “You see the date — February 17th. Now I want you to be careful. Did anyone come in here in the morning after that date — or perhaps midday — any stranger? I know you are not very busy then. He would probably wait some time — he may have booked a room, or ordered lunch.”

  “No one at all, sir, I am certain. What was he like, this Shepherd?”

  In Ganzani’s fusty little office on a sort of desk where he did his work, Sinclair saw a sprig of mistletoe the berries of which were yellow, stuck into a wine glass. Ganzani’s eyes followed those of the detective and his face went a dirty yellow.

  He watched, fascinated, as Sinclair slowly reached over and took the mistletoe, and without a word held it in front of Ganzani’s face.

  Ganzani began to tremble and grasped the desk for support; he could not take his eyes off the detective.

  For some moments not a word was spoken, but the stronger will conquered. “I know nothing about it, sir,” Ganzani wailed. “It was left here by a stranger. I do not know who he was . . . really, sir . . . He come here with a lady . . . when he went I find it on the seat. I just put it there . . . in the wine glass,” he babbled on in fright.

  “Ah!” Sinclair’s face relaxed. He laid the sprig down and took from his pocket a packet which he slowly unfolded, displaying a sprig exactly similar to the other. He held one in each hand. “Strange, isn’t it?” he said. “Now, Mr. Ganzani, tell me the truth.”

  A look of wonder and relief spread over the Italian’s face, which was covered with beads of perspiration. “You also have one?” he stammered. For one moment he paused, and then a subtle cunning look showed itself. His eyes became a blank.

  “I know nothing,” he said sullenly. “It is as I have told you.”

  “All right. I’ll take it with me.”

  “Oh no, no!” the Italian said in abject terror. He snatched at the sprig, and stammered. “The gentleman — he may come back — he will accuse me of theft. No, you must not take it.”

  Sinclair handed it back to the frightened man, and laughed. “Thank you, Ganzani, that’s all I want to know.” He opened the door and went out. Ganzani sank on to his office stool, and poured himself out a large glass of sherry, which he drank with a shaking hand.

  “Fool,” he shouted, and seizing the sprig he opened his desk and threw it in, locking the desk savagely.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  UNCLE REGINALD

  A sad party gathered at the vicarage after the funeral, to make pretence of eating lunch.

  Besides Ronald, Diana, and Doctor Simpson, there was Uncle Reginald, who was something forceful in the City, and had run down to pay his last respects to his brother.

  He had always held George in contempt for his dreamy ways and lack of ambition, yet he had a kindly heart when it did not mean inconvenience to himself. His manner was sharp and determined, and he fixed the person to whom he was talking with an accusing eye even when asking for the salt. He was constantly on the watch as though assessing his kindliness by the hour.

  He had made a hearty meal while the others had made pretence to eat for his sake.

  “And now,” he said to Ronald, as though addressing a defaulting creditor, “we must discuss the future. I must get back to Town — very busy in the City.”

  “Yes, sir,” Ronald answered. It would have seemed almost sacrilege not to have called him “sir.”

  “You can’t stay here, of course, there will be a new vicar. Very well — you must come and stay with me. I have plenty of room. Bachelor establishment, you know. I don’t know how much poor George left — not much I expect — he was always improvident.” He saw Diana almost in tears. “I beg your pardon, child, but it was so.” He patted her shoulder in a clumsy attempt at sympathy.

  “You shall come and keep house for us. I’ll see to all questions of finance here — send my clerk to settle up. Don’t worry.”

  It was all said in one breath, and he leaned back in his chair and puffed his cheeks — he was five-and-fifty, and had lived well.

  “We can discuss things in London. Well, I must be off. Ronald, tell my man to bring the car round. Thank you. You must not take this too much to heart, Diana. We all have to go sometime, and grieving never did any good. Good-bye.” He was gone in a whirlwind, leaving them breathless.

  Ronald returned from seeing the car spurt down the road at a rollicking fifty miles an hour.

  “He’s gone,” he said, “and left us this,” — he threw a roll of notes on the table — “he gave it without a word of explanation — pushed it into my hand. That’s just like him, kind and yet unfeeling. Dad would have given a few shillings to a poor farmer’s wife, but always with a word of sympathy, which means so much.”

  “I think your uncle’s an unfeeling brute.” The doctor had been boiling over during the lunch.

  Simpson had loyally carried out Sinclair’s mysterious instructions. He had come to the vicarage, and taken charge of everything. And in everything he had spared the children, as he regarded them, and especially Diana. He who had never attended church since he was a boy stood bareheaded in the rain while a clergyman from a neighbouring parish had uttered those triumphant and crashing words: “I am the Resurrection and the Life, saith the Lord,” . . .

  “You would like to go as soon as possible,” he said when the uncle had departed.

  “I hate leaving here,” Diana said unsteadily. “I can’t stand London — there are no woods there,” she added dreamily.

  A memory came back to the doctor. “You are still fond of the woods?”

  “Always,” then she remembered and flushed at the recollection. “Oh, I know I was frightened once — that was some dream — it must have been. Come, Ronald.”

  He knew what she meant, and took her hand like a little child. They passed through the gate into the churchyard and stood still hand-clasped before the flower-covered grave. They had both grown up in the last few days.

  Presently she spoke gently. “He always said he would like to rest next to mother. He loved her so much.”

  Ronald’s eyes wandered to the tombstone with its strange text.

  “I wonder what he meant by that?” he said.

  A frightened look came to Diana’s face. She gripped her brother’s arm. “Ron, I have dreamt of that — often. It has tortured me — I always see strange cruel faces — pitiless — and a horror.” She paused. “Why are people cruel to one another? Ron, you’ll always protect me, won’t you, dear?” She was trembling and he put his arm round her.

  “Always, Di, darling. Don’t be frightened.” Her pitiful face looked up at him. He kissed her as lovers kiss — they had always done so as children.

  “Come away now — it’s getting cold, and we must get ready, you know — pack and so on.” He spoke in a matter-of-fact voice to comfort her.

  “You’d better lie down, Di. I’ll come and tuck you up.”

  When he had taken her to her room he joined the doctor, and discussed plans for the future. “By the way, Ronald,” the doctor asked suddenly, “have you heard anything of your friend Teddy Carstairs?”

  The name startled Ronald from the reverie into which he had fallen. “I wrote to him at once — you know — after our conversation with Sir Arthur Sinclair. He’s gone to Sw
itzerland for the Alpine Sports.”

  He dismissed the subject as though it was distasteful to him.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CARSTAIRS EXPLAINS

  Reginald Shepherd’s house in London was a dreary affair. He was mid-Victorian in his ideas, scorned a modern flat, and maintained a large and gloomy residence in the Cromwell Road, with a staff of servants far above his needs.

  He was a pillar of the Constitution, hating change or progress, and abhorring Socialism in all its forms. He was, of course, a staunch Conservative, and gave large sums to the Party, to uphold the State, and possibly merit a baronetcy when the sum had reached a sufficiently large total.

  His life was a time-table. He arrived at his City office at ten to the stroke, lunched at his Club, and returned at six to dress for dinner. He was a convivial soul in a staid heavy way, and entertained business friends in his own circle, playing sober bridge or billiards. He was no anchorite, and the spas of Germany knew him each year for a liver-curing visit.

  He had recently handled rubber with satisfactory results, and the title was appreciably advanced by a liberal contribution to fight Communism.

  It was therefore a generous act on his part to take his nephew and niece to his heart and home, but generosity tinged with vanity, as he thought of how they would talk in the City of his splendid gesture. Besides, it would be a change of a pleasing kind. Diana was a beauty, there was no mistake about that — he could ask his friends’ women-folk now that she could act as hostess, when the “Sir” had added dignity to his name.

  Already he was feeling a different man.

  Sitting at breakfast some months after his brother’s death he felt at last a family man without having had to experience the horrid period of babyhood or a nagging wife.