The Yellow Mistletoe

by Walter S. Masterman

  Now that Diana seemed to be wrapped up in dresses, he sought the doctor’s company.

  Nothing more had been heard from Sinclair in the meanwhile.

  “I hate all this business,” Ronald told the doctor. “I wish I could cut this party. I want to get abroad somewhere.”

  “So you shall, my boy. I’m going for a holiday soon. Why not ask your uncle to let you come with me? After all, travel is an education. You can put it that way to him.”

  “You must come and speak to him — when this party business “is over. Look here, I’ve got an idea — come to the party — I’ll get my sister to send an invitation.”

  The doctor made a face. “It’s not much in my line — I live very quietly.”

  “Come on — be a sport. You may get a chance of a word with my uncle. Tell him I want a change.”

  And so it was agreed.

  The evening of the party came at last — a common enough affair to London dwellers, but all novelty to Diana. She certainly looked superb when she came down in evening dress, slightly flushed, as she had never worn so little in her life, and felt half naked.

  Reginald admired her.

  “I’ll bet there’s not a girl to touch you, my dear,” he said. “You remind me . . .” he stopped suddenly, it was not the moment to talk of her mother.

  The first to arrive were Lady Gorringe with her son and daughter. Her husband, Sir Francis, had pleaded gout. She was a wonderful product. Twenty years before, had she been of the same age, she would have figured as a matron of mature charms, dignified and stately, but times have changed.

  She presented a slim figure, and would have passed for twenty “in the dusk with the light behind her,” and in the matter of costume completely outdid her daughter both in daring and scantiness.

  She greeted Ronald and Diana in the effusive and coy fashion of a young girl fresh from school.

  “We are all so fond of dear Mr. Reginald,” she said with a near approach to a giggle. “It’s such a shame he never married, don’t you think so? . . . but now you have come to live with him, we must try and find him some nice woman to look after him, for you won’t be long here I’m thinking, my dear.”

  Diana shuddered.

  Lady Gorringe whisked off to Reginald: “How pretty your niece looks — and so charming. I have fixed up for Pauline — you know, Lady Pauline Tonks — to present her — I’m full up myself.”

  The daughter, Doris, stood alone, smiling at her mother’s antics. “Doris — come and talk to Miss Shepherd — Diana — I may call you Diana? Such a pretty name. I must run away.”

  The two girls drifted off to a corner. “Isn’t mother the limit,” Doris said without preface. “I’m sometimes quite fed-up with her. She wants a good spanking.”

  Doris had a frank, open face, with honest brown eyes, a slightly turned-up nose, and a humorous mouth none too small.

  “I don’t know what mothers are coming to now,” she continued. “They cut us out at dances — they know the ropes, you see, and attract the modern blasé youths, who feel flattered. Still, we have a pretty good time with tennis and golf. You play?”

  “Tennis, yes — I’ve never learnt golf.”

  “Oh, we’ll soon alter that — you must come along to our place.”

  Diana thanked her, but had an uneasy feeling that this would go down on the bill — and perhaps the girl’s friendly manner was part of the account.

  Ronald looked round the room, now getting moderately crowded, for someone with whom to talk. He had been introduced till he was tired of it. Lady Gorringe’s son, looking thoroughly bored, strolled up to him.

  He represented everything that Ronald thoroughly loathed, but politeness demanded that he should not run away.

  He had a languid manner, a tiny moustache, and a faint suggestion that his face had been touched up, and his hair waved and curled.

  “You’re old Shepherd’s nephew?” he drawled.

  “Yes, he’s my uncle,” Ronald replied stiffly.

  “Lucky bounder — quarts of dough, from all accounts. My name is Ralph — they pronounce it Rafe — damned stupid. I say, old thing, it’s beastly dry, you know, you haven’t got a gargle about the house, have you?”

  “Yes — come into my uncle’s study.”

  Ronald rang for the necessary refreshment.

  “Gin for me — large one — I never take anything else,” the youth remarked with a weary smile.

  He helped himself liberally to his noxious poison and Ronald to a more manly whisky.

  The door was suddenly opened by the butler who ushered in a middle-aged man in morning clothes — obviously a lawyer.

  “I beg your pardon, sir,” he said to Ronald. “I did not know anyone was here. This is Mr. Dighton — Mr. Shepherd’s lawyer — he wants to see him.”

  “I’ll go and tell him,” Ronald said — glad to escape.

  Shepherd came briskly into the room, and Ralph retired.

  “Sorry to send for you, Dighton,” said Shepherd. “It’s rather urgent. Fact is I have young Pointer here, you know — private secretary to the Chief Whip. He spoke to me about the baronetcy. The price has gone up. If I can give fifty thousand right away to the Party funds I can have it in the next Honours List. Can we manage that at once?”

  The lawyer’s face was impassive but there was a shade of anxiety in his eyes.

  “It’s a very bad time just now to sell. I was talking to your broker the other day. Things are very depressed.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind dropping a bit,” Shepherd said.

  “I’ll see what I can do — you want it at once, I suppose?”

  “Next week will do,” Shepherd said, a trifle impatiently.

  “All right, Mr. Shepherd.” The lawyer took his departure.

  The party was undoubtedly a success — thanks to Lady Gorringe, who managed things perfectly — at a price.

  Diana was completely happy — everyone was so nice to her — she was ignorant of the ways of Society. It was with real regret that she saw her guests go.

  The bridge players were the last, among whom, was Dr. Smart.

  After the first introductions he had felt strangely out of things. He did not dance the modern style of gyrations and drifted first to the buffet with Ralph Gorringe who consumed large quantities of gin, and then to the Bridge room where he “cut in,” and remained for the rest of the evening.

  He took leave of Ronald at the door — outside a pelting rain was falling, and he turned up the collar of his light greatcoat.

  “Let me phone for a taxi?” Ronald asked.

  “No, I’ll be all right — pick one up outside. There you are — ”

  A taxi was coming round the corner, and the doctor hailed it, and Ronald saw him get in. He returned to the drawing-room, which was looking bleak and untidy after the departure of the guests.

  “Wasn’t it fun? Didn’t you like it, Ron?” Diana asked.

  “I suppose it’s all right — as long as you enjoyed it,” he said churlishly.

  Diana’s face fell. “What’s the matter, Ron? You seem to have changed lately. You’re not . . . like you used to be.”

  “I’m all right — I don’t care for these people much,” he answered evasively.

  He kissed her good night. “What a peck!” she pouted.

  “You’re tired,” he said, “you better get to bed.”

  Diana was hurt — he had always gone up with her to her door and generally stood there talking for a few minutes. He watched her go, and turned to get a drink, something unusual with him.

  Light was filtering through the curtains of Ronald’s room — he always had windows wide open. Dawn was just breaking. But he could not sleep. Strangely enough his mind was not filled with the events of the evening, but the tragedy of his father’s death, and the mysterious conduct of Sinclair floated back and would not be banished. A strange oppression held him.

  Was Sinclair a crank, whose long experience had made him mad? His strange cho
ice of a dwelling would seem to point that way — he had been so emphatic, so methodical in all he had done, and so kind — he had forgotten that, and remorse filled his mind. He would go down and look him up at his Martello tower.

  An almost compelling influence made him want to go and tell Diana. What rot at this hour of the morning!

  Yet, in uneasy fits of slumber Sinclair’s words came back to him. “Watch your sister.” And that night he had almost had a quarrel with her!

  He got out of bed and put on a dressing-gown. How ridiculous. Yes, he would just peep into her room to see that she was all right — perhaps she, too, was awake, after all this excitement. He would like to tell her that he was sorry he had been so surly. Their rooms were next to each other, and Ronald opened his door quietly and stole to hers. He listened for a moment, and then very softly opened her door — just an inch or two.

  A sound of steady breathing told him she was asleep.

  He would not disturb her. A sound — ever so slight — in the room came to his ears. Someone was moving — and now that he listened, he could hear someone else breathing besides his sister.

  Panic seized him — an unreasoning sense of danger. He flung the door open. In the half-light from the window he saw the figure of a man — outlined against the window. For a moment his mind was numbed. It was so utterly unexpected. The next he rushed forward with a shout. Quick as lightning the figure stooped, lifted a bedroom chair and flung it straight at Ronald, sending him half-stunned to the floor. Diana woke with a cry as Ronald sprang to his feet and rushed to the window.

  The bedroom was on the first floor facing the garden. He saw a figure running fast — he had evidently jumped from the window. Before Ronald could collect his thoughts the figure had climbed the garden wall and disappeared. He was about to follow, but Diana cried to him, “Don’t leave me, Ron.” He turned back and switched on the electric light.

  Diana was shaking with fright. “What was it, Ron? What’s the matter? I thought I saw a man or something going through the window. You’re bleeding.”

  Ronald sat on the bed and put his arm round her. “Don’t be frightened, Di. There’s no danger now — and don’t make a noise.”

  He closed the door and handed her a dressing wrap. Then he looked in the glass. There was an ugly gash across his forehead where the chair had struck him.

  “Oh, you’re hurt,” she said.

  “It’s nothing.” He bound a towel round his head and came back to her.

  “What was it?” she whispered.

  “I don’t know — but we must keep cool, and not alarm the house. It’s too late to catch him. I suppose it was a burglar. He probably knew we had a party on, and thought he would have a chance while the household were all tired and asleep.” He spoke calmly to allay her fears.

  “Ron,” she said, clinging to him, “I had those awful dreams again — you know — what I used to have. Terrible faces and a sense of something frightful.”

  “Only because you were tired, Di.” He rose from the bed — he had seen something on the floor. He picked up a piece of white cotton — coarser than a handkerchief, and his face went white.

  The sickly sweet smell of chloroform greeted him, making his head reel. “Only just in time,” he murmured.

  “What’s that you’ve got?” Diana asked.

  Ronald stuffed it quickly into his dressing-gown pocket.

  “Only a handkerchief,” he said, and went to the window again.

  “Hullo — here’s a ladder — the garden ladder — up against the wall. You see it was a burglar,” he added illogically.

  He came back to her. “Now look here, Di. This wants some thinking out. I’m going to put that ladder back — it hangs on the wall. I shan’t be a minute; then we can talk. There’s no danger now. Come down and let me in by the garden door.”

  He descended the ladder before she could protest, and waited in the growing light till she came to let him in.

  Safely in her room, with the dawn coming quickly, always a comfort in trouble — she was quieter.

  “But I don’t understand — What are you going to do?”

  “I want you to trust me. We will say nothing about this.”

  She opened her beautiful eyes wide in astonishment.

  “Nothing? Not even to Uncle — or the police.”

  “Nothing — trust me. You see no harm has been done,” he said awkwardly. “I want you to come with me to Eastbourne — we can run down in two hours, and see old Sinclair. I want his advice.”

  “I don’t understand — but, of course, I trust you, Ron.”

  “Now try and sleep — I’ll get my pipe, and sit here.” She gave him a look of gratitude. She was very beautiful sitting there in bed. He bent over and kissed her.

  “I’m sorry, Di, for being a beast.”

  She snuggled down among the pillows. “That’s all right, Ron — you couldn’t be a beast,” she said in a dreamy voice.

  What a fool he had been to ignore Sinclair’s warning. Thank God he had come in time — but what on earth was the meaning of it all?

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  EXPLANATIONS

  Sinclair had made his lonely home in one of the Martello towers near to Eastbourne. The reason? No one ever knew Sinclair’s reasons for his actions.

  He had taken great trouble with his tower. The cellar he had converted into a kitchen “fitted with every labour-saving convenience,” as the advertisements said, and pierced with windows.

  He had partitioned off the central room into living-room and bedroom and enlarged the deep-set windows.

  But his chief triumph was the flat roof which he had converted into a garden with boxes of flowers, and used as a sitting-out place whenever the weather allowed.

  With basket-chairs for ease, an awning overhead, and the sea breezes blowing round, he would sit and read. He had allowed himself the luxury of a wireless set of great power, and every day he got the morning papers brought by the good woman who came to do what cooking was required.

  The sea was there for bathing, and he had a magnificent view from his tower to Beachy Head on the one hand and Pevensey on the other — what more could a man wish?

  His friends shrugged their shoulders and wondered how long it would last with one who had never rested or taken recreation from work, but to Sinclair the change was delightful.

  Breakfast was over and a pipe lighted. It was a sparkling joyous day, with a promise of great heat. Before settling down to his papers, Sinclair leaned his arms on the parapet, and surveyed the scene. All at once his keen eyes picked out a couple, a man and a woman, advancing across the Crumbles, and making straight for his tower. He turned his telescope which moved on a swivel, and saw Ronald and Diana, the former holding his hat in his hand, and with a white bandage round his head.

  Beyond he saw their car standing on the main road.

  Sinclair greeted his young friends at the door and smilingly welcomed them to his home.

  Diana was entranced with the tower. “What a ripping little place to live in,” she said, and insisted on being shown all over it, even glancing into Sinclair’s bedroom. “Ron — we must have a Martello tower,” she said gaily. The words sounded strange after the events of the night, but Diana had to an extraordinary degree an elastic power of recovery — a power she was to have great need of in the days to come.

  “You must stay to lunch,” Sinclair said, when they were on the roof sunning themselves in basket-chairs. “I haven’t much, but I always keep a stock of tinned things in case of a siege,” he smiled grimly.

  Diana glanced at Ronald. “I’ll go and help your woman; I know Ronald wants to talk to you.” She skipped down the stone stairway, and Sinclair’s eyes followed her with a troubled look; then he turned to Ronald — “Well?”

  “I’ve come to you for advice, Sir Arthur.”

  Sinclair smoked in silence, impassive and seemingly half-asleep, while the story of the events of the night were told.

  “This m
orning,” Ronald went on, “after my uncle had gone to his office — he wouldn’t be late even if he had been up all night — I taxied to Dr. Smart, and got him to stitch me up — it was rather a nasty cut — and to put a bandage on. Diana had arranged to bring the car round to his house to avoid the servants seeing me.”

  “You told him?”

  “Yes — he’s really an awfully good fellow. He asked me whether I was going to report it to the police, and I told him I was coming to ask your advice.”

  Sinclair laughed. “I’m afraid he doesn’t like me.”

  “Oh yes — only you won’t mind my saying so, I think he was just a bit offended when he went to Scotland Yard. He was only trying to help.”

  “Have you got that cloth you found?” Sinclair asked abruptly. Ronald handed it to Sinclair. The chloroform had evaporated, but a faint smell lingered on. Sinclair held it to the light, and then, taking a magnifying-glass from his pocket, minutely went over the texture of the cloth.

  “Any fingerprints?” Ronald asked.

  “No,” Sinclair replied gravely. “No — there are no fingerprints — but it’s useful — and interesting,” he seemed to be weighing his words. Ronald had come over and was standing beside the detective.

  “Is it a clue?” he asked with a laugh.

  Sinclair gave something of a grunt. “A very strong clue, as they say in detective stories. In fact I may say it tells me more than your story of the burglar,”

  Sinclair rose and paced the narrow limits of the roof.

  “Sit down,” he said suddenly. “Ronald, I’m going to take you into my confidence. You are a man and should know. Perhaps I should have told you before. I had hoped my warning would have been sufficient. This was not a burglary.”

  Ronald leant forward and closed his fists in his excitement.

  “What?”

  “You went just in time. They were trying to get your sister.”