The Yellow Mistletoe

by Walter S. Masterman

  “They? Who are they?” he sprang from his chair in fury.

  “Sit down. If I knew I would tell you at once. Now keep quite cool and listen. Will you be guided by me?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Then don’t report this to the police — it will do no good and only lead to publicity — and enquiries of the wrong kind. Will your friend Smart keep his mouth shut?”

  “I’m sure he will.”

  “Very well then. Now listen. Ronald, I believe your father was murdered.”

  Ronald turned white and clutched the chair. “I said so at first, but you wouldn’t have it — I beg your pardon; of course, you had some reason.”

  “I had,” Sinclair answered sternly. “If I had a shadow of evidence I should have told them at the Yard, but it was so grave a matter that it was best to let the verdict stand and work on our own.

  “These are the facts. Diana’s mother died of sheer fright — horror at something she thought she saw. Oh, I know her heart was very bad,” he said, as the other was about to interrupt. “Simpson told me. She was found in the wood. Then years after your sister came screaming from that wood.”

  “What are you hinting at, Sir Arthur?” Ronald felt an uncanny sense of dread, and shivered in spite of the heat.

  “Your father had a brilliant career — all the world was open to him. Directly he married Diana’s mother he hid himself in a remote village. He knew something. He watched over her — and watched, unfortunately, in vain.”

  “What about the man who was talking to my father?”

  Sinclair looked at the other with guarded eyes.

  “That had an explanation. It was Carstairs — but he came for a reason which I promised not to repeat.”

  “I’m glad of that,” Ronald said with a look of relief, “I should not like to think Teddy was not a white man.”

  “Your father was on his way to Scotland Yard when the accident happened.”

  “What was he doing at Leicester Square?”

  “I will hazard a guess — there are a number of shops where they sell old books in Charing Cross Road.”

  “I see — you think he had been buying old books — it’s quite likely.”

  “Yes, I think he had been buying old books — or looking for them,” Sinclair repeated gravely.

  “But how could he have been murdered — there were no marks — and the men at the cloak-room said no one had been seen going up or down the stairs.”

  “Nevertheless, he was murdered — of that I am convinced. How, we shall find out in time.”

  “But why should anyone want to murder my father?”

  After a pause Sinclair continued: “He had asked for an appointment with Superintendent Elliott at Scotland Yard. Here is a copy of the letter. I’ve got a pretty good memory and wrote it down after I had seen Elliott.”

  Ronald read it through in bewilderment. “He speaks of a great danger.” There was a catch in his voice as he read the words of his dead father.

  “A danger so urgent — so near — that he was going to break the silence of years. Now perhaps we may never know.”

  “Diana? What is it, Sir Arthur — are they trying to murder her?” His voice had risen in alarm.

  “Hush — she may hear. It’s worse than that, and you, too.”

  Ronald smiled contemptuously. “I can look after myself.”

  “Don’t be too sure. Remember that telegram. If I hadn’t come, you would have gone to London?”

  “Certainly — I was just going.”

  “You would most probably have been murdered — and your sister would have been alone in the vicarage except for the servant. There is no telephone there.”

  “Don’t, please.” Ronald covered his eyes with his hands, as though to keep out some awful sight.

  “I don’t want to scare you, but you see the position now. If I am not right, why did your father put that strange text on his wife’s tombstone?”

  “I asked him once — he wouldn’t tell me.”

  “One thing more — you saw that miniature portrait of your stepmother which your father took to London — you read what was on the back?”

  “Yes, ‘The Lord gave — ’ What did he mean?”

  “You don’t know when that was written — ” Even Sinclair showed signs of excitement.

  “I don’t know the date — but it was before my mother — I mean Diana’s mother — died.”

  “Are you quite sure?” Sinclair leant forward.

  “Quite, because just before she died the picture fell down. Di and I were playing in the drawing-room where it used to hang. We picked it up and saw the writing. Our nurse was angry. She said it was the sign of death in a house. We never told Dad . . . Why do you ask?”

  “Doesn’t it seem strange that he should have started that text while she was alive?”

  “What are you hinting at, Sir Arthur? Don’t accuse my mother — ”

  Sinclair held up his hand. “I am the last to accuse, my boy,” he said sadly. “Do you remember what your sister told you. Your father had told her in the garden that if anyone spoke evil of her — she was to remember that he loved and trusted her.”

  Ronald buried his head in his hands.

  Sinclair’s voice went on very gently, “I think — I don’t know — he meant to finish that text — but with all his goodness and piety, he could not say ‘The Lord hath taken away.’ ”

  Ronald sprang to his feet and petulantly broke off a flower on the parapet; he faced round to Sinclair.

  “Look here — you mustn’t be offended — forgive me if I’m impertinent. You have hinted at things — and upset my mind — you’ve told me nothing. If there’s terrible danger — why not go straight to the police and tell them everything. You are living down here shut away from everything and can’t help if anything happens.” He stopped breathless, his eyes flashing with anger. His impulsive nature was in revolt against this man who sat there talking of danger — and did nothing.

  Sinclair laughed. “I see, I shall have to tell you — I hadn’t meant to, but you’re such a mistrusting Thomas. You may be surprised to know that there is hardly a place to which Diana has gone that I have not been close to her. When she was shopping — and you would not go with her — I stood outside shops till I was tired of looking at women’s underclothes, waiting for her. I spent a small fortune on taxis — oh, I don’t mind that — following her car. Perhaps you will be surprised to know I was at your party last night?”

  “What?” Ronald exclaimed.

  “Yes — a dear old gentleman playing bridge — I had a talk with young Gorringe — he wouldn’t talk about anything but your sister. I watched him drinking gin till he became maudlin.”

  “Well, I’m damned,” was all Ronald could say.

  “I should have stayed but it was too risky. I had to get back here. I always leave the wireless on when I go at night time, and I’ve got a stop-clock — or whatever they call it which turns the light out at a given hour — and I’ve made it turn the wireless off.”

  “Do you mean the place is watched?”

  “Very much so,” Sinclair said grimly.

  “But why do you choose such an exposed place — you must be seen.”

  “That’s where you make a mistake. In a London house, or even in Eastbourne, it would be much easier to keep a watch, but just because this place is exposed, I can get back — I’ll tell you how some day.”

  Ronald came forward. “Sir Arthur — I apologise — I’m wrong as usual. What a friend you’ve been — and what a cad I was to leave Di to go alone — I was a swine.”

  “Nonsense — quick — your sister is coming. Not a word to her, mind. We’ve got to see this thing through.” He took Ronald’s hand in a hearty grip, as the girl came lightly up the stairs.

  “Lunch is ready,” she announced with a smile. “We’ve cold tongue and bully beef and salad and stewed fruit.”

  “What more can a man want?” Sinclair replied.

&nbs
p; In the days that followed Sinclair recalled the scene — the girl care-free and laughing — the burglar forgotten, the young athletic giant whose strength had been a byword at Cambridge. He little realised what that strength would mean to him one day.

  The light sea-breeze blew in through the open windows, deeply pierced in the massive walls, which Sinclair had enlarged.

  A window-seat had been placed in each embrasure, and Diana sprang lightly up into one of them and looked out across the sea.

  “Have you two settled everything?” she asked. “You talked long enough.”

  “Yes, Di, Sir Arthur is taking charge of everything.”

  “You’re a dear — I told Ron if he turned me out of the house I should marry you and come and live in your tower. To be romantic you ought to run off with me and lock me up here. Then we could stand a siege. Fancy Ronald camping his troops on those marshes and sounding a blast on a trumpet, and all catching influenza — I’m sure it’s damp there at night. Sir Arthur the bold knight and the poor maiden.”

  “Don’t talk nonsense.” Ronald looked wistfully at the girl sitting there, her exquisite face silhouetted in the sunlight. His thoughts brooded on the dark secret danger.

  And Sinclair — middle-aged with reddish grey hair and moustache, who alone could shield them from the threat. Thoughts stirred in Sinclair’s mind as he saw that fairy creature — he sighed. If he failed in his trust, God help him.

  A sharp knock sounded on the outer door like a note of doom. Sinclair’s face hardened. “Come in,” he ailed.

  The door was opened, and Teddy Carstairs stood here — looking at the three in blank astonishment.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  HUMAN SACRIFICE

  Diana was the first to recover. She leapt down from her perch and held out her hand frankly to Carstairs.

  “Fancy you coming here — did you see our car?” she asked.

  “I am afraid not, Miss Shepherd,” he answered. “I did not even know you were here — it is an added pleasure.”

  He held her hand in his for a moment — the fraction of a second longer than was necessary. The light from the door cast a slanting beam on the two standing there hand-clasped.

  “My God!” Sinclair exclaimed under his breath, half springing to his feet. His usually imperturbable manner was gone, and Ronald looked at him in amazement. Sinclair’s eyes were nearly starting from his head. For a moment he remained leaning on the arms of his chair, then he sank back and a mask came over his face. “I might have guessed,” he muttered.

  Carstairs saw only his smiling welcome. “You came to see me?” he said, and held out his hand.

  “Yes, I am staying at Eastbourne and thought I would run over. You’ve got a queer house to live in.”

  Diana and Carstairs had not met since the days at Skipton; she was obviously delighted to see him, she never took any trouble to hide her feelings.

  Ronald, after shaking hands with his friend, remained in dogged silence, tapping the floor with his foot.

  “Come and see Sir Arthur’s roof-garden — there’s a wonderful view there.” Diana took Carstairs up the winding stairs. Ronald followed them with his eyes and then kicked viciously at a chair.

  Sinclair laughed.

  “What’s the matter?” Ronald said fiercely. “First you look as though you’d seen a ghost, and then you seem to see something funny.”

  “Both are true,” Sinclair answered, “but you need not be jealous of Carstairs.”

  Ronald turned crimson. “Jealous? What the devil do you mean?”

  “Nothing,” said Sinclair with irritating calmness.

  “Look here, Sir Arthur — you said Carstairs came to see my father — the night I heard him — what did he want?”

  “I told you I had given my word,” Sinclair said sternly. “Come, let’s go up.” He led the way to the roof, where Diana and Carstairs were leaning on the parapet.

  “I was just telling Miss Shepherd about the Alpine Sports.”

  “It must be fascinating,” Diana said, her eyes sparkling. “Skiing and ‘luging’ and running down great snow slopes.”

  “Where were you?” Sinclair asked casually.

  “Oh, I hate a crowd — I always go to a quiet little place in the Grimmi Alp, it’s much jollier. There’s a fine run there — quite unspoilt, and it ends on the ice, so that one gets up a terrific speed. About five miles on the lake after the snow — ”

  “Five miles on the lake — yes, that must be interesting,” said Sinclair quietly. Carstairs glanced quickly at the detective. “Oh, I only spoke in a figurative manner — it may not be five miles.”

  “It must be a job getting the luge back though?” Diana asked.

  “We don’t get it back — that’s the beauty of it — there are men who haul it up the other side and we start from the pine woods, and back again a lake.”

  Ronald was picking little bits of mortar from the old wall and throwing them over the edge. “I thought you were going to have a bathe, Di?” he said. “It’ll be too late soon, we’ll have to start back.”

  “I’d like a bathe — by Jove — you haven’t a costume you could lend me, Sir Arthur?” It was Carstairs who spoke.

  “Only one, I’m afraid — you two had better toss for it.”

  “He can have it,” — Ronald threw a larger bit of mortar across the shingles; something made him look at Sinclair.

  “All right, let’s toss,” — he said, reading the look he saw.

  Sinclair produced a coin. “Heads, Carstairs — tails, Ronald.”

  “Tails! right, you bathe, Ronald.”

  “But what about Diana — she can’t bathe without a costume?”

  “You silly boy — I borrowed one from Mrs. Simmons, Sir Arthur’s cook.”

  The two ran downstairs to change — Ronald completely in the dark. He had no intention or desire to bathe — especially with a wounded head.

  Carstairs watched them go — then to Sinclair, “That’s a useful accomplishment,” he said sarcastically.

  “What?”

  “Only making a coin come heads or tails as you wish.”

  “You’ve got sharp eyes,” the detective laughed. “I wanted to ask you what you wanted — I thought you came to see me.”

  “Oh, nothing important — I knew, of course, you lived in this Martello tower — and as a matter of fact — you remember our last conversation. I really wanted to know from you whether you thought I ought to visit the Shepherds, after what I told you. I’ve never been to their house.”

  “There’s no reason why you should not that I can see — only I wouldn’t say anything to Miss Shepherd about the matter you discussed with her father.”

  “I had no intention of doing so.” Carstairs stiffened. “Now they are in town I thought we might go out a bit, that’s all, and I thought of asking them to join us next winter for the Alpine Sports. Great fun, you know.”

  “It must be — especially going right across that lake — there they go” — as Ronald and Diana emerged from under the tower and stepped gingerly over the shingles to the sea.

  “I must get some towels for them, excuse me.” Sinclair made for the stairs.

  “You’ve got a queer taste in books,” Carstairs remarked, picking up a book Sinclair had been reading.

  “I saw this just now — ” He read the title Human Sacrifices in All Ages.

  “It’s extraordinarily interesting — but rather beastly in places. It tells of customs which show that man can sink lower than the beasts.”

  “The Jews had human sacrifices,” Carstairs said with vehemence. “Read the story of Abraham and Isaac shorn of the rubbish with which it has been surrounded. And Jethro’s daughter. Only the priests made them use bulls and goats instead. The Greek also — witness Iphigenia. Why, even in your religion, the central idea is human sacrifice — I beg your pardon, Sir Arthur, I don’t want to argue — and you want towels — but it’s an interesting subject.” He subsided as quickly as he had fired
up.

  “We must resume it on a future occasion,” Sinclair said gravely. “They’re coming out of the water, I must hurry.”

  Carstairs stood motionless, watching Ronald who picked Diana up bodily and carried her over the shingles. He heard her laugh as they came up the wooden steps of the tower. He flung himself into a chair and picked up Sinclair’s book.

  “Human sacrifice,” he read, “is still practised in remote parts of the world, chiefly in Africa. As a rule, it is either to propitiate a god or devil to avert some catastrophe, as famine, pestilence, or attack by some enemy. It is also common to most savage nations to offer human sacrifice in the spring for a good harvest. The victim is either a prisoner captured in war, or a devotee who has been brought up from childhood for the purpose, and who is usually so worked upon by the witch doctors that he or she goes cheerfully to death . . .”

  “Cheerful subject for the young,” he said scornfully, flinging the book across the floor.

  When they had taken tea on the roof, Ronald said, “We shall have to be getting back.”

  “I wonder whether you would give me a lift to Town?” Carstairs asked. Diana assented at once. “You’ll have to take me to Eastbourne first to get my bag, it’s not much out of the way.”

  Sinclair asked to be excused from coming to the road, and said good-bye at his door. “I will see you in Town soon,” he told Ronald, and pressed his hand with meaning. He watched them till they reached the car, and then raced up the stairs to his telescope on the roof.

  He followed the car down the Pevensey Road till it disappeared among the houses on the outskirts of Eastbourne, and carefully scrutinised the road beyond. A sudden exclamation fell from him and he glued his eye to the lens as the car emerged into a side road, and stopped at a house of red brick with an ugly turret sticking up at the corner looking like a pepper pot.

  He saw Carstairs alight and spring up the steps. The others waited in the car.

  Sinclair’s telescope was a very powerful instrument — he had bought it for a purpose.