“Then your story of the Italian. We’ve had our eyes on that bright specimen for some time. I expect you put an entirely wrong interpretation on it. It was probably a veiled attempt at blackmail, or may have been some secret between your late uncle and the man.
“And now your sister has gone off. Well, Mr. Shepherd — girls have often taken it into their heads to do that.”
“Are you insinuating that my sister has gone off with some man?” Ronald asked indignantly.
Elliott checked him. “You came to me for advice, Mr. Shepherd. It’s no good getting annoyed. I’ve had a great deal of experience, and from what you tell me, it’s a straight case of — elopement, shall we call it. As soon as Dr. Simpson called me up last night, I got to work. It was only from what Sinclair had told me that I took the matter seriously at all. We have issued a description, and I have no doubt that we shall have news of them soon. Perhaps they have gone to Gretna Green in a car, it’s become fashionable again, now, I hear.”
“Whom are you talking about?”
“Miss Shepherd and her fiancé,” Elliott replied. “I thought you would be able to help me there.” Ronald was about to reply when a plain clothes officer entered. “Here’s some news perhaps,” Elliott said. “What is it, Wilson?”
“Report, sir, about that case of Miss Shepherd. We’ve just heard from Dover. She travelled in the Dover-Calais boat this morning with her brother. They were seen on the deck by a number of people, who remarked on their appearance. Registered as Mr. and Miss Carstairs. Any instructions, sir?”
Elliott dismissed the officer with a nod.
“Do you know Mr. Carstairs?” he asked dryly.
“Certainly! — he’s one of my best friends.”
The detective shrugged his shoulders. “They always are,” he said ironically. “Well, I think that clears the mystery. You say your sister was nearly twenty — she seemed to have gone of her own free will — of course they may have got married.”
Ronald was stunned by the news. It seemed to upset all his ideas. A sordid elopement! The blow was crushing. He only wanted to get away.
Elliott picked up his notes, crumpled them into a ball, and flung them into the waste-paper basket contemptuously.
“I’m sorry for you, Mr. Shepherd — I’m afraid it’s a tame conclusion to Sinclair’s fairy tale. We’ll follow them up for you, in case you want to take action, but consult me first. Always glad to see you.”
He rose as one anxious to get on with serious work, and Ronald mechanically thanked him and passed out in utter dejection.
He found the others at lunch, eagerly awaiting him. Before he could tell them of his interview, Dr. Simpson handed him a letter in silence. “It is from Diana,” he said. “Arrived by the second post. Posted at Dover.”
In a tense silence, Ronald broke the envelope open. It was a short note — just a few lines in Diana’s fine writing.
Dearest Ron,
I am writing this to say good-bye. I am afraid we shall not meet again. Please do not try to follow me or find out where I have gone. It would be useless, and would endanger your life. I am going of my own accord. It is the best thing. Do not judge harshly of me.
Always your loving sister,
Diana.
He handed the letter to Simpson. “Read it to the others,” he said in a voice he hardly recognised as his own.
“I don’t believe Diana ever wrote that of her own accord,” Doris declared. “She was made to write it, depend on it.”
“You’re right — sharp girl,” Ralph said. “Depend on it, the kidnappers made her do it.”
“You haven’t heard all — they were seen together on the Dover boat crossing to France — Diana and Carstairs. Talking together and on the best of terms, and they travelled as brother and sister.”
“Carstairs — the dirty hound. Who’d have thought it? God, I’ll shoot the swine,” Ralph exclaimed excitedly.
“I’m going after them — note or no note,” Ronald said, clenching his fist.
“And I, too — I shall be useful to you,” Doris declared with quiet insistence.
“And I, too,” Ralph joined in. “Look here — I’ve got a brain wave — that scheme of ours for a trip — mother will be delighted, and will fork up the dough willingly. You must come as my doctor, sound my liver and that sort of thing,” Ralph was getting enthusiastic over the plan.
Simpson shook his head. “I cannot go — besides someone must stay here — someone who knows — perhaps she will come back. She must not find a deserted house, you know. She must have a welcome to show we all trust her.”
“Then we must get Smart to come — he’s good company and as sharp as a needle. Anything for action, eh, Ronald?”
Ronald started at being addressed — he had been thinking deeply. A solution of the mystery had been growing in his mind, made keen by sorrow. Suppose Diana had learnt that she was not his sister, and had gone for that reason. The thought sent a thrill through him; if so, it was because she loved him, and knew the situation was hopeless — she had gone away for his sake. His loyal soul never for a moment doubted her. Then came the terrible thought that she might have sacrificed herself to Carstairs to get out of an impossible position.
“What was that — I’m sorry I was not listening,” he asked.
“We’ll get Smart to come with us,” Ralph said triumphantly.
“Let’s start to-morrow,” Doris put in, her spirits rising at the prospect. “Ralph shall go home and see mother — you, Ronald, must see Dr. Smart. I’ll go and buy things.”
“Children — ” Dr. Simpson intervened. “Do discuss this thing sensibly. The idea is not a bad one, but you will want passports, and proper preparations. Besides,” he added gravely, “you don’t suppose Carstairs is going to leave a trail behind him. It wants a lot of thinking out. I can help you as an old campaigner.”
“There’s a gentleman wants to see you, Mr. Shepherd,” the housekeeper announced, “he wouldn’t give his name.”
“Show him in here,” Dr. Simpson told her.
All eyes were fixed on the door — for in some way they all felt this was no ordinary visitor.
Sinclair came slowly into the room, and stood for a moment in the doorway. His hair was untidy and looked greyer than before, and a straggling beard grew on his chin. Bloodshot eyes gave him the appearance of lengthy dissipation, and his clothes were crumpled and worn. He walked to a seat without greeting, and sat down heavily like a tired man. Ronald thought his utter failure had made him take to drink. He would not speak first.
“You’ve heard the news — Diana’s gone,” Dr. Simpson said bitingly.
“I know — I’ve just come from Scotland Yard.”
“Oh, you’ve had to go there at last,” Ronald blurted out indignantly.
“I’ve just crossed from France — this morning — twelve hours too late.”
His quiet manner annoyed Ronald who was trying vainly to keep his temper.
“Twelve hours or twelve days — it doesn’t matter — Diana’s gone.”
Sinclair remained immovable. “You have been to see Elliott this morning. Did he help you at all?” There was nothing sarcastic in his voice — only a certain sadness.
“We ought to have gone long ago.” Ronald would not give ground. The least Sinclair could do was to own to his failure.
The old detective looked round at the ring of accusing faces, and a queer smile played round his mouth. “And so I have given wrong counsel. I am responsible for everything. I will bring no reproach, but didn’t I tell you not to let Diana out of your sight? I told you I had to go away — but it was for your sake, not mine. Perhaps things have turned out for the best.”
Evidently the man was mad.
“Really, Sir Arthur,” Simpson said, choosing his words carefully. “You said Diana must be watched night and day — we own up that was our fault — but now she has eloped with this fellow Carstairs, you say things have turned out for the best. Perhaps you wil
l explain.”
“Diana has not eloped with Carstairs,” Sinclair said quietly.
Ronald gave a short hard laugh.
“I repeat that Diana has not eloped with Carstairs. He is her brother.”
“Her brother?” Ralph exclaimed, and fixed his eyes on Ronald, who had turned deadly white.
“I had my suspicions the very first time I saw them — the likeness was too striking even for coincidence. It was not only the likeness between Diana and Carstairs, Do you remember at my Martello tower, they were both standing in the sunlight, and you, Ronald, said I was behaving as though I had seen a ghost. I had — the ghost of their common mother. I could see it at once — it helped me a lot.”
Ronald gave Sinclair an appealing look — he was too proud to ask the question that was burning on his tongue.
“You have proof of this?” Simpson asked.
“I have absolute proof. Diana is in no danger on the way — till she reaches her destination.”
“And where is that?” Ralph asked eagerly.
Sinclair’s mouth shut like a trap.
“That I cannot tell you — I am going off at once.”
“Then I am coming too,” — there was a challenge in Ronald’s voice — “we’ve had enough of mystery.”
“Pardon me — you will do nothing of the kind,” Sinclair replied.
“Why not?”
“For two reasons, my boy. First you would be very much in the way, and secondly you would endanger your life.”
“A lot I care for that,” Ronald spluttered savagely.
“I do — there is no need to lose your life, and endanger another life too — and you would be in my way.”
“And you can tell us nothing more?”
“I don’t want to alarm you — I could tell you such horrible things — things I have seen myself in the last few weeks — I cannot get the sight of them from my eyes. The powers of evil are still abroad in the land. Devils are alive and active. No, you must wait here — you have tried Scotland Yard — did they help you?” His voice had an accusing note and Ronald hung his head.
“Can we do nothing?”
“Nothing — or I would willingly ask your help.”
“Sir Arthur — you are taking your life in your hands in this matter,” Simpson said, with emotion. “We’ve been fools as usual. Don’t you understand,” he said, turning to the others, “Sir Arthur is going — single-handed to — somewhere — and will fight alone for Diana — isn’t that so?”
Sinclair nodded gravely.
“Then it is our duty to trust him — he’s never failed us yet. It wasn’t his fault that Diana was taken.”
There was nothing Sinclair hated more than praise. He hastily went on.
“I had to lie to Carstairs on several occasions — and to you, Ronald — it was necessary. Carstairs came to see your father not to ask for Diana as a wife, as he told me, but to propose a bargain as Ganzani came afterwards. It was he who owned the Athens Hotel. But how could I go to him and say. ‘You are trying to take your sister away.’ He would have either told me to go to the devil or owned the relationship, and said that he had a perfect right to do so. All I could do was to watch him. The night Ganzani came, I put him in the garden. He must have cursed at being set to watch himself.” Sinclair chuckled at the recollection. “I watched in the corridor, but I told Carstairs I was outside in the road.
“He came to Eastbourne to keep an eye on me, and I found where he was staying. It was a game of bluff and hide-and-seek.”
“But couldn’t you have had it out with him?” Ralph asked.
“He was acting under instructions — there are others. No, it was the only way.”
Sinclair put his hand into his coat pocket and drew out a case, from which he produced a wad of notes.
“Take these — you may do so without qualms — they belong to Diana. She would wish it.”
Ronald drew back as though he had been stung.
“What? The price paid for her — never. I wonder you can ask me to. Keep them till Diana is found and then she can do what she likes with the money.”
“Let me put it another way — the money belonged to Diana’s mother — and on her death would have gone to your father. I only urge this course because you must take it. Whoever has taken the price has a claim on her — your uncle knew that — I must have your receipt. Now listen carefully. The time may come when you will be called upon for a great ordeal requiring all your courage — which I know you have — and skill. You only can do it, and unless you have accepted this money you cannot — what shall I call it — compete. It will be one of the gravest and most terrible things a man can face. You must keep fit in mind and body. Worry will impair your vitality. I shall let you know by some means. When a man comes to you — whatever his dress or appearance, and hands you this — ” Sinclair paused and they crowded round him in breathless silence. All eyes were fastened on his face as he drew from his pocket a small packet and unfolded it slowly. It consisted of an old oilskin tobacco pouch, within which was a piece of fabric at the sight of which Ronald gave a startled exclamation. It was coarse, yellowish, and soft to the touch.
A memory floated into his mind — that night in Diana’s room when he picked up from the floor a piece of this same material, and on the roof of the Martello tower when Sinclair had examined it with infinite care. To the others it conveyed nothing.
Sinclair unrolled the cloth, displaying a sprig of mistletoe, the berries of which were a bright yellow. That was all.
“Keep this — guard it with the utmost care. If a man comes to you bearing one similar to this show him this sprig, and follow wherever he leads. You will know he comes from me.”
“This is thrilling,” Doris whispered to her brother.
Sinclair carefully wrapped the packet up, and handed it to Ronald.
“Now sign this receipt.” He placed on the table a document of vellum which crinkled and crackled as he spread it out. The writing was in Greek. “Ganzani should have asked your uncle to sign this — but his nerve probably gave way. He either forgot or was afraid to go further. He evidently expected to find your uncle alone.”
“Then my uncle — ?”
“Knew everything — yes, and would have written it all out but he never had a chance to do it.”
“If you don’t mind me asking, how do you know all this?” Dr. Simpson asked in a puzzled manner.
“I have seen Ganzani,” was the startling reply.
“You have seen him? Where?” Ronald looked up from the document he had been reading.
Sinclair smiled grimly. “I have seen him, but he hasn’t seen me — it would have been disastrous. If you have read that through, sign, for I must get off. I cannot even stay for food.”
“What does it say?” Doris asked, leaning over Ronald’s shoulder, and scanning the Greek words in bewilderment.
“Read it to them,” Sinclair requested.
“I, who hereon sign my name, have accepted the price of Diana according to ancient custom, and stand as her champion, and will do battle for her possession. If I am the victor, I will become the father of her children according to ancient custom.
Here followeth my signature and seal.”
“What on earth?” Ralph began.
Simpson interrupted sharply: “You can translate that easily enough,” he said.
“Yes — I took Greek at Cambridge,” Ronald said, confused by the extraordinary document.
“Yes,” Simpson went on — “you took Greek — ancient Greek — what language is this?”
They heard a chuckle from Sinclair.
“Doctor, you’re smart. Yes, it is ancient Greek — classical Greek, if you like.”
“Then I don’t understand — ”
Sinclair gave an inscrutable look at Simpson —
“Tu ne quseriris — scire nef as,” he quoted.
Ronald signed the strange document with a feeling of horror.
“Seal it — it i
s necessary — your ring will do.”
It was an old signet ring belonging to his father — Ronald took it from his finger, while the doctor fetched sealing wax. The tiny flare of the match lit up their eager faces, leaning over the table in their excitement. Ronald hesitated for a moment while the hot wax dropped on the vellum. To what was he committing himself?
For an instant he paused. Sinclair laid a hand on his shoulder.
“For Diana’s sake,” he said softly, and Ronald firmly pressed the ring on to the wax. He folded the document, and as he did so the seal came off and fell on the table.
“It won’t stick,” Doris said hysterically — the bizarre scene was fretting their nerves.
Sinclair tore a fragment of the coarse cloth from the wrapping, and laid it on the table. “Seal this and attach it to the vellum.”
This was done, and the seal thus made was attached to the vellum with tape.
“I must have the ring,” Sinclair said. “It is necessary.”
He straightened himself, placed the packet in his pocket, and turned to the others.
“Can’t you tell us anything more?” Ronald asked despairingly. “It’s all so vague and mysterious.”
“If I could, you know I would do so — someday you will know everything. Meanwhile I must keep my counsel. Good-bye.”
“We were thinking of going,” Ralph began, but Ronald hurriedly interrupted him. “We mustn’t keep you — we must just hang on till we hear from you.”
They shook Sinclair’s hand in uneasy silence. “Do bring her back,” Doris cried with a sob she could not suppress.
At the door Sinclair turned with a queer baffling look. He took Ronald’s hand in his and said slowly in Greek: “She is not your sister — she never was. Take that for your comfort.” The door closed and he was gone.
The Yellow Mistletoe Page 11
