The Yellow Mistletoe

by Walter S. Masterman

  Simpson went into the hall with Sinclair, and stood for a moment at the front door.

  “That vellum — or parchment?” he said.

  “I know,” Sinclair replied, “I didn’t want the others to see.”

  “It’s human skin,” the doctor said.

  Sinclair nodded gravely.

  “We’re in very deep waters. Good-bye.”

  He was gone, and the doctor with tightly closed lips returned to the room.

  On the table lay the bundle of notes and coins, the sealing-wax and the burnt-out match to testify that the whole scene had not been a nightmare.

  Ronald was looking at his finger on which a red mark showed where the signet had been. Sinclair’s words were ringing in his ears.

  “Why did you stop me?” Ralph said at last. “I was going to tell him about our trip.”

  “I know you were,” Ronald said, coming back to reality, “I thought we would keep that to ourselves at any rate. He has something he won’t tell us. I’m going on the search for Diana if I go alone. What do you make of the whole thing, Doctor?”

  “Sir Arthur has travelled abroad a lot, and you know he was serving in India for years. He’s found out something — did you notice his appearance? — if I know anything about medical science, he has already been through hell. He must be made of iron. No, I think it would have been wiser to have told him of your intention.”

  “Nothing would stop me from going,” said Ronald doggedly.

  “Then you must keep me posted with your address. You see how necessary it is for me to stay.”

  “There’s no difficulty about money, anyway,” Ralph remarked, fingering the notes. “After what Sinclair said, it’s obvious that you can use the dough. Shove it in the bank, my boy, and get some out to go on with. Come on — it’s no good talking, let’s get to work.” The usually sluggish Ralph had suddenly become active.

  “I’ll tackle my sainted mother — you see Smart, and the doctor can see about passports and things. Let’s get out of this.”

  Ronald picked up the oilskin packet from the table, and held it in his hand.

  “I should have that sewn into your coat — don’t keep it loose,” the doctor said gravely. “Guard it with your life.”

  The young people went their ways eager to get to work.

  Dr. Simpson slowly filled his pipe and lit it with a hand that trembled.

  “I wonder — it’s too strange — but if it’s true,” his face hardened. “I’d like to take a hand myself . . . “That sprig can have only one meaning.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  THE QUEST

  Mr. Smart was busy with his researches when Ronald found him.

  Ronald detailed Sinclair’s visit and his strange tale. Before he had done Smart was pacing the room in anger or thought. He wheeled round on Ronald.

  “Look here — this is beyond a joke. You’d better either go to Scotland Yard, or get a private detective. My personal opinion is that the man is either mad, or playing some deep game of his own.”

  Ronald would have defended Sinclair, but his own secret feelings coincided so nearly to those of Smart that he could only say that Sinclair had been very kind and had taken a great deal of trouble.

  “No,” he concluded, “we must not go against his advice, but I came to ask you whether you could possibly come with us for a trip as you promised. Ralph, Doris and I are going.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know, but I simply can’t stop in England. We are going to search for Diana.”

  “All over the world. It will take some time,” the doctor said dryly. Then he saw Ronald’s worn face. “Sorry — of course I’ll come. I have no ties. Only it seems a bit vague, doesn’t it?”

  “Not as vague as you think. I’ve been giving up a lot of time to considering the whole matter. Now listen. Tell me if you agree or not.”

  “Wait a moment.” Smart went to his table, littered with test-tubes, retorts, and bottles, and fetched a writing-pad, from which he tore a sheet covered with a mass of chemical formulae. “I’ll just make a note or two.”

  “Well — to start with, you know my father met his second wife somewhere abroad, and she was partly Greek, if not pure Greek of the classical type. That gives us a lead. Then Carstairs we know now was her son and Diana’s brother.”

  “What?” The doctor nearly dropped his pencil, then gave a whistle. “Good Heavens. Then, it’s not a case of elopement.”

  He looked at Ronald with a strange glance. As with the others, there was one secret which Ronald had never revealed to the doctor — the story of his father’s second wife. That could not be told.

  “One might have guessed,” the doctor said thoughtfully, “but, of course, there seemed no connection at all. I wonder why your father never owned up to the son?”

  This was getting on delicate grounds — Ronald went on hastily.

  “When Sinclair, Carstairs, and I were feeding at the Athens Restaurant, Teddy told us that he was born in Italy — at a place called Nemi — near Rome, I think he said.”

  “Well, that’s something to go on — I know the place — visited it when on a walking tour through Italy. Quite historical, though I’m more given to science than history. Still, it does give us something to start with. His mother you say was Greek?”

  “Yes, and that document was in Greek as well.”

  “It’s either one of two things,” the doctor said deliberately, fingering the coarse fabric in which the sprig of mistletoe was wrapped. “This material is the work of some very primitive people who have no paper, ink, or linen — this is hand-spun calico from very coarse cotton or — ” he paused.

  “Yes; what’s the other?”

  “It’s done deliberately — a sort of secret society business.”

  Ronald felt a cold feeling of sheer terror — unreasoning blind terror gripping him. The words themselves invoked something he dared not let his mind dwell upon, but the doctor’s face arrested him. The usually cold impassive face of the scientist had dropped like a mask. His eyes showed a glint of some hidden dread, and his lips moved convulsively.

  “We’re in deep water here.” Then his face cleared. “Perhaps,” he said, with a hollow laugh, “it’s all nonsense — a hoax.”

  He recovered his composure, but Ronald could see he was talking as much to convince himself as to explain the matter.

  He rose briskly to his feet. “Come, it’s no good speculating.: the best thing for all of us is to get away — we’ve got something to go on. I’ll settle up here, and be ready as soon as you are. By the way — I’m not very flush,” he said in a hesitating manner.

  “That’s all right. Lady Gorringe is anxious for you to go in order to look after Ralph as a doctor, and I’ve got plenty, anyhow. It shan’t cost you anything.”

  “Then I’m ready — you see I had to mention it, because I’ll have to give up my work here.”

  A feeling of curiosity prompted Ronald to ask: “What is your work?”

  Smart hesitated — “Well, you’ve taken me into your confidence, I’ll tell you, but it’s a dead secret. My real work is for the Government — poison gases — in case of another war. It’s rather horrible. We’re trying hydrocyanic acid, the deadliest gas in the world, in such forms that it can be effective over large areas — and there are other things as well. It will kill people by the thousand.”

  “Horrible.”

  “Yes, it’s horrible, but we must be ready — remember they who take the sword must perish by the sword.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  THE LAKE OF NEMI

  Ronald was seated at a small table by the shores of the mystery-haunted lake of Nemi. Behind him stood a single-storied whitewashed house, the open door of which showed a brick-paved room, cool and dark in contrast to the brilliant sunshine outside.

  Smart and Ronald had made their temporary headquarters here, leaving the others sightseeing in Rome. After some discussion as to plans, it had been decided that
Smart should make enquiries first, since he could talk Italian. He had gone off for the day, first to the village of Nemi, and afterwards to La Riccia, three miles further off. It would cause less suspicion if he went alone.

  “These people,” he explained, “are very reluctant to give information until their palms are greased, and they lie like Ananias.”

  The plan suited Ronald, who wished to be left alone with his thoughts. He wanted to piece things together.

  The burning sunshine flung reflections in diamond flashes from the blue waters of the woodland lake. On the further side the wooded hills rose steeply till they merged with a craggy precipice on the summit of which was perched the village of Nemi.

  A white palace half-hidden in green showed glorious like a dream-castle, the terraced gardens falling to the edge of the lake. Ronald’s mind, deeply versed in classical legend, conjured up the terrible tradition of this place. Somewhere among those dark woods on the far shore lay the dreadful grove in which the grim figure of the Priest King wandered in his sleepless vigil, the ghastly “priest who slew the slayer, and shall himself be slain.”

  Within the gloomy grove he guarded the sacred tree, until a stronger, by craft or guile, stole upon him in an unwatchful moment, struck him dead, and ruled in his place as King of the Woods.

  It was here that the worship of that Diana of the Woods was practised with rites and ceremonies which could only be mentioned in whispers.

  Strange thoughts came to Ronald as he watched the peaceful scene, thoughts which had nickered like wandering fires through his brain during the past months of terror and uncertainty. Thoughts that had haunted his sleepless nights, and which he had sternly banished as incredible, monstrous; born of the peril which had enwrapped them like a pall.

  Had Sinclair, with his subtler brain and wider knowledge, probed the mystery? Surely not here in peaceful Italy, among these guarded Alban Hills, could the danger lurk — that intangible grim danger which had closed them round?

  His eye wandered across the lake, where amid the gnarled and ancient trees the ghastly rites were practised; rites men said were brought hither by Orestes when he came with his long-lost sister Iphigenia from the fabled Euxine, after slaying Thoas Kirn of the Tauric Chersonese.

  With startling vividness there came to his mind a name long forgotten. It floated to his mind like the whisper of an evil thing. Diana’s mother’s name — Diana Woods — a strange name for a foreigner, as she had undoubtedly been. Diana Woods — Diana of the Woods. A pit of darkness yawned beneath him — he shivered in spite of the heat.

  What connection was there between this beautiful woman whom his father had married and the awful mysteries which had come down from the dim past? A black-clad figure approached, walking with a stick and pausing now and then to rest. Ronald watched him idly. The black cassock and beretta denoted the parroco, and as he took off his hat to mop his forehead, locks of silvery hair showed around the shiny bald head. Ronald could see his face now; very old he was, and wrinkled, and burned to a russet-yellow by the Italian suns like a sun-ripened fruit. He came straight on, paused at the table at which Ronald was sitting, and greeted him courteously in a soft, musical voice. An old woman hurried from the house with a chair, which she carefully brushed and placed for the padre, curtseying to him with a smile of recognition. The old priest sat down wearily, giving her a word of thanks, with a smile which ran up the wrinkles of his face, in ripples, giving a merry look to his keen, alert old eyes.

  He scrutinised Ronald politely but with a searching glance. “You are English?” he said, speaking in that language in the pleasant accent of the educated Italian.

  The meeting was fortuitous — Ronald badly wanted someone with whom to talk — anything to get away from his dark, brooding thoughts.

  The padre called the old woman and ordered a bottle of wine.

  “You will join me?” He spread out his hands in invitation; evidently he was no anchorite.

  “You are visiting this place perhaps? Forgive an old man’s curiosity,” he said, sipping the wine with pleasure

  “Just a passing visit,” Ronald said lightly. “We are staying at Rome.”

  “One should never miss Nemi. I have lived here,” he paused — “more years than I can recall.” Then his face brightened. “But I lived in England once. A wonderful country — but dirty — so dirty, and untidy, and busy. No, I would not care to live there.”

  He was gazing at Ronald in a puzzled manner, his brow puckered as though he were trying to recall something long hidden in his brain.

  “Would it be an impertinence if I asked your name, signor?”

  Ronald hesitated. They had agreed to keep their names a secret during their quest, but this mild old padre — surely it could do no harm. “My name is Ronald Shepherd,” he said quietly.

  “Ah!” There was a look of triumph in the eyes, though his face remained impassive. “I thought I had made no mistake — my memory is good still,” he mumbled on, taking little heed of his companion.

  “Yes, yes, it is so. The father, no doubt. But he was small, and the son a giant. It is sometimes so.”

  Ronald was all attention now — he saw he must go warily.

  “You are, perhaps, referring to me?” he asked, smiling at the other.

  “Yes, it was long ago.” He expanded his beautifully shaped hands — hands that had never done manual work. “A Mr. Shepherd, a priest of your — heresy. He was small but learned, and I grew to love him. Quiet he was and gentle. He came here to visit, to enjoy, not to dig and spoil the beauty. Then he went away . . .” Ronald waited impatiently, but the old priest was not to be hurried — he sipped his wine with relish, holding the glass to the sunlight to watch the ruby colour.

  “Red — like the blood of sacrifice,” he muttered. “Yes, he met here a beautiful woman, not Italian, no, certainly not of our race, but with a face like the Madonna. The villagers thought her mad — she would wander all day in the woods above the lake, always in the woods And I have seen her myself, standing by the lake in the misty night, when the vapour rises from the water. All in white she was, and weeping — weeping — crying like a lost soul. The peasants thought her possessed, and would have driven her out from the village, but I would not have it. I took her to my house.” A whimsical smile played round the old man’s mouth. “A priest with a beautiful woman. A scandal, truly, but my age protected me. Then Mr. Shepherd took her away. Partly it was pity, I think, but he loved her, too.” He fixed Ronald quickly with a keen look. “She was not your mother? No, that could not be.”

  “My mother died when I was a baby. This was his second wife,” he said shortly, not wishing to tell his family history to this garrulous old man.

  “He married her, then? I did not know — they did not marry here. They left in a great hurry . . . I remember now, Mr. Shepherd told me of his wife’s death and of an infant son. That must have been you . . . But I hope,” — he paused — “I hope he did not marry her?”

  Ronald sat up straight. “What do you mean?” he asked roughly, in a voice out of keeping with the wondrous quiet of the afternoon and the beauty of the fairyland before them.

  The priest held up a deprecating hand. “Young sir, do you wish to hear more?” he said sternly.

  “Please tell me all you know — I am sorry if my manner was rude.”

  “It is a black story. She did not stop with your father the priest. She came back here again, as I feared she would. I do not enquire — she was not of my faith. I do not judge. This beautiful woman came here with a husband, or so she said. A Greek Apollo, as beautiful as she, and golden as she was. But cruel, an evil face.”

  Ronald’s hand shook as he reached for his glass, which the padre had filled. He had no doubts about his father’s high moral character. But here was a possible solution. Suppose he had known that this strange creature was married? In that case he could not marry her. He would never be guilty of intentional bigamy. But if some dreadful fate was pursuing her, he might hav
e taken her to England for her safety and from a sense of chivalry.

  Diana was clearly no relation at all to himself, in that case.

  This fact dinned into his brain. Whatever the future held, his love for her was lawful and clean.

  “I have disturbed you.” The gentle voice of the padre broke in upon his thoughts.

  “I am very grateful for what you have told me,” he said with sincerity. “Do you know any more? Please tell me, if you do.”

  There was an eagerness he could not keep out of his voice.

  “Nothing, Mr. Shepherd,” — he pronounced the word in two syllables. “They went away together. Apollo and Diana, as I called them. There are dark mysteries in the world . . . The pagan gods live still in wild places . . . I sometimes think . . . There is a legend which has been handed down. When the Romans became Christians by official decree — it was not good to worship in the old ways. The Christians persecuted the pagans as you persecuted those of my religion in England. Where did they go to — these strange worshippers? . . . Did they do what our Catholics did — seek a new country where they could worship in peace?”

  Ronald ignored this perversion of English history.

  “You mean you think they went to another place?”

  The same smile came to the puckered old face. “It is not what I think, Mr. Shepherd; I was but telling you the legend.” Then he added deliberately, picking his words, “Seek a place in every way like to this: the lake — the grove — the temple.”

  Ronald sprang to his feet. “What do you know?” he rapped out, startled out of himself.

  The old man laughed outright, with a senile chuckle. “To the aged there comes wisdom. In Italy, in old times, we had the feud which passed from father to son. You wish to find the woman who wronged your father — to be revenged, is it not so? Your father is dead. I read of it in the journal.”