Death by the Mistletoe

by Angus MacVicar

  He was in the streets, of course, when the storm broke over the town at nine o’clock in the evening, taking mental notes of the phenomenon for a powerful piece of descriptive writing, and on the alert for untoward events. The rain came on about half past nine, spattering and splashing on the pavements as if a thousand hoses had been turned on. Knowing discretion to be much the better part of valour, James retired to the police station in the Castlehill for a chat with whoever might be on duty. As it happened, Constable William Wallace held the fort, a fact which by no means displeased James. Constable Wallace was about James’s own age, and a frequently bellicose attitude towards life and their elders was their common meeting-ground.

  “A calm and peaceful evening!” greeted Constable Wallace, rising from the high desk at which he had been writing, and smoothing back his ruffled dark hair.

  “Anything new?” asked James, above a thunderclap.

  “Nothing. No crimes at all. We’re too efficient.”

  “And that’s news indeed! Keep it going!”

  “What a smart fellow you are,” said Constable Wallace admiringly. “Literature! That’s what does it! … Anything to brighten the dull pages of the Gazette this week?”

  “Plenty,” lied James. “For instance, I’ve secured a special interview with Professor Campbell — you know, the old lad who took the estate of Dalbeg in Blaan about a year ago. He’s bringing out a new book on Druidism this week. That’s an event worth recording!”

  “Indeed it is,” agreed the policeman dryly. “And did you see his daughter during the interview?”

  “No,” James admitted. “Didn’t know he had a daughter.”

  “She lives in London — an artist or a writer or something. Came home for a holiday last week. I stopped her the other day to have a look at the licence for her two-seater.”

  “You would!” returned James. “And was the licence the only thing you looked at?”

  Constable Wallace, it may be indicated, besides resembling the film star to a remarkable degree, also possessed many of the characteristics displayed by the renowned Clark Gable in his most dashing roles.

  “It was,” he replied unblushingly. “But they tell me she’s an uncommonly fine-looking girl.”

  James’s sarcasm was suddenly checked by the whir of the telephone-bell.

  “The damned thing’s been tinkling for the last half-hour,” complained the policeman. “Lightning plays the mischief with a ’phone. But that sounded like a genuine call.”

  He crossed the small office in two strides and took up the receiver.

  “Hullo! … Hullo! … Who’s speaking? Oh, Stewart … What’s the trouble? … What! … Old Allan? … Quite dead? … Where did you find him? Near Lagnaha … Right! … Struck by lightning, you think, but a queer bruise on his head … Right! I’ll tell the inspector. We’ll be there in a quarter of an hour … Yes, we’ll bring an ambulance.”

  Constable Wallace slowly replaced the receiver on its hook, and his cheeks, usually dark and ruddy, had become almost pinched.

  “That was Constable Stewart, ’phoning from Lagnaha House,” he said, turning to James. “He had been doing duty at a dance in Blaan, and was cycling back to town. Found old Allan lying stark dead near the foot of Lagnaha Brae … ”

  “Good Lord!” exclaimed James. “Not Archie Allan, the minister?”

  The policeman nodded sombrely.

  “Stewart thinks that he was struck by lightning, but there’s a bruise on the head that puzzles him.”

  For a moment Constable Wallace remained staring rather stupidly at James. Then, as a flash brightened the dark office and an ear-splitting peal of thunder sounded overhead, he jerked into action.

  “I must ’phone the inspector and fetch Sergeant MacLeod. Will you get the ambulance, James, and root out Doctor Black? Hire a car for us, too — at the Argyll. See you there … Oh, and you’ll probably be able to come with us — if you want to. McMillan won’t mind … Hurry!”

  “Surely!” said James, and departed.

  In the succeeding ten minutes he had not only carried out Constable Wallace’s instructions to the letter, but had also sent brief ’phone messages concerning the results of the storm in Kintyre to the Glasgow Herald and Press Association.

  Inspector McMillan, Sergeant MacLeod and Constable Wallace, the latter of whom had relegated the task of presiding in the police station to the regular bar-officer, met James and Dr. Black in the Argyll Hotel garage. The police wore heavy mackintoshes, dull and funereal in the dim thunder-light. The engines of the ambulance and of the police car, stationed in readiness near the entrance, were quietly ticking over.

  “Thought you were never coming!” ejaculated the doctor.

  He was fuming with impatience as usual. His lower jaw stuck out to a tremendous extent, and his small military moustache bristled fiercely. A squat, broad little man, he seldom remained in one position for more than a second at a time.

  “Thought, Inspector, you were never coming,” he repeated. “What’s all this about Archie Allan? Young MacPherson can’t — or won’t — tell me a thing. Says he was found dead near Lagnaha. Is that correct?”

  Inspector McMillan, a Skyeman both by birth and persuasion, was a very large and well-fed individual, whose remarkable corporation was at once his own despair and the pride of the remainder of the local police force. He bowed, rubbing his fleshy hands together as was his habit.

  “That is correct, Doctor,” he replied. “Yes. Yes. It is only too true. But these are all the details we have at present.”

  He caught sight of James, who was talking to Sergeant MacLeod, a thin, dark native of North Uist.

  “Well, well, Mr. MacPherson,” he said. “And are you here as usual? You are like a hawk, indeed. Are you coming with us on this sad business?”

  “If you don’t object, Inspector.”

  “No, no. But be careful. Be careful what you send to the papers!”

  The inspector led the way to the waiting car, Dr. Black close at his heels muttering at the imagined delay. James and Sergeant MacLeod, who, in his late forties, had gained an enviable reputation for efficiency, followed them into the back, while Constable Wallace took up his position with the driver. As they set off, with the ambulance close behind, the rain had slackened to a drizzle, and the rattle of thunder was growing fainter. The lightning flashes seemed less brilliant. But James’s eyes were more gloomy than ever, even in the midst of all the excitement, for he knew how the fact and circumstances of the Rev. Archibald Allan’s death would create sorrow in Campbeltown. It was fortunate, he thought, that the minister of Queen Street Church had never married.

  *

  Lagnaha Brae lies some three miles from Campbeltown on the road to Blaan, and the car ran on to its first sharp gradient in less than five minutes of swift running. A group of three people stood around a pathetic dark object lying by the roadside, near the gravelled entrance to Lagnaha House avenue: they were motionless, their heads bowed, like statues in the silent twilight. James recognised them as Constable Stewart — an unmistakable figure, not only on account of his blue uniform, now bedraggled with rain, but also because of his powerful figure; a sharp-faced farm-labourer from a nearby cottage; and Mr. Anderson Ellis, the owner of Lagnaha estate. The latter, clad in a long Burberry, was tall and soldierly, with iron-grey hair and gaunt, clean-shaven cheeks. He possessed the reputation in the district of being a just laird and master, and yet his tenants, throughout his ten years’ association with Lagnaha, had never warmed to him. His manner was peremptory.

  It was he who greeted the inspector. Even at that comparatively late hour the light seemed to be growing better, for now the rain had ceased altogether, and the thunder had passed away. The after-glow of the sun spread a melancholy film of colour over the fields.

  “Nasty business, McMillan!” said Mr. Ellis. “Can’t say whether I agree with Stewart here or not. He’s opinionative. Very.”

  Inspector McMillan rubbed his hands together and
inclined his head. He never failed to appear suitably impressed by a laird.

  “Yes, sir,” he said.

  Dr. Black catapulted from the car.

  “Let me see the body!” he barked. He had been a major in the Army. “What’s your difficulty, Stewart?”

  “I’d rather not say anything, sir, until you’ve made an examination.”

  “Oh, right! Certainly, Stewart!”

  Dr. Black knelt down, putting one knee on his rolled-up waterproof. James, bareheaded now, shuddered slightly.

  The Rev. Archibald Allan had been a stout, red-cheeked man, loud and jovial in his address. Archie Allan everyone called him during his twenty years’ ministry in the Queen Street Church, a sure indication of his standing with the people. His shortness had been accentuated by a pair of very bow legs. His head was bald.

  Pity and horror filled James as he looked at the man with whom he had laughed so often, and who was now dead. The body, once so strong and vigorous, was now soft-fleshed and flabby. Further, it seemed shrunken, though this fact may have been accounted for to some extent by the creased and sodden state of the black clerical clothes which covered it. One short leg — the right — was doubled underneath the other, while a dark-skinned hand appeared to clutch at the grass by the roadside. A grey felt hat lay half-crushed under his head. But it was the expression on the dead, dark-hued face and in the wide-open eyes which fixed James’s attention. The mouth was distended in an unnatural grin, while a look of the utmost terror stared out of the brown eyes of the dead minister.

  Dr. Black jerked his head round and spoke to the inspector.

  “Killed by lightning,” he said tersely.

  Stewart coughed.

  “What about that red mark on the head?” he blurted. “That wasn’t done by a flash of lightning.”

  “Oh, don’t ask me!” retorted the doctor. “May be anything. He may have had it for weeks.”

  James moved round to inspect the red mark, and as he did so he noticed, but took little heed to the fact, that in the lapel of the dead man’s jacket there rested a sprig of some green plant.

  “Well, that’s that, I suppose,” remarked Mr. Anderson Ellis. “Shall we get the body into the ambulance?”

  “A moment, sir. A moment,” said the inspector. “What are you doing, MacPherson?”

  “May I roll up the left trouser-leg?” asked James

  The inspector nodded. He was curious to know what was rendering his young friend so excited.

  “See that?”

  James’s face, which never held much colour, was now ashen. He pointed to another red mark on the outside of the left leg.

  “I don’t think Archie Allan was killed by lightning,” he said, and they all noticed his trembling. “I think he was murdered.”

  CHAPTER II

  For a moment the little group remained silent, and the sound of their breathing rose and fell on the still air. The unceasing thunder of waves on the Machrihanish shore could be heard in the distance, faintly; while in a far-away meadow a corncrake ranted.

  “Murder!” ejaculated Dr. Black at last.

  He directed a puzzled glare at the round, raw mark which James had revealed on the left leg of the stricken clergyman. Then, suddenly stiffening, he peered again at the other red mark on the smooth pate. His pugnacious lower jaw jutted out, like a bulldog’s — evidence of his concentration.

  Mr. Anderson Ellis was regarding James with cold, grey eyes, set deep beneath a sunburned forehead.

  “Ridiculous!” he exclaimed. “Who is this young man?”

  “My name is MacPherson,” said James. “Editor of the Campbeltown Gazette. Have you ever been in America, Mr. Ellis?”

  “No,” returned the other shortly. “Why?”

  Sergeant MacLeod and the two constables were eagerly watching James’s white, set face. The inspector was feeling very uncertain of his ground, and one large hand constantly sought the friendly companionship of the other. The farm-labourer’s mouth had drooped wide.

  “I was reared in America,” said James slowly, “and it was there that I once saw the body of a man who had just been electrocuted for a serious crime. I was a reporter, you understand, and was therefore allowed such a doubtful privilege; The execution, Mr. Ellis, was carried out very simply. The condemned man was strapped to a chair, and one of the electrodes from a dynamo was applied to his head, the hair at the place of contact having previously been shaved off. The other electrode was applied to the side of the left leg. In the case of which I speak, Mr. Ellis, a slight hitch occurred in the proceedings. A little too much current was used. It was nothing serious, of course, but on the shaven head of the criminal, and on his left leg, two raw, red burns were afterwards found.”

  James paused for a second, and as no one spoke he continued:

  “As a general rule, however, death by mechanical electrocution is quite indistinguishable from that by lightning. No marks whatever are to be found, though the skin is rendered very dark in colour. Whoever killed Archie Allan chose an excellent night to do his rotten work — but, as it happens, he overstepped his mark …”

  “If this is true,” said Mr. Anderson Ellis, “it is a ghastly crime. But I am not yet convinced. What is your opinion, Doctor?”

  “MacPherson may be correct. There is every indication that Allan was killed by mechanical electrocution. On the other hand, the whole thing may be a remarkable coincidence, capable of an easy explanation.”

  Dr. Black spoke sourly, for, if the truth must be told, he was a little piqued at having at first overlooked a possible cause of the red mark. He continued:

  “Come, now, Inspector I Get through with your present investigations. We must have the body at the hospital as soon as possible. I shall ’phone to Glasgow for a specialist at once, and conduct a thorough post mortem in the morning. Then we shall be able to express definite opinions.”

  “Yes, Doctor.”

  Inspector McMillan, who in his thirty years’ experience as a policeman had never before been brought into contact with a murder case, was ill-at-ease. It would have been a great relief to him had James’s startling theory been negatived by Dr. Black. He gave curt orders to his subordinates to cover his irresolution.

  No one spoke while the policemen worked, tape-measures, notebooks and pencils busy. The scene — tragic, yet in some queer manner terribly commonplace — resembled one which might have been described by Mr. Freeman Wills Croft.

  James was recovering his normal poise, and spots of natural colour began to show on his pale cheeks. He wondered if his amazing theory, propounded on the spur of the moment, was not, after all, the result of his own too fertile imagination. Who would want to murder poor Archie Allan — a man who had fewer enemies in the world than most — in the callous and obviously premeditated fashion which he had suggested? And, if it came to that, who was he, John James MacPherson, a callow youth, to put forward his opinions in the teeth of a competent doctor and four policemen? And yet Dr. Black had declared that his theory might be correct … Searching deeper in his thoughts, James realised that he would still hold to his theory even though the highest authority in the land called him a fool. He remembered only too vividly the cold, concise explanation of the red marks on the body of the dead criminal which had been given him by Mervin Whalley, chief reporter on the Chicago Times. The whole experience — part of the rigorous training of a cub reporter in the United States — was too clearly stamped on his memory, down to the smallest detail, for him to be mistaken.

  He drew Dr. Black to one side.

  “By the way, sir,’’ he said, striving desperately to appear calm, collected and worldly-wise, a not unusual histrionic feat on James’s part, “you might make a point in your examination of looking for traces of salt about both red marks. If you find any—’’

  “What are you talking about now, boy?”

  Dr. Black was a bluffer too. He had only the most elementary knowledge of the principles of electricity; but he would not be dictat
ed to by a mere youth without making a show of resistance. His short stubby moustache bristled and his thick neck swelled against his collar as he looked up at James.

  “I was going to say,’’ continued the latter, “that when a man is being electrocuted in the States the skin is damped with a solution of salt at the point to which the electrodes are strapped, principally to ensure good contact. If you find particles of salt near the red marks, the evidence of murder will be rather conclusive, will it not? But probably you know all about that already, sir?’’

  Even in the present disturbing circumstances James’s tact — the quality without which no newspaper-man is completely equipped — came to the surface.

  “Yes, yes!’’ snapped Dr. Black, not altogether truthfully; and then, after a short silence, because beneath a thorny exterior he was not without a touch of humanity, he swore softly. “I liked Archie Allan,” he added, glaring at James.

  The policemen were making their final measurements, and the inspector was talking confidentially to Mr. Anderson Ellis.

  “Can I be of further assistance?” asked the latter.

  “No, Mr. Ellis, I don’t think so,” said Inspector McMillan. “We shall let you know by telephone of any further developments, if you care.”

  “I should be obliged. Damned rotten thing this — happening at my gate.”

  He glanced at Constable Stewart with an expression which seemed to indicate that he held that solid and good-hearted individual responsible for the fact. The latter remained unmoved.

  “Good night,” said Mr. Ellis, and James noticed that already the farm-labourer had moved away, like the spirit of the murder, into the gathering dusk.

  The car had almost reached Campbeltown on its return journey when Constable William Wallace turned round in his seat beside the driver and addressed the occupants of the rear.

  “What was Mr. Allan doing,” he said, “wearing a sprig of mistletoe at this time of the year?”