Inspector McMillan squirmed and looked appealingly at James, trying to make him understand that he was by no means responsible either for the escape of O’Hare and Muldoon or for the Fiscal’s tirade.
“Furthermore, Mr. MacLean,” continued James, “did it ever occur to you that these murders must have been arranged for long before the twenty-third of June? Did it ever occur to you that your ‘gang’ could not have counted upon an electric storm of such severity on Midsummer’s Eve? Did it ever occur to you that they would have killed these clergymen and priests no matter whether there had been a storm or not to cover their tracks? And had there been no storm, the fact of their crimes would have been apparent at once to men of even the dullest intellect, and would have been bruited abroad in every newspaper in the kingdom. Murders on such a scale could not have been planned all of a sudden when the great storm was predicted on the wireless on Tuesday morning. In my opinion, Mr. MacLean, your ‘gang’ will not be in the least perturbed by my article, or, for that matter, by subsequent articles in other newspapers. They will be slightly annoyed, perhaps, that an excellent chance of the murders remaining undetected has been lost, but the article cannot be a circumstance outside their original calculations. As to a panic being aroused in the country, it is up to the police to prevent it by arresting the murderers.
“And what is more, sir,” concluded James, “I can claim that had it not been for my inquiries the whole ghastly series of crimes would have passed unnoticed. Surely I am entitled to some small reward. Does it appeal to your sense of justice, Mr. MacLean, that I should give you my theories — freely and without reserve — to be relayed at once to all the great national newspapers, while the Gazette, my own paper, should remain in the backwash as usual?”
James, somewhat breathless, paused. Would his arguments, which, he realised, were woefully weak at certain points, be listened to by these older and more experienced men? And it suddenly struck him that he had been carried away by his sudden anger against the Fiscal to be a little more sarcastic than he had actually intended.
But his last question had apparently quietened the Fiscal, that upholder of the downtrodden. Mr. Archibald MacLean lifted a shoulder to James, swung round and stumped back to his seat by the inspector. He slumped down heavily, as he was in the habit of doing after a telling point had been raised by a defence lawyer.
“The young man,” remarked Detective-Inspector McKay in a deep, booming voice, “is probably correct in saying that the murders were planned for a considerable period before they actually occurred, and that the fact of the storm was merely incidental.” “Yes,” agreed Sergeant Wilson, his eyes flashing fiercely as he regarded James.
Inspector McMillan rubbed his thick hands together, while Major Dallas said:
“Well, MacLean, it cannot be helped now, at any rate. I am perfectly sure MacPherson is only too willing to give us all the help he can.”
“I am, sir, naturally,” said the editor of the Gazette. “But it seems my assistance is not appreciated.”
“Now, now, James!” interposed the Fiscal with a sudden change of front. “Don’t take up that attitude! We’ve always been friends. Maybe I spoke rather too hastily just now.”
There was a discreet knock at the door.
“Come in!” said Inspector McMillan, grateful for something which might relieve the tension. “Come in!”
Sergeant MacLeod, his thin-lipped mouth pursed with excitement, marched over to his immediate superior, holding a torn scrap of dirty paper in his hand.
“I found this ten minutes ago,” he explained, “wedged between the cushions in the back of the Daimler used by O’Hare and Muldoon. Must have dropped out of O’Hare’s pocket in his struggle with Mr. MacPherson.”
Sergeant MacLeod retired. The little group leaned over the table expectantly. On the scrap of paper was a queer scrawl such as a child might have drawn.
The mansion house of Dalbeg, which Professor Niven Campbell had occupied for some thirteen months previous to the murder of the Rev. Archibald Allan, was situated on the Blaan shore. Lord Kelvin had once remarked to his students at the University of Glasgow that the air in the vicinity of Dalbeg contained the second greatest percentage of ozone on the Scottish coast, a fact which James had often impressed upon prospective visitors to the parish of Blaan.
The many-gabled house stood, large and rambling, a legacy from the days of Queen Anne, at the foot of a precipitous, tree-covered hillside, which effectively sheltered it from the prevailing west wind. The ground upon which it had been built was a level stretch of land shaped like a half-moon, hemmed in at either extremity by rocky prominences, and extending in front of the main road, which had been laid almost on the sea-sand. The building was immediately surrounded by a small garden, gay in the summer with a multitude of flowers, while the remaining part of the half-circle of ground was laid with smooth, green turf.
On the evening of June the twenty-fifth a grey haze from the sea, caused by a cool breeze which had sprung up following the heat of the afternoon, lay over the mansion, lending it a strange atmosphere of romance and mystery such as is often suggested in the Celtic studies of Wallcousins, the artist.
James, whose mind was still much exercised over his sudden invitation to Dalbeg, admitted himself to be a little nervous as he parked his six-year-old Morris tourer — by name “Kate” — at the entrance to the avenue.
He had spoken with Professor Campbell more than once, of course, on the subject of the latter’s learned but popular works on the history of ancient Celtic religions, two of which had been published during his short stay in the district; and the editor of the Gazette, that keen student of human nature, had found the old fellow interesting and charming, indeed, in a distinctly pawky way. He was, moreover, somewhat of an enigma to James, for his coming to Blaan had been preceded by a sudden retiral from the Celtic Chair at Edinburgh University just as he was in the midst of building up an international reputation as an archaeologist. Why he should thereafter have buried himself in Dalbeg with only a housekeeper and two servants for companions was, as a matter of fact, a puzzle to more men than the editor of the Gazette.
During his year’s occupancy of the Dalbeg estate, however, he had, despite several long absences from home, made an altogether favourable impression upon his tenants and upon the Blaan folk generally. In many senses this latter fact savoured of the miraculous; for the people of Blaan did not allow themselves to be favourably impressed by anyone without putting up a stern struggle. But the Professor — a short, stout man, with ruddy cheeks and silken white hair — was by no means an aloof and unapproachable person, mixing, indeed, in the affairs of the parish with some zest; and this fact went a long way towards ensuring his popularity.
But though he had no qualms about spending an evening with Professor Campbell, James realised that on this occasion the Rev. Duncan Nicholson — and heaven knew how many other damned public schoolboys of the same kidney — would be among the company. And he was conscious of his own awkwardness and lack of subjects for polite and refined conversation. Miss Eileen Campbell would — he both hoped and feared — be there also, and would at once notice his gaucherie and indubitably unpolished manners.
And then James pulled himself up abruptly and cursed himself roundly for being a boyish fool. He strode up the long gravelled avenue whistling defiantly “A man’s a man for a’ that.”
He was met on the wide flight of steps leading up to the great main door of Dalbeg by Eileen herself. Employing a mighty effort of will he refrained from blushing on this occasion, even though his breath was somewhat taken away by her loveliness.
She was wearing a long, slim dinner-gown made of some filmy blue material which matched the colour of her eyes, and her hair was dressed in brown waves. There was a faint flush in her cheeks and her arms were rounded and delicately kissed by the sun.
“I saw your car,” she greeted him. “I’m so glad you could come. Daddy and the others are in the garden.”
&
nbsp; James felt a sudden strange desire well up in his heart, which he crushed down on an instant, almost with horror. Good Lord, he thought! She was so small, so precious, so absolutely fresh and lovely. What a sacrilege for a large and uncouth individual like himself to be wanting to gather her up in his arms, and … oh, well! Besides, there was the Rev. Duncan Nicholson.
“Did you not hear my old bus as well as see it, Miss Campbell?” asked James, and Eileen told herself that she liked him much better when he smiled like that; for the gloom had vanished from his eyes, leaving them sparkling and rather boyish.
“As a matter of fact, I did!” replied Eileen, with a mischievous twinkle. “I thought it was an aeroplane which had broken down and was landing in our park!”
“Poor old ‘Kate’!” sighed James, and they laughed together.
Straight-backed and with supple stride, Eileen led the way into a lofty hall, where James hung up his waterproof and hat. She saw that he wore dinner-clothes, and that his broad shoulders and lean strong body were shown to some advantage; and the thought came to her that he looked rather distinguished.
James was shown into a high-ceilinged, cool drawing-room, fragrant with the scent of flowers. And here Eileen made him sit down in a deep armchair, the kindliness of which filled him with instant delight.
“If ever I have a house of my own,” he told her. “I’ll insist on a chair like this.”
“Smoke, Mr. MacPherson?” she asked. “We’ll probably have to wait for a while before the others come in from the garden. What a mass of men! But I’m expecting a girl friend at any moment to support me.”
As James lit cigarettes for Eileen and himself he wondered vaguely who exactly comprised this ‘‘mass of men”; but he was too comfortable at the moment to worry overmuch about the question.
‘‘You’re an artist, Miss Campbell?” he ventured diffidently.
‘‘Thank you so much!” returned Eileen. ‘‘But if the bitter truth must be told, I merely do fashion sketches for the London Echo. Coats and frocks and … well, you know.”
James started, and then said:
‘‘Ah!”
He spoke in his most man-of-the-world tone, a tone which, through constant practice, was not for him too difficult of accomplishment.
‘‘Jolly fine job, I’ll bet!” he added.
“Splendid, as far as pay goes. But apt to be monotonous at times. Daddy says I ought to come home and take care of him in Blaan, and lately I’ve been wondering … Since my mother died two years ago he has been lonely.”
A little shadow dulled the brightness in her eyes. “Thinking of coming to stay with us?”
“Well … rather.”
“Great!” exclaimed James with some emphasis, and then, creeping back into the shell of his shyness as he remembered the Rev. Duncan Nicholson’s friendship with Eileen, he added weakly: “Blaan — what a glorious countryside!”
“And yet so filled with evil things!”
James’s enthusiasm for the scheme was in a moment forgotten in surprise at her tone.
“I say!” He impulsively stretched out a big lean hand to grasp her small one. “Can I help you, Miss Campbell? There’s something pretty far wrong, I can see.”
“There is, but … ”
Eileen stopped, and the slightest suggestion of annoyance appeared in her eyes. A girl’s deep voice had sounded in the doorway.
“Good evening! … I walked down from the hotel. I left my car there for a small repair.”
Eileen rose to greet her guest. Presently, turning to James, she said:
“This is Mr. MacPherson — Miss Dwyer.”
James bowed awkwardly. He saw that the girl possessed characteristics different in many respects from Miss Campbell’s. She was tall, fair-skinned and fair-headed. She wore a green frock, which hid no line of her perfectly moulded figure. Her face was broader than Eileen’s, but clean-cut and in a manner imperious. And yet her first smile to James was soft and entirely feminine.
“Millicent and I are both exiles in London for most of the year,” explained Eileen. “This summer we happened to fix our vacations for the same month. Miss Dwyer — perhaps you know already, Mr. MacPherson — is a niece of Mr. Anderson Ellis.”
“My uncle was telling me of Mr. MacPherson only last night,” said Miss Dwyer, in her slow, husky voice, “in connection with this terrible murder.”
Her grey eyes suddenly regarded James intently.
“You are very clever,” she added.
Eileen seemed to notice nothing unusual in her friend’s remark; but as the latter continued to gaze into his face James felt a cold chill at his heart. She was beautiful and young, but she had said to him, “You are very clever.” … Just like that.
There was a sudden stir in the hallway. Professor Campbell entered the room, his ruddy face smiling. Behind him came the Rev. Duncan Nicholson, Mr. Archibald MacLean, Major David Dallas, Dr. Black, Inspector McMillan and Detective-Inspector McKay. James was surprised, but endeavoured to show it as little as possible.
Introductions were exchanged until the dinner-gong sounded and the strangely assorted company filed through to the dining-room. James, with a foresight as great as he had ever shown in the ring, manoeuvred himself into such a position that at table Eileen placed him quite naturally on her right-hand side. The Rev. Duncan Nicholson, however, sat on her left.
*
Dusk was beginning to fall when Eileen and Miss Dwyer left the dining-room and Professor Campbell asked his guests to smoke. Two shaded incandescent oil-lamps were lit, which spread a flood of light on the white napery and gleaming coffee-cups, leaving the faces of the eight men grouped around the table in soft shadow. James suddenly sensed tension and expectancy in the atmosphere of the room. Everyone seemed to realise that the purpose of his invitation would now be made clear.
Professor Niven Campbell cleared his throat. Though small and stout, the strength of his personality was immediately apparent.
“Gentlemen,” he said, and the mask of good-humour and jollity fell quickly from his face, leaving it worried and sombre, “I have asked you here tonight to discuss with me a matter of the gravest import to the wellbeing of the nation. I have asked you here to aid me in a task which may bring to each of you horror and pain and even death. And before I go farther — before I communicate to you certain information which to know is to be in constant danger — I would give such of you as may desire it a chance to leave my house in safety, while yet there is the opportunity.”
The Professor looked at his guests with a keen and level glance. A restless air ran round the table like a flutter of wind through a grove of trees. Then Dr. Black, his fighting jaw thrust forward, spoke.
‘‘Damn it, Professor!” he exclaimed in his rather high-pitched voice, “get it over! We’ve all a fair idea it concerns these ‘Mistletoe Murders’ that young MacPherson has been so excited about. I for one am not afraid of knowing the truth. And I’m sure none of the others are. Be damned to anyone who would try to electrocute me!”
Professor Campbell smiled crookedly.
“Thank you, Doctor,” he said shortly. “I take it then, that there are no cowards here … The matter of which I am about to speak has to do, as Doctor Black says, with these awful tragedies which occurred on Tuesday evening, and I have chosen you seven gentlemen to hear of it — five of you because of a close connection with the investigations into the death of the Reverend Archibald Allan, and Mr. Nicholson and Mr. MacPherson for a special reason which I shall later explain.”
James noticed the instinctive manner in which the right hand of Detective-Inspector McKay had dropped to the pocket of his jacket, and he marvelled at the calm of Inspector McMillan, who was usually so distressed and uncertain of himself. Like Nicholson, MacLean and Major Dallas, he himself had drilled his features into a semblance of impassivity, though he was burning with excitement and expectation. He allowed himself to wonder, for a fleeting moment, what Eileen was doing and saying in the drawin
g room. He wished — for what reason he could not tell — that she was not on such friendly terms with Miss Millicent Dwyer.
“To make the matter clear to you,” continued Professor Campbell, leaning forward in his high-backed chair, “I must go back many centuries into a period of twilight knowledge of which few of us realise the full significance. It is a period in the history of the Celtic race which pre-dates even the cult of Druidism; a period of unimaginable terror and sadness, which, nevertheless, was not without a certain beauty …
“In the mist of the years there arose in Britain a religious order of which we have few records, and which by the majority of modem scholars has been completely and erroneously confused with Druidism. I can only hint at certain of its characteristics. We do not know even the name by which it was called; but we do know that its power and influence were greater than the power and influence of ten kings. One might call it a cult of cults — the very essence of later European religions. Of its teaching we know little, for it was a habit of the arch-priests never to allow their doctrines to be put into writing. But one of their leading dogmas was that souls could not be annihilated, but passed after death from one body to another.
“It was a cult having rites and customs of a nature much more terrible than that of Druidism — which did not, it is now believed, require human sacrifices — and its followers were imbued with a fanaticism for evil which is difficult for us to understand in these days of fresh and free Christianity. But those of us who for years have studied the science of this ritual know that in its ceremonies there was a natural loveliness beyond compare. It was a ritual which fused the beauty and sweetness of Nature with those other aspects of living reality which we call evil and awful, but which, in those crude centuries, may have seemed not only appropriate, but also adorable.”
Death by the Mistletoe Page 6
