Death by the Mistletoe

by Angus MacVicar

  “It will be safer to place guards,” he said. “Yes, yes, I have heard the old tale about the caves being connected with the one at Kiel; but I thought, indeed, it was a legend, pure and simple. But a person can never tell.”

  His Hebridean accent was returning in its full vigour, now that he was engaged at work which he could accomplish with confidence. Gone was the hesitancy and restlessness which had characterised his demeanour since the murder of the Rev. Archibald Allan. No need existed now to pursue intricate trains of thought or to tackle abstruse problems. The task ahead was one for a plain and honest Skyeman.

  Detective-Sergeant Wilson and five members of the Campbeltown police force, three of whom would have to be roused from their beds, were summoned to arrive at Dalbeg in as short a time as possible, and it was stipulated that each man should come armed. Four extra revolvers were also requisitioned. Sergeant Robertson and Constable McFater were to be left alone to guard the town and to keep their eyes open for James’s stolen car. It might be just possible that those at Dalbeg were mistaken in their belief that it was to the Piper’s Cave that the captives had been taken.

  “The danger in what we are about to do,” said the Rev. Duncan Nicholson, as they sat around a small table drinking tea before the arrival of the Campbeltown policemen, “rests in the fact that our raid may defeat the Professor’s scheme for a wholesale apprehension of members of the cult. The ‘well-meaning ones’ may be scared into putting off their Festival on Wednesday and into lying doggo until the hue and cry has died down.”

  There was a momentary silence before James spoke.

  “We’ve gone into all that before,” he retorted with a pretence at weariness. “Our present purpose is to get the Professor and Miss Dwyer back among us again. If we can arrest any members of the cult in the cave — well and good. That will be some of them out of the way at any rate. If we scare them off holding their rotten Festival on Wednesday — well and good. It will save us terrible anxiety should we not discover their shrine in Blaan. If members of the cult lie doggo for a time — well and good. It may spare further lives. But let me tell you, Nicholson, the hue and cry will never now die down. The police of Britain have got their teeth in by this time, and I’m hanged if I ever saw anything more like a bulldog than a British policeman. The days of the cult, Nicholson, are nearing an end, no matter what happens — thanks to Professor Campbell and the other gallant souls who formed his secret society. They may not end this year or next year, but they will end in our time.”

  James’s blue eyes were as gloomy as Fate. Eileen, despite her anxiety, smiled a little secret smile as she helped him to another cup of tea. She could sense deep antagonism steadily growing between the two young men, and though she wished they might have been friends, yet there was enough of Eve in her character to perceive the cause, and to be glad — in the kind of way that women know about. Further, she was learning a good deal about James. He had a tremendous stock of downright common sense, save on one subject, upon which she wished she could have enlightened him. He had a personality of some vigour and forcefulness. But — and it was at this fact that she smiled — he had boyish eyes which could not hide the most fleeting of his thoughts.

  “That’s reasonable, MacPherson,” said Detective-Inspector McKay, his long face relaxing for a moment as he met the eye of Major Dallas.

  “Yes, yes!” announced Inspector McMillan, as if he were head of the whole Police Force in the kingdom. “We will hang on to them now, I can tell you!”

  Mr. Archibald MacLean and Dr. Black exchanged glances which in any other circumstances might have been described as being ones of amusement. The prospect of action seemed to have lifted a tremendous burden off the minds of all of them. Two hours before, their position had appeared to be hopeless, but now a ray of hope had come to them, and, naturally enough, if had become magnified in their thoughts out of all reasonable proportion.

  Eileen, having sent the maids to bed, was clearing away the tea-things when the police cars were heard drawing up at the front door.

  “We’re all ready, then?” asked Major Dallas, rising.

  “Who’s going to wait with Miss Campbell?” demanded James.

  “But I’m coming with you”

  “Miss Campbell!” exclaimed James, unconsciously raising his voice in his anxiety. “That’s impossible!”

  “Why?” she asked in a quiet voice. “Can I not help to find my father?”

  “No!” said James with forthright vigour. “You might get hurt.”

  “I think you should remain here, Eileen,” said the Rev. Duncan Nicholson persuasively. “MacPherson may be a little crude, but there is sense in what he says.”

  In the end, when the Chief Constable added a word to the argument, Eileen consented to remain in Dalbeg with the Fiscal and Dr. Black, the latter possessing himself of a short and stocky revolver, “in case,” as he himself put it, “any more damned ghosts put in an appearance.”

  Two cars stood at the foot of the front steps, their engines pulsing with seeming impatience. Constable Wallace was at the wheel of one, which, James saw, held also Detective-Sergeant Wilson, Sergeant MacLean, Constable Stewart, and Constable Allison. Constable McArthur drove the other car, into which climbed the Dalbeg party. The policemen appeared eager and curious, and it was obvious that they had suspected some deeper mystery than the one hinted at by Inspector McMillan. But they asked no questions.

  As they moved off under the young moon Eileen waved to them from the front door. She stood, slender and straight, in the light from the hall, her rounded chin still high. And James received a profound shock when he saw that her last glance was for him and not for the Rev. Duncan Nicholson.

  *

  The Kiel Headland is a huge scarp of sandstone which glowers out over a shallow bay towards the squat black rock of Dunaverty. It has a rugged face, pock-marked by the action of the weather, and tufted with clumps of grass and periwinkle plants. At its base, which stands some fifty yards back from the road and from the shore, are three rock-clefts. Two of these are merely deep indentions in the sandstone, caused by sea action at some distant date. Once the haunt of smugglers and others of a similar romantic kidney, they are now frequented by unromantic and very dirty tinkers. But the cave on the left, which at first sight appears to be nothing more than a fault in the rock, is the Piper’s Cave.

  The Headland rears its forbidding front not far south of the Kiel Churchyard, and rather a queer thought struck James as the cars whisked past the moonlit rows of headstones in the sheltered cemetery. It was here — perhaps on the very shingle to their left, on which the sea hissed and receded — that the good St. Columba had first landed in Scotland from Ireland, to plant the banner of Christ in a pagan country. It was on the site of that still graveyard that the first church in the West had been erected to the glory of the Lord. The crumbling walls still stood, lichened and grey, among the glistening monuments, a mute memorial to a wonderful faith. And on the grassy knoll guarding the dead to the southward, James caught a glimpse of the flat stone from which the saint was said to have preached his first sermon to the people of Dalriada, and on which his carved footprints may still be seen. At that dark hour of the morning, with a task of danger and eerie dread in front of him, James thought he could understand the feelings which must have been experienced by St. Columba as he stepped on the cold, wet beach and surveyed the heathen land. Feelings of fear and foreboding must have mingled with a heavy mental dejection, only to be crushed ruthlessly into the background by a fierce enthusiasm for truth and the sweetness of the gospels.

  The two cars were run off the road some distance past the Headland, and parked behind undulating sand-dunes. The silent party retraced their steps carefully, so as to make no great commotion. Though James looked in every direction he could see no sign of his old Morris.

  The young moon had by now climbed high into the indigo, star-dusted sky, but as yet the dawn-light had not appeared in the east. There was no breath of wind, an
d it would have been utterly quiet had it not been for the wavelets hissing on the shore. The mild, dark summer night-air was filled with the salt smell of the sea and with the scent of thyme. Inside the biggest of the three caves beneath the Headland they heard, as they passed, drops of water percolating through rifts in the spongy rock-formation, plashing in eerie monotony on the earthen floor.

  The raiders gathered in a blurred group around the high, narrow crack in the sandstone which was the entrance to the Piper’s Cave. Green turf extended almost beneath the rock, but, farther in, the floor of the cave was formed of hard, caked earth. It would be as useless to look for footprints on such a surface as on a cement floor.

  “Who goes first then?” asked Major Dallas in a whisper. “We can only go two abreast to begin with at any rate.”

  “I will go with someone,” said James.

  He had borrowed a torch from Constable Wallace and been granted the use of a revolver by Inspector McMillan. His face was a dead white blotch in the darkness. His big mouth sagged open slightly in wonder and awe at what they were about to do.

  “Right!” muttered Detective-Inspector McKay. “I’m with you!”

  Stooping, James and McKay disappeared into the black mouth of the cave, their torches blazing a way before them.

  The others followed quietly.

  CHAPTER VII

  The haste with which the expedition to the cave had been arranged, and the excitement which had attended the accomplishment of its preliminary stages, seemed to have prevented members of the party from realising to the full its various possibilities.

  James’s tale had been accepted on its face value, and apparently it had been tacitly agreed by all of them that the Piper’s Cave was no mere crack in the rock extending only a few yards under the surface, but that actually it was the winding labyrinth described in the legend. There seemed, further, to be little doubt in their minds that the Professor and Miss Dwyer had been conducted thither, and imprisoned in its subterranean recesses. But as he and Detective-Inspector McKay moved steadily on between the damp green walls of rock, which gradually drew closer and closer together, James found that his mind had become filled with misgivings.

  Soon, because of the increasing narrowness of the cave, they had to proceed in single file, and as he followed, stumbling over the now rock-strewn floor, at the heels of the C.I.D. man, the editor of the Gazette asked himself some very pertinent questions. Was their raid, he wondered, not merely a childish escapade, conceived on the spur of the moment, with neither rhyme nor reason behind it? Had not the others believed too readily with him in the mythical idea of the size of the cave? What if, as now seemed possible, it petered out into blank rock, before their expedition had even properly begun? They had by this time only gone some fifty yards into the cave, and by every indication — by the dampness and mustiness of the atmosphere, and by the narrowing width between the walls — it was coming to an abrupt end.

  And even though the cave did extend for a fair distance underground, what proof had they that the captives of Na Daoine Deadh Ghinn had been taken there? Absolutely no sign existed, as far as he could see, that any person had passed lately along the narrow corridor. The walls were covered with old green slime and the floor was cluttered with sharp chips of rock, and neither the slime nor the stones appeared to have been disturbed for generations. All they had to go upon were the lines of Ogmic script, which, after all, might have been planted by O’Hare in the Daimler as a blind; or which might have another significance altogether from that attributed to them.

  Another thought struck him: how could men — even fanatic priests and their immediate followers — live here, in the very bowels of the earth, unknown to natives of the parish? It was true, of course, as Dr. Black had said, that the environs of the cave were wild and bleak and that few people went near the entrance; but it stood to reason that if the Kiel opening was being extensively used, the ʻwell-meaning onesʼ could not always depend upon escaping observation by tinkers or shepherds. Further, how could human beings pass their days here like moles, never seeing the light of day or breathing the sweet air of the outer world? How could ordinary members of the cult visit the cave without arousing the suspicions of their neighbours?

  As he mused in this pessimistic mood, it seemed evident to James that the expedition was a harebrained, mad and hopeless scheme. And yet — when he came to think of it — it was better, perhaps, to be following a will-’o-the-wisp than to be doing nothing at all. To explore the cave had appeared to be the only course open to them, after the capture of Professor Campbell and Miss Dwyer.

  It was of Eileen’s eyes, when they returned empty-handed and helpless, that James thought at the moment, and he was filled with a kind of frenzy of despair as he imagined the bitter disappointment and pain which would appear in their blue depths. She had been so brave and full of hope, waving to them from the door at Dalbeg … and her last glance had been for him. She had trusted in his ability at any rate to accomplish something.

  The eleven men, one behind the other, McKay leading and Detective-Sergeant Wilson bringing up the rear, picked their way carefully over the litter of jagged stones, and they made little noise in the muffled gloom. The light of their torches threw their shadows in all directions, making grotesque and fantastic patterns on the smooth sloping rock around them. It was like a scene depicting the pursuit of a murderer in the vaults beneath the Houses of Parliament which James had once seen in a film. The policemen sometimes spoke to one another in sibilant whispers and the muted sound of their voices seemed to fly upwards into the narrow crack above their heads. How far this crack extended James could not tell; for, though he once directed the beam from his torch to the roof, its apex still remained invisible.

  They must have been more than a hundred yards underground when McKay, having negotiated a quick bend in the cave, stopped abruptly. During the last few seconds of their eerie march James had noted with some surprise that the walls, though still converging on one another, had become a great deal drier. When he put out his hand to steady himself the rock had the feel of a windswept crag instead of being cold and clammy to the touch. The atmosphere, too, had become perceptibly fresher, and Constable Wallace, who was coming immediately behind him, had whispered a question:

  “Do you feel that draught?”

  The litter of stones beneath their feet was becoming less thickly laid, and when McKay came to his sudden halt, the floor of the cave was again solely of earth. Now, however, the soil was not so packed and firm as at the entrance, and it felt soft to their tread.

  “Please stand back one moment, Mr. MacPherson,” said McKay, throwing the beam from his torch on to the ground.

  The whole line of men, the last of whom were still beyond the bend, stood stock still, and a growing intentness could be detected in the very sound of their breathing.

  James saw at once the reason for the detective’s request. Outlined on the new floor of brown earth were countless footprints which, to some extent at least, had hardened the soil that would otherwise have been little more than spongy mud. A sigh, in which relief and apprehension were strangely mingled, escaped from his lips.

  “We’re on something pretty queer,” said McKay slowly. “This cave is obviously being used by people who want to keep their doings secret. The hard earth at the opening shows no footprints, and it seems to me as if the loose stones have been purposely strewn on the floor as far as this bend to hide footprints from casual visitors.”

  McKay examined with great thoroughness the ridged ground. No single footprint, however, could be distinguished separately in the confused mass of indentions.

  “I can’t say for certain, of course,” he said at last; “but I rather think there’s a mark here similar to the one we found in the garden at Dalbeg — the broad flat sole of a man’s shoe.”

  Inspector McMillan squeezed his way past Constable Wallace, and with the detective examined the particular mark to which the latter’s attention had been drawn.<
br />
  “Yes, yes!” he exclaimed in a hoarse whisper. “It is the same one … the same repair is to be seen on the ball of the left small toe.”

  “I thought so,” agreed McKay.

  “Then we’re not — ” James began.

  “No!” returned McKay quickly. “We’re not mistaken.”

  James became imbued with a new spirit. Tremendous excitement began to grow in his breast until he felt as if he must break into a wild war-chant, and the lust for battle brought a tingle to his fingertips … The hot, easily-roused blood of his Celtic ancestors ran strongly in his veins.

  Here was an interior to the cave which, even though he had so glibly hinted at it, he had never actually believed in with confidence. He felt like an explorer who had been forced into undertaking a certain voyage of discovery against his better judgment, only to find that his wildest dreams were coming true. Eileen, after all, might not be disappointed.

  He could perceive the same tense excitement in the demeanour of several of his companions. They were about to come to definite grips at last with these mysterious characters in the Professor’s story — the ‘well-meaning ones’ — whom they had learnt to hate with a great and bitter hatred.

  The cave, after the first sharp bend, steadily became more roomy, until it was possible for four of the party to proceed abreast. Their pace was soon a sharp walk, and the measured thud of their steps was like the beat of drums encouraging the march of a regiment. The air was cool and fairly fresh, and it became obvious that airshafts must descend from the upper ground at regular intervals. Everywhere foot prints were visible on the earthen floor, and once or twice James thought he could detect a faint, sweet perfume, like incense.