Death by the Mistletoe

by Angus MacVicar

  “Allan couldn’t have been murdered in the cave, I suppose,” he inquired as an afterthought, “and his body carried to Lagnaha?”

  “I donʼt think so, MacLean,” replied Major Dallas.

  “We have Professor Campbell’s assurance for that. He was killed, according to the Professor, at the secret shrine in Blaan. And the secret shrines of the ‘well-meaning ones’ are always located in the open — in a grove of trees, or behind the shoulder of a hill. There must also be there a rude altar of stone on which to strap the victims before the electrocution.

  “Another thing: it must be a comparatively simple matter for members of the cult in this lonely part of the country to bring about the electrocution of their sacrifices. All they have to do is to charge up their batteries in the cave and then carry them to the shrine. Anyone with the most elementary knowledge of electricity could fix up the necessary wiring in five minutes.”

  “The main lines of our investigations, then, are clear,” said the Fiscal glumly. “Discover the secret shrine and the other entrance to the cave — the private house of your fertile imagination, Dallas — and our task is over. A simple matter, indeed!”

  The Chief Constable, who was inwardly in sympathy with the other’s feelings, took no heed of the sarcasm. He concentrated on his driving.

  “Could you not set your men to explore the whole of Blaan before Wednesday?” suggested the Fiscal presently.

  Major Dallas, still staring in front, shook his head.

  “In the first place,” he said, “Blaan is an extensive parish, consisting for the most part of wild, rough country, and Iʼm afraid it would take more than a week to explore it thoroughly. In the second place, I don’t suppose we should recognise the shrine, even though we did accidentally light upon it. The ʻwell-meaning ones’ must be extraordinarily careful in removing all traces of their festivals, or they would have been detected long ago. In the third place — and I have the same objection to MacPherson’s plan for digging into the cave — such an action would at once arouse the suspicions of the cult, and our work would probably go for nothing.”

  “Then what — ”

  The Fiscal tried to interrupt, but Major Dallas, calm-eyed, flowed on. A muscle in his upper lip twitched his moustache.

  “Our best method of procedure, as far as I see it, is for us to make diligent inquiries into the ancient folk-lore of the district. I’m almost certain that by such means we may find some hint — ”

  “Wait a moment!” exclaimed James. He sat bolt upright beside Major Dallas, and his temporarily disfigured face had grown pale. “Don’t you remember — just before he was stopped — that the Professor mentioned a book, which, he said, explained about the secret shrine? What was the name of that book? … I can’t — ”

  “Yes!” said the Fiscal. “You’re right, MacPherson! Let me think … Oh, damn it!”

  James brought his hand down with a thump on the side of the car.

  “I’ve got it!” he cried. “The Book of Dalriada.”

  “That’s it!” agreed Major Dallas. “But what or where is The Book of Dalriada?”

  “I’ve never heard of it,” admitted the Fiscal.

  James shook his head.

  “Nor have I,” he admitted.

  “Miss Campbell — ”

  Major Dallas was about to make a suggestion, but James butted in like a flash. His ringcraft was of an expert kind.

  “She’ll know,” he agreed. “I’ll go down this afternoon if you like and inquire.”

  The Chief Constable, manoeuvring the car through the increasing traffic outside Campbeltown, did not move a muscle.

  “Very well,” he said.

  Bur Mr. Archibald MacLean brought his podgy hand down on James’s shoulder, and actually chuckled.

  “Aren’t you helpful, James?” he remarked, and the editor of the Gazette had the grace to remain silent.

  *

  After having had a bath and a change of clothing, James gave his landlady a bowdlerised account of his adventures and immediately sallied forth to his office. There he found Big Peter raving and blaspheming at his late arrival. The head printer’s huge form shook and trembled with righteous indignation, and James had to compose two lengthy articles — one on the threatened drought in Campbeltown and another on the need for extended air-services between Renfrew and the burgh — before his wrath was appeased. The editor, of course, wrote nothing as yet concerning his adventures of the previous night. He had a vague idea that he might incorporate a version of them into a mighty and startling feature, to be written early on the following Thursday morning and included in that day’s issue of the Gazette.

  The daily newspapers arrived in Campbeltown shortly before mid-day, and James saw the results of his news-spreading scheme.

  At first he was gratified by the publicity which the Gazette had received, for, without exception, the original source of their information was acknowledged by the journals, and his own name was printed in large type in the great majority of the newspapers. The articles in the Daily Mail, the Daily Express, the News-Chronicle, and the Daily Record followed generally the lines of James’s own effusion, though The Times, the Daily Telegraph, The Scotsman and the Glasgow Herald gave more guarded versions. But in every case the particular feature was one to fill the whole country with dismay. And, indeed, until the inner secret of the amazing series of murders was divulged on the following Thursday, Britain was considerably disturbed. Though, of course, no mention was made of Na Daoine Deadh Ghinn, the mere fact of the murders was sufficient to bring about such a result. Sensational articles criticising police methods were published, questions were asked in both Houses of Parliament, and reporters swarmed in all directions. And James himself was placed in constant danger. His life, it became obvious, would be the price which he must pay for the widespread fame of the Gazette.

  It was when he at last realised all the possible effects of his action that James grew appalled. And suddenly he acknowledged the justice of the dressing-down which the Fiscal had given him. All at once he knew himself to be very young, very inexperienced and very lonely. He felt for the first time in his career as if he needed someone always at his side to advise him in serious matters; someone with whom he could discuss problems such as had confronted him two days before. And James had no difficulty in imagining the kind of person in whom he longed to confide; upon whose advice he felt he would gladly lean for the remainder of his days. She had blue eyes and dark brown hair, and she had called him James … His sensitive mouth grew tender, while the strained look vanished from his face.

  Hitherto, it was clear, he had depended too much on his own resources. He had imagined himself a “big man,” as Peter had said, always over-confident and contemptuous of the advice of others. And this had been the result: the whole country would be panic-stricken, and the ‘well-meaning ones’ might now immediately change their plans and render completely ineffective the careful arrangements of the police. Though he tried to excuse himself to a certain extent on the ground that had he known in time of the amazing story of Na Daoine Deadh Ghinn, he would never have written his dangerous article nor dispatched copies of the Gazette to the outside papers, he felt that he had committed a grave error of judgement. Others besides James thought this; but, as it happened, these others were wise enough to understand his position, and the outburst of the Fiscal was the only serious blame expressed against him, in his hearing, from first to last.

  *

  Throughout that morning the editor of the Gazette was bombarded with telephone and telegraph messages from the various newspapers to which he had sent copies of his journal; but he steadily refused to give away any further details concerning the local murder. As a consequence reporters from the Scottish daily press and from news agencies began to arrive that afternoon by ʼplanes on the usual service run from Renfrew. And for a period they made his life constant misery by calling upon him and demanding scraps of local colour and information at all hours of the day. This
kind of thing continued, as a matter of fact, until the whole bizarre story had drawn to its climax. The various youthful journalists had sensed something mysterious in the guarded replies vouchsafed them both by the police and by the editor of the Gazette, and they hung on like limpets. James came to loathe the sight of their waisted jackets and pointed shoes. Even their genial and kindly attitude to life in general failed to strike a responsive chord in his heart.

  All day he grew steadily more depressed. He hated himself and all his old foibles with an intensity which he could not before have believed possible. And the funeral of the Rev. Archibald Allan, which had taken place at two o’clock and which he attended in sober garb, had not tended to remove his heavy humour. The ceremony had been witnessed by a huge concourse of townsfolk, for the short and stocky minister had been generally respected and beloved in the town of his adoption. Further, the articles in the local Gazette and in that day’s newspapers had engendered an uneasy and morbid interest in the event. The cortege, following the traditional route through Main Street, by the ancient Iona-stone cross in the centre of the town and along Kirk Street to the cemetery at Kilkerran, stretched half a mile in length. And the lower slopes of Bengullion sheltered the bared heads of the mourners, and the wail of the seagulls on the nearby shore was a last requiem … James felt an unaccustomed lump in his throat.

  But late that afternoon when, preparatory to setting out for Blaan, he started up his old Morris, which had been left by the police in Messrs. Hewitt’s garage, his mood changed for the better.

  The old familiar roar of the engine and the quick rush of the car through the sunshine blew a number of cobwebs from his harassed brain. He had changed into a blue blazer and flannels, too, and he felt less cramped and restricted. And there was Eileen to meet and speak with at Dalbeg. Come to think of it, Eileen was to a great extent responsible for his better spirits. But he hoped fervently that the disturbing fellow Nicholson had gone home to his Manse.

  He need not have been afraid. The Rev. Duncan Nicholson was not at Dalbeg when he arrived, and he was welcomed by Eileen with considerable warmth. But perhaps, after all, she was glad to see him, merely because the only company which she had were two constables … James could not be quite sure with regard to this point.

  The policemen, she told him later, spent their time eating strawberries in the garden. James could quite well believe this of Constable Wallace, at any rate; but he was also very certain that both he and Constable Stewart were, at the same time, by no means neglecting their duty. Eileen was well guarded. When he had drawn up his car beneath the front door he had seen the dark eyes of Constable Wallace gazing at him from a nearby gate; and Constable Wallace, when he had discovered the identity of Eileen’s visitor, had grinned annoyingly and had removed his right hand from the pocket of his tunic.

  “How is your father?” asked James, as he stood in the hall with Eileen. She looked tired, he thought, and rather worried. Her brown hair had lost some of its former sheen.

  “There is no change,” she answered. “I’ve been with him all day, but he has just slept on. Doctor Black saw him after lunch, and is quite satisfied with his condition in the meantime.”

  James nodded, noticing the black rings below her eyes.

  “Have you not been outside at all since morning?” he asked suddenly.

  She shook her head.

  “Then you’re coming out with me, Eileen. This very minute. A breath of Lord Kelvin’s famous ozone is what you need.”

  “What about Daddy?”

  “The maids and the policemen will be here.”

  “But the constables won’t let me out of their sight.” James smiled, and Eileen saw that his cheek was a good deal better this afternoon.

  “Aren’t you difficult!” he said. “We’ll just go down and wander on the shore. They can keep their hawk-eyes on us all the time.”

  “All right, James.” A little sparkle came into her eyes. “But before you come out with me you must comb that mop of hair. It’s terrible!”

  “That’s the second time you’ve said that,” remarked James.

  She ran upstairs lightly, and came down again wearing a blue cardigan to match her skirt. She handed James a comb. He bowed his thanks with grave dignity, and she laughed in delight.

  “Come on,” she said at last, when James’s red hair had been restored to some semblance of order.

  As they walked through the park and over the road on to the sand, the editor of the Gazette had forgotten the existence of Na Daoine Deadh Ghinn, his own manifold faults and the Rev. Duncan Nicholson. He wished the policemen had been in Kingdom Come or would become suddenly stricken with blindness.

  CHAPTER IX

  Soon the delicate flush came back to Eileen’s cheeks, and her lax, flat mood completely vanished. They tried races with the creaming waves and threw stones at a black bottle dancing on the sun-lit sea. And once, when Eileen’s sandalled feet were likely to be caught in the rush of a fast-curling wave, James lifted her up in his arms and allowed the water to whirl around his own shoes.

  She smiled up at him, lying comfortably in his arms.

  “Thanks,” she said. “You’ve a tremendous job with me and mine, haven’t you, James? Always rescuing us from something.”

  She was very small and warm and lovely, close to him like that. Those darned policemen!

  “Is there anything else you want me to rescue you from, Eileen?” he asked in a quiet voice.

  Her eyes dropped. But he still held her in his arms.

  “There is,” she answered, and somehow James knew she did not refer to the evil power of the ‘well-meaning ones.ʼ

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t think you would understand, James … yet.”

  Walking a little up the beach, out of reach of the waves, he put her down beside him.

  “Will I ever understand?’’ he asked.

  “I think so,” she said slowly. Then suddenly her mood grew bright again. “We really must get back to the house, James,” she went on. “It must be almost time for dinner. You’ll wait, won’t you? Duncan Nicholson said he would be over.”

  “Oh,” said James, and the brightness of the evening faded before him. “I’ll wait … if you really want me.”

  “But I do want you to wait.” She put her hand on his arm, and there was a strange, new light in her eyes. “I do want you to wait, James.”

  Dinner at Dalbeg that night, however, was not an unqualified success. The Rev. Duncan Nicholson was in his usual spirits, and beamed on the others with unremitting good humour. But Eileen and James were in some strange manner restless and ill at ease. Neither of them could have explained the reason.

  They discussed the strange mental affliction which had overtaken the Professor, the difficulties which confronted the police in their investigations, and lightly passed over the danger in which they themselves so obviously stood.

  “By jove, MacPherson!” Nicholson exclaimed suddenly. “That article of yours leaves you a pretty clear mark for the ʻwell-meaning ones.’ You should never have written it, you know.’’

  “I quite agree,” returned James, noticing that Eileen glanced at him anxiously. “But they tried to get me already, you remember, and failed — thanks to Miss Campbell and yourself.”

  “Must be rather unpleasant for you to feel yourself the focus of hundreds of malignant eyes! And then … the white-robed man cursed you.”

  “Oh, Duncan!” cried Eileen. “Please don’t go on like that. Please!”

  “Righto, Eileen! Maybe I’m touching a raw spot, MacPherson? ”

  “Not at all,” answered James, keeping calm with difficulty. He did not want to be rude to Nicholson again before Eileen. “I realise fully my position, but I’m not afraid.”

  He was thinking of his power to withstand the magic of the enemy. He knew that alone amongst all his friends he had the mental hardihood to combat the sorceries of the ‘well-meaning ones.’ But, at the same time, he did not give h
imself the slightest credit for this fact. It was a result, he realised, of some natural toughness of mind which he had inherited, and in the cultivation of which he himself had taken no active part.

  “Rather a strange prophecy that — the one Professor Campbell told us about last night.” Nicholson went on, changing the subject, as he thought, with great tact. “Seems you and I, MacPherson, have a big job in front of us, if we are the characters indicated. And the Professor seemed to think so.”

  “My father often spoke about it, lately.” said Eileen in a small, flat voice. “Though he is anything but superstitious, he had a fixed idea that Brion McShenog actually had inspired foreknowledge.”

  “And it’s a queer thing,” supplemented the Rev. Duncan Nicholson, serious-seeming for once, “but ever since I heard the old Gaelic saying I’ve had a feeling — an awesome feeling it is, too — that in some way, in some important way, I shall have a hand in the final rout of the ‘well-meaning ones.’”

  “I’ve had the same notion,” agreed James quietly. His cheeks were pale, and his eyes were very gloomy.

  “Have you any idea, MacPherson, what’s happening in other parts of the country?” asked Nicholson.

  James nodded.

  “As far as the murders are concerned the police have less to go on than they have here. But they know the shrines, and I believe members of the Professor’s Society have indicated to them certain people whom they suspect. But there is nothing definite to connect these people with the murders. All that the police can do is to await developments until next Wednesday night. Of course, as the utmost secrecy must be maintained, only chief constables and their immediate inferiors are aware of the exact reason for the preparations. I had a word, too, with Major Dallas after the funeral this afternoon, and he was telling me that the Home Office are very busy trying to trace the influence behind the new strength of the cult. They have grave suspicions, it appears, of a certain foreign Power … It’s all rather terrible.”