Death by the Mistletoe
Page 17
Later it was ascertained that the wizened-faced little man had been sent from Blaan by the High Priest to carry a message to a Glasgow member of the cult. He had escaped from Kintyre by a simple means. Disguising himself to resemble Peter Mathieson, the notorious tramp, whose features and characteristics were well known throughout the west Highlands of Scotland, he had journeyed unsuspected from Blaan to Lochgilphead, walking and begging “lifts.” Thereafter he had taken the Link Line bus to Glasgow. When in the city he had learned of the air journey which had been made by Eileen, James and the Rev. Duncan Nicholson, and the diabolical plan, which so nearly had proved successful, and come to fruition in his mind.
*
Besides the enigma of Muldoon’s unexpected appearance in the Renfrew Aerodrome, Major Dallas and the C.I.D. men had, however, many other tasks of a routine nature to occupy their attention.
Detective-Sergeant Wilson, while making a thorough search of the Rev. Archibald Allan’s house in Dell Road, had lighted upon a discovery of the highest importance. It was a plain sheet of notepaper with the “Basildon Bond” watermark, which had fallen behind the murdered minister’s escritoire, and which was only found by the detective when he moved the heavy piece of furniture away from the wall. The envelope in which it had been delivered was missing, and, indeed, never afterwards came to light. It had, in all probability, been burned.
On one side of the paper were six typewritten lines and a signature. Detective-Sergeant Wilson’s glittering eyes narrowed as he perused the apparently innocuous communication. His short, stocky figure grew taut, and his lantern jaw clamped shut. Here was something in his line at last. Further, no spook that he had ever heard of could use a typewriter. Crooks could, but not spooks. And he, Detective-Sergeant Wilson, had an encyclopaedic knowledge of the ways of the former variety of public nuisances.
The note read:
*
My dear Allan,
Could you meet me at Kiel Churchyard, Blaan, to-morrow morning at eleven o’clock? I have made rather an interesting discovery regarding one of the Clan Ranald headstones.
J. MacLaren Ferguson.
*
On the face of it the note could be of little importance to the police in their investigations, for many similar letters, typed, and with the same scrawling signature, had already been found by Sergeant MacLeod in the murdered man’s house. Mr. J. MacLaren Ferguson, Sheriff-Substitute of the County at Campbeltown, was an enthusiastic colleague of the minister’s in the field of local antiquarian research.
But the date fixed the C.I.D. man’s attention. June the 22nd was the day before Midsummer Day, and the day before the murder had been committed. The proposed meeting-place, too, was interesting, for Detective-Sergeant Wilson was well aware that the Piper’s Cave in Blaan was less than a quarter of a mile distant from the cemetery. He placed the note in a clean envelope and subsequently carried out certain investigations.
To begin with, he satisfied himself that no fingerprints of any kind, save those of the dead minister, were to be found on the notepaper. Later he visited Ardmount and ascertained that Mr. J. MacLaren Ferguson had typed no such note to the Rev. Archibald Allan. Detective-Sergeant Wilson arrived at the latter conclusion by scientific means, after listening for half an hour to the Sheriff’s indignant remarks concerning the person who had dared to forge his signature.
He compared the lettering of the mysterious note with that achieved by Sheriff Ferguson’s typewriter, and found that the size and formation of the characters actually tallied. Obviously the criminal’s machine was of the same make as that used by the august Sheriff. But the similarity went no farther. For whereas the d’s, t’s and l’s of the note were badly out of alignment, the same letters on the Sheriff’s “Royal” were set straight. The purpose of the note at once became clear, and the detective, with care and persistence and a certain degree of optimism, set about his task of discovering in the district the typewriter, the work of which would correspond to that on the minister’s note.
He was successful in his search at an early hour on Wednesday afternoon.
*
Major Dallas and Detective-Inspector McKay, working on the former’s theory of a secret entrance to the Piper’s Cave through the cellars of some large house in the district, accomplished a great deal of valuable and intricate work. The Chief Constable toured the Blaan countryside, keeping in touch with Dalbeg the while; but the detective confined his attentions to the town. He made diligent inquiries at grocers’, drapers’, and engineering stores, it being in his mind to discover some abnormal purchases by a single establishment. McKay, his lean, dark face drawn and haggard with anxiety, made copious notes, sufficient to fill a good-sized exercise-book. The work was laborious and required time to complete.
On Wednesday, at mid-day, however, McKay’s suspicions began to veer in a certain direction.
*
But if affairs in Kintyre were not proceeding with any great speed or smoothness, James learned a little on the Monday of the excellent progress which was being made by the authorities in other parts of the country.
The editor of the Gazette, prevailed upon by Big Peter, remained dutifully in town during the whole of Monday, though his heart yearned for Dalbeg. And it wasn’t Lord Kelvin’s ozone that he was thinking about, either. By six o’clock in the evening he had the business of his paper well under way for Thursday, though three solid columns still remained to be set. For two of these, however, James hoped to provide sensational “copy” at an hour so late on the day of publication that the very soul of the head printer would shudder in agony.
On his return to the “digs” he consumed a hearty meal, carefully prepared by Mrs. Kelly, who, throughout the whole week, was remarkably attentive to the bodily comforts of her hard-worked lodger. She was often irritated and disturbed, indeed, during that extraordinary period, by his frequent sudden appearances at unexpected times, his late arrivals for meals and his long absences from home, even during the night; but on no occasion did she indicate or give expression to her inner feelings. Though he told her little concerning his preoccupation, she realised that it was the Allan case which was the cause of his tremendous activity. And if she could do anything in her quiet way to help in the solution of that mystery she would do it; for she had been a member of the Rev. Archibald Allan’s congregation, and one of his most devoted admirers. She rather liked James, too, and was a little anxious on account of his growing pallor and thinness. It was quite evident to her, though he never complained, that the strain of his work was rather too much for even his tough body. She fed him, therefore, like a fighting-cock, and, during the week-end, was glad to see that he had at any rate become more cheerful. The red weal on his cheek still worried her, however; but, as he volunteered no information himself, she asked no questions concerning it. Nevertheless, her mind buzzed with curiosity.
“And will you be in to-night, Mr. MacPherson?” she inquired, clearing away the tea-things.
James grinned, as he filled his usual after meal pipe, and prepared to sally forth once more.
“You’re having rather a bad time with me these days, Mrs. Kelly! You’ll be charging me double this week. But just you wait! Just you wait till Thursday’s Gazette comes out. I’ll present you with a dozen complimentary copies! You’ll get a story worth reading at last.”
“Sure, and I hope so!” returned his worthy landlady. “But I presented you with a dozen complimentary cream buns to-night, and you’ve only taken three!”
But as James made his way along the Castlehill in the direction of the police station, he was wondering a little wistfully whether his pen would be the one to write the great story.
Major Dallas and Inspector McMillan were in the office when he arrived, smiling over some private joke of their own.
“Is he not the smart one, indeed!” The Inspector was chuckling. “Smart … Oh, good-evening to you, James!”
“Can I share the fun?” asked the editor of the Gazette.
“Well … he began.
Major Dallas, stroking his waxed moustache with deft fingers, interrupted.
“Why not?’’ he said. “Listen, MacPherson! This is in strict confidence, of course … Merriman, one of the crack Secret Service men, is in Campbeltown. He was here not more than two minutes ago, telling us rather a remarkable tale. Inspector McMillan and I were amused at his ingenious method of reaching the police station without arousing the least suspicion of his identity in the mind of anyone.”
Major Dallas’s small, thin-lipped mouth widened into a smile. James was remembering what the Inspector had told him on the Saturday morning, concerning the coming of a man “high up” in the Secret Service.
“Merriman is at the moment a shock-headed tinker,” continued the Chief Constable, “with a dilapidated set of bagpipes under his arm. Half an hour before you came in here, MacPherson, he stole a banana from a fruit-shop door in Main Street, and was promptly arrested by Sergeant MacLeod — who, by the way, doesn’t know yet who he is. After he had produced his credentials we had a pow-wow with him in this room and then kicked him out.”
“No one would ever imagine he is so great a man indeed!” remarked Inspector McMillan, shaking his head. “My goodness! He was rich — rich!”
The Chief Constable laughed, and then his expression changed.
“Merriman was through the War,” he said, as a disciple might speak of some acknowledged master. “In Germany for two years, and in Turkey for the rest of the time. Was almost shot at Constantinople once, but escaped by pretending he had gone mad. As fearless as the devil. I hope you meet him some time, MacPherson. You would take to him at once. Not a trace of snobbery about him. He’s the quietest, most unassuming fellow you could find, and full of pawky humour.”
“What does he think of this desperate business?” asked James.
Major Dallas pondered.
“Merriman has just hinted to us,” he said at last, “the belief of his Department that a certain foreign Power — he did not specify — is endeavouring to stir up trouble in Britain. I think I told you — last Friday, wasn’t it? — that we had been given to understand something similar by Scotland Yard. The Secret Service, for some time past, have had their suspicions that such an effort was likely; but they were quite unaware of the form it was going to take. They knew that in various parts of the country the representatives of this foreign Power were working secretly, diligently; and they have long been aware even of the identity of several of them. But the Service could prove nothing, nor discover anything definite to act upon … It has now been established, however, that these foreigners during the last year or so must have been supplying the ‘well-meaning ones’ with the necessary wealth to widen the scope of their diabolical ritual; for it is fairly certain from the various reports submitted by members of Professor Campbell’s society that almost since the beginning of last century Na Daoine Deadh Ghinn have been eking out rather a precarious existence, making sacrifices only on very rare occasions.
“Merriman and his colleagues are hot on the trail of the spies. They believe that in Kintyre one of the leaders has his permanent home, and they have a suspicion, based on certain definite discoveries, that this individual — known to the Service as GII — is the intermediary or link between the cult and the foreign Power. All business between the two bodies passes through the hands of this one man. Merriman is down here to discover his identity. To-morrow the red-haired tinker will disappear. We may meet him on the street, but, unless he chooses, we shall not recognise him. And neither will the ‘well-meaning ones.’ He is one of the world’s most consummate actors … and the manner in which he does his work is quite unknown to anyone. I believe he once spent a week in Berlin, when the British spy scare was at its height in the city just after the outbreak of War, and actually spoke with the Kaiser. But he never tells how he did it.
“Scotland Yard are working hand in glove with the Secret Service. I had a code message this morning from the Glasgow branch telling me that everything is in readiness in each district in Britain where Na Daoine Deadh Ghinn have been located — except, of course, in Blaan. The week-end has been something of a triumph for the Yard. And it is as sure as anything can be sure that neither the cult nor its backers are aware of their danger. Zero hour is still fixed for one o’clock on Thursday morning — midnight, according to sun-time. The thing will cause a world-wide sensation, and, unhappily, notable men are certain to be involved. At least one Cabinet minister and a high dignitary of the Church of England will be arrested … and a famous Scottish author. It is from the garden of this writer, whose home is in Perthshire, that the mistletoe was distributed to the various centres of the cult last Monday. The fact was established as early as Friday by the Glasgow C.I.D. But though the police are aware that it was sent openly through the post in sealed packages, they have been unable to trace each package to its receivers. To which house in Kintyre it was sent, McKay and Wilson have, for example, been unable to discover. And it is feared that no other distribution of the plant will be made for the lesser Festival on Wednesday. Sufficient for the purpose of both events was, it is believed, sent out on the occasion of the Midsummer ceremony. Nevertheless, a strict watch is being kept.
“But here in Kintyre, as you know, difficulties are bristling at every point; and the galling thing is that if the Secret Service and the police are unsuccessful here, then their work will be only half accomplished.”
Major Dallas paused. His thin, ascetic face grew stern. “It is imperative,” he said slowly, “that the leaders of the cult and of the foreign spies be utterly annihilated!”
James was surprised at the unusually serious and bitter tone of the Chief Constable. He was, as a rule, so suave and self-possessed that his outburst came with unexpected emphasis. Inspector McMillan rubbed his hands together with some nervousness.
“I am an elder of the Church of Scotland,” added Major Dallas more quietly, smoothing back his thin, flaxen hair, “and I would give my right hand to stamp out this evil thing that is sapping the beauty of our Christian faith.”
Major David Dallas, two days later, gave his right hand for just such a cause.
*
James, much to his surprise, received a curt note from Mr. Anderson Ellis on Tuesday morning inviting him to visit Lagnaha during the course of the day. Miss Dwyer, it appeared, had practically recovered her memory, but had signified that she would speak to no one save Mr. MacPherson. James was as surprised as Mr. Anderson Ellis seemed to be at this strange circumstance.
The editor of the Gazette was firmly of the intention to see Eileen that day, and decided to call in at Lagnaha on his way to Dalbeg in the afternoon. Miss Dwyer probably had something important to communicate to him, and he might as well see this queer business through. He remembered clearly Miss Dwyer’s peculiar remark on his first meeting with her at Dalbeg: “You are very clever.” And he knew in his inner heart that he both feared and disliked her. But then, she was a friend of Eileen’s, and that seemed to put everything right as far as James was concerned.
Like all the others engaged upon the affair of the “Mistletoe Murders,” he had become imbued with a queer spirit of uncertainty. Doubts, hopes and fears mingled in chaotic fashion in his mind. The second Festival was approaching steadily, relentlessly; and still they had no knowledge of the secret shrine or of the house, suspected by Major Dallas to be built over one entrance to the Piper’s Cave. But as steadily and relentlessly the forces of right and justice were converging on these two points. The best brains of the finest police force in the world and the quick wits of the Secret Service worked quietly, methodically, secretly. They could not fail. Surely they could not fail. There was the prophecy, too: the evil prophets should be smitten, and their idols razed to the ground. And yet … and yet what had Major Dallas said of the “well-meaning ones”? … “They have the cunning of the ages behind them.’”
James had the uneasy feeling, too, that he himself was sitting on the very edge of a soaring precipice. He knew that almost at any moment an attempt might be made upon his life by Na Daoine Deadh Ghinn, in revenge for his temerity in publishing the now famous article in the Gazette. And though since Saturday no further effort had been made, he admitted himself to be constantly afraid. But the curious thing was that mingled with fear there was a growing sense of exhilaration and exaltation. To the editor of the Gazette himself the feeling was inexplicable and mysterious in the midst of his anxiety.
At one o’clock James set “Kate’s” engine going, climbed into the car, and set out upon the strangest part of his adventure.
CHAPTER XII
James had never been at Lagnaha during his five-years’ residence in Kintyre, nor had he spoken with Mr. Anderson Ellis and his niece, Miss Dwyer, previous to the affair of the “Mistletoe Murders.” This fact was in some ways remarkable, for as editor of the Gazette he had made it his business to know and speak with the majority of influential people in the district. And, indeed, it was one of the contributory causes of his success that besides cultivating influential people he had also made himself widely known amongst the ordinary douce folk. These latter, strangely enough, he had found much the more interesting class. But, despite his policy, the editor of the Gazette had not until now possessed any excuse for visiting Lagnaha.