Death by the Mistletoe

by Angus MacVicar

  Mr. Anderson Ellis was, as a matter of fact, a member of the Kintyre Antiquarian Society and an honorary director of the local Agricultural Society; but he seldom attended the meetings and took little to do with the activities of these important bodies. And he was far from being popular in the district. He was too reserved and too abrupt in his manner to become well liked by other property owners, and his unbending, peremptory attitude towards those whom he imagined to be his inferiors rendered him an unloved and little respected figure among the working-class. Nevertheless, he had the reputation of being scrupulously fair in all his business dealings, and his tenants had certainly no cause for complaint regarding his conduct of the Lagnaha estate. Their homes and steadings were kept in excellent repair and the rents were not excessive, even at a time when other farmers were groaning under the burden of cheap milk and rents which had remained unreduced since wartime.

  Though nothing was known in Kintyre concerning his history previous to his occupancy of Lagnaha, no breath of scandal had ever touched his name. James’s predecessor in the editorial chair of the Gazette had once asked him for details of his career for inclusion in the local journal and had been told curtly to mind his own business. Gossipers in Blaan were of the opinion that he had been in the Army; gossipers in Campbeltown held the view that he was a millionaire who had made a fortune on the Stock Exchange. But no one had any definite information, and Mr. Anderson Ellis continued to live an exceedingly retired life at Lagnaha, by all accounts fully occupied with the affairs of his estate, and with his two hobbies: the cultivation of his rose-garden and the breeding of hunters.

  Apparently he was a bachelor, and with the exception of Miss Dwyer, who was present only for a few weeks at certain periods of the year, the one woman resident in Lagnaha was a middle-aged housekeeper, afflicted with deafness. There was, however, always a large staff of menservants employed in the house and in the garden; but these came and went with startling suddenness, and it was generally believed that Mr. Anderson Ellis was a hard taskmaster, who dismissed his menials on the slightest provocation. He employed no local labour, thus ensuring that the affairs of his household were conducted in privacy as strict as possible. Few visitors were invited to Lagnaha, and these, as a general rule, were friends of his niece.

  Miss Dwyer worked as a secretary in the London office of a firm of carpet-makers. She had, it was presumed, been brought up by her uncle, and had clearly imbibed a great deal of his austerity. Nevertheless, during her vacations in Blaan she had done her best to make the better acquaintance of other families in the district, and had found one friend at least in Eileen. The latter had an idea, however, that Mr. Anderson Ellis did not entirely approve of his niece’s visits to Dalbeg or of their frequent meetings in London.

  The Lagnaha household, viewed casually, was in many ways a curious one, and James cannot be blamed for his lack of enthusiasm to pursue his usual friendly policy in its direction. On the other hand, it was not one to be considered with fear or suspicion; for, since his coming ten years ago, Mr. Anderson Ellis had studiously avoided having any dealings, friendly or inimical, with persons who took nothing to do with himself or his affairs.

  The one thought in the mind of the editor of the Gazette that Tuesday afternoon, as “Kate” purred along the ungravelled drive leading up to the square, squat house, was to get his business with Miss Dwyer over as quickly as possible, and be off for Dalbeg like a bullet from a gun. To James the fact that he had not seen Eileen since Saturday was nothing short of tragic, and he considered himself a devoted martyr to the cause of Big Peter’s continued pleadings. It was like two years instead of two days since he had told her of his love and seen the answer in her blue eyes.

  … Jove, wouldn’t it be glorious to see her and speak with her again! Wouldn’t it be wonderful to know at last that everything was all right between them, and to see the left side of her mouth curve upwards as she smiled! And, yes! He would do it this time if he were blessed with an opportunity! He would do it! He would kiss her … very reverently and tenderly of course, if — if he could manage to stifle this terrible longing. He jammed down his foot on the accelerator in the high ecstasy of his mood …

  But the ecstasy passed suddenly, a not unnatural circumstance, as Lagnaha House came into full view; and James was suddenly possessed of a vague foreboding. The cause of his new feeling was difficult to discover. It may have had something to do with the first impression which Miss Dwyer had made upon his mind, or it may have had something to do with the actual appearance of the building itself. At the same time, however, it must be remembered that in one part at least the editor of the Gazette was a Celt, having the strange foresights and premonitions of his race. To the Lowland Scot or Englishman these foresights and premonitions are inexplicable and droll, as, indeed, they are to the Celt himself. But the fact remains that he has eyes to see an inner meaning in things, apart altogether from their externals, and to him a fair meadow may suggest a lurking evil. To this fact — and to this fact only — may be attributed the strange, uneasy thoughts which began to crowd in James’s brain; for actually there was no material reason for them. Mr. Anderson Ellis, his niece and his household might be a little odd; but it was the considered opinion of the countryside — a ten-years-old opinion, too — that they were harmless enough. And James was well aware of this opinion. Besides … Miss Dwyer was Eileen’s friend.

  *

  Lagnaha House was a comparatively recent erection, and in many ways constituted a triumph for the stolid, unimaginative Victorian masons. Square, rough-cast, slate-roofed and with short, stocky chimneys, it stood like a giant haystack, hidden from the main road and from the glory of the sunshine in a bleak hollow. To a casual observer the place would have appeared prosaic and ordinary and therefore unworthy of a second thought; but to James there was something indefinably sinister and suspicious about the naked grey walls. He had always a similar feeling when brought into contact with things which lacked even a single touch of beauty. And the thinly planted, lank trees growing about it did not relieve the unprepossessing ugliness of the house.

  They were curious trees. James had an idea they were ash; but their foliage was scanty, and grew in umbrella-fashion at the very top of their soaring, bare trunks. It was as if the unamiable influence of the house had to be left behind before the great trees found courage to spread their leaves to the sun. There must have been a certain dampness about the hollow, too, even in that exceptionally dry period, when the Kin tyre water supplies had almost dried up; for, as the old Morris drew near to the house, James saw that strange wisps of mist hung about the ash trees, just beneath their canopied foliage.

  Quite suddenly a strange phrase began to hammer in his mind. It was, in fact, the title of one of John Buchan’s best short stories, and why it should have leaped into the forefront of his brain at that moment he could not tell. “The Grove of Ashtaroth”, ran the curious refrain to his thoughts, “The Grove of Ashtaroth.” It had been an evil grove in the story, and had not the mist gathered around the trees?

  Deeper grew the foreboding in James’s heart, and it suddenly struck him that he ought to have told Major Dallas and the others of his invitation and mission. But the necessity for such a precaution had not before entered his mind. Indeed, he had been so preoccupied with the idea of reaching Dalbeg at the earliest moment that his interview with Miss Dwyer had appeared a very small and unimportant, if distasteful, task, to be completed with as little delay and trouble as possible. After all, why should he have told Major Dallas? The Chief Constable, the Fiscal and several of the policemen had visited Lagnaha more than once during the past few days, and they had noticed nothing untoward or suspicious about the house and its occupants. But things were different now, and had he been entirely a Celt it is just possible that he might have turned back at his point, thereby changing the whole course of the tale of the “Mistletoe Murders.” He did not, however, turn back; for, though the imagination of the Celts played tricks with his feelings
, the American dourness kept him pressing on.

  As he approached the wide door of the house, the loveliness of Mr. Anderson Ellisʼs rose-garden was hidden from his sight by a high stone wall, topped with jagged glass.

  The deaf housekeeper answered his ring, and the editor of the Gazette had to shout to make himself heard. The woman was short and stout, with strong, capable hands and a ruddy face, the jaw and chin of which were like a man’s. She had thin, grey hair brushed straight back from her forehead into an old-fashioned “bun,” and her clothes were of unrelieved black. Her straight-lipped mouth had no smile for James, and he wondered queerly how it was possible that Eileen and this person were of the same sex.

  He was conducted into a low-ceilinged room on the ground-floor, the luxurious furnishings of which were in strange contrast to the bleak exterior of the house. The walls were covered with rich paper of a light grey-blue shade, and were unadorned, save for two etchings by Sir D. Y. Cameron. A small oaken bookcase, filled for the most part with modem fiction, stood along one side, opposite the wide hearth. There was a low gate-legged table in the centre of the room, on which were placed a bowl of white roses, ash-trays and a curious little ornament like a miniature tree-trunk, which probably did duty as a paper-weight. Directly above hung an electric chandelier. Three high-backed chairs, ornately carved, stood round the table; while on either side of the tiny fire of wood were two long divans, upholstered in soft grey material and covered with blue cushions. The carpet, a grey Axminster worked with the common Celtic design of the endless snake, had a deep pile into which James’s feet sank quietly as he entered.

  “I shall tell Miss Millicent you are here,” said the housekeeper, whose voice was low, yet penetrating. “Please be seated.”

  As she left the room James lowered himself gingerly on to the edge of the smaller of the divans. He had never been used to luxury, and, having a hard young body, he suspected the airy comfort of the big cushions. They made him self-conscious … He wished he could have smoked. His long, bony hands fidgeted with the cuffs of his blazer, and in his mind his previous forebodings grew clean-cut and intense.

  There was something much too opulent about the apartment for his healthy taste, and over everything hung a heavy, sweet scent, which did not come from the roses on the table. He came to the conclusion that this must be the room used by Miss Dwyer, and had he not been in a strange house he would have jumped up and flung open the tightly shut windows. The shadow of the great ash tree kept the sun from shining into the room, except in erratic gleams.

  Miss Dwyer entered, closing the door quietly behind her. She was dressed in a loose-fitting, short-sleeved blue frock, which eddied and clung about her figure in a manner bewildering to James, and her hair hung in long, yellow curls on her neck. The paleness of her cheeks and the dark shadows under her eyes tended to soften the rather masculine lines of her face. She moved across to James, her hand outstretched, and with a wistful yet welcoming smile on her red lips. Each smooth movement of her body, clad in the clinging frock, was visible as she walked.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. MacPherson,” she said. “I am glad you came.”

  Her voice was deep and husky, and in it there was something compelling and appealing.

  James bowed. As she sank down opposite him, he wondered if, after all, his first unfavourable impression of her had not been a mistaken one. She seemed tired and even fragile as she lay, her fair head haloed by a blue cushion, on the low divan. He imagined that he detected a trace of sweet innocence at the corners of her small mouth. His mood of suspicion and fear began quickly to wear away.

  “Will you smoke?” she asked. “I should like one too.”

  James offered her a cigarette, lit it, and with some relief took one for himself.

  “You have recovered, Miss Dwyer?’’ The tobacco-smoke was helping to clear away the fog of foreboding from his mind, and he thought how ridiculous his previous fears had been. “It was an extremely unfortunate experience.”

  “I have recovered — a little,” answered the girl. “There are still some little gaps in my memory. But most things are clear now. Sometimes I wish they were not so clear.”

  She shivered and seemed to cower down into the warmth of the divan. James was silent. Somewhere outside there was a humming of bees. The house was quiet and still.

  Miss Dwyer looked around the room in a frightened, furtive manner.

  “I want to tell you certain things,” she whispered. “I want to help justice and the law. And yet I am afraid. If they find out I am telling you … ”

  Her voice trailed off.

  “Nobody will know,” said James. “Nobody will find out.”

  “I can trust you? … I knew I could. Oh, I was afraid to tell any of the others. Even the police may be in league with these awful people in the cave. That white-robed man is still hammering at my brain, trying to blur again what I have learned. I have to struggle to keep a grip of myself … It’s ghastly!”

  She covered her face with her hands.

  ‘‘I understand,” said James quietly. He was thinking about his own knowledge of the terrible hypnotic power of the “well-meaning ones.” “But don’t hesitate to tell me. You are safe. Your uncle, your servants and the police won’t allow anyone to hurt you.”

  “I don’t know … Oh, I don’t know.” Miss Dwyer’s eyes were round and staring. “Come beside me, please. I have been terrified ever since my uncle sent for you. He has told me about the cult, and about your search for their secret shrine. Mr. MacLean and he were discussing it.”

  She stretched out her hands. James was suddenly overwhelmed with pity for her plight. He thought he knew what mental agony she must be suffering, following the effects of the death-marked man’s evil influence. He felt he wanted to comfort her and reassure her. He rose, took her hands and sat down beside her on the divan. She leaned back, sighing.

  “Hold my hands,” she said. “You are strong. You have courage … I feel better now.”

  “Tell me what happened.”

  Miss Dwyer hesitated for a moment. Then she spoke softly, carefully.

  “I was left alone in the drawing-room at Dalbeg, when Eileen rushed out to discover the meaning of the shot. Suddenly the windows swung open, and … oh, a huge man, with a ghastly white face and staring eyes stood against the darkness. He beckoned to me, and I could but follow. We went in the car — your car, I believe, Mr. MacPherson — with Professor Campbell and — and the others. We tramped through the cave … What darkness and strange sounds! And then the white-robed man who had captured the Professor was left alone with us in the side-cave. He told us to forget — not to remember anything for a week. And — oh, I can’t explain it — I just forgot everything until this morning. I don’t know why I was able to wake up sooner than in a week. They may have underestimated my resistance. When you came to rescue us in the cave I had an idea in my head that you were my enemies. I could not think clearly. And so I screamed, terrified … What awful power have they? What is the meaning of it all? It is like a terrible dream.”

  Her eyes were filled with fear, and her lips were trembling.

  “There is something else I want to tell you too. Perhaps it may help your friends in their work. But first … have you discovered the secret shrine of the cult in Blaan?

  She clasped James’s hands more closely. All about her was the essence of the sweet perfume, the faint traces of which he had first noticed in the room. In this new setting it did not seem cloying any longer. Instead, it sent the blood throbbing in his veins and stirred a new emotion in his heart. Her eyes met his, and the muscles stood out taut along his jaw. She was alluring … lovely … the embodiment of perfect womanhood. There was an invitation in her trembling mouth, and in the quick grasp of her hands. Against the billowing cushions she seemed small, desirable and … desiring. James struggled against the strange new tumult in his body. He was forgetting. He was forgetting the bleak house and the sunless room. He was forgetting the “well-meaning
ones,” the police. He was forgetting Eileen. He strove to keep the memory of her sweetness and purity in his mind — the memory of her fresh beauty and the innocence of her eyes. He strove until the beads of sweat stood out on his forehead and he began to tremble. But Millicent Dwyer’s eyes held his; and they were compelling, longing, promising.

  “We have not discovered the shrine,” he said, and his voice was low and strained. “What do you want to tell me?”

  She did not answer at once, but leaned back lower amid the blue cushions.

  “James,” she whispered at last, “I will tell you later. Just now I need comfort … I need your strength. I am weak and tired of trying to remember. And I am so afraid … Haven’t the police found out the shrines in other places? Please tell me! If I only knew that they had, I should be so much happier.”

  Her arms, soft and warm, encircled his neck. He bent forward, and the subtle fragrance of the perfume seemed to grow stronger, as if it emanated from her breast. He put out his hand and touched her hair. He saw the loose sleeve of her frock fall back, revealing the white roundness of her arm, as she slowly pulled him closer to her. Outside the bees were still humming.

  “Tell me,” she whispered softly, insistently. “Then we can … forget.”

  He was still trying weakly to resist. He bent lower, about to speak. Those eyes … those eyes. They were so lovely … so lovely!

  God!

  But they were lovely no longer. They were green eyes. This was not love and desire which was sapping his strength. This was not love. They were green eyes. Millicent Dwyer’s eyes were the eyes of O’Hare — the eyes of Balor.

  And as he realised that they were incredibly evil he grew cold and stiff, and in a quick rush the foreboding that had troubled him not half an hour before possessed his mind in its full vigour. They were trying to get at him again. They were trying to learn the secrets of the police. This woman had been fooling him. She had been acting, acting, acting! What a fool he had been! What fools the police had been! But, thank God, he had seen the evil in Millicent Dwyer’s eyes in time!