Death by the Mistletoe (11 page)

McKay, his rigorous training in self-control coming to the rescue, jerked himself back to realities, though his hands still shook as if with fever. He and James dashed to the windows and leaped out into the garden, as the Rev. Duncan Nicholson ran swiftly to the door of the room.

Outside it was still and quiet, save for the sough of the sea on the beach near by. A slip of moon was shining in the east. James caught sight of a white flicker far down the broad avenue.

“There they are!” he cried.

He and McKay had now been joined by Major Dallas and Inspector McMillan; but as they sprinted down the drive, the latter two were quickly outdistanced.

James and the policeman had still some three hundred yards to go to reach the gate on to the main road, when the roar of a motor-car engine split the sea-filled quiet. They stopped short.

“They’re taking my car!’’ panted James.

Headlights stabbed the luminous darkness and wavered in the sky, and the old Morris rattled on to the road. It gathered speed as its driver raced through the gears. And then by degrees the sound of the engine died away in the distance.

James and his companions stood bareheaded, breathless and helpless on the drive. The car had gone southwards, in the direction of the great Kiel Headland.

“They’ve beaten us,” said James unnecessarily. “For the moment, at any rate.”

“We must ʼphone up MacLeod to keep a watch for that car going through Campbeltown,” Inspector McMillan still retained his instincts. “They cannot leave the parish in any other way, except by boat.”

“I am afraid it will be almost impossible to trace them,” returned Major Dallas. “Probably we have seen the mysterious High Priest himself, and at any rate I have no doubt but that Professor Campbell will be taken to the High Priest’s secret and undiscovered dwelling — which, as we have learned, is in Blaan.”

James suddenly swore.

“What about Miss Campbell?” he exclaimed.

He strode off quickly, back towards the dark bulk of the house, the others following closely behind him. They were met on the front-door steps by Eileen, who was accompanied by the Rev. Duncan Nicholson, the Fiscal and Dr. Black.

“They got away!”

James spoke dully, but with relief that Eileen was still with them. Inspector McMillan hurried to the telephone, which stood upon a small shelf in the hallway.

James saw that Eileen leaned against the Rev. Duncan Nicholson for support. The latter had put his arm round her slim body, and his ruddy face, though paler than usual, was tender in his solicitude.

She did not weep, but her eyes were bright with tears.

“Poor Daddy!” she murmured at last in a low voice. “He was expecting this. He told me that before next Wednesday he might be taken away. But we did not think it would happen so soon.”

“You know about the cult?” asked James rather bluntly. He hated that tender look on the face of the young minister.

“I do,” answered Eileen. “I was an agent in London of Daddy’s society.”

“Then you will know of the plan recommended by the Society for the simultaneous arrest of all the members of the cult on Wednesday?” It was the Fiscal who put the question.

“Yes. But — ”

“I know,” said James. “But we cannot be sure now that no harm will come to your father till then.”

Eileen put a small white hand to her forehead. The Rev. Duncan Nicholson’s arm tightened around her waist.

“We cannot fail to find him, Eileen,” he said in his quiet, persuasive manner. “It is clear that they do not mean to hurt him just yet, at any rate, or they would not have gone to such pains over his capture. And surely within a few hours we shall discover a scheme to release him. Please don’t worry too much.”

But the same thought was in the minds of all of them: a revolver bullet had struck one of the enemy, and had produced not the slightest effect.

“By the way,” interposed Dr. Black, who had rejoined the group after a short absence. “Where is Miss Dwyer?”

Eileen started.

“Is she not still in the drawing-room?” she asked. “I left her there when I rushed out to discover the meaning of the shots in the other room. I met Duncan in the hall … Since then I had forgotten her.”

“I have just been in the drawing-room,” said Dr. Black, “and Miss Dwyer is not to be seen.”

“Can Millicent have been taken too!” cried Eileen. “Oh, this is horrible … horrible!”

“She did not leave by the front door at any rate.” Dr. Black was positive. “But the drawing-room windows are open.”

“They were closed while Millicent and I chatted there after dinner.”

Eileen’s voice was steadier now, and James thought he had never seen such a brave-tilted little chin. What her inner feelings must have been at that moment he could understand, and his heart was sore for her. He wished he could have comforted her as the Rev. Duncan Nicholson was doing. The latter’s attempt at calmness seemed to be communicated to her by the very touch of his hand on her arm … There was something in the public-school training after all, thought James. But how he disliked Nicholson!

Inspector McMillan joined them, his ’phone call to the Campbeltown police station being completed. Detective-Inspector McKay motioned to him, and they went round the corner of the house into the garden. James and the Chief Constable accompanied them. The C.I.D. man snapped on a small electric torch which he had been carrying in his hip-pocket.

Below the swinging sashes of the drawing-room window was a narrow strip of pebbled pathway, which gleamed white in the light from the room. Beyond the path was a long stretch of cultivated ground where grew a profusion of young rose-bushes set well apart. It was the soft earth of this plot which McKay raked methodically with his torchlight.

The wavering beam came to rest on a point immediately opposite the window.

“There!” said McKay, and James saw a tangle of footprints deeply impressed on the brown soil.

“Two sets,” returned the Chief Constable. “A woman’s high heels and the broad, flat sole of a man’s shoes.”

“It appears as if Miss Dwyer has also been carried off,” said James in an even tone.

He had become detached. Events had been taking place so swiftly that he was almost impervious to new shocks.

“Seems like it,” muttered McKay.

They followed the footprints across the garden, and near the farther edge, where the plot bordered on the drive, Inspector McMillan bent down suddenly and carefully disentangled something from the thorns of a rose-bush.

“Major Dallas!” he said. “McKay! Look at this!”

On the palm of his hand the others saw a fresh white square of lawn handkerchief, in one comer of which was the black laundry-mark, “E.19.”

“Not Miss Dwyer’s,” affirmed Detective-Inspector McKay in his clipped manner. “A man’s.”

CHAPTER VI

The policemen and James returned to the house, for there was nothing more they could do at the moment. They did not mention their find to the others, who still stood in the hall, talking in low voices.

“Let us go inside,” Eileen said presently. “We must discuss plans to help my father and Millicent. It will be a terrible blow to Mr. Ellis to hear that his niece has been captured.”

She led the way into the drawing-room. The Rev. Duncan Nicholson, whose fine yellow hair even after all the excitement was still sleek and unruffled, closed the windows and pulled over the heavy red curtains. In a quiet group they sat round the small fire. The events of the last quarter of an hour had left them all in a state bordering on panic, even though Nicholson and Detective-Inspector McKay were able to hide their emotions behind steady features. The Fiscal and Major Dallas were still pale; but it surprised James a little to see that Inspector McMillan did not appear more distressed and restless than usual. In that corpulent body there must lie a streak of solid courage which the editor of the
Gazette
had never before suspected. Dr. Black had not quite recovered his old fierce manner, though another cigar would restore his crushed spirit.

Naturally enough, it was Major Dallas who took the lead in the discussion. His girlish hands fluttered nervously from his moustache to his eyeglass and back again; but his words were cool and precise.

“It is obvious,” he said, after a short, uneasy silence, “that all our efforts must now be directed towards discovering the whereabouts of Professor Campbell and Miss Dwyer. After what has occurred we cannot risk awaiting developments until Wednesday night, as the Professor advised. The ‘well-meaning ones,’ even though they may not know of the secret society formed against them, must be aware that Professor Campbell at least has some knowledge of their cult. Otherwise they would not, I think, have acted so precipitately. I cannot believe, however, that Professor Campbell was purposely interrupted to-night, when he was about to tell us of their shrine in Blaan and of the identity of several of their members.”

“Of course not!” ejaculated Dr. Black. “They couldn’t hear a word the Professor was saying. The windows were tightly shut until the last minute.”

“Our investigations must be threefold,” continued the Chief Constable. “Firstly, we must endeavour to find out the secret hiding-place of the High Priest and his retainers, for it is there, we are all agreed, I think, that Professor Campbell and Miss Dwyer have probably been taken. Secondly, we must attempt to discover the identity of local members of the cult. Thirdly, their place of worship must be located before Wednesday at the very latest.”

Major Dallas paused for a moment. Then he addressed Eileen.

“Miss Campbell,” he asked, “can you or any other member of the Society help us in these directions?”

“I am sorry,” answered the girl. She clutched a wisp of powder-blue handkerchief between her white-knuckled hands, and to James it seemed as if her thin cheeks had grown almost haggard. “I was aware, of course, that my father knew several local people whom he suspected were members of the cult, and that he had lately discovered their shrine in Blaan. But his knowledge he kept strictly to himself. He intended to tell the Rev. Kenneth Millar personally of what he had learned when next he saw him, for he was afraid to send such vital information in a message. But, as you know, he did not see the Moderator again … He told me nothing, in case it should bring me into any danger.”

“I see,” said Major Dallas. Each one in the little group saw the hopelessness of the position.

But the Chief Constable was not to be daunted. He was like a terrier worrying at a tightly shut gate.

“The general situation, as I see it,” he said, “is this: I agree with Professor Campbell that as yet the ‘well-meaning ones’ do not know of the existence of the secret society. Therefore they will not be aware that in other parts of the country — if not here — the locations of their shrines are now known to the authorities. As long as their suspicions are not aroused on that point they ought, then, to hold the lesser Midsummer Festivals on Wednesday according to plan, and the Professor’s scheme can still be carried out. When the facts concerning the murders are made known to the country, as they will be sooner or later on account of MacPherson’s article” — James frowned at the Fiscal — “they will realise, of course, that they are in a dangerous position. But I do not think they will be for a moment afraid that the murders can be brought home to them. As we learned late this afternoon, absolutely no clues connecting the various crimes with any single person have been discovered. The Allan case here in Blaan is typical. We know that the victim was killed by electrical means, and that his body must have been carried for some distance to be placed at the roadside. We found a sprig of mistletoe in the lapel of his clerical jacket. That is the sum of our knowledge. Though McKay, Wilson, McMillan and myself have tried every possible line of inquiry known to the police, the results have been utterly disappointing. And the conditions are similar in all other parts of the country. The ‘well-meaning ones’ have the cunning of the ages behind them …

“Of course, in the instance of the Allan murder, we know that O’Hare and Muldoon are connected with the cult and that they may have had some hand in the crime; but we cannot hope to capture them as long as they have this secret hiding-place in Blaan. This morning, in the ordinary course of routine, we circulated their description throughout the country as being ‘wanted,’ but that, I am very much afraid, will lead us nowhere. It will be difficult, certainly, for either of them to leave Kintyre by road, for every section is now guarded as far north as Tarbert. But there are such things as motor-boats and flying-boats, and on this wild coast they have every advantage.”

Inspector McMillan nodded agreement, and Major Dallas continued:

“As I say, the members of the cult must be fairly confident that their precautions and cunning will carry them through the danger period. We can, therefore, make an attempt to recapture Professor Campbell and Miss Dwyer — and even be successful in our attempt — without perturbing them unduly, and without frightening them into cancelling Wednesday’s festival. They will realise, of course, that the Professor knows something of their cult — through the young man who visited his house in Edinburgh. But at the same time, they surely cannot imagine that he knows so perfectly the details of their organisation, or that there are hundreds of others with similar knowledge throughout Britain. Had they — or the mysterious power behind them suspected by the Professor — possessed any inkling of such a state of affairs, they would not have risked the murders on Midsummer’s Eve.

“Everything, then, depends upon our discovering the secret home of the High Priest, for there we believe Professor Campbell and Miss Dwyer to be. If we can get Professor Campbell back he will give us all the remaining information that we require.”

The Chief Constable glanced round the company as if for approval of his argument. As an afterthought, he added:

“All of us, of course, must be careful to mention nothing concerning what we have heard and planned to-night, save to persons whom we can absolutely trust.”

James was slowly beginning to form a very high respect for Major Dallas. Beneath a rather effeminate exterior there was a cold, logical mind, capable of grasping difficult problems swiftly and sensibly. Up till now the editor of the
Gazette
had been rather inclined to overlook the part being played by the police in the Allan case; but it was suddenly brought home to him that the Fiscal, Major Dallas, Detective-Inspector McKay, Detective-Inspector Wilson, Inspector McMillan and the rest must have put in some strenuous work in a quiet and unassuming way, which, though it had proved in many respects fruitless, was nevertheless worthy of high commendation.

“All very nicely put, Major Dallas,” drawled the Rev. Duncan Nicholson. “But it doesn’t get us much farther, does it? Our objective at the moment is to find Miss Dwyer and Professor Campbell.”

James could have used his tightly closed fist on that smug countenance, bent so close to Eileen’s brown head. But as the rules forbade such a salutary action at the present juncture, he contented himself with a glower and a remark.

“I suppose you are brimming over with suggestions yourself, Nicholson?” he said, and was satisfied to observe Eileen’s cheeks flush ever so slightly.

Major Dallas seemed to ignore the young minister’s cultured frankness.

“I wonder if, after all,” he said, “we shall have to search so long for the High Priest’s secret home … ”

There was a sudden quick stir among the group seated about the fire.

“What do you mean?” asked Nicholson.

Major Dallas gave a twirl to one spiky end of his moustache.

“Yesterday,” he explained, for the benefit of Eileen, Nicholson and Dr. Black, “a dirty scrap of paper was found in the Daimler used by O’Hare and Muldoon for the attempted capture of MacPherson. It had dropped, apparently, from O’Hare’s pocket during the scrap which preceded his arrest. Scrawled across the paper were some queer hieroglyphics which none of us at the station could understand. Late last night, however, Detective-Inspector McKay described the strange markings over the telephone to his cipher man at headquarters. We had a reply from Glasgow just before we left for Dalbeg to-night.”

Major Dallas paused, and Dr. Black growled beneath his breath:

“Go on, sir! Go on!”

“The hieroglyphics, it was explained to us, were by no means difficult to decipher,” the Chief Constable continued at last, “and could have been translated for us at once had we thought of asking any archaeologist in the district. They are merely a form of the ancient Ogam script, used extensively, it is supposed, by the Celts. It is found on standing stones all over Britain, and was reputed to have been invented by Ogma, the Celtic god of literature and eloquence. But it is almost certainly a post-Christian script, for it is based upon the Roman alphabet.”

“I have heard Daddy speak of it often,” said Eileen.

James was glad to notice that her fears for the safety of her father and Miss Dwyer had been partially forgotten in her excitement at Major Dallas’s unexpected revelation. The blue eyes which had become so hurt and frightened now sparkled with a little of their old vivacity, while the thin cheeks looked less drawn and old. The thing which angered the editor of the
Gazette
almost unbearably, however, was that the Rev. Duncan Nicholson, in a highly possessive manner, still kept his long arm around her as they sat together on the low couch.

“Here is the paper,” said Major Dallas, taking it from his pocket and holding it up so that they all might see. “Beneath the various characters I have written the equivalent Roman letters. You will notice that naturally enough the letters C and K are identical in the old script; but for some unaccountable reason the letters L and V are represented by the same character. The rest is plain sailing.”

“The Piper’s Cave,” murmured the Chief Constable. “I am wondering, in the light of what we have learned to-night from Professor Campbell, whether this scrawl represented a direction to O’Hare to guide him to the High Priest’s headquarters.”

“By Jove!” exclaimed James. “I don’t know but you’re right, sir! The cave at Kiel has never been fully explored. The old legend about the piper and his dog scares people from trying.”

“What old legend?” asked Detective-Inspector McKay shortly.

Never during his whole career had the C.I.D. man handled so amazing and so bizarre a case. He had arrested in his time brutal murderers and raving maniacs, and not a qualm of superstitious fear had ever possessed him. But this case, crowded with untoward incidents and ancient devilries, frightened him, leaving him restless and irritable. An ordinary callous murderer one could shoot if he showed fight, but a revolver bullet, apparently, was no deterrent to the “well-meaning ones” … McKay refused to pursue further his train of thought. Here was another damned legend to bother him. The whole case seemed to be based and entirely built upon legends.

James pondered for a moment, and once again his imagination began to run riot. He had suddenly formulated another startling theory in regard to the murder of the Rev. Archibald Allan.

“The same kind of legend is connected with hundreds of caves in the West of Scotland and in Northern Ireland,” he returned slowly. “Boswell, in his
Tour
, relates one version concerning a cave at Gribon in Mull — MacKinnon’s Cave, I think it is called.” James was not a journalist for nothing, and had learned much strange lore during his five years’ residence in Kintyre. He went on to tell the tale in a few short, clipped sentences. Eileen’s glance was on him as he spoke, and he wondered why she watched his face so interestedly.

“The Piper of Blaan,” he said, “was supposed to have been a Macdonell of the seventeenth century. He made a bet with his friends that he would enter the cave — you must all know the place; it has the smallest aperture of three similar rock crevices in the Kiel Headland, three miles south of Dalbeg — and continue his journey of exploration until he reached the innermost recess. But his friends made the condition that he should take his pipes with him and that he should play throughout the time of his journey so that they could follow his course above the ground, and be sure that he did not cheat them. On a June morning Macdonell put a blithe tune on his instrument and gaily marched into the cave, his cocky terrier following close at his heels. For three hours his friends traced the lilt of the pipes as the player went farther and farther inland, and then abruptly the tune changed, and it became the strange lament entitled, ‘O, that I had three hands — two to play the pipes and one to wield the sword!’ Then it ceased altogether on a faint discord. The piper did not return; but the terrier did, its hide scorched and hairless. Whining piteously, it died on the following day …