Death by the Mistletoe (16 page)

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 himself 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.”

Eileen shivered, and there was a long period of quiet at the table. James again lapsed into his black mood of depression. More than ever he felt himself to be an immeasurably small cog in the wheels of a mighty machine.

“What do the local force propose to make their next move?” asked the Rev. Duncan Nicholson at last.

And it was then that James suddenly remembered his excuse for visiting Dalbeg. After a moment’s hesitation he said:

“Miss Campbell, Major Dallas has an idea that you may be able to help us in our search for the shrine of
Na
Daoine
Deadh
Ghinn
in Blaan.” He spoke very correctly, since they were not alone. “As you know, your father was … interrupted, just as he was on the point of explaining this matter to us last night. But before he was taken away he mentioned
The
Book
of
Dalriada
. You will remember, Nicholson … Could you tell us, Miss Campbell, where we might have access to that book? It may prove to be of assistance to us should your father not recover sufficiently to … to speak to us before next Wednesday.”

“I can help you,” replied Eileen quietly, and James and the young minister waited expectantly.

“
The Book
of
Dalraida,
” she went on presently, “is one of the oldest of the Celtic writings to be preserved in print, dating almost as far back as
The
Red
Book
of
Ulster
. It is in Gaelic, of course, and is nothing more than a huge collection of old tales, poems and lists of place-names concerning Argyllshire and the West of Scotland generally. Kin tyre, as you know, once formed part of the ancient kingdom of Dalraida. A very old printed copy of the original manuscript — the only copy in existence, I believe — is at present in the Hunterian Museum at Glasgow University. Daddy often refers to it in his books.”

“We must see it at once,” said James with decision. “And we shall need you, Miss Campbell, to assist us in translating the Gaelic … You know Gaelic, of course?”

Eileen nodded. James, being acquainted with the characteristics of the members of the Kintyre Presbytery, was well enough aware that the Rev. Duncan Nicholson, despite his name, did not know a word of the old tongue.

For some time there was a strained silence. And an ancient document was not the cause. It was an ancient emotion. But at last the Rev. Duncan Nicholson solved the problem, temporarily at least.

“We could fly to Glasgow to-morrow,” he suggested. “All three of us ought to go, I think. It will ensure greater safety for Eileen.”

“If we take the usual nine o’clock ’plane from the Campbeltown Aerodrome to-morrow morning,” said James shortly, “we could get back by five in the afternoon. A ʼplane leaves Renfrew at four, I think.”

The arrangements were agreed to, and shortly afterwards the two young men left Dalbeg — together.

*

It was rather a remarkable fact that following his depression on the previous day James experienced no recurrence of the attack. Indeed, the gloom that habitually rested in his eyes almost entirely vanished — save at periods when he was worried by reporters or by casual inquirers into the Allan case — and a certain novel cheerfulness took its place. He faced the last stages of the affair of the “Mistletoe Murders” with a joyousness which had been entirely lacking in his earlier co-operation with the police.

Only a psychologist could have explained satisfactorily the change which had occurred in his character. The subtle change, too, was lasting, and Eileen, to whom it was at once apparent, experienced a quiet little triumph. She knew that in some way she had contributed to the new brightness in James’s outlook; but it was long afterwards that she came dimly to apprehend the root reason of it all. James, from being a hard and calculating egoist, a local dictator and scorner of other people’s opinions, had learned to be conscious of his own failings and his need of understanding and affection. He had, in short, fallen in love: he had become a very human James. Moreover, he had fallen in love with someone at first he did not believe could return his love, and the fact had tended to eradicate some at least of his inherent selfishness.

*

James was out and about early that Saturday morning, for the time being resolutely putting aside all thoughts of the coming expedition to Glasgow. That a great deal depended upon what they discovered in
The
Book
of
Dalraida
he was well aware; but he refused to let his excitement come uppermost in his mind. Big Peter had to be attended to, and innumerable small tasks of a routine nature had to be completed.

He laboured mightily until half-past eight, when he judged that his work had been satisfactorily overtaken. Then, visiting the composing-room upstairs to present Andy, the linotype operator, with certain items of “copy” — a dozen gossip paragraphs and a string of badminton scores — he encountered Peter in the passage.

“I’m for Glasgow this morning, Peter,” announced James. “’Plane at nine o’clock.”

Peter stopped short and hauled off his glasses with an exasperated motion.

“Leaving us again!” he roared, beginning to shake. He turned away, swung back and faced James. “I’m leaving this bloody place, too then. Guid sakes, man! You havena been a whole day in this office since Tuesday!”

“I’m sorry, Peter,” said James mildly. “It’s a police job.”

Peter ceased to shake and glanced curiously at James. He didn’t care twopence whether it was a police job or not: the
Gazette
was infinitely more important than any such consideration. But this was a strange tone, surely, for John James MacPherson to employ. Seldom had Peter resigned without having received, in stinging rejoinder, as good as he gave.

“That’s different, James,” he said at last with a puzzled air, and James grinned at him with great good humour.

Peter replaced his spectacles and stumped back to his “frame,” pondering weightily over the manifold uncertainty connected with men and affairs.

James, who had booked seats in the ’plane on returning to Campbeltown on the previous night, met one of the Aerodrome taxis outside the White Hart Hotel. Eileen and the Rev. Duncan Nicholson had decided to proceed straight to the landing-ground from Blaan in the former’s two-seater.

As he stood on the kerb, waiting for the driver to emerge from the hotel, Inspector McMillan, swelling with importance, swaggered up the street and stopped to speak to him.

“Good morning! Good morning!” greeted the policeman. “Is it not a fine day?”

“It is,” agreed James, who sensed definite news behind his friend’s studiously casual demeanour. “You’ve got something to tell me, Inspector,” he added calmly.

“Well, well! And how did you know, James? You are like a hawk, indeed!”

Having spent five years in almost daily contact with the Inspector, James had heard this phrase before.

“However,” continued the policeman, “I don’t see why I should not be letting you know … A man very high up in the Secret Service is arriving here on Monday. In the Secret Service, I am telling you! And he is going to be here until Wednesday, forby. There will be great doings in Campbeltown now, James, I can see … And I may just hint to you, young man, that Scotland Yard have found out where all the mistletoe was gathered.”

The engine of the taxi roared into life.

“All this will mean promotion for you, Inspector,” remarked James.

As the latter climbed into the car, Inspector McMillan marched off up the street, in the direction of the police station, his stout shoulders well back and swinging jauntily.

The Campbeltown Municipal Aerodrome is situated some three miles west of the town, in the Laggan of Kintyre, and constitutes the chief pride of an enterprising Town Council. James, indeed, had at one time considered that he himself was in no small way responsible for its inauguration, for before it had come into being, two years previously, the
Gazette
had demanded its construction in no kind of modified terms.