Death by the Mistletoe (19 page)

“He wants me,” said Eileen. “Before you came I felt myself weakening, even though I was half aware I didn’t love him. There is something … magnetic about him that I couldn’t have resisted for long. But this morning, when he raged over his hat, I saw him in a light I’ve never seen him in before. I felt confident again and sure. I saw as clear as the noonday that I didn’t love him … and never could. I know now that I was afraid of him. I still am, a little. I don’t know why, James … But you’re here now and I’m not afraid of you at all. I was quiet and distant a minute ago only because I wanted to satisfy myself how much you needed my — my friendship.”

James did not stir. His shoulders were taut and still. His head was a whirling chaos of joy and doubts and deadly fear.

“Eileen,” he said slowly and carefully, “I am going to warn you. I love you … love you with everything that’s in me. You are so lovely and sweet and so much — so much above me. But I want you, too. You say you are not afraid of me; but if only you knew — ”

There was a wonderful light in her eyes.

“I know everything about you,” she said. “How could I be afraid of you?”

James’s shoulders still did not relax. Eileen saw his eyes staring out of the window, ahead. Now that she came to think of it, he had remained immovable like that for almost five minutes. It couldn’t be caused entirely by his love for her. And was he not going to ask?

She began to turn round to follow the direction of his intent gaze.

“Don’t turn round, Eileen!” he said quickly.

She looked at him and saw the muscles standing out on his pale cheeks, below the temples. And then disobeying him, she twisted suddenly and saw the thing which he had tried to hide from her. The strands of one of the wire struts between the two right wings of the aeroplane were slowly parting. She could see the little wires snapping and curling back on the main bunch.

“That mechanic,” said James quietly, “was Muldoon. I remember now. Dressed in those dungarees, no one in the Aerodrome would notice that he wasn’t one of their own employees. But how did he get out of Kintyre, through the police guard?”

Eileen held out her hands to James. He gripped them in his own big ones.

“You thought I’d be afraid, didn’t you, James?” she said. “And so you weren’t going to tell me.”

She actually smiled.

“I think we shall be able to make the Aerodrome.” he said, striving to be casual.

“Is there any landing-place near here?”

“I — I don’t think so,” replied James.

They were approaching Campbeltown. The girl pilot, it was obvious, had noticed the damage to the wing, for James could see one dead white cheek above the side of the cockpit. Every little while she glanced anxiously to her right. There was a long tendril of hair escaping from beneath her helmet which she constantly brushed aside with quick, nervous movements of her hand.

James realised that they must reach the Aerodrome or crash. Directly below them and behind there stretched the waters of Kilbrannan. To the left was Island Davaar and the rugged slopes of Bengullion. In front Campbeltown Loch and the town itself gave no apparent chance of a safe landing. To the right the round hills of mid-Kintyre presented a forbidding front to the stricken ’plane. The only flat ground within ten miles of their position was the Laggan where the Aerodrome was situated. It would take them another five minutes to reach the mown, green runway and make a safe landing.

The muffled drone of the engine did not waver. They were flying low over Davaar now. The quays and houses of Campbeltown came sweeping towards them.

“If it breaks,” said Eileen, “what happens?”

Her hands were tightly clasped between James’s and he marvelled at her calm, quiet courage. Neither of them moved. They imagined in a kind of hazy fashion that any sudden movement on their part would help to complete the fracture of the strut.

“We’re done, I’m afraid,” he answered simply. “Only once has a pilot brought a machine with parted wings safely to land. And he was a stunt flier.”

“This is the work of the ‘well-meaning ones.’ They’re determined to kill you, as Duncan Nicholson said.”

He nodded. They were directly over the Loch now. Only a thin strand remained to join the wings. The sun was sparkling on the blur of the spinning propeller. The eyes of Miss Sally Waterson stared in terror at the jumble of parted wires.

“You’re not afraid, after all, Eileen?”

“No … You and I can’t be afraid — together.” The time was long in passing. Nearer they came to the town. They could see the people crawling like ants on the pavements and the cars moving slowly along the streets. On the Kilkerran promenade were the gay frocks and white shirts of holiday-makers. The long stretch of the putting-green was dotted with a score of intent players. A few of them, James noticed, stopped in their game to give a fleeting glance upwards at the aeroplane.

*

Of what occurred in the succeeding few seconds the editor of the
Gazette
had only a very hazy notion. It was nightmare. And indeed, for months afterwards, if sleeping lightly, James would often wake up with a start, trembling at the vivid recollection in a dream of certain incidents which took place during that short space of time. His forehead, just beneath the red hair, would be damp with perspiration.

The whole series of events, to those in the ’plane, seemed to take a lifetime to pass, though observers stated that they were over in less than half a minute.

The one remaining wire in the strut snapped. Eileen fell to her knees and clung to James, hiding her eyes on his breast. He strained her to him, while his eyes stared wildly from the window. The girl at the controls seemed to shed her terror on an instant. The crisis had come. As the aeroplane lurched sickeningly to the right she pressed over the vertical rudder lever, straightening out the machine for a space, and bringing it round in a wide curve. They were flying over the town, and a terrible death among the roofs and chimneys lay beneath them. Hard down she jammed the lever. It was a miracle of the airman’s-craft. Round swept the aeroplane at terrific speed, banking, lopsided, like a wounded gull. The engine ceased to drone. James, keeping Eileen’s head close to him and shielding her, saw Miss Waterson’s objective. The people on the putting-green, too, saw the drooping, swaying, heeling ’plane. James heard their screams and saw them running in all directions like frightened rabbits. Again the ʼplane lurched. Eileen clung closer. With only inches to spare they skimmed over a high belt of trees planted round one of the swagger houses in Kilkerran Road. Down they dropped. Miss Waterson worked madly at the levers. James saw her face like a waxen mask peering out through the front glass of the cowl. There was a fence round the putting-green. They missed that too. A sudden jar shook James’s teeth. They had made a one-wheel landing. Miss Waterson jerked another lever. They heeled over to the left this time, straightened out, ran on slowly and more slowly. They stopped, the hub of the propeller a foot from the door of the clubhouse. The thin, intelligent, humorous face of the green-keeper appeared at the entrance. His mouth gaped in comical dismay. A thousand people seemed to rush in on all sides, clamouring and chattering round the ’plane. James saw that Miss Waterson had fainted.

Eileen looked up into his eyes.

“We’re safe?” she whispered.

“Safe as houses … darling.”

CHAPTER XI

Sunday and Monday, as far as James was concerned, were uneventful, save for the constant attention of reporters eager for details regarding his aeroplane adventure. All the papers, of course, featured the dramatic story, and James found that he had become more famous than ever. The heroism of Eileen and Miss Waterson was the text for several leading articles, praising the spirit of the modem girl. A controversy sprang up, too, as to the kind of acid which had been used by Muldoon on the wire strut. Even notable scientists began to take part in the published arguments.

Despite these side issues, however, ordinary readers were definitely perturbed and frightened by accounts of the near-tragedy. Though no actual panic occurred, signs were not lacking of a growing uneasiness in the mind of the great British public. And it must be remembered that to disturb the great British public is as difficult as to cause an eruption of Ben Nevis. James’s original article, an effort altogether too sensational to be immediately accepted on its full face value, was now believed implicitly, and talk of “vast terrorist organisations” grew in volume, spreading in the streets, in public-houses, in drawing-rooms, in the clubs, in offices and in the country lanes. There were the scoffers, of course; but they were in a very small minority, and most people were afraid to venture far in the summer dusk or to embark upon a long, quiet journey alone. The facts of the seven murders, and of the attempt on three other apparently innocent lives, could not be gainsaid: they stood out in tragic relief and with a clarity which the scoffers could not dim. In certain parts of the country — notably in Devonshire and in Inverness — unpleasant scares came into being. Ghostly figures wearing masks and robes of gleaming white were reported to have been seen, principally by serving-maids and farm labourers. The snowball set rolling by
Na
Daoine
Deadh
Ghinn
was steadily assuming a definite and gigantic shape.

*

James visited Dalbeg on the Sabbath, after attending a memorial service to the Rev. Archibald Allan in Queen Street Church. Unfortunately, he was prevented from seeing Eileen alone by reason of the number of callers who were present. Accompanied by Eileen, the Chief Constable, the Fiscal and Dr. Black, he had a brief interview, however, with Professor Campbell shortly before dinner. The old man was still in bed, propped up with pillows, and his eyes were hazy and pathetic in their lack of understanding; but he was able to speak with a fair amount of coherence upon simple matters which had occurred during the week-end. Dr. Black expressed himself as satisfied with the general progress of his patient.

‘‘Care and attention,” he said, “will cure him in a day or two. There is no danger … of any kind.” But as every one of those who visited Dalbeg realised, in a day or two the lesser Festival of the “well-meaning ones” might be an accomplished fact, with the Professor’s secret still locked up in his enfeebled brain. No memories remained to him of any part of his existence previous to Friday morning. His intelligence and talk, in the meantime, were those of a nine-year-old child.

His visitors tried to revive his mental powers by the repetition of the phrase, “The Glen of Adoration,” both in Gaelic and in English, and by telling him again and again the weird tale of his capture. Once, it almost seemed as if his sudden recovery was imminent.

“In ‘The Glen of Adoration,’” said Eileen, “there was once a high stone idol called the Cromm Cruaich — a high idol, Daddy, with many mists.”

Professor Campbell’s eyes gleamed with a momentary intelligence. He sat up in bed. His thin hands were trembling; his face regained its habitual ruddiness. Eileen, James, Major Dallas and the Fiscal sat motionless, scarcely daring to breathe. Dr. Black stepped quietly to the bedside.

“The Cromm Cruaich!” cried the Professor. “And the wailing of the wretched people! The Glen is fair in summer … What did you say, sir?”

He lay back as if exhausted, vacantly staring at Dr. Black, who had made an excited and even blasphemous exclamation. And only on this solitary occasion did the efforts of Eileen and the others penetrate the surface of the old man’s apathetic affliction.

Just before he left for Campbeltown James learned from the Fiscal, who had visited Lagnaha during the course of the morning, that Miss Dwyer was in a scarcely better mental condition. Her uncle, Mr. Anderson Ellis, had been rather curt in the interview, and Mr. Archibald MacLeanʼs pride had been ruffled by his reception. The laird of Lagnaha, he said, had seemed more like a retired colonel than ever, straight and as uncompromising as a shaft of cast-iron.

“My niece is still unwell,” he had snapped, in answer to the Fiscal’s inquiry. “She can see no one. That such a disaster should befall her, when on a casual visit to the house of an acquaintance, is almost incredible in these days of alleged civilisation! I cannot understand what the police are about, Mr. MacLean. Soon we shall be unable to leave our doors without being in constant danger of our lives!”

“I have told you about the cult,” returned the Fiscal, the back of his bulging neck beginning to grow red. “I wish you could appreciate the exact seriousness of the situation, Mr. Ellis. Your niece was extremely fortunate, compared with … other people. The affair is of national import, and nagging criticism of the police certainly cannot aid them in their difficult task.”

“Indeed!” Mr. Anderson Ellis’s tone was frigid.

The Fiscal was on the point of another outburst when he was interrupted by his companion.

“Good morning, Mr. MacLean,” said the laird of Lagnaha. “I shall let you know if and when Miss Dwyer has any information to volunteer. You would be better employed, I think, in exhorting your police to better efforts in detection than in paying calls on quiet-living people who have to suffer for their lack of foresight.”

The Fiscal snorted. He turned on his heel, hunched one shoulder, and stumped away from the door.

“I detest the fellow!” he confided irritably to James. “These damned brass-hats, though they never fired a rifle at the enemy in their lives, think they rule the earth. Thank goodness Dallas is an exception!”

Mr. Archibald MacLean was an ardent pacifist who had fought as a private in the Great War.

“Do you think Ellis is a retired Army man?” asked James. “No one seems to know particularly much about his antecedents.”

“Now that I come to think of it,” replied the Fiscal slowly, “I don’t believe he is. He has none of the Army slang in his vocabulary. But there’s no doubt he is used to command. Might be an old policeman, indeed.”

There the subject dropped.

*

A strenuous effort to discover the whereabouts of “The Glen of Adoration” was made, under the direction of Inspector McMillan, who for three whole days spared neither himself nor his subordinates in the endeavour. Old books in the Campbeltown Free Public Library were unearthed and eagerly scanned. Discreet but thorough inquiries were made amongst members of the local Antiquarian Society. But in the end the police had to admit defeat.

On Sunday morning the Rev. Duncan Nicholson returned to the district by the usual early morning ’plane, and when his ordinary Sabbath duties were over he threw himself into the task of assisting the investigators, showing considerable diligence. With the excuse of making a long overdue round of visits, he called upon all the old people in Blaan who might have heard of the ancient Gaelic name,
Gleann
An
t
-
Shleuchadh
. He also, however, failed signally in his effort. By Wednesday morning the position had grown desperate.

The young minister, it may be recorded at this point, was greatly shocked to hear of the terrible disaster which had so nearly befallen the aeroplane on the Saturday afternoon.

“It’s rather a remarkable thing,” he told Eileen and James, when he visited Dalbeg after his evening service. “My mother was feeling just a little off-colour that day. Nothing much, you know: she was quite better in the morning. But when I was almost ready to leave the house at three o’clock she insisted upon me waiting until to-day. ‘Don’t go, Duncan!’ she said. ‘I have a strange premonition of evil. Just to please me … wait!’ Of course, I sent off a wire to you, Eileen, there and then, and stayed. There was no reason why I should leave the mater worried. But — well, it was queer, wasn’t it?”

“Devilish queer!” agreed James.

Eileen nodded.

“It was lucky for you, Duncan,” she said, but she did not meet his eyes.

*

The question of how Muldoon had run the gauntlet of the police patrol in Kintyre and reached Renfrew without mishap was at first somewhat of a puzzle to Major Dallas, Detective-Inspector McKay and Detective-Sergeant Wilson. The Chief Constable became irritable and annoyed at the circumstance, and his usual smooth flow of speech was, to a certain degree, restricted.

On hearing from James at six o’clock on Saturday evening of the details connected with the aeroplane incident, he had, of course, at once got into communication with the Renfrewshire police; but by that time their quarry had disappeared entirely. A constant vigil, however, was maintained both in Renfrew and in Argyll, and on the Tuesday afternoon Muldoon’s trail was discovered. As an engineer, at which trade, the authorities learned, he once served his time as an apprentice, he had shipped on a lighter sailing from Greenock to Campbeltown with a cargo of granite chips. But before the Renfrewshire police had made the discovery and telephoned the information to Major Dallas, the lighter had been berthed at the Campbeltown Quay for over an hour, and Muldoon had again vanished.

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.