Death by the Mistletoe (20 page)

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
.

Inspector McMillan glanced a little nervously at the Chief Constable.

“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.