Death by the Mistletoe (3 page)

“A moment, sir. A moment,” said the inspector. “What are you doing, MacPherson?”

“May I roll up the left trouser-leg?” asked James

The inspector nodded. He was curious to know what was rendering his young friend so excited.

“See that?”

James’s face, which never held much colour, was now ashen. He pointed to another red mark on the outside of the left leg.

“I don’t think Archie Allan was killed by lightning,” he said, and they all noticed his trembling. “I think he was murdered.”

CHAPTER II

For a moment the little group remained silent, and the sound of their breathing rose and fell on the still air. The unceasing thunder of waves on the Machrihanish shore could be heard in the distance, faintly; while in a far-away meadow a corncrake ranted.

“Murder!” ejaculated Dr. Black at last.

He directed a puzzled glare at the round, raw mark which James had revealed on the left leg of the stricken clergyman. Then, suddenly stiffening, he peered again at the other red mark on the smooth pate. His pugnacious lower jaw jutted out, like a bulldog’s — evidence of his concentration.

Mr. Anderson Ellis was regarding James with cold, grey eyes, set deep beneath a sunburned forehead.

“Ridiculous!” he exclaimed. “Who is this young man?”

“My name is MacPherson,” said James. “Editor of the
Campbeltown
Gazette
. Have you ever been in America, Mr. Ellis?”

“No,” returned the other shortly. “Why?”

Sergeant MacLeod and the two constables were eagerly watching James’s white, set face. The inspector was feeling very uncertain of his ground, and one large hand constantly sought the friendly companionship of the other. The farm-labourer’s mouth had drooped wide.

“I was reared in America,” said James slowly, “and it was there that I once saw the body of a man who had just been electrocuted for a serious crime. I was a reporter, you understand, and was therefore allowed such a doubtful privilege; The execution, Mr. Ellis, was carried out very simply. The condemned man was strapped to a chair, and one of the electrodes from a dynamo was applied to his head, the hair at the place of contact having previously been shaved off. The other electrode was applied to the side of the left leg. In the case of which I speak, Mr. Ellis, a slight hitch occurred in the proceedings. A little too much current was used. It was nothing serious, of course, but on the shaven head of the criminal, and on his left leg, two raw, red burns were afterwards found.”

James paused for a second, and as no one spoke he continued:

“As a general rule, however, death by mechanical electrocution is quite indistinguishable from that by lightning. No marks whatever are to be found, though the skin is rendered very dark in colour. Whoever killed Archie Allan chose an excellent night to do his rotten work — but, as it happens, he overstepped his mark …”

“If this is true,” said Mr. Anderson Ellis, “it is a ghastly crime. But I am not yet convinced. What is your opinion, Doctor?”

“MacPherson may be correct. There is every indication that Allan was killed by mechanical electrocution. On the other hand, the whole thing may be a remarkable coincidence, capable of an easy explanation.”

Dr. Black spoke sourly, for, if the truth must be told, he was a little piqued at having at first overlooked a possible cause of the red mark. He continued:

“Come, now, Inspector I Get through with your present investigations. We must have the body at the hospital as soon as possible. I shall ’phone to Glasgow for a specialist at once, and conduct a thorough
post
mortem
in the morning. Then we shall be able to express definite opinions.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

Inspector McMillan, who in his thirty years’ experience as a policeman had never before been brought into contact with a murder case, was ill-at-ease. It would have been a great relief to him had James’s startling theory been negatived by Dr. Black. He gave curt orders to his subordinates to cover his irresolution.

No one spoke while the policemen worked, tape-measures, notebooks and pencils busy. The scene — tragic, yet in some queer manner terribly commonplace — resembled one which might have been described by Mr. Freeman Wills Croft.

James was recovering his normal poise, and spots of natural colour began to show on his pale cheeks. He wondered if his amazing theory, propounded on the spur of the moment, was not, after all, the result of his own too fertile imagination. Who would want to murder poor Archie Allan — a man who had fewer enemies in the world than most — in the callous and obviously premeditated fashion which he had suggested? And, if it came to that, who was he, John James MacPherson, a callow youth, to put forward his opinions in the teeth of a competent doctor and four policemen? And yet Dr. Black had declared that his theory might be correct … Searching deeper in his thoughts, James realised that he would still hold to his theory even though the highest authority in the land called him a fool. He remembered only too vividly the cold, concise explanation of the red marks on the body of the dead criminal which had been given him by Mervin Whalley, chief reporter on the
Chicago
Times
. The whole experience — part of the rigorous training of a cub reporter in the United States — was too clearly stamped on his memory, down to the smallest detail, for him to be mistaken.

He drew Dr. Black to one side.

“By the way, sir,’’ he said, striving desperately to appear calm, collected and worldly-wise, a not unusual histrionic feat on James’s part, “you might make a point in your examination of looking for traces of salt about both red marks. If you find any—’’

“What are you talking about now, boy?”

Dr. Black was a bluffer too. He had only the most elementary knowledge of the principles of electricity; but he would not be dictated to by a mere youth without making a show of resistance. His short stubby moustache bristled and his thick neck swelled against his collar as he looked up at James.

“I was going to say,’’ continued the latter, “that when a man is being electrocuted in the States the skin is damped with a solution of salt at the point to which the electrodes are strapped, principally to ensure good contact. If you find particles of salt near the red marks, the evidence of murder will be rather conclusive, will it not? But probably you know all about that already, sir?’’

Even in the present disturbing circumstances James’s tact — the quality without which no newspaper-man is completely equipped — came to the surface.

“Yes, yes!’’ snapped Dr. Black, not altogether truthfully; and then, after a short silence, because beneath a thorny exterior he was not without a touch of humanity, he swore softly. “I liked Archie Allan,” he added, glaring at James.

The policemen were making their final measurements, and the inspector was talking confidentially to Mr. Anderson Ellis.

“Can I be of further assistance?” asked the latter.

“No, Mr. Ellis, I don’t think so,” said Inspector McMillan. “We shall let you know by telephone of any further developments, if you care.”

“I should be obliged. Damned rotten thing this — happening at my gate.”

He glanced at Constable Stewart with an expression which seemed to indicate that he held that solid and good-hearted individual responsible for the fact. The latter remained unmoved.

“Good night,” said Mr. Ellis, and James noticed that already the farm-labourer had moved away, like the spirit of the murder, into the gathering dusk.

The car had almost reached Campbeltown on its return journey when Constable William Wallace turned round in his seat beside the driver and addressed the occupants of the rear.

“What was Mr. Allan doing,” he said, “wearing a sprig of mistletoe at this time of the year?”

*

James spent the following day — Wednesday — in an eventful manner. The ordinary routine of the office, had, of course, to be overtaken in order to allay the anxieties of Big Peter, the rotund head printer, whose one aim in life, to the exclusion of all other more human desires, was to produce the first copy of the current
Gazette
at midday precisely each Thursday. Any deviation from the usual methods of production rendered him in a condition of extreme nervousness, and his three generous chins shook like a jelly. On several occasions James had delayed handing in the last of his “copy” to Andy, the kindly but blasphemous linotype operator, until eleven o’clock on the morning of issue, whereat, without fail, Peter had flourished his steel spectacles, intimating at the same time his immediate resignation from the staff.

These incidents, however, were forgotten almost as soon as they were over, and, in point of fact, Peter and James had considerable regard for each other and would have been genuinely distressed to have to part company. James was well aware of Peter’s unusual gifts for getting good advertising results with rather antiquated type and accessories; while Peter admitted to his friends that “young MacPherson, though maybe a wee bit inclined to be a big man, and apt at times to get panicky” — here his friends would smile covertly — “has common sense. Common sense — and guts!”

James was on equally good terms with Davie and Bob, the compositors, who, however, regarded him rather as a man of leisure, whose job, in respect of solid labour, was not to be compared with their herculean achievements.

He knew well enough, however, that it was his own strict and immediate attention to detail which contributed most to the smooth running of the establishment. Accordingly, he was out of bed at seven o’clock on the morning following the storm, and at the office an hour later, busily engaged upon reading proofs, revising local advertisements, sub-editing district news and writing miscellaneous paragraphs for his gossip column. There was a big day ahead of him in connection with the death of the Rev. Archibald Allan, and he was determined to have his ordinary routine work complete before tackling that important problem. After all, one never knew what further developments might take place during the day necessitating one’s undivided attention. James, as it transpired, showed great foresight in this matter.

At eleven o’clock the city papers arrived with their startling intelligence. James read each report carefully, and by the time he had finished his red hair stuck out in all directions, and his big, sensitive mouth was pursed in a straight line. The importance which he had attached to the local mystery suddenly dwindled in the light of new and correlated information. He was possessed for a moment with a sense of his own futility. Once, when he had climbed Ben Ledi on a summer’s day, he had experienced a similar sensation. He had reached a shoulder of the mountain — a shoulder which he had imagined to be the summit — only to find that a snowclad slope still stretched upwards in front of him and that the true summit was as far distant as ever.

God! thought James. What was the inner meaning of this mass of astounding news? What insane thoughts were these which hammered and drummed in his brain? … Let him think clearly, for heaven’s sake!

Eight clergymen, besides the Rev. Archibald Allan, had died on the previous night — including the Moderator of the Church of Scotland. That was fact. Nine clergymen had died … but not a mention was made of foul play in connection with any one of the tragedies. The majority of the victims, it was reported, had been struck down by lightning, as, at first glance, the Rev. Archibald Allan had been … And suddenly a queer little pulse began to hammer beneath James’s left ear. What was this? … Let him keep cool now! Here in the
Daily
Record
it was stated plainly that the Right Rev. Kenneth Millar had been wearing a green sprig at the time of his death … a green sprig which had been thought worthy of mention by one paper only … a green sprig which might have been mistletoe. James covered his face with his hands.

In due course he thought of the telephone.

*

Shortly afterwards he interviewed Big Peter, and answered that gentleman’s varied and excited questions regarding the tragedy of the previous night with strict accuracy.

“You have plenty of stuff to be going on with, Peter?” he asked at last.

“We have,’’ agreed Peter, removing a twelve-point L from his mouth with a suspicious frown. “Are ye no’ pleased?”

“Very!” said James. “Because I’m taking the rest of the day off.”

“Oh, hell!” roared Peter, as if in extreme pain. “What for? A Wednesday, too! Are ye daft? What are we to say here if anybody comes asking for ye?”

“Say I was suddenly removed to the asylum,” returned James helpfully. “The fact is, I’m going to do a bit of inquiry into the Allan, case. Keep a column open for to-morrow … And don’t you worry, Peter, Andy will have the ‘copy’ at eight o’clock sharp.”

“Hell!” repeated Peter, and put the twelve-point L back between his teeth.

*

Before leaving the office to have lunch, James spent almost a solid hour at the telephone. His inquiries, broadcast to various parts of the country, puzzled and annoyed many staid and dignified policemen, who asked pointed questions in return. But he was giving nothing away, and on several occasions terminated a call very effectively by banging down the receiver.

As his questionnaire proceeded excitement and wonder threatened to overwhelm him altogether. All the mad notions brought into being by his reading of that morning’s newspapers were steadily being confirmed. That Archie Allan had been murdered James was now certain, though he had still to hear the result of the
post
mortem
examination. That others besides the Rev. Archibald Allan had been murdered that Midsummer’s Eve he was equally certain … Before his task was half completed he had come to a decision.

James knew that the information which he was slowly and laboriously collecting should at once be communicated to the police. He also knew that if he did not keep his knowledge to himself until — say — ten o’clock that night, Inspector McMillan would disseminate throughout the country theories which would be bound to find a place in most of the daily papers on the following day. And this was the last thing that James wanted. For the
Campbeltown
Gazette
would likewise be published on the following day, and he had his duties as an editor to consider. And this time he was going to put the
Gazette
on the Press map with a vengeance. To-morrow’s issue would contain an article, the exclusive information in which would make Britain take notice in no uncertain fashion. That afternoon he would order wrappers to be prepared, addressed to all the leading English and Scottish newspapers, and marked: “The News Editor: Urgent.” He would get Bob to manufacture a rubber stamp bearing the notable inscription: “With the compliments of the Editor — John James MacPherson.” And even though editors would probably receive the same news later from their own correspondents, few of them would fail to make reference to the
Campbeltown
Gazette
as the first to strike upon the amazing news, which they would publish in due course. Thursday’s issue of that remarkable journal would be in their hands before the wheels to be set in motion late that night by Mr. Archibald MacLean, the Procurator Fiscal, and Inspector McMillan had begun properly to revolve.