Death by the Mistletoe (4 page)

In Jamesʼs opinion, to keep silence for twelve hours with regard to the knowledge he had gained would not seriously hinder subsequent inquiries by the police. Indeed, were the criminals allowed to believe that their ghastly scheme — in its full significance — remained undetected for just that length of time, their suspicions might be lulled effectively and their discovery made more easy. Even though James’s dutiful but scanty press messages — to be sent late that evening — would on the morrow make known to them that Archie Allan’s death had been discovered to be murder, yet they might be bluffed into imagining that his passing would be considered an isolated subject for investigation — until, of course, that week’s
Gazette
was in circulation.

That at least was how James argued, and James had an ingenious mind when it came to argument — especially when it suited his own purposes. But it must be admitted that while this red-haired young man possessed many admirable qualities, a certain strain of casuistry was not altogether foreign to his nature. To very few of his friends — or enemies, for that matter — was this, however, immediately apparent.

When he put down the receiver for the last time his usually neat white collar was badly creased, and his tie was askew. His blue eyes were no longer gloomy: they stared out above his high cheekbones with fierce intensity.

The unfortunate thing about the whole matter was that James, though he had stumbled on a remarkable series of apparently interdependent facts, had no idea in the world of the awful motive, which lay behind them.

*

According to Mrs. Kelly, his tall, widowed, middle-aged landlady, who looked not unlike Sybil Thorndike, James finished his lunch that day in record time.

“Sure, and I was sorry for you, Mr. MacPherson,” she said afterwards, in her calm way. “You didn’t hear a thing I said to you. You quite forgot to ask for your tomato sauce, and you were off and away before I could tell you that the knot on your tie was below your collar.”

But James’s mind was too busy to worry about such trivial matters as ties and tomato sauce. His sketchy lunch completed, he rammed a charge of tobacco into his long, straight-stemmed pipe, and in front of a trail of pungent smoke made his way through the sunshine to the police station. The
post
mortem
report on the Rev. Archibald Allan would now be available, and he wanted to make the assurance in his own mind a certainty, so far as the manner of the minister’s death was concerned, before commencing to plan his article.

On his way up the Castlehill he was stopped more than once by townsfolk eager for news regarding the sensational passing of one of the most popular personalities in the district; for the rumour had, of course, got abroad that the tragedy had been attended by suspicious circumstances. But James treated them all alike.

“Don’t ask me,” he said, and his satanic frown tended to deter further questioning. “I know nothing.”

From which deliberate falsehood it may be inferred correctly that James’s conscience was of an extremely elastic nature.

Arrived at the police station, he discovered, not without a certain feeling of relief, that Inspector McMillan was deep in consultation with Mr. Archibald MacLean, the Procurator Fiscal. This information was volunteered by Constable Wallace, who was pacing the long passage leading from the entrance back to the prison cells at the rear of the building.

“They’re not to be disturbed,” announced the policeman.

“I didn’t intend to disturb them — just yet,” returned James. “What’s the official verdict? In confidence, of course. I’ll get it all from the Fiscal later.”

“It’s murder all right,” said Constable Wallace slowly. “The
post
mortem
clinched it. Professor Gregory came round from Glasgow last night by car, and the examination was held this morning about eight o’clock. When Doctor Black showed him the body the professor didn’t hesitate a moment. Saw the red marks right off, and said ‘Murder!’ in that squeaky voice of his. I believe they found traces of salt around the marks, though what good that will do them I can’t just understand. But I heard Professor Gregory complimenting Doctor Black upon having thought of looking for them. Old Black is certainly a smart lad!”

“Very!” agreed James dryly, remembering that on the previous night Constable Wallace had been too busily engaged with his measurements to overhear his own short conversation with Dr. Black on this very subject. “Anything else of interest?”

“Doctor Black thinks Archie Allan could not have been dead for more than an hour and a half at the most when Stewart found the body. It was still warm when we got it out to Lagnaha.”

“You didn’t find anything yourselves?” asked James cautiously. “I mean — a pointer to the murderer, or murderers?”

“That’s the damned thing!” replied Constable Wallace frankly, wrinkling his broad forehead. “There’s not a clue that we can discover. Our work last night amounted to nothing. Of course. Sergeant MacLeod may find out something to-day. He’s making inquiries up at Archie Allan’s house in Dell Road, and the housekeeper may give us some information.”

“There’s the sprig of mistletoe,” suggested James. “You deserve a medal for pointing out what kind of plant it was, my son! Nine times out of ten it would have been overlooked altogether.”

Constable Wallace’s strained face brightened.

“You didn’t know I was a bit of a natural history-man?”

“If the berries had been on it, I’d have known it at once. But the queer thing is that there’s no mistletoe growing wild in Kintyre, and there’s certainly not a spot of it to be had in local shops at this time of the year.”

“Perthshire is the great place for mistletoe in Scotland.”

James pondered.

“What’s Inspector McMillan doing about the business? Is he asking for outside help?”

“Depends on the Fiscal and the Chief Constable. The old man ’phoned up Lochgilphead last night, but the Chief was away from home — in Edinburgh, We got in touch with him, however, later on, and he’s expected here any minute now. The Fiscal’s very keen on getting two C.I.D. men down from Glasgow.”

“Things are moving!” said James, with a secret smile.

And, indeed, things at that moment were moving rather more swiftly than even that astute young man imagined, though not in the direction to which he was referring; for late that afternoon James was within an ace of death, and, had it not been for an extremely attractive young lady, his soon-to-be-famous article on The Mistletoe Murders would not have been included in the morrow’s issue of the
Gazette
.

*

He left the police station in somewhat of a brown study, and decided to prosecute his inquiries still further at the home of the murdered man in Dell Road. He was on friendly terms with Miss McMurchy, the housekeeper, and ran little risk of being snubbed. Furthermore, he would find Sergeant MacLeod there, and James had an idea that a short “crack” with that shrewd and level-headed Highlander would prove of some value. But before carrying out his project he wandered down in the direction of the harbour, partly to get some fresh air after his tiring morning, and partly to marshal his chaotic thoughts into some semblance of order for the article which he intended shortly to write.

After the storm it was a perfect summer’s day. The still waters of the loch shimmered vaguely in the heat, and the sky was a clear dome of blue — the blue in a MacTaggart landscape — against which the wheeling seagulls flashed white. The fishing fleet was in, and the masts of the skiffs, which lay in closely packed, irregular ranks, rose like a forest on one side of the quay. James noticed absent-mindedly that on many of the trim little vessels flags hung limply at half-mast in token of respect to a minister whose interest in the fishermen of the burgh had been a byword. There was no sign of life in the vicinity, save on the north side of the quay where a squat “puffer” was discharging coals. The rattle of its winch and the crash of coals being emptied from a huge iron bucket into a high-sided cart were the only sounds which disturbed the languid silence. The unmistakable odour of a fishing port — sea-tang mingled with the smell of herring — hung heavily in the hot air.

James seated himself on a low iron mooring-post, and, placing his stubborn, narrow chin on one fist, gazed out over the placid loch to where, in the distance, Davaar Island reared its smooth bulk at the entrance to the harbour. It resembled to a remarkable degree, he thought — such was his mood — the back of a contented cow lying still in a meadow. For almost ten minutes he sat thus, his mind working slowly.

“Good afternoon!” said a smooth voice behind him.

James turned quickly, and rose. Confronting him was one of the most powerful men he had yet seen in his short but eventful life.

At first glance the newcomer appeared to be stout and almost gross; but on a closer inspection it was evident that he was in perfect physical training, and that his tremendous muscular development was responsible for the first erroneous impression. His thick shoulders seemed to be unusually broad despite his great height, and though James stood six feet in his stocking-soles, he had to look up to meet the other’s eyes.

Those eyes … Those eyes, thought James, were dangerous — and subtly dangerous at that. They were large and queerly luminous, and as they looked down intently into his he experienced a sensation the like of which had never assailed him before. He felt all the strength slowly being sapped from his spine; he felt a sudden wave of liking and respect for the towering figure before him overwhelm his mind. He felt suddenly cold. And it was this sudden chill which steadied him.

James glared back at the stranger and said:

“What do you want?”

And now that the unwonted feeling of being under the other’s domination had passed he became aware that he had seen this person — or a person much like him — not so very long ago. James racked his brain. Where? When? … Where had he seen that broad, curiously flat  face, the squat nose, the dark red cheeks beneath a film of close-shaven black beard? In what circumstances had he noted before that massive body, these great sensuous hands, covered with the thick mass of hair? Where had he seen these heavy red lips, and the terrifying green eyes?

And then he remembered, and he shuddered. It was not any living person which this man resembled, but the famous painting by Davisson of Balor, the huge, malignant Fomor of the Celtic legend. He had seen this representation of the ancient god of darkness in the Art Galleries during one of his infrequent visits to Glasgow, and his mind at the time had been impressed and even horrified by the hideous light which the young artist had brought into the wide-open left eye — the “evil eye” of Balor, kept tightly shut, according to the story, save on one occasion … The flat, sensual face and the terrible green eyes of Davisson’s “Balor” were those of the man who now confronted him.

A small voice kept drumming in James’s ears: “Danger! Danger!” Many strange men had come to him in this fashion — unexpectedly and in unlikely places — for such is the common lot of a reporter. And here on the open quay, in full view of a busy street, not more than three hundred yards distant, no harm could surely come to him. Wasn’t he a boxer, too, of some prowess? Yet the eyes of Davisson’s “Balor” and the eyes of the man before him could scarcely have been told apart.

“You are Mr. MacPherson?” queried the big man, suavely.

“I am,” said James. “Editor of the
Campbeltown
Gazette
.”

Such was his password in respectable circles.

The other stood almost immovable, his eyes unwinking, poised straight as a reed on the balls of his toes. James faced him fair and square, and almost involuntarily his wide, sloping shoulders hunched slightly forward, as they had done on certain notable occasions in the ring when the fight had tended to go against him.

“You are interested in the Allan murder?”

James nodded, and wondered how this individual was so certain that the Rev. Archibald Allan had been murdered. The afternoon was very quiet and hot and the long quay seemed absolutely deserted, even the lighter had ceased to discharge its coal. The winch no longer rattled, and the cart had disappeared in the direction of the town.

“Then I have news which will surprise you,” said the stranger.

“May I ask your name?” asked James.

He noticed in an uninterested kind of way that a large closed car was proceeding slowly down the quay in their direction, driven, possibly, by a chauffeur sent from the country to await the arrival of the afternoon steamer. He was early on the scene, thought James dimly; the
Dalriada
was not due for another hour.

“My name is Eoamunn O’Hare.”

Again James found himself staring into the green, luminous eyes, and again he felt their terrible power. But this time he was prepared for the ordeal. There was in his nature a streak of extreme “dourness” — a legacy handed down, perhaps, through generations of hardy Highland clansmen, and toughened and strengthened by contact with the universal “dourness” of America. Never had James’s blue eyes appeared so sullen as they did now; never had his pointed chin seemed so resolute. He knew nothing about the science of hypnotism, but no damned Irish blackguard was going to impose upon his will without experiencing some difficulty in the effort. He was puzzled at the new experience, and a little afraid, but his stout heart refused to be daunted. So confident was he, indeed, of his defence against the other’s evil influence that he smiled crookedly as he noted a small bead of perspiration stand out on Mr. Eoamunn O’Hare’s left temple.