Death by the Mistletoe

by Angus MacVicar

  The editor of the Gazette emerged from the Daimler feeling immensely relieved at the turn of events had taken, but conscious at the same time of many painful bruises, and of a persistent throbbing in his left forearm. He shook hands with the Rev. Duncan Nicholson, nodded with a slight grin to the two policemen, and then went over to the girl.

  “Well done!” he said, his breath still coming in short, uneven gusts. “And thank you!”

  “You’re a splendid winker,” she returned. Though pale and rather tremulous, she still managed to smile. “They didn’t hurt you, did they?”

  James shook his head. Now that he was seeing her under more favourable circumstances he found himself possessed of strange and unaccountable emotions. His self-confidence abruptly departed.

  She was utterly lovely, he thought, in that little white, green-belted frock, which gave the impression of being fashioned on lines of the utmost simplicity and yet seemed to suit her fresh and vital beauty as nothing else could have done. James, whose eyes though gloomy were none the less observant, noticed also that she wore white silk stockings and green sandals, and he liked her slim ankles. Her dark brown hair, curled close at the nape of her neck, gleamed burnished in the sunshine. But it was her face which attracted James’s immediate attention. It was delicately oval, with the slightest suggestion of thinness about the lightly powdered cheeks and rounded chin. Her eyes were blue — the dark, deep blue of a still mountain loch reflecting a summer sky.

  And as he continued to look on her the supposedly hardbitten editor did something he had no memory of having done before. He blushed; and his few freckles disappeared in a maze of red.

  “Meet Miss Eileen Campbell — Mr. John James MacPherson.”

  The Rev. Duncan Nicholson beamed, and as James smiled also — by no means sourly this time — the minister went on:

  “We came after you at sixty — sixty, by Jove! Eileen’s a demon at the wheel. I thought we should have been ditched a dozen times. She had us all rounded up in town, too, within five minutes of seeing your signal. Sergeant MacLeod and Constable Wallace, whom we found at the station, were splendid. They fell in with our plan for rescuing you at once. Lucky for you, old man, your car was dawdling.”

  His accent, as James had noted before with some degree of contempt, was that occasionally and erroneously attributed to students of the University of Oxford.

  Sergeant MacLeod coughed dryly.

  “We must be getting back to town,” he announced. “The sooner these gentlemen are locked up the better. Are you coming with us, James?”

  “I’m afraid I’ll have to.”

  “By the way, Mr. MacPherson,” said Eileen, and her voice was as clear and sweet as the ripple of a burn in June, “I happened to be in town to-day with Mr. Nicholson principally to ask you if you could come for dinner to Dalbeg to-morrow evening. My father — Professor Campbell — wishes specially to see you.”

  “I shall be glad to come,” replied James with great earnestness, and was somewhat embarrassed to find Constable Wallace regarding him with handsome face solemn as a judge’s, but with eyes which twinkled wickedly.

  “See you there,” said Nicholson, who, annoyingly, seemed to be on excellent terms with the Campbell family.

  During the remainder of that day, and for most of the next, James’s mind frequently reverted to the problem of why this unexpected invitation had come to him.

  James, the two policemen, and O’Hare and Muldoon travelled to the police station by means of the big Daimler, Constable Wallace driving. There the prisoners, silent and unprotesting, were confined to the cells. Later they were questioned, bullied and cajoled by the Fiscal and Inspector McMillan; but not a word did they utter during a four-hour period of interrogation. It seemed to James — and the matter surprised and troubled him — that their quiet confidence, even in their present plight, remained as profound and audacious as ever.

  About four o’clock in the afternoon the Chief Constable, Major David Dallas, M.C., arrived by car in Campbeltown, and on his recommendation the Glasgow branch of the C.I.D. was immediately communicated with. On the face of it, events were moving too swiftly for the local force. Major Dallas had also a long interview with the prisoners, but both smiled evilly at him and said nothing.

  James had a much needed bath and change of clothing, and ointment and a bandage were placed on his injured forearm by Mrs. Kelly, who was intensely curious, but asked no questions. Afterwards, he had tea — including cold ham — and subsequently wrote the article over which, in the intervals of excitement during the day, he had been cogitating with some earnestness. As darkness fell he interviewed Mr. Archibald MacLean at the latter’s own home — Major Dallas and Inspector McMillan also being present — and his carefully propounded theories shocked the three gentlemen to a considerable extent.

  This fact, however, did not prevent Mr. MacLean from setting to work with feverish energy immediately upon James’s departure. Indeed, the young lady who had charge of the telephone exchange in Campbeltown that night heaved an unmistakable sigh of relief when, at four a.m., the Fiscal, before hanging up the receiver for the last time, bade her a curt “good night” across the wires.

  *

  Thursday, for three reasons, may be termed the second most notable time-unit in this chronicle of notable events; though it must give pride of place, in point of actual importance and excitement, to the following Wednesday.

  James handed ten closely written quarto sheets to Andy at eight o’clock — according to his promise — and Big Peter breathed again.

  “That’s what I call an article, James!” Andy said, glancing over it. “Hellish good!”

  The editor felt suitably rewarded for his pains. Andy, despite his language, was a critic of some discrimination.

  “Thanks!” James replied shortly. “Get that set up as soon as you can. I’m going to the police station for a last prowl round. But I’ll be back to read the proofs in half an hour. That’ll be all the ‘copy’ for to-day, I think.”

  But James was mistaken in his thought … The article itself, which first appeared in print some four hours later, clearly explains the exact situation, and important parts of it may with advantage be quoted here.

  A glaring double headline, set lovingly by Peter, introduced the matter, THE MISTLETOE MURDERS, it read: WERE THEY THE WORK OF A VAST TERRORIST ORGANISATION? James, it ought to be recorded, wondered if this last blatant suggestion did not savour too much of the melodramatic, and hesitated for a considerable time before allowing it to stand. But, in the final issue, he decided that it would at any rate prove effective in arousing public interest, and he gave it his blessing.

  The sub-headings were less extraordinary. “Death of the Rev. Archibald Allan,” they ran. “Gazette Editor’s Strange Experience. Assailants Escape. Exclusive to the Campbeltown Gazette.”

  The first five paragraphs described the finding of the Rev. Archibald Allan’s body, the manner in which his death had been found in actual fact to have been murder, and James’s own escape from the hands of O’Hare and Muldoon. And, at this stage, several lines had been inserted by the harassed editor, not long before the actual hour of publication. Their late arrival, indeed, had caused Peter ten minutes of the bitterest anguish. The new information ran as follows:

  *

  Last night, however, O’Hare and Muldoon contrived to effect a sensational escape from the Campbeltown Jail. About midnight, when Constable McNair, the governor of the prison, was making his final tour of the premises, OʼHare asked if he might be allowed pen, paper, and a lamp, as he wished to occupy part of the night in writing out a statement for the police. Naturally, Constable McNair was only too willing to accede to the request, and brought the necessary articles to the cell. Knowing the strength of the prisoner, he did not, of course, unlock the cell, but passed them through the small aperture in the door. As he did so, OʼHare engaged him in conversation, and, according to his statement, Constable McNair remembers nothing from that momen
t, when a huge hand shot out from the small opening in the door and gripped his throat, until some ten minutes later. Regaining control of his senses, he found OʼHareʼs cell and Muldoonʼs empty. Apparently OʼHare had been successful in throttling the jailer into insensibility and thereafter in taking the keys of the cell from the ring at his waistbelt.

  A hue and cry was immediately raised, but so far the culprits have remained undiscovered. Their sudden appearance yesterday, and their equally sudden disappearance early this morning, seem to be shrouded in mystery; for, though the police have made extensive inquiries, no one in the district can supply definite information concerning their movements. The car which they used, however, has been discovered to be the property of Messrs. John Hewitt & Co., Ltd., the well-known Campbeltown firm of motor engineers. It was hired out to a man answering OʼHareʼs description about midday yesterday, ostensibly to take himself and his companion on an important business mission to Tarbert.

  *

  James did not mention in his article that after summoning assistance during the night Constable McNair had fainted three times, and was now lying in the Cottage Hospital feverishly babbling of green, glaring eyes. Nor did he mention that since hearing of OʼHareʼs escape an awesome feeling had come to him that only he himself could stand between the sweetness of the world and the dark powers of OʼHare, and that somewhere — some time — the final issue would be fought out between them. James had continued:

  *

  Such are the facts connected with the local tragedy, and it ought to be pointed out that the Campbeltown police, who are to be assisted in their investigations by Detective-Inspector McKay and Detective-Sergeant Wilson of the Glasgow branch of the C.I.D., are in possession of several valuable clues which, they are confident, will lead to the apprehension of the guilty person or persons.

  *

  The last sentence, of course, was straining the fact almost to breaking-point; for, with the exception of the sprig of mistletoe, the police had found absolutely nothing to aid them in their task. Sergeant MacLeod’s visit to the home of the murdered man in Dell Road and his questioning of Miss McMurchy, the housekeeper, had been to no purpose. The Rev. Archibald Allan, like the Right Rev. Kenneth Millar, had left the house during the forenoon, remarking only that he intended visiting friends in the course of the day, and might not be home for lunch. Among his papers were found no letters or documents which, at first sight, would seem to point to the identity of the murderer. And even to the clue of the mistletoe, as a means of getting into touch with the criminals, little importance was attached either by the Fiscal or by the Chief Constable.

  But James held a very different view, a fact which he made abundantly clear in the short but sensational section which brought his article to an abrupt but effective conclusion. This was what he had written:

  *

  The Campbeltown Gazette, after making full and extensive inquiries, is of the opinion that on Midsummer’s Eve other murders besides that of the Rev. Archibald Allan took place.

  The results of our investigations, stated briefly, are as follows:

  Six Protestant clergymen and three Roman Catholic priests died that night — all of them, apparently, as a result of the storm, and seven of them by electrocution. But on the bodies of the Rev. George Manderson, Logiemar, Aberdeen; of the Rev. Augustus Wainwright, Islebay, Cumberland; and of Father Melville Davidson, Layford, Yorkshire, were found red marks similar to those found on the body of the Rev. Archibald Allan. Local authorities at first attached no importance to such evidences of foul play, and in two cases they had not even been observed until a search for their presence was suggested by the Gazette. No mention of them, of course, was made in the daily Press.

  Further, in no fewer than seven cases, sprigs of a green plant — in only two instances not identified as mistletoe — were found on or near the bodies of the dead men. Neither the police nor the Press — with a single exception — considered the unusual plant to have any bearing on the tragedies. This, however, cannot be wondered at, as all the fatal occurrences at first appeared to be isolated instances of death by lightning; and the wearing of a green sprig by the deceased would not occasion a second thought. Only when the different tragedies are correlated does the fact become of the utmost importance.

  The seven deaths with which the mistletoe is connected include those of the Right Rev. Kenneth Millar, the Rev. George Manderson, Father Magnus MacLean, Lochaber, the Rev. Augustus Wainwright, the Rev. Albert Tyson, Devonshire, and the Rev. Archibald Allan. Though red marks were found on the body of Father Melville Davidson, no mistletoe, it is stated, was found near the spot where it lay.

  The Rev. William MacCallum was drowned in the River Irvine in Ayrshire, while Father Hope Mallinson was killed in a motor accident in London. The Gazette is prepared to believe that these two men met their deaths purely by accident. The evidence of the red marks and the green sprigs, however, puts the matter of the other seven tragedies beyond the bounds of mere coincidence.

  What vast terrorist organisation is behind this series of callous murders? Is there an enemy of Britain striking at the most vulnerable part of her solid foundation — the religious life of the country?

  The police would be well advised to seek diligently for the source of the supply of mistletoe, because, were it found, the identification of a number of the criminals might possibly follow. None can be bought in shops at this period of the year, and in only about half a dozen parts of Britain can it be found growing wild.

  *

  And there the article ended.

  At two o'clock James was summoned to attend at the police station.

  CHAPTER IV

  James had a momentary qualm when he received the sudden invitation to visit the police station; tor he had no doubt but that his article was the cause of the consternation in the voice of the Procurator Fiscal who had addressed him over the telephone. But his conscience was not altogether a guilty one. On the previous night, when he had put before him the facts contained in the last part of the article, Mr. Archibald MacLean had given him no warning not to publish them.

  James was shown into the inspector’s room. Seated round the table were five men — three of whom were personally known to the editor of the Gazette. Inspector McMillan was there, his large red face puffed and blotched after a sleepless night, and his hands uncertainly clasping and unclasping. On either side of him sat the Chief Constable, a small, thin, yellow-haired man with an eyeglass and a waxed moustache, and Mr. Archibald MacLean. The Fiscal was of medium height and sturdily built. He had a shock of greying brown hair, slightly thin at the top, but allowed to grow thick at the nape of the neck like a poet’s. He had a habit of keeping one shoulder raised higher than the other, and his head, which seemed too large even for his stout body, was generally held on one side like an alert sparrow’s. His astute mind, for which he was noted throughout the county, was reflected in his keen, if somewhat flabby, face.

  James was of the opinion that the other two sharp-featured, motionless men were Detective-Inspector McKay and Detective-Sergeant Wilson. The former, tall, dark and middle-aged, had sombre brown eyes and a long chin, while his companion was a short, stout individual, grey-haired, with a hatchet face rather disfigured by warts. His blue eyes glittered strangely as they regarded James.

  The Fiscal rose when the editor entered, and stumped round to his side, looking up at him with choleric eyes.

  “What the hell do you mean by publishing that article?” he demanded. He had the quick Celtic temperament which makes a man give expression to his thoughts at once and be sorry for it afterwards if need be. “We’ve just read it. Every word of it is true, of course, as we learned last night. And to-day post mortems in every part of the country have confirmed your theories. But, my God, MacPherson, could you not have kept quiet about things?”

  “Why should I have kept quiet?” asked James, whose eyes were very gloomy, and into whose voice had crept a great dourness.

  “Why!�
�� roared the Fiscal, his face red with anger. “I’ll tell you why! Five clergymen and two priests have been murdered in different places throughout Britain. We have stirred up the police forces in these districts, and Scotland Yard is on the job to-day. But your damned article has probably ruined any chance the police had of tracing the murderers. Now that it has appeared, local representatives of what can only be a national gang of criminals will at once warn headquarters. The result will be that members of the group will lie low until the excitement has died down … Further, you have probably aroused a wholesale panic in the country.”

  “Is that all?” asked James.

  “No, MacPherson, it is not all!” returned the Fiscal. “I realise well enough that after our efforts last night the big newspapers would have got a grip of the story in a day or two, at any rate. But that might have given the police sufficient time to make the necessary round-up. As it is, here we are, all our cards placed on the table — by you — and we haven’t a single clue to go by, save the sprig of mistletoe.”

  Inspector McMillan looked sheepishly at James: never before had the Fiscal and he quarrelled with the editor of the Gazette. Was it worth it now? The Chief Constable twirled his eyeglass somewhat uncomfortably, for he knew James well and had some respect for his ability. The two detectives watched the young man’s face interestedly. The expression there had become intensely forbidding.

  “These are your opinions, Mr. MacLean,” said James, his cheeks white and his eyes glowering. “They are not mine. The murders were committed on Tuesday evening: my article was not published until to-day. During the interval the ‘national gang,’ as you call it, must have been lulled into a certain sense of security. Here at Campbeltown, in fact, did you not have O’Hare and Muldoon — who are without a doubt implicated in the crimes — actually in your clutches? And had your methods been worth a docken you might have been arresting Allan’s murderers this very afternoon instead of wasting your time with me, and sending out search-parties for escaped criminals. I am certain that in other parts of the country similarly suspicious persons have been apprehended by this time — and are still in jail! And by degrees they will probably volunteer all the information that is necessary.”