Death by the Mistletoe

by Angus MacVicar

  “There’s no explanation — ” began Eileen. She stopped abruptly. “Oh, but there is!” she exclaimed. “Here is a footnote: ‘For the ancient legend concerning Gleann An t-Schleuchadh the student may seek in a later portion.’ Oh, I say — ”

  She had raised her voice in anticipation. The uniformed attendant, whose charge was the particular corner of the room set apart for valuable documents, approached them, frowning.

  “We cannot have loud talk,” he announced, and James would gladly have slain him with one of the ancient maces on the walls.

  Eileen, however, did not take any great heed of the interruption. With trembling hands she fluttered the dry pages, until she found the place she sought.

  “Here are the Blaan legends … Here is the one we want. Listen!”

  James bent down and followed the movement of her pink-tipped fingers, so fresh and alive against the musty brown background of the page, as she translated with patience and care. The Rev. Duncan Nicholson stood motionless at Eileen’s other side.

  ‘“And the Glen of Adoration in Blaan is the place formerly employed by Na Daoine Deadh Ghinn in their ceremonies. Here used to be a high idol with many fights which was named Cromm Cruaich. It was a sad evil: Brave Gaels used to worship it. From it they would not ask, without tribute, to be satisfied as to their portion of the hard world. He was their god, the withered Cromm with many mists. The people whom he shook over every host, the everlasting kingdom they shall not have. To him without glory whey would kill the piteous, wretched people with much wailing and peril, and the manner of their death was by the mistletoe. Great was the horror and the scare of him. They did evil things, and the powers of darkness were in them. They beat their palms, wailing to the demon who enslaved them. They shed falling showers of tears … ’”

  Eileen’s voice broke.

  “Oh, this is ghastly!” she whispered. “This is pitiful!”

  “Go on, Eileen,” said the Rev. Duncan Nicholson quietly.

  James shivered. The thing was unbelievable and awful, here in the still seclusion of the museum, with the soft-footed attendants moving slowly around them, and the bespectacled savants gazing short-sightedly in the glass cases.

  “‘To him,’” continued Eileen bravely, ‘“noble Gaels would prostrate themselves. From the worship of him, with many manslaughters, the glen is called Gleann An t-Schleuchadh. Around Cromm Cruaich the hosts would prostrate themselves. Though he put them under deadly disgrace their name clings to the noble glen. Since the rule of Herimon* until a day of days there will be worshipping of stones in that glen, until the coming of the wanderer and the churchman of the prophecy. A sledge hammer to the Cromm will they apply from crown to sole, to destroy without lack of vigour the feeble idol which is there.’”

  “God!” breathed Nicholson. His voice trembled ever so slightly. “Again the prophecy!”

  “Does it say where one can find this glen?” asked James, deadly calm. -

  “Yes,” murmured Eileen. “Let me read on.”

  The great room was quiet, save for the pad of the attendants’ feet. A shaft of sunshine from the largest window stabbed the softer light within the museum and danced on the glass cases. James heard the insistent cawing of rooks in the trees outside.

  “‘The Glen is filled with wood,’” Eileen translated, “ ‘and mounds betoken deeds of horror in its shade. And the traveller may reach it by … ’ Oh!”

  Eileen had ceased to read. She stared at the brown, tattered pages before her with horrified eyes.

  “What is it?” demanded James. “What is it?”

  “The next page has been tom out!” said Eileen. She pressed a white hand to her forehead.

  “What utter bad luck!” exclaimed Nicholson.

  They looked at one another. Eileen gave a little hopeless gesture with her hands.

  *The first King of the Milesians. The name is sometimes spelt Eremon.

  “We are scarcely farther forward than before,” she sighed. “There are hundreds of wooded glens in Blaan, and in them all are mounds formed of great stones buried in the earth.”

  Nicholson beckoned to an attendant.

  “I wonder if the librarian could come and see this book for a moment?” he asked.

  The dark-faced man nodded.

  “I shall bring him here,” he said.

  *

  Mr. Robert Mair was a short, stout, dapper man, somewhat past middle-age. He was a Scotsman who had succeeded in London as a journalist and had the appropriate accent. He was precise and unflurried in his movements. There was something solid and reassuring about the healthy clean-shaven face. He entered the museum before the attendant, and approached the group with measured stride.

  “What can I do for you, young man?” he asked, addressing Nicholson. It was as if he conferred a notable favour in thus obeying their request for his presence.

  “I wonder if you could tell us, Mr. Mair,” said the Rev. Duncan Nicholson, “whether page three hundred and four has been missing from The Book of Dalriada since it came into the possession of the University?”

  The librarian glanced at the volume lying open before Eileen.

  “No,” he answered, his expression unchanging. “This ancient volume was gifted to us ten years ago by Sir William McArthur, laird of Kilmore. At that time no pages were missing. It was, indeed, in very excellent condition for a document of its great age. But some eighteen months ago it was brought to my notice by Sir William himself, who had come to consult the book upon some matter of antiquarian interest, that page three hundred and four had been torn out. Naturally, Sir William was greatly annoyed, and I made every effort to trace the culprit. But in vain. The theft has remained a mystery ever since. As no other printed copies exist, many scholars wish to consult the volume, and it would be churlish of me to refuse permission to any of them. But the fact remains that there are many antiquarians of an entirely unscrupulous nature. My attendants cannot, for every moment of their stay in the museum, keep their gaze fixed upon students of the volume.” Though Mr. Mair left the actual solution of the mystery to the individual judgements of his listeners, it was none the less evident that he had a fixed theory of his own.

  “Thank you,” said the Rev. Duncan Nicholson. “We have done with the book now, I think.”

  The librarian carried it back to its case with his own careful hands.

  “I trust,” he said, “that you have discovered the ancient rhyme about which you were telling me?”

  “We have,” replied the young minister. “It is, however, rather unfortunate that one version — according to Professor Campbell — was to be found on page three hundred and four.”

  “It is unfortunate, indeed,” agreed Mr. Mair.

  He bade them good-day, bowing correctly to Eileen.

  CHAPTER X

  The three of them made their way to the taxi, silent and disappointed.

  “The ‘well-meaning ones’ again,” said Eileen presently. “It must have been the ‘well-meaning ones.’”

  Nicholson glowered.

  “There can be no doubt of it,” he said.

  James looked at his wrist-watch as they reached the Women’s Gateway.

  “Five to one!” he exclaimed. “Lord! How the time has passed! We must feed. We still have about three hours before the last ’plane leaves Renfrew for Campbeltown.”

  The Rev. Duncan Nicholson was pondering.

  “I think I should like to see my people … I have plenty of time. They live just off Byres Road.”

  James, in spite of the unhappy outcome of the expedition, could scarcely refrain from giving a wild war-whoop. Was he going to have Eileen to himself for three solid hours? But all he said was:

  “It’s a splendid opportunity, Nicholson. I shall take care of Miss Campbell.”

  Eileen turned her head away for a moment. She did not want James to see the smile in her eyes.

  “But can’t you both come along with me? My mother would be delighted to see you.”
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br />   ‘‘No. Thank you so much, Duncan!” Eileen spoke very sweetly. “It would be such an intrusion.”

  James wanted to hug her. He pulled himself up, terrified at the thought.

  ‘‘Righto!” agreed Nicholson. “I’ll be toddling off. The house is only about a quarter of a mile away. I’ll meet you at the Aerodrome at four.”

  “So long,” said James. He got into the taxi beside Eileen, after having directed the driver to “Danny.Brown’s.”

  They paid off the car outside the swinging doors of the unpretentious but notable restaurant in St. Vincent Street. Eileen insisted upon paying her share, pinching James’s arm hard when he started to argue.

  “You aren’t a millionaire, are you?” she asked.

  “I’m not, but — ”

  “No buts, James!”

  He ran his hand through his hair and they laughed together. The taxi-driver, on receiving a goodly sum, smiled upon them benignly.

  Inside, the red head of the editor of the Campbeltown Gazette commanded instant attention. While Eileen was absent — why on earth did she need to powder her nose, wondered James? — he ordered a meal fit for a king, but which was no strain whatsoever upon the miraculous kitchens of Danny Brown. Sole, roast duck, green peas, pêche melba, coffee, liqueurs …

  Eileen smiled across the table at her host as he lit a cigarette for her and they began to sip their coffee.

  “There are consolations even in this disappointing day,” she said.

  “You bet!” agreed James. “And, after all, now that we are pretty certain of the name given to the shrine, we shall be able, I think, to find someone in Kintyre who knows the place by its old Gaelic designation … some old archaeological johnnie, or perhaps a member of one of the very old Blaan farming families. And we can repeat the name to your father. It may help to bring back his memory.”

  Eileen nodded. They were beginning to see things in a remarkably rosy light. Pessimism had given way to optimism in as long a time as it takes two people to eat a good lunch and secretly admire certain aspects of each other’s character and physical appearance.

  “When all is said and done,” remarked James, “our expedition was fairly successful. We have proof that the shrine of the ‘well-meaning ones’ is not in the cave, and then … there is the prophecy.”

  “But what an unpleasant business it all is!” Eileen shuddered.

  “I know … I wish it was all over — for your sake, Eileen.”

  “But we must be brave. You remember that bit in the Bible, James? About the — the cross which everyone has to bear? Perhaps this is ours.”

  James looked down and studied the baggy knees of his flannels. This was a new side to Eileen’s character. What a strange girl she was! But — but how adorable!

  “I say!” she laughed softly. “I’m getting all worked up. This won’t do! Let’s talk about something else.”

  “Hats, for example,” returned James suddenly.

  “Why hats — in all the world?”

  “Because I’ve never seen such a topping hat as you’re wearing, Eileen.” James’s daring was colossal. “It’s the little blue feather,” he added, with exceeding lameness, ‘‘and the kind of squinty way you put it on.”

  Eileen’s unexpected hearty laughter startled an old bald-headed gentleman sitting behind her. He turned and surveyed his neighbours with a satanic frown before proceeding with his lunch.

  James was very haughty.

  “I mean what I say,” he remarked frigidly.

  “Oh, James … but ‘squintyʼ! Oh, dear!”

  “Well — so it is ‘squinty.’”

  “Yes … But you must call that ‘the fashionable angle.ʼ”

  “I see,” said James, with Highland dignity and a touch of the American hauteur.

  “You’ll have to be well trained before becoming a husband.” Unaccountably Eileen stopped and blushed deeply.

  James was slightly mollified by that blush — why, he could not exactly tell. He looked across at her straightly.

  “Eileen,” he said very seriously, “I’ll never marry anybody, unless … unless — ” he struggled man fully — “unless a miracle happens and a girl whom I know doesn’t love somebody else after all.”

  Eileen was all innocence, though the traces of the blush still lingered.

  “Do I know the girl, I wonder? Is she from Blaan … or Campbeltown? Perhaps I could help you.”

  “She has very darling blue eyes” — James spoke musingly, almost without thinking — “and — ” He became silent, suddenly abashed at his temerity.

  “Go on,” said Eileen, and James thought he had never seen such a wonderfully lovely smile. There was that little curl of hair, too. “Does she wear a ‘squinty’ hat?”

  James was about to answer when a waitress approached the table.

  “Other people are waiting lunch,” she reminded them.

  Eileen looked at her watch.

  “Three o’clock,” she announced. James groaned.

  *

  They rode in a bus to Renfrew, sitting side by side and saying little. On all sides were people.

  The Rev. Duncan Nicholson was not at the Aerodrome when they arrived at three-fifteen. Nor was he there when, at five minutes to four, they were asked to take their seats in the ʼplane. But as they prepared to mount the short ladder leading into the cabin a Post Office messenger dashed up on a bicycle. He demanded Miss Eileen Campbell. Eileen took the telegram which he was carrying.

  *

  “Detained. Mother taken ill. Duncan,” she read.

  *

  “Hard luck!” murmured James. He hoped Mrs. Nicholson was not dangerously ill. But … oh, this was too good to be true!

  They took their seats inside. The machine throbbed with the vibration of the warming engine. It was evident that they were to be the only passengers on this trip, and James remembered that the big ’plane with the week-enders usually left at one o’clock on a Saturday.

  ‘‘James,’’ exclaimed Eileen. ‘‘Weʼre having a lady pilot. Isn’t that odd! Do you know her?”

  “Oh, yes.” James’s reply was somewhat unguarded. But he was intensely interested in the doings of a mechanic who was performing some small task on the right wing of the ʼplane. “Miss Sally Waterson. Rather a nice girl. I know her well. Jolly fine airwoman and nice-looking, too.”

  “Indeed!’’ Eileen’s tone was of the utmost coldness.

  James started, and looked at her closely. For a moment he forgot entirely the curious behaviour of the mechanic.

  “Eileen” he began; but she interrupted him quickly.

  “Who is the little man over there,” she inquired, “working at the wire strut on the wing? Haven’t I seen him before somewhere?”

  “I don’t know. But I was just thinking the same thing.” James felt as if a pitcher of icy water had been poured over his head. “But what’s the — ”

  “His back is very familiar,” said Eileen. “I wish I could see his face.”

  The mechanic, who wore dirty dungarees, had his back partially turned to them. Only about a quarter of his face was visible. He was industriously tapping with a small hammer on or near one of the thick wire struts which joined the right upper wing to the lower. Finally, without a glance at the occupants of the cabin he strolled off in the direction of the hangar.

  “Not much odds anyway. He must have been testing.” James tried to dismiss the subject. “Have I hurt — ”

  “We’re off!” Eileen remarked.

  Circling up, they went into the blue sky of the summer afternoon.

  *

  Straight as an arrow they made for Campbeltown, flying into the eye of the sun. The haze-covered, flat land of Renfrewshire rolled out beneath them, and the island-studded sea lay quiet, like a sheet of smooth steel, dotted with brownish-green cushions. The peaks of Arran came up to meet them in sombre, rolling masses; while, like a river of quicksilver, Kilbrannan Sound divided the island from Kintyre.

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bsp; The aeroplane, droning monotonously, floated in the clear blue sky, as if suspended on an elastic cord.

  But James did not give a thought to the beauties below him, though at regular intervals Eileen, sitting with her back to the engine and gazing in apparently rapt attention through the side windows, would ask him a question about some special feature in the panorama. He would answer mechanically, and she would thank him with barren sweetness. And they had the whole cabin to themselves, too.

  James’s mind was divided between two important considerations: What had come between Eileen and himself with such cruel unexpectedness? And where had he seen that little mechanic before?

  The first question, it is to be feared, kept the other very much in the background for the first part of the journey at least. Eileen, to all outward appearances, was as charming and friendly as ever; but James, who had come to learn so quickly the meaning of each small inflection in her voice, knew that she was keeping herself distant from him. But why? It couldn’t be altogether because he had referred admiringly to Miss Sally Waterson. Eileen wasn’t a girl like that. Why was it, then? What had he done?

  He determined to end this pain in his heart for good and all. He could not bear to have Eileen a mere polite acquaintance: better that he should never speak to her again. Even though she might love that asinine beggar Nicholson, she had been — and still could be — a little more than courteous to him … surely.

  “Eileen!” he demanded. “Look at me!”

  “Is that the Transylvania or the Caledonia moving out?” she asked. “There … just off the north of Arran. Doesn’t she seem lovely?”

  “Eileen!” said James. “Look at me!”

  She turned slowly, and James saw that she leaned back rigidly against the plush of the seat. He bunched his sloping shoulders and clenched his fists. Their eyes met.

  “Are you fed up with my company,” he asked, “now that Nicholson’s not with us? I thought you and I were going to be good friends, no matter what else happened?”

  His expression was very boyish and hurt and angry, and a great wave of compunction swept over Eileen for what she had done. But it had seemed to her that she must make sure, for both their sakes. She had got to make sure what he wanted from her, and this had seemed the only way in the circumstances … And she had made sure … now. But mingled with her glory in what she knew to be in James’s heart there was a welling desire inside her to chase away that hurt look from his eyes … Of course, she had been a little piqued at his enthusiastic reference to Miss Sally Waterson; but that had passed in a moment, to give place to other thoughts and considerations. She wanted to make up for things. But how could she, without being a forward minx? How could she let him know all the strange mixture of emotions in her mind? … And there was the Rev. Duncan Nicholson.