Death by the Mistletoe

by Angus MacVicar

  “Nicholson! Tell me! I love her! I love her; do you hear? I must know!”

  A cackle of laughter came from Nicholson’s throat. “I know you love her. To hell with Eileen and you! I loved her, too, and I’ve lost her … You can imagine, if you like, what’s going to happen to her.”

  “Good lord, Nicholson!” exclaimed Detective-Inspector McKay. “You’re an utter fool. Can’t you see we are all beyond petty things like jealousy now?”

  For long no one spoke. James’s mind veered towards madness. What in heaven’s name had happened to Eileen? Was this to be the end of all things? There was a droning and throbbing at his temples. He began to imagine that the dynamo was again running.

  “Professor!” He tried to speak more rationally. “What have they done with Eileen?”

  But Professor Campbell, his round face pale and pasty, allowed his head to loll forward.

  “I cannot tell, sir! I cannot tell! She was with Nicholson when they came.”

  “Can none of you speak?” cried James.

  “I will speak,” replied the Rev. Duncan Nicholson. He was about to embark upon the most difficult task of his life, and it said much for his courage that he was able to accomplish it. At the time James did not fully realise the effort it must have cost him.

  “I beg your pardon, MacPherson,” he said in a pitiful voice. ‘‘I have been fiendishly jealous of you … about Eileen. Last week was torture to me, though I did my utmost to hide it. I thought she loved me, until you came. Then I knew that I was beaten, and I hated you! I could not bear to be with you in Glasgow that day — to see you look love at each other. So I went to my father’s place. But everything is at an end now, and I cannot be jealous … What I am going to tell you will hurt like hell, MacPherson. You love her. I understand perfectly how you will feel. But you want to know, and since you love each other I suppose you have a right to know.”

  His tone was bleak and chill, like an east wind, and even in the midst of his mental agony James felt a pang of sorrow for the young minister.

  “Eileen,” said Nicholson, “has been captured by the ‘well-meaning ones.’ She was taken to Lagnaha with us — by car: your car, MacPherson — and when the rest of us were taken into the perfumed room she was led upstairs by O’Hare. She is to be their sacrifice to-night in ‘The Glen of Adoration.’ Muldoon told me, with a grin on his monkey face.”

  James did not speak at once. But at last he raised his head, and his eyes gazed into the blackness of the roof of the cave.

  “Almighty God!” he whispered. “She believes in your word. Save her, dear God! Save her! She is pure and sweet. Let your light shine down, and let this dreadful evil be shattered and undone.”

  He continued to whisper incoherent snatches of prayer, and Major Dallas thought that the strain had finally taken toll of his sanity. The Chief Constable, was overwhelmed with a great pity.

  *

  Dragging, the hours passed. It must have been about nine oʼclock when they heard the Thing coming in the distance.

  James’s head had been hanging on his breast; but now he raised it slowly as he became aware of the rustling and the squealing. The others heard it, too, with the exception of Professor Campbell. The old man seemed to be sunk in a day-dream, not having understood, apparently, Nicholsonʼs reference to his daughter. The little guard turned his head and looked fearfully towards the opening of the Bengullion cave. It was along this passage that the Thing was coming.

  “Heaven’s mercy!” whispered Major Dallas. “What is it?”

  Nearer came the rustling and chirruping. Mingled with it was a queer hissing, as if a wave of the sea were sweeping along the gravelled floor of the cave. The Rev. Duncan Nicholson stared wildly at the black mouth of the branch tunnel. The two C.I.D. men were taut and strained. James saw their guard rise from his stool and stand with cocked pistol, waiting.

  The rustling and hissing grew in volume. The Professor had heard it now, and he began to speak.

  “What — what is coming, gentlemen?” he cried. “What is it? Where am I? What are we doing here? We were at dinner at Dalbeg … I cannot understand. What is coming? What is that dreadful noise in the tunnel?”

  The dim electric bulb above their heads was throwing a small circle of light into the entrance to the Bengullion cave. They watched this point with distended, terrified eyes. The Thing was almost upon them …

  With a rush the first company of rats had crossed the patch of light and were approaching them — marching, marching, thousands and thousands of rats. Myriads of small feet stirred the gravel, making it hiss like a wave of the sea. Myriads of little brown bodies rubbed against one another, and the chirruping, squealing and rustling was a ghastly volume of sound in the confined space. Myriads of little eyes gleamed and blinked in the sudden light.

  The Professor screamed.

  “Keep still!” commanded McKay. “A migration of rats. The drought in Campbeltown. I’ve seen them in the very streets of Glasgow in dry weather.”

  Professor Campbell was silent. The advancing horde was now only about a dozen yards from their little guard.

  “Flat against the wall!” shouted McKay. “Try not to move a muscle! If we keep quiet they will take no notice of us. But if we strike out … ”

  The brown bodies swirled and swarmed about their feet. James closed his eyes and waited. The electrician stood among the little animals, as if he were ankle-deep in the midst of a peaty pool. For long, like his captives, he exercised iron control, trying to disregard the nips and scratches on his legs.

  And then it happened.

  With a scream the little man kicked. His revolver spat into the furry mass. Savagely he kicked. Savagely he sent shot after shot into the flat, closely packed horde. First one rat leaped, and then another …

  After an eternity the migrating rats had passed on. The little electrician was stretched on the gravel, unconscious and breathing jerkily. A score of inanimate; crushed bodies lay around him. Everything was quiet again.

  “They will be back,” said McKay. “Both the Kiel and the Mull entrances are blocked. But the food in the inner cave will stop them for a time.”

  “There must be a connection between the Campbeltown sewers and the Bengullion cave.” Major Dallas spoke in a clipped, rigid manner. “But when the rats return they will make for Lagnaha.”

  “If we could only free our wrists now!” exclaimed Nicholson. “While the little fellow is unconscious.” James tugged and strained, as did the others, with the exception of Wilson, whose arm was injured. But though they suffered torture in the effort it was useless. The sweat began to stand out on James’s white forehead in great drops.

  “Let me do it!” he muttered. “Oh, let me do it! Let me loosen this rope!”

  After a while they desisted. They had been tied with expert skill. In the inner cave they heard faintly the rustling and squealing of the rats. Latterly there was silence. The brown horde must have passed on towards the Mull.

  “Major Dallas,” said James, “is there no chance of McMillan discovering ‘The Glen of Adoration’?” The Chief Constable bent his head.

  “He may, MacPherson, but — ”

  “‘The Glen of Adoration’! Lagnaha! … It’s coming back to me! It’s coming back to me!” Professor Campbell’s sudden cry startled them.

  “What is it, Professor?” demanded Major Dallas quickly. “Where is ‘The Glen of Adoration’?”

  “I remember everything now. I remember. What day is it? What time is it?”

  “It is Wednesday,” said the Chief Constable. “It can’t be more than two hours from midnight.”

  “And in three hours the ‘well-meaning ones’ will be holding their Festival.”

  Professor Campbell spoke calmly, rationally now. The change in his expression, too, was remarkable. His face and eyes were alert and intelligent. Dr. Black, in a future discussion with James, was of the opinion that the shock of the coming of the rats had been to a large extent responsible for hi
s sudden return to full mental vigour, hastening an inevitable process.

  “You have not discovered ‘The Glen of Adoration’?’’

  “No, Professor.” It was Nicholson who spoke. “We tried the Book of Dalriada, but the page was missing. We tried all the antiquarians, all the old people. We failed.”

  “Then Na Daoine Deadh Ghinn have beaten us,” said Professor Campbell. “‘The Glen of Adoration’ is about three miles south-west of Lagnaha in Breckrie, half a mile along the big watershed of Glenadale. They call it Glenalbin nowadays. It is filled with hazel trees.”

  “I know it!” exclaimed James. “There is a flat stone at one end … It may be the altar.”

  “Can no one help us?” asked Professor Campbell. “Did someone not mention Eileen a moment ago?”

  In the distance, from the Lagnaha direction, they heard the sound of running, stumbling steps on the loose gravel. No one answered the old man. A police whistle shrilled far down the tunnel.

  “Hullo! Hullo!” yelled McKay.

  The sound of the steps grew louder until they were able to distinguish them as those of two persons. The dim glimmer of a torch appeared down the cave. The prisoners could hear deep, panting breaths.

  “We are alone!” shouted McKay. “Come straight on!”

  “Coming! Coming!”

  “It’s Wallace!” cried James. He felt suddenly stronger. The blood began to course more powerfully through his veins. “Quick, you fellows! Oh, hurry!”

  The glare of the torch grew in brilliance, and then it was snapped out altogether, as its bearer and his companion came into the radius of the light thrown by the electric bulb. James saw the blue uniforms and the pale, tired faces of Sergeant MacLeod and Constable Wallace. Their cheeks were streaming with perspiration.

  “Thank God!” whispered Major Dallas … “Cut the ropes at our wrists, men!”

  “We wondered if we would ever find you,” gasped Sergeant MacLeod. “The Inspector sent us in to explore. It was our last chance. Has Professor Campbell recovered?”

  “Yes,” said Major Dallas.

  James bit his lip until the blood came when the ropes were loosened from his arms; for the returning circulation was an almost unbearable agony. The others, who had not been confined for much longer than three hours, were less affected. They stood, chafing their wrists for a moment. Constable Wallace took a flask of brandy from his pocket.

  “Doctor Black is with us,” he said. “He made me bring this for you.”

  James, on Major Dallas’s orders, had the first mouthful. He felt the fiery spirit replace the lost vigour in his limbs, and his brain became clearer.

  “What has been happening?” asked the Chief Constable.

  “It was Merriman,” replied Sergeant MacLeod, who was still breathing heavily. “We were at the Station. We were useless. We didn’t know where you had gone. We were just waiting. McMillan was nearly crazy. Then, about eight o’clock, a scarecrow of a man staggered into the office. ‘They’ve got Dallas and the others in the cave!’ he was shouting. ‘Ellis is the spy and the High Priest of the cult besides. The secret entrance to the cave is in Lagnaha House somewhere.’ The Inspector yelled out that it was Merriman. He’s the Secret Service man, isn’t he?

  … He had suspected Ellis from the start, it seems, and had got into Lagnaha by passing himself off as one of the ‘well-meaning ones’ with a message from an English branch. There he heard Ellis talking to his niece, and learned many things, waiting until the last possible minute. He wanted to hear where the secret shrine was, but they didn’t speak of it. He ran all the way from Lagnaha to Campbeltown. We could get no answer from Stewart and McFater — Wallace’s relief — at Dalbeg, but McMillan had all the rest of us roped in at once. The Fiscal, Dr. Black and Merriman are with us at Lagnaha. When we got there half an hour ago the place was empty — But we found the dummy bookcase pretty soon.” Sergeant MacLeod spoke fast, almost incoherently. His dark eyes glowed in his lined face.

  “They have gone on foot to ‘The Glen of Adoration,ʼ” said Major Dallas. “But we know where that is now … Are you fit enough to walk, MacPherson?”

  “Iʼm all right. Come on!”

  Back along the cave they started, the two uniformed policemen helping Professor Campbell, and McKay carrying the unconscious electrician over his shoulder. There was no sound as yet of the returning rats.

  “What’s the time now?” asked the Rev. Duncan. Nicholson.

  “Eleven o’clock,” answered the Chief Constable, looking at his watch. “We still have two hours.”

  “There are cars at Lagnaha,” said Sergeant MacLeod. “We can cover the fifteen miles by road in good time. Glenalbin is only about three-quarters-of a mile off the Breckrie Road.”

  “And we can pick up Stewart and McFater at Dalbeg on our way,” suggested Nicholson. “O’Hare and the others left them bound in the kitchen. The maids were tied up too.”

  It was difficult going over the loose gravel. They ran twenty steps and walked twenty, Scout-fashion. Professor Campbell began to stumble and lag behind with his supporters. But James felt now that his strength would never fail. He was strung up, a little light-headed, perhaps. He found Nicholson at his side, carrying a torch which Sergeant MacLeod had given him. They drew ahead; gained steadily.

  The words of the prophecy came back to James.

  He refused to think of Eileen and the sacrifice. He must keep going — he and Nicholson. It was inevitable. They were going to defeat Na Daoine Deadh Ghinn. They were going on. They were going on to victory …

  They ran up the damp steps leading into the perfumed room at Lagnaha, the others far behind. The bookcase door was lying open.

  Inspector McMillan met them at the top, and the glare from the bulbs on the electric chandelier struck their eyes with blinding force after the comparative gloom of the cave.

  “Glenalbin!” exclaimed Nicholson. “In Glenadale! The Professor remembers.”

  James spoke not a word. He saw that the room was filled with policemen. He saw the Fiscal, Dr. Black, and a small, slim man in ragged clothes. That would be Merriman. The Inspector and those others fell back to give him a passage. Mr. Archibald MacLean said afterwards that they were all startled and even terrified by his ghastly appearance and the murderous intention in his eyes. His red hair stood up like a flame. Nicholson, following him, shouted: “The others are coming. We have decided to go first — across country. Follow us as fast as you can by road. What time is it?”

  “Five to twelve!” Nicholson did not recognise the voice. Possibly it was Merriman’s.

  “Haven’t they a stable at Lagnaha?” James spat the words over his shoulder as they rushed through the hall to the front door. “Hunters?”

  “Round at the back.” Nicholson was keeping at his heels.

  It was bright moonlight outside. The stars twinkled down, and the moon shone on the slated roof of the house, giving it a phosphorescent sheen. The ash trees were tall and stark and menacing. But James looked neither to right nor to left. He and Nicholson had no difficulty in finding their way to the rear.

  The stable was unlocked. There were three well-fed hunters in the stalls.

  “Can you ride, Nicholson?”

  “I can. What about you?”

  “Learned in America.”

  They fitted halters, but wasted no time in saddling. James said:

  “There’s a bridle-path across the hill to Breckrie, isn’t there?”

  “Yes. We can follow it. It’s as clear as day.” The two hunters that they had chosen were greys, which reared and curvetted as they mounted. James put his at the gate leading out from the backyard. Nicholson followed.

  “Can we do it in an hour?” shouted the minister. “It’s hard going uphill for the first part.”

  “We can do it in forty minutes.”

  The horses were in magnificent condition. James felt their powerful sides swelling out under his legs, and the thrust and gather of their bodies as they climbed the
steep hill behind Lagnaha. It was rough ground that they traversed, covered for the most part with heather and bracken and an occasional clump of whin; but as they went higher the brackens and the whins disappeared and the ground bore only heather and dry, white grass. They struck the bridle-path unused for generations, when they rounded the first shoulder of the hill. It had been the track employed by crofters in the old days — before families had been scattered to make room for sheep and when carts and motor-cars were unheard-of things — in journeying from their holdings in the great Breckrie Valley to the port of Campbeltown. Narrow and stony it was, but James and the young minister galloped their horses over it. Thundering along the hillside they went, and sparks flew out beneath the steel-shod hooves.

  Again they came to a stiff ascent, and Nicholson fumed and fretted as the horses settled to a walk.

  But James’s face was set, and he showed no signs of impatience. His eyes, bright with an unwavering purpose, stared straight ahead. Up, up they went and at last they had crossed the summit of the long-backed hill. Beneath them, to their left, ran the wooded Breckrie Valley, dim and shadowy in the night. There were bright glints where the trees thinned and the moon shone on the river. And somewhere down there, somewhere in the black stillness, preparations for a pagan festival were growing ever nearer completion … The great hills which shielded Blaan from the Atlantic gales loomed gloomy in front, forming one side of the valley.

  James kicked the sides of his horse, and it broke into a wild gallop down the narrow track. Nicholson followed.

  The night was windless, but the rush of air created by the speed of his horse ruffled James’s hair. It was a reckless ride, and with every wild plunge of their beasts they courted death. But Mr. Anderson Ellis’s hunters were sure and powerful and seldom stumbled. They crossed the main road at the point to which the police cars would presently come.

  “Only about half a mile now,” shouted James, as they set their horses through the Breckrie River just beneath the black mouth of Glenadale.

  Nicholson yelled back: