Death by the Mistletoe (2 page)

Widely known as James, he was a tall, lean young man in the late twenties, with a startling shock of red hair and gloomy blue eyes. Concerning him Fat Erchie, the Oban blacksmith referred to above, once made a statement worth recording. “When I seen him the first time,” he said, emphasising his points with a black, stubby finger, “I thocht he was a delicate wean, wi’ his white cheeks an’ bony hands; when I seen him the second time — stripped for the fight — I wasna quite so certain, for his airms and legs werena like the rest o’ him, at all, at all. When I seen him for the third time — in the ring — I kent that his ordnar’ appearance was as hypocreetical as the
shlimar⃰
himsel’!” Fat Erchie, of course, was of a somewhat biassed opinion.

With most people, however, James was popular. He was an American by birth, and six years previously, on the death of his widowed mother, had crossed the Atlantic to find his fortune, equipped only with a fountain-pen and a working knowledge of shorthand. Answering an advertisement, he had suddenly found himself reporter on the
Campbeltown
Gazette
, which was owned by a nebulous limited company, paying a steady twenty per cent dividend. A year later the editor, who was afflicted with rheumatism, had retired thankfully, and James had been left in full charge, scorning the suggestion that he should be supplied with an assistant. Since then the company had paid a dividend of twenty-five per cent.

Living in “digs” and having no relatives to consider, James was out and about from early morning until the latest hours of the night. Despite his slightly taciturn nature, he was a good “mixer.” He had no trace of an American accent, and from the moment it was discovered that his father, who had emigrated to the States at the end of the last century, had possessed Kintyre connections, his popularity in the district was assured. It was this popularity which enabled him to circulate such an excellent news service.

The extent of the gossip which reached his ears was surprising, and he was an adept at putting two and two together. Naturally, there were those of the Fat Erchie persuasion who termed James a dangerous character by reason of the fact that when its editor thought justice demanded it the
Campbeltown
Gazette
could be unsparing and scathing in its remarks.

Not altogether as a matter of policy, James was on friendly terms with the Campbeltown police, and in the direction of crime news they worked excellently together. James pandered carefully to the notions of Inspector McMillan and his satellites concerning what ought and what ought not to be printed, and in return received early information of sensational happenings which came under the notice of the police.

As witness what occurred with regard to the death of the Rev. Archibald Allan in the great storm on Midsummer’s Eve.

*

James, it must be admitted, was rather glad when the coming of the thunderstorm was predicted; for he was short of satisfying news that Tuesday, and the outlook for Thursday was bleak. Two S.W.R.I. meetings and a tennis tournament were all that was likely to happen throughout the length and breadth of Kintyre during the interval.

He was in the streets, of course, when the storm broke over the town at nine o’clock in the evening, taking mental notes of the phenomenon for a powerful piece of descriptive writing, and on the alert for untoward events. The rain came on about half past nine, spattering and splashing on the pavements as if a thousand hoses had been turned on. Knowing discretion to be much the better part of valour, James retired to the police station in the Castlehill for a chat with whoever might be on duty. As it happened, Constable William Wallace held the fort, a fact which by no means displeased James. Constable Wallace was about James’s own age, and a frequently bellicose attitude towards life and their elders was their common meeting-ground.

“A calm and peaceful evening!” greeted Constable Wallace, rising from the high desk at which he had been writing, and smoothing back his ruffled dark hair.

“Anything new?” asked James, above a thunderclap.

“Nothing. No crimes at all. We’re too efficient.”

“And that’s news indeed! Keep it going!”

“What a smart fellow you are,” said Constable Wallace admiringly. “Literature! That’s what does it! … Anything to brighten the dull pages of the
Gazette
this week?”

“Plenty,” lied James. “For instance, I’ve secured a special interview with Professor Campbell — you know, the old lad who took the estate of Dalbeg in Blaan about a year ago. He’s bringing out a new book on Druidism this week. That’s an event worth recording!”

“Indeed it is,” agreed the policeman dryly. “And did you see his daughter during the interview?”

“No,” James admitted. “Didn’t know he had a daughter.”

“She lives in London — an artist or a writer or something. Came home for a holiday last week. I stopped her the other day to have a look at the licence for her two-seater.”

“You would!” returned James. “And was the licence the only thing you looked at?”

Constable Wallace, it may be indicated, besides resembling the film star to a remarkable degree, also possessed many of the characteristics displayed by the renowned Clark Gable in his most dashing roles.

“It was,” he replied unblushingly. “But they tell me she’s an uncommonly fine-looking girl.”

James’s sarcasm was suddenly checked by the whir of the telephone-bell.

“The damned thing’s been tinkling for the last half-hour,” complained the policeman. “Lightning plays the mischief with a ’phone. But that sounded like a genuine call.”

He crossed the small office in two strides and took up the receiver.

“Hullo! … Hullo! … Who’s speaking? Oh, Stewart … What’s the trouble? …
What
! … Old Allan? … Quite dead? … Where did you find him? Near Lagnaha … Right! … Struck by lightning, you think, but a queer bruise on his head … Right! I’ll tell the inspector. We’ll be there in a quarter of an hour … Yes, we’ll bring an ambulance.”

Constable Wallace slowly replaced the receiver on its hook, and his cheeks, usually dark and ruddy, had become almost pinched.

“That was Constable Stewart, ’phoning from Lagnaha House,” he said, turning to James. “He had been doing duty at a dance in Blaan, and was cycling back to town. Found old Allan lying stark dead near the foot of Lagnaha Brae … ”

“Good Lord!” exclaimed James. “Not Archie Allan, the minister?”

The policeman nodded sombrely.

“Stewart thinks that he was struck by lightning, but there’s a bruise on the head that puzzles him.”

For a moment Constable Wallace remained staring rather stupidly at James. Then, as a flash brightened the dark office and an ear-splitting peal of thunder sounded overhead, he jerked into action.

“I must ’phone the inspector and fetch Sergeant MacLeod. Will you get the ambulance, James, and root out Doctor Black? Hire a car for us, too — at the Argyll. See you there … Oh, and you’ll probably be able to come with us — if you want to. McMillan won’t mind … Hurry!”

“Surely!” said James, and departed.

In the succeeding ten minutes he had not only carried out Constable Wallace’s instructions to the letter, but had also sent brief ’phone messages concerning the results of the storm in Kintyre to the
Glasgow
Herald
and Press Association.

Inspector McMillan, Sergeant MacLeod and Constable Wallace, the latter of whom had relegated the task of presiding in the police station to the regular bar-officer, met James and Dr. Black in the Argyll Hotel garage. The police wore heavy mackintoshes, dull and funereal in the dim thunder-light. The engines of the ambulance and of the police car, stationed in readiness near the entrance, were quietly ticking over.

“Thought you were never coming!” ejaculated the doctor.

He was fuming with impatience as usual. His lower jaw stuck out to a tremendous extent, and his small military moustache bristled fiercely. A squat, broad little man, he seldom remained in one position for more than a second at a time.

“Thought, Inspector, you were never coming,” he repeated. “What’s all this about Archie Allan? Young MacPherson can’t — or won’t — tell me a thing. Says he was found dead near Lagnaha. Is that correct?”

Inspector McMillan, a Skyeman both by birth and persuasion, was a very large and well-fed individual, whose remarkable corporation was at once his own despair and the pride of the remainder of the local police force. He bowed, rubbing his fleshy hands together as was his habit.

“That is correct, Doctor,” he replied. “Yes. Yes. It is only too true. But these are all the details we have at present.”

He caught sight of James, who was talking to Sergeant MacLeod, a thin, dark native of North Uist.

“Well, well, Mr. MacPherson,” he said. “And are you here as usual? You are like a hawk, indeed. Are you coming with us on this sad business?”

“If you don’t object, Inspector.”

“No, no. But be careful. Be careful what you send to the papers!”

The inspector led the way to the waiting car, Dr. Black close at his heels muttering at the imagined delay. James and Sergeant MacLeod, who, in his late forties, had gained an enviable reputation for efficiency, followed them into the back, while Constable Wallace took up his position with the driver. As they set off, with the ambulance close behind, the rain had slackened to a drizzle, and the rattle of thunder was growing fainter. The lightning flashes seemed less brilliant. But James’s eyes were more gloomy than ever, even in the midst of all the excitement, for he knew how the fact and circumstances of the Rev. Archibald Allan’s death would create sorrow in Campbeltown. It was fortunate, he thought, that the minister of Queen Street Church had never married.

*

Lagnaha Brae lies some three miles from Campbeltown on the road to Blaan, and the car ran on to its first sharp gradient in less than five minutes of swift running. A group of three people stood around a pathetic dark object lying by the roadside, near the gravelled entrance to Lagnaha House avenue: they were motionless, their heads bowed, like statues in the silent twilight. James recognised them as Constable Stewart — an unmistakable figure, not only on account of his blue uniform, now bedraggled with rain, but also because of his powerful figure; a sharp-faced farm-labourer from a nearby cottage; and Mr. Anderson Ellis, the owner of Lagnaha estate. The latter, clad in a long Burberry, was tall and soldierly, with iron-grey hair and gaunt, clean-shaven cheeks. He possessed the reputation in the district of being a just laird and master, and yet his tenants, throughout his ten years’ association with Lagnaha, had never warmed to him. His manner was peremptory.

It was he who greeted the inspector. Even at that comparatively late hour the light seemed to be growing better, for now the rain had ceased altogether, and the thunder had passed away. The after-glow of the sun spread a melancholy film of colour over the fields.

“Nasty business, McMillan!” said Mr. Ellis. “Can’t say whether I agree with Stewart here or not. He’s opinionative. Very.”

Inspector McMillan rubbed his hands together and inclined his head. He never failed to appear suitably impressed by a laird.

“Yes, sir,” he said.

Dr. Black catapulted from the car.

“Let me see the body!” he barked. He had been a major in the Army. “What’s your difficulty, Stewart?”

“I’d rather not say anything, sir, until you’ve made an examination.”

“Oh, right! Certainly, Stewart!”

Dr. Black knelt down, putting one knee on his rolled-up waterproof. James, bareheaded now, shuddered slightly.

The Rev. Archibald Allan had been a stout, red-cheeked man, loud and jovial in his address. Archie Allan everyone called him during his twenty years’ ministry in the Queen Street Church, a sure indication of his standing with the people. His shortness had been accentuated by a pair of very bow legs. His head was bald.

Pity and horror filled James as he looked at the man with whom he had laughed so often, and who was now dead. The body, once so strong and vigorous, was now soft-fleshed and flabby. Further, it seemed shrunken, though this fact may have been accounted for to some extent by the creased and sodden state of the black clerical clothes which covered it. One short leg — the right — was doubled underneath the other, while a dark-skinned hand appeared to clutch at the grass by the roadside. A grey felt hat lay half-crushed under his head. But it was the expression on the dead, dark-hued face and in the wide-open eyes which fixed James’s attention. The mouth was distended in an unnatural grin, while a look of the utmost terror stared out of the brown eyes of the dead minister.

Dr. Black jerked his head round and spoke to the inspector.

“Killed by lightning,” he said tersely.

Stewart coughed.

“What about that red mark on the head?” he blurted. “That wasn’t done by a flash of lightning.”

“Oh, don’t ask me!” retorted the doctor. “May be anything. He may have had it for weeks.”

James moved round to inspect the red mark, and as he did so he noticed, but took little heed to the fact, that in the lapel of the dead man’s jacket there rested a sprig of some green plant.

“Well, that’s that, I suppose,” remarked Mr. Anderson Ellis. “Shall we get the body into the ambulance?”