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  Death by the Mistletoe

  Angus MacVicar

  © Angus MacVicar 1934

  Angus MacVicar has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1934 by Stanley Paul & Co.

  This edition published in 2015 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  To Jean

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER I

  CHAPTER II

  CHAPTER III

  CHAPTER IV

  CHAPTER V

  CHAPTER VI

  CHAPTER VII

  CHAPTER VIII

  CHAPTER IX

  CHAPTER X

  CHAPTER XI

  CHAPTER XII

  CHAPTER XIII

  CHAPTER XIV

  CHAPTER XV

  And the day shall come when the dread death by the mistletoe shall again creep amid the fair valleys. And men seeking power and knowledge to break the ancient spells shall be stricken swiftly to the earth and on their bodies no cut nor wound shall be found. But a wanderer with a head of flame shall arise in the land and he shall smite the evil prophets, and a fair, sleek-headed churchman shall raze their idols to the ground.

  BLAAN SEER.

  CHAPTER I

  A wireless report, broadcast from all European stations on the morning of June the twenty-third, predicted that in the course of the next twelve hours an electric storm of some severity would be experienced in the north of France and over the whole of the British Isles. The report erred only on the side of conservatism.

  The first distant rumbling of thunder was heard in Brittany and throughout Cornwall and Devon about five o’clock in the afternoon, just before the wind rose and the rain began to fall; and from that moment until midnight, when its last echo mingled with the roar of breakers on the Hebridean coasts, the storm crashed its blinding way athwart the whole island. A trail of destruction and tragedy marked its irregular passage; for many homes were shattered, and men and women died from differing causes.

  On the following morning newspapers in all parts of the world recounted details of the phenomenon, the amount of space which they used for the purpose being dictated partly by their relative proximity to the centre of the storm and partly by their general attitude towards sensational news. There were those, however, who opened The Times that Midsummer Day and, glancing down a certain column of unleaded type, secretly suspected that their one bulwark against the swirling tide of “stunt” journalism had at last been swept away. For The Times had used a set of banner headlines. Furthermore, its report referred to the storm as being “one of the severest and most disastrous experienced in England for a decade,” while a cross-heading announced: “Scottish Church Dignitary Electrocuted.” And yet, in actual fact, the description of the occurrence given by The Times, along with the appended accounts of its tragic consequences, had been sub-edited with even more than the usual care.

  But other journals, using less restraint, emulated the storm itself in the thunder of their descriptive adjectives, and a certain series of supplementary photographs, appearing in a London daily, was the envy of a goodly company of contemporary publications. These pictures of terrible havoc and desolation were not soon forgotten; they showed proud spires fallen in grotesque and crumbled ruins, like the spires of Lille and Bruges during the Great War; they depicted valleys deeply flooded, ambulance men bearing their sad burdens, and, in one instance, a motor-car, in which there had been three travellers, lying twisted and charred at a cross-roads near Reading. “Terrible Toll of the Storm,” recorded the newspaper. “Nine Clerical Victims: Tragic Coincidence.” Readers were horrified by the further information that in addition to the nine clergymen no fewer than twenty other people had perished as a result of the storm. Journals in the west and north of England, where the storm had raged at its worst, printed pages of local news, embellished with special interviews, and mourned many dead.

  But it was in Scotland that sub-editors were most affected. For the death of the Right Reverend Kenneth Millar, D.D., Moderator of the General Assembly of the Church of Scotland, was to them the focal point of the entire news of the storm — an incredible and ghastly headlight. The information reached the offices of every daily newspaper in Scotland about eleven o’clock at night, and those who dealt with it realised at once the effect it would have upon the people. The news that the revered, grey-headed old man had been discovered lying dead in a quiet road on the outskirts of his native Edinburgh, struck down, apparently without warning, by a lightning-flash, would shock Scotsmen as surely as the information that the White House had collapsed and crushed out the life of the President would shock the American nation.

  *

  The actual “story” of the tragedy was necessarily brief, on account of the lateness of the hour at which it had occurred, though, obviously to fill space, a few lines descriptive of the storm in Edinburgh were added, and somewhat inappropriate references made to the curious locality in which his body had been found. The principal Scottish newspapers, it was apparent, had received identical “copy,” for the letterpress was practically similar in each case. About ten o’clock in the evening a young labourer named Andrew Grant, whose parents lived in Morningside, had been returning on foot to the farm on which he worked. Though the rain had not yet reached Edinburgh, the storm had been particularly alarming in the district about that time, and Grant’s statement contained the admission that the spectacle over the Braid Hills, against the dim background of the looming clouds and fading light, had terrified him. Sheet and forked lightning flickered and stabbed incessantly, and the low hill country to the south had been lit up as if by an infernal fire.

  Proceeding up the Old Braid Road, Grant had stopped near Cluny Drive to light a cigarette, and at this stage mention was made in the majority of newspapers that here the last case in Scotland of hanging for highway robbery had taken place in 1815. The body of the Rev. Kenneth Millar, it was pointed out, had been found not a hundred yards from the two large flat stones, placed in the middle of the Braid Road, upon which the gibbet had been raised. Thus superstition was catered for.

  His cigarette lit, Grant raised his head to glance at a luxurious closed car, which appeared suddenly, like a wraith, moving slowly in the direction of the city. Though not legally required, the headlights of the limousine were full on, probably to counteract the blinding effect of the lightning, and for a moment they illumined a dark patch of Cluny Drive not twenty yards from its junction with the main thoroughfare. And on this dark patch Grant at once noticed a grey blur, crumpled motionless on the tarmacadam. He admitted a momentary indecision, for no other pedestrian was near; but, summing up courage, he at last crossed over to investigate. And horror overwhelmed him when he discovered the identity of the dead man. For the Rev. Kenneth Millar was Grant’s own minister, and one who had helped the young man to overcome the many trials and temptations which had befallen him.

  Even in the midst of a certain nausea, however, Grant was able to make a short examination. There was no mark on the body so far as he could find out; but it was soft and flaccid to the touch, and the skin was unusually dark in colour. He could feel no flicker of a heart-beat. The Moderator was clad in an old and much-creased flannel suit which he affected — a suit which had afforded his brother clergy a subject for much joking comment. He wore a gold watch and chain, while in his breast-pocket was a leather wallet containing several banknotes. It was later observed that the watch had stopped at exactly three minutes past eight, the works having been partly magnetised.

  A curious feeling of intense pride possessed Grant as he stood up and gazed at the dusky, thin face of the old man. It was calm and serene, and even the suspicio
n of a smile lingered at the comers of the sensitive mouth. As he fell, struck by a swift and terrible death, the Rev. Kenneth Millar had been above the petty fears of the world.

  Grant, with some presence of mind, hastened to the Morningside Asylum, only a short distance from the spot, where he found doctors at once. “Electrocution — struck by lightning,’’ was the immediate verdict. The police saw no reason at the time to investigate further the matter of the Moderator’s death.

  These, in effect, were the details of the tragedy supplied by the Press, though in several instances it was added that the Moderator, a widower who lived alone with a housekeeper in Braidburn Terrace, had not been at home that day since early morning. After breakfast he had told Mrs. Simpson — a douce, low-country-woman — that he was going to visit friends and would probably not be back until late. She had not been perturbed at the non-return of her master throughout the day, for he often kept irregular hours; but when at last the sad news reached her she broke down, sobbing like a child.

  Warm tributes to one of the greatest and most beloved men in the Church of Scotland were paid by the newspapers — to which he had never pandered. And his magnificent closing address at the recent General Assembly in May, on the subject of Home Missions — an address which had brought his name prominently before the whole kingdom — invariably prefaced the articles.

  “Born of lowly parents in the Cannongate,” said the Scotsman, “Kenneth Millar, by his quiet perseverance in the cause of his Master, rose to be numbered among the most powerful forces for Christianity in the world: to many his words were as those of the prophets of old. He knew the world and its shortcomings, and possessed deep sympathy for the common failings of humanity. And yet the lash of his tongue against the sin of idolatry and hypocrisy could be as sharp as the whip of Christ in the Temple.”

  The Glasgow Herald published the latest portrait of the Moderator, a portrait faithfully delineating the calm, clear eyes beneath the bushy white eyebrows; the ascetic, clean-shaven cheeks, tapering to a fine chin; the broad brow haloed by a mass of soft white hair. “Perhaps the Right Rev. Kenneth Millar’s greatest contribution to contemporary literature,” ran a paragraph in the Herald’s notice, “was his semi-factitious study of the life of the Irish king Cormac, who is credited with having been the first to believe in a purer doctrine than the Celtic polytheism, and even with having attempted to put down Druidism.”

  In addition to other matter, the Daily Record printed a short account of his voluminous work in the field of archaeology, and referred to his love of the open air and of flowers. “In the lapel of the Moderator’s flannel jacket,” stated the writer of the article, “there was inserted a green sprig, and it was conjectured from this circumstance that the deceased had been walking in the country shortly before he met his untimely end … His death,” continued the paragraph, “comes as an irreparable loss to the Church of Scotland at this difficult stage in its history. Further, archaeological circles in every part of the globe will deeply regret his demise, not alone because of his lovable personality, but also on account of his intense interest in all branches of antiquarian knowledge. It is stated that at the time of his death he was busily engaged in procuring information for use in a monumental work on the ancient lore of his native country.’’

  *

  In the midst of the general consternation at the sensational passing of so noble and respected a figure, however, the fact that three other ministers of the Church of Scotland, besides two Church of England clergy and three Roman Catholic priests, had died that Midsummer’s Eve, was touched upon only in a perfunctory manner. One daily newspaper, indeed, as has been indicated, remarked pointedly on the circumstance, but the majority of sub-editors, deluged with hair-raising reports of the cataclysm, were only dimly aware that a curiously large number of those whose deaths were attributed to the thunderstorm belonged to the clerical profession. And, after all, as The Times declared, the thing appeared simply to be a coincidence — extraordinary, indeed, but still merely a coincidence — and it was at once passed over as such in the face of many more obvious dramatic details.

  All of these men, too, had been practically unknown. They were obscure labourers in the cause of the Christian gospel, and, appropriately enough, they died in the same obscurity. The Rev. George Manderson in Aberdeenshire, the Rev. Archibald Allan in Argyllshire, and Father Magnus McCabe in Lochaber: they had all been struck down — swiftly and perhaps painlessly — by the bright finger of God. The Rev. William MacCallum in Ayrshire had been drowned in the River Irvine. In England, the Rev. Augustus Wainwright, a vicar in Cumberland; the Rev. Albert Tyson, a Devonshire curate; and Father Melville Davidson, a priest in Yorkshire, had been struck dead by the lightning. A London priest, Father Hope Mallison, had died as a result of a motor accident, when the storm was at its height in the city.

  But though the great newspapers of the country, published on Wednesday the twenty-fourth of June, paid little attention to such isolated instances on a death-roll of over thirty, a certain youthful editor — who also carried out the duties of a sub-editor, chief reporter, advertising director, publicity manager, proof-reader and office-boy — was remarkably interested in this particular list of storm victims; not alone because he himself, in his capacity as local correspondent to the Glasgow Herald and Press Association, had added to it the name of the Rev. Archibald Allan, minister of Queen Street Church, Campbeltown, but also because of certain queer ideas with which his brain was surging, and because of the remarkable article which he was preparing for Thursday’s issue of his weekly paper, the Campbeltown Gazette.

  And it may be mentioned here that it was the Campbeltown Gazette, the circulation of which was less than four thousand, and not any of the great national dailies, that supplied the first hint of a matter which was to shake Britain to the very heart, and render the name of John James MacPherson famous throughout the land.

  *

  It must not be supposed, however, that at the outset of his amazing adventure this same John James MacPherson was a complete nonentity in all parts of his adopted country. As a matter of fact, he was a figure of considerable repute in Argyllshire, particularly in Campbeltown and the district of Kintyre.

  For one thing he occupied to some degree the position of a dictator, as far as local opinions were concerned; for the Campbeltown Gazette, on which he had laboured mightily for over five years, was a keenly read publication, with the authority of almost a century of regular weekly issues behind it. For another thing, John James was a young man whose talents as a boxer were readily recognised in every part of the county; and his narrow victory over the Oban Blacksmith in a ten-round contest for the Argyllshire championship, some eighteen months after his arrival in Kintyre, had probably done more to increase the circulation of the Campbeltown Gazette and to establish John James’s own reputation than all his trenchant leading articles.

  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 d
ividend. 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.