Death by the Mistletoe Read Online Free PDF

McMillan had begun properly to revolve.
    In Jamesʼs opinion, to keep silence for twelve hours with regard to the knowledge he had gained would not seriously hinder subsequent inquiries by the police. Indeed, were the criminals allowed to believe that their ghastly scheme — in its full significance — remained undetected for just that length of time, their suspicions might be lulled effectively and their discovery made more easy. Even though James’s dutiful but scanty press messages — to be sent late that evening — would on the morrow make known to them that Archie Allan’s death had been discovered to be murder, yet they might be bluffed into imagining that his passing would be considered an isolated subject for investigation — until, of course, that week’s Gazette was in circulation.
    That at least was how James argued, and James had an ingenious mind when it came to argument — especially when it suited his own purposes. But it must be admitted that while this red-haired young man possessed many admirable qualities, a certain strain of casuistry was not altogether foreign to his nature. To very few of his friends — or enemies, for that matter — was this, however, immediately apparent.
    When he put down the receiver for the last time his usually neat white collar was badly creased, and his tie was askew. His blue eyes were no longer gloomy: they stared out above his high cheekbones with fierce intensity.
    The unfortunate thing about the whole matter was that James, though he had stumbled on a remarkable series of apparently interdependent facts, had no idea in the world of the awful motive, which lay behind them.
    *
    According to Mrs. Kelly, his tall, widowed, middle-aged landlady, who looked not unlike Sybil Thorndike, James finished his lunch that day in record time.
    “Sure, and I was sorry for you, Mr. MacPherson,” she said afterwards, in her calm way. “You didn’t hear a thing I said to you. You quite forgot to ask for your tomato sauce, and you were off and away before I could tell you that the knot on your tie was below your collar.”
    But James’s mind was too busy to worry about such trivial matters as ties and tomato sauce. His sketchy lunch completed, he rammed a charge of tobacco into his long, straight-stemmed pipe, and in front of a trail of pungent smoke made his way through the sunshine to the police station. The post mortem report on the Rev. Archibald Allan would now be available, and he wanted to make the assurance in his own mind a certainty, so far as the manner of the minister’s death was concerned, before commencing to plan his article.
    On his way up the Castlehill he was stopped more than once by townsfolk eager for news regarding the sensational passing of one of the most popular personalities in the district; for the rumour had, of course, got abroad that the tragedy had been attended by suspicious circumstances. But James treated them all alike.
    “Don’t ask me,” he said, and his satanic frown tended to deter further questioning. “I know nothing.”
    From which deliberate falsehood it may be inferred correctly that James’s conscience was of an extremely elastic nature.
    Arrived at the police station, he discovered, not without a certain feeling of relief, that Inspector McMillan was deep in consultation with Mr. Archibald MacLean, the Procurator Fiscal. This information was volunteered by Constable Wallace, who was pacing the long passage leading from the entrance back to the prison cells at the rear of the building.
    “They’re not to be disturbed,” announced the policeman.
    “I didn’t intend to disturb them — just yet,” returned James. “What’s the official verdict? In confidence, of course. I’ll get it all from the Fiscal later.”
    “It’s murder all right,” said Constable Wallace slowly. “The post mortem clinched it. Professor Gregory came round from Glasgow last night by car, and the examination was held this morning about eight