Death by the Mistletoe Read Free

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