Death by the Mistletoe Read Free Page B

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