The Yellow Mistletoe Page 2

  CHAPTER TWO

  SINCLAIR BREAKS THE NEWS

  Of all the most innocent and blameless of men, the Rev. George Shepherd was without equal, yet Death had come to him, and his little parish in the Derbyshire hills would know him no more.

  If an adventurous tourist had wandered into the wild district beyond Chapel-en-le-Frith, he would have come across a tiny church, very old, and quaintly situated. The vicarage was so close that the parson could almost preach from his dining-room. No other houses were visible, and the tourist would wonder from whence the congregation came, or the children who attended Sunday School. Yet the Rev. George Shepherd had the love of his people, and he loved them with a simple and intense devotion.

  His life had been lonely since the death of his second wife, but since Ronald had come from Cambridge and Diana from her school to keep house for him life had taken a brighter turn.

  After travelling all night Sinclair arrived early in the morning in his car at the little scattered hamlet of Skipton, hoping to beat the morning papers with the evil news.

  Outside the only house of any size in the village, a car was standing, and as Sinclair slowed up to ask the way to the vicarage, a man came down the steps which led straight from the street to the front door. Sinclair rightly guessed him to be the village doctor. He was a middle-aged, well-set-up man, with a deeply lined but not unkindly face and grey hair.

  To Sinclair’s enquiry he gave the necessary directions.

  “You know the vicar, I suppose?” Sinclair asked.

  “Very well indeed — my name is Simpson — the doctor here,” he looked enquiringly at the other.

  “My name is Sinclair — late of Scotland Yard.”

  “Not Sir Arthur Sinclair?” the doctor asked.

  Sinclair nodded. “I am afraid I am the bearer of very bad news.”

  “The vicar? He went to London yesterday.”

  Sinclair told him the story.

  “How dreadful. Only yesterday I saw him off. He was right, perfectly all right — but strangely depressed. I don’t understand it. Look here — can you wait while I just make one urgent call. I’ll come with you. I am an old friend of the family.”

  “It would come far better from you, Doctor — only I don’t want them to see it in the papers first.”

  “I can manage that — we’ll call at the post office where they sell the papers, and tell them not to deliver till we’ve been.”

  Sinclair left his car in the garage and waited for the doctor.

  “I can’t understand it,” the latter repeated during the journey to the vicarage. “If ever there was a sound life it was Shepherd’s. He had no vices, and was always active and my worst patient — he never got ill. Heart strong as a bell. As to giddiness — rubbish. He was a great mountain climber in his young days, and was still. Of course, anyone may slip . . .”

  “You knew the family?”

  “For years — I attended his second wife in her last illness — nine years ago.”

  “What did Mrs. Shepherd die of?”

  The doctor turned a quick glance on Sinclair. “Nothing — at least that’s not a fair answer. She was found in the wood behind the vicarage. Heart failure. I had attended her so there was no need of an inquest.”

  “She was a beautiful woman?”

  The doctor stopped the car. “Look here, Sir Arthur — let’s understand one another. A man in your position wouldn’t come here merely out of kindness. Ask me what you want openly, and if I can tell you I will.”

  “Nothing would suit me better. What did she die of?”

  “You’re sharp, sir. She had been a beautiful woman — marvellously beautiful, but she faded — either worry or sheer boredom. She was quiet and gentle and the villagers liked her — though she was reserved. I’m not imaginative — far from it — I’m a materialist, but I tell you she was a haunted woman — till her heart gave way under the strain. She always seemed to be waiting for some catastrophe. I am sure she was afraid of something . . . As for her death, in my opinion she died of horror. Her face . . . she had seen something which killed her stone dead. I never breathed a word, but I saw something queer about the vicar. He seemed almost relieved at her death. He had been devoted to her, and treated her almost as a child . . . I don’t know quite how to put it — in a sort of protective way.”

  “I understand — he knew.”

  “By Jove, you’re right — I never thought of that all these years. He knew — that’s what it was. He never left her if he could help it.”

  “And the children — a son and daughter — it’s all right,” Sinclair added, “I got if from Crockford.”

  “The boy’s a good lad; like his father, only about twice the size. Great athlete at Cambridge and no mean Greek scholar.”

  “Greek — his father took Greek too,” Sinclair commented.

  “His father was one of the finest scholars in the country. The boy’s from the first wife, you know — I never knew her.”

  “And the girl?”

  “You shall see — we had better get on.”

  Sinclair knew when to cease his questions, and said no more. The road led steeply upwards past a wood, now desolate and leafless. Behind this they came on the tiny church, stone built and very old. Close by was the vicarage, also of stone, surrounded by a garden enclosed with a low stone wall.

  The doctor rang the bell, which was answered by an old woman, half-cook, half-housekeeper, who greeted the doctor with a smile of welcome.

  “Is Master Ronald up yet?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir, he’s in the library. He’s rather anxious about the news that the vicar missed his train. He’s going to London.”

  “And Miss Diana?”

  “She’s not down, sir, they were both up nearly all night waiting for the vicar.”

  The doctor was about to enter the door, when Sinclair detained him. “One moment — you said something about the vicar missing his train?”

  “Yes, sir,” the woman said in surprise, “the telegram arrived about four o’clock this morning; it was most kind of the postmaster to send it up at that time.”

  “Say nothing of this to young Shepherd,” said Sinclair in a quick whisper, gripping the other’s arm. “There’s something wrong here.”

  The doctor nodded. “I’ll go and break the news. Wait here for me,” he whispered back — then to the housekeeper, “My friend Sir Arthur Sinclair will wait for me. Will you show him into the dining-room.”

  Ronald was strapping up a bag when the doctor entered. Something in his face must have warned the younger man.

  “My father,” he asked, “has he met with an accident?”

  “I am afraid so, my boy — a very serious accident. Be brave as your father always was.”

  “Was?” The boy turned deadly white. “Is he . . .?”

  “Yes, I fear so.”

  Doctor Simpson took Ronald’s hand in a firm grip. For a moment he thought the boy would collapse. Then he straightened himself with an effort. “Tell me,” he said thickly.

  “Sit down, Ronald — remember you’ve got to set your teeth for Diana’s sake — she’s in your charge now.”

  Sinclair waited in the bright cheery dining-room. A movement behind him made him turn, to see a girl standing in the doorway. She was smiling, but astonishment gathered on her face as she saw the stranger. But her surprise was as nothing compared with that of Sinclair. For once he was completely dumbfounded.

  Standing framed in the doorway was the living image of the portrait he had seen at Scotland Yard. The same golden hair, the same features and eyes. Alter the costume and the method of doing the hair, yes, and alter the expression of pride, and there was the mother — only perhaps a year or two younger.

  The girl recovered first. “Good morning,” she said in a voice which had a peculiar softness of tone.

  There was a question in the words.

  “I must apologise — my name is Sinclair — I have come along with Doctor Simpson.”
He tried to speak lightly.

  At the word “doctor” her face went white.

  “Doctor — is anything wrong?”

  Sinclair cursed himself for not waiting outside the house.

  “The doctor will tell you,” he said gently, “he is with your brother.”

  The girl held tightly to the door handle. Sinclair could see she had grit. “I will go to them,” she said simply, and turned away.

  When next the library door opened Ronald came out supporting his sister. Between these two there had always been an affection beyond that ordinarily shown between brother and sister. He was her hero, her protector. They had rambled the country-side together and climbed the hills. There had never been any secrets between them.

  Their father had always been patient and kind and solicitous for anything that appertained to their welfare, but often he would be in his library for hours, hardly coming out for meals, and these two had become wrapped up in each other.

  Now she wanted to get rid of the doctor and the strange man she did not even know. Anything to be alone with Ronald. Something more than the shock of the news stunned her — some horrible sense of impending evil. The world — the old world she knew — was breaking up . . .

  Ronald took her to her bedroom, and watched her, sitting on the side of her bed, till she had cried herself to sleep.

  One vision was with her, haunting her dreams.

  Years ago she had found her father standing beside the grave of her mother. On a simple white stone were engraved the strange words: “Vengeance is mine and I will repay,” which had startled the villagers when the quiet homely parson they all loved had placed it there. They shunned that corner of the churchyard.

  Diana recalled how he had stood so long motionless before the grave that — childlike — she had become frightened, and had gone to him and touched his arm. She had never forgotten the look on his face when he turned — if ever anguish and pity could tear at a man’s heart and show upon his countenance, surely here it showed in vivid terror. “My child,” he had said, he never called her Diana, “if ever in the future anyone speaks ill of your mother — perhaps says things which hurt you, remember I loved her, and trusted her to the end.” She had never forgotten that scene.

  Ronald tiptoed out of the room and went to the library, where Sinclair and the doctor were waiting.

  “Now, Ronald,” the doctor said — he believed in action as an antidote for sorrow — “we must discuss certain things with you. You will have to wire to your uncle, though he will have seen the papers by now. Still, you’d better do it, and Sir Arthur Sinclair wants a word with you.”

  “Are you Sir Arthur Sinclair, sir?” said Ronald in a puzzled tone.

  “I want you to look on me as a friend — I am here quite unofficially. May I see that telegram you received?”

  Ronald handed it to Sinclair.

  “Missed last train please come London early as possible. Athens Hotel, Frith Street, W. Important. Shepherd.”

  Sinclair handed it to the doctor.

  “I don’t understand,” Ronald said. “My father would never sign himself ‘Shepherd,’ and he said nothing about staying the night, or my coming to London.”

  “That telegram was never sent by your father,” said Sinclair gravely. “See the time of despatch, 2.30 a.m.”

  “He was dead then,” Ronald said unsteadily. “What’s the meaning of it? Perhaps my uncle had heard and was trying to get me down to tell me.”

  “And leave your sister alone to hear the news?” Sinclair said, watching the boy.

  Ronald sprang to his feet. “I believe my father was murdered and you know it — why are you keeping things from me? I know more than you think.”

  “Steady, my boy.” The doctor pushed him gently back into his seat. “Sir Arthur is here to help you — his was the cleverest brain in the Detective Force. Let’s talk things over quietly.”

  “Tell me, Ronald — I’m going to call you Ronald — is there anything you can tell us to help?” Sinclair asked.

  Ronald was calmer now — his nerve under control.

  “Yes, I can. Last week a man came here.”

  Sinclair took a seat beside him. “Yes?” he queried.

  “All I know is that when I came back to the house, perhaps eight o’clock — I had been to see my friend, Teddy Carstairs, off by the train — I went straight to the library. It has French windows, as you see. Well, I heard a man talking with my father. I could not hear a word, but I have never heard Dad speak so excitedly and fast. He was usually very quiet and slow. They talked and talked. Of course, I went away — I didn’t want to listen and should probably have taken no further notice, but presently the door opened and Dad came out.

  “ ‘Where’s your sister?’ he said — he seemed very disturbed.

  “ ‘She’s in the kitchen,’ I said. ‘Are you sure?’ he asked, and almost ran to the door.

  “I couldn’t understand it. I looked into the study, but there was no one there, and the windows were shut.

  “I said nothing at the time, but when Di had gone to bed and we were smoking, I couldn’t help it — I asked him who the man was. His answer staggered me. ‘Man?’ he said, ‘I don’t know what you mean, there was no man in the library.’ I had never heard him tell a lie in my life. Then he said, ‘Leave me now, my boy, I have some letters to write.’ Of course I went.”

  “What day was this?” Sinclair asked eagerly.

  “Last Wednesday — just a week ago.”

  “Ah,” said Sinclair, “and his letter arrived on Friday. You didn’t see the man?”

  “No, but I should know his voice again, I think.”

  Sinclair looked keenly at him.

  “You have no idea who it could be?”

  Ronald became confused. He looked anywhere but at Sinclair.

  “It’s absurd — quite ridiculous.”

  “What is?”

  “I thought it was Teddy speaking — I’d seen him off just before — besides . . .”

  The doctor intervened. “Young Carstairs is a college friend of Ronald’s — been staying down here — decent clean type — the living image of Diana, by the way — ”

  “You saw him into the train?”

  “As a matter of fact I didn’t. He asked me not to wait — but it’s all rot — why should he come here without me, and talk to Dad? I’m sure it’s all nonsense.”

  “One more question,” Sinclair said soothingly. “Has anything curious ever happened here — I mean anything which made an impression on your mind.”

  Ronald thought for a while. “No,” he said slowly, “I can’t think of anything — I’ve been at Cambridge you know for three years, and Di has been at school.”

  “Nothing connected with your sister at all,” Sinclair persisted.

  “No — she has rather strange habits — she’s getting out of them now. When she was younger she would wander into the woods with a book. She would disappear for hours, and Dad used to get anxious. He told me always to go with her. I expect — you know about my mother being found dead there?”

  “Your mother?”

  “Oh, she was my step-mother, but I never knew my own. I always called her mother.”

  “Quite so, and about these visits — when did they chiefly occur?”

  “Always in the spring — just when the leaves covered the trees. Only it came to an end.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I forgot — of course. One day she had gone alone — Di, I mean, and I was out. She ran back in a terrible state, crying and saying she had seen something in the woods — something that had frightened her. Probably an animal breaking through the brushwood — she had been sleeping, I expect, and dreaming. Anyway, Dad made her promise never to go there again.”

  “I was coming to that,” the doctor said. “Mr. Shepherd sent for me. The child was almost hysterical. She was twelve at the time. She couldn’t tell me anything sensible so I gave her a sleeping draught and got her to
bed.”

  “Oh, doctor, doctor,” Sinclair groaned.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing — only we might have known more — that’s all.”

  Ronald was getting tired of the questions. “What are you going to do now? I suppose you will try and get on the track of the murderer, that’s what Scotland Yard is for.” He was getting excited again. “If you don’t I’ll get the papers to take it up — we must do something.”

  Sinclair took his hand. “Listen to me, my boy, and take my advice — I’ve had some experience. First, we have no shadow of evidence — it may have been a plain accident. We must say nothing at all — least of all to the authorities. What you have told me must be between ourselves. Leave it in my hands.”

  “But why?” Ronald asked rebelliously.

  Sinclair looked him straight in the eyes. “Shall I tell you. You love your sister — well, if you say a word — her life may be in danger. Is that enough? We must take her to London with us, you will be wanted at the inquest. You or I must be with her continually. Do you agree?”

  “Of course I do, Sir Arthur. I am sorry. If it’s Di I would do anything in the world. I’ll go and see how she is now.”

  They let him go then, and when the door was shut the doctor spoke. “I’d come, too, if I could leave my practice.”

  “The last thing I want — you must stay here and keep your eyes open. They will bring the body back here, and I want you to watch for strangers. Wire me at once if anyone not known in the village comes to stay. Tell the housekeeper to do the same without alarming her.”

  “I’d like to see inside your head,” the doctor laughed.

  “Strange,” Sinclair muttered, “those two — the boy, a fine strapping lad — dark hair and eyes — the girl fair, delicate, slim, golden hair, and blue eyes.”

  “They had different mothers, you know,” the doctor said in surprise.

  “Quite so — it must be that,” Sinclair answered.

  The two appeared at the doorway. Diana was composed now. Ronald’s arm was round her. “We must not forget hospitality,” the girl said with a sad smile. “You two must have some breakfast, it’s been ready a long time.”