The Yellow Mistletoe Read online

  “Diana, we must see about your taking music lessons from a first-class instructor. I was talking with Jarvis — Sir John, you know — his daughter goes to a first-rate man, long hair and all — a Johann something.”

  “Thank you, Uncle,” Diana said, passing the toast.

  He beamed pleasantly at her and finished his meal with marmalade — he was a good trencherman. “Now I must be off — my hat and stick, my dear,” he said at last.

  He liked being waited on by a pretty girl, and he felt at peace with the world as he made his way down the steps to his car, lighting a large cigar on the way.

  Ronald and Diana were both young and the time that had gone by since the Vicar’s death had softened the blow — youth is elastic and can soon forget.

  The summer had come with a burst of sunshine, and all the air was full of life.

  “Di,” Ronald said abruptly when the uncle had departed, “I had a letter from Sir Arthur Sinclair this morning.”

  The girl started. “What did he say?” she asked nervously — it brought back the past.

  “He wants to see me — he writes from his old Martello tower near Eastbourne — funny place to live.”

  “Poor man — he must be lonely, especially in winter, but it’s rather fascinating.”

  “You know I’ve tried to get hold of Teddy for a long time; he keeps on putting me off. I can’t make it out. Sinclair wants to see him himself — I would much rather — he’s a good chap and if I started asking him questions he might resent it.” The next moment he could have bitten his tongue off. She opened her blue eyes wide —

  “Questions — whatever do you mean?”

  For the first time in his life he lied to her.

  “Sir Arthur is trying to straighten out some problem for him — that’s all. Some domestic trouble, I think.”

  She puckered her pretty eyebrows.

  “I like Mr. Carstairs — I wish you would ask him round sometimes. He’s such a sport — and you know at Skipton strangers took us for brother and sister. It was quite amusing. He’s very like me — isn’t he?”

  “That’s what made me pal up with him at Cambridge. He was a tin god there, but never put on side. It all seems a long time ago now. Di, you’re nineteen now — nearly grown up.”

  “Uncle’s going to have me presented at Court this year.”

  Diana rose and looked at herself in the glass. “I’m not bad-looking, you know.” She turned this way and that, getting different angles.

  “Don’t be conceited.” He came and stood beside her. “I’m a good-looking lad too.”

  They looked at the reflections in the glass. “Not much alike, are we?”

  “A gipsy once told me I should marry a dark man,” she smiled.

  A chill feeling struck Ronald. He turned away from the glass. “Yes, I suppose you’ll get married soon, with all this presenting at Court and uncle going to bust out with entertaining next month.”

  “Don’t be a goose, Ron. I’m going to keep house for uncle till he’s dead, and then for you. Unless I marry Sir Arthur Sinclair, and live in his Martello tower.”

  They both laughed.

  “I’ve got heaps to do — housekeeping and things, and here am I talking. Bye-bye.” She tripped out of the room.

  Ronald took Sinclair’s letter from his pocket and frowned. Why rake up the ghost of the past? If his father had lied to him there must have been some good reason. He was sorry Sinclair had written.

  He met Sir Arthur by appointment at Charing Cross.

  “I’m going to take you to a queer place for lunch; do you mind?”

  “Anywhere you like.” London was new to Ronald and full of interest.

  “It’s a little restaurant kept by a villainous Italian, but for me he will have his best cooking going, and that’s very good.”

  He hailed a taxi and drove to Frith Street.

  As the taxi drew up Sinclair spoke. “This place is called the Athens Hotel,” he said, watching Ronald, who started at the recollection.

  “That telegram — I had almost forgotten — did you . . .?”

  “Don’t say a word while we are here,” Sinclair said hurriedly.

  Ganzani came forward, and if he felt surprise at Sinclair’s visit he showed nothing in his manner. He bowed and smiled as he took their commands. Sinclair ordered wine with the choice of a connoisseur.

  He explained that lunch, which he selected with the greatest regard to detail, would not be served until their friend had arrived.

  Ganzani hovered round them anxiously, taking especial care to see that they received proper attention, but Sinclair noticed that he watched the door each time it opened, with a nervous inspection.

  “You wonder why I brought you here?” he smiled at Ronald.

  “I thought it was to show me something new. It’s most interesting.”

  “No — the fact is that I asked your friend Teddy Carstairs to meet you here.”

  “Teddy Carstairs? Good Lord — I can’t imagine him in a place like this — he always lunches in the West End, or at his Chub — ” he stopped suddenly. “But why? Oh!” A quick change came to his face. “Not about that conversation? It’s hardly playing the game . . . I thought you were going to see him alone.” A frown settled on his sensitive face; he was seriously annoyed.

  Sinclair laughed. “Don’t worry, Ronald, I won’t say a word while you are here, but I wanted to meet him in this place. You don’t understand — but, then, a lot of people don’t understand me.”

  Ronald felt the reproof. “I’m sorry, Sir Arthur, of course you know best.”

  Sinclair took no notice — he was watching the door. Carstairs entered.

  Teddy Carstairs was one of those men who seem entirely to concentrate attention on themselves in any assembly of people. A film producer would have licked his chops over him — in vain be it said. A springy athletic form which exuded vitality, clear-cut features, golden hair, and not a trace of foppishness. There was, on the contrary, a look on his face out of keeping with his age — a look difficult to place, made up partly of intellectuality and partly of guarded watchfulness. His blue eyes keenly scrutinised the tables and then he saw Ronald, and a smile made his face appear boyish as he came forward eagerly.

  “Hullo, Ronald, awfully glad to see you, old man — what made you choose this place to meet — do you know it?”

  Ronald had risen and shaken hands. He looked awkwardly for a lead to Sinclair.

  “As Ronald won’t introduce me,” the latter said, “may I introduce myself? My name is Sinclair — I’ve heard a lot about you from our young friend and ventured to join you. As for the place — I am afraid it was my choice. I thought it might interest him.”

  Carstairs gave a shrewd glance at Sinclair, and sat down without comment. The two young men started an animated conversation, but Sinclair watched the little office where Ganzani kept his accounts.

  The Italian came bustling out, and hurried down the room. Suddenly his eyes caught sight of Carstairs, and he stopped dead, his mouth open like a dead cod-fish, and his face livid. Then he turned and rushed back into the small office, and Sinclair heard the “glug-glug” of wine being poured into a glass.

  Neither of the two young men had noticed anything — they were talking of old days and of all that had happened since they had last met.

  The food was brought — and, as Sinclair had prophesied, was excellent. For special clients — those who could pay — Ganzani was always most careful.

  The conversation had lagged in the process of satisfying two healthy appetites — Sinclair ate sparingly.

  “You know this place?” he asked casually.

  Carstairs looked at him frankly. “Yes — who doesn’t? As a matter of fact I used to come here a good deal, and practise my Greek — my mother was Greek, you know.”

  “I never knew that; you never told me,” Ronald said.

  Carstairs laughed.

  “I was born in Italy, as a matter of fact — so
I’m a bit of a mixture altogether.”

  “Where?” Sinclair asked the question in a casual manner, pouring out wine at the same time.

  “Oh, at a little village on the shores of a small lake — Nemi, you may have heard of it. They are draining it now to get two old galleys of Caligula.”

  Sinclair was pouring out wine at the moment. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Careless of me.” He had spilt wine on the cloth, though his hand was steady as a rock.

  “My fault,” Carstairs said cheerily. “I should have passed my glass.”

  Ganzani fussed about with restless energy, but never wandered far from their table. Sinclair called him, and asked for a telegraph form. “Excuse me,” he said, “I must send this off, I’d forgotten.” He wrote rapidly, and folded the paper. “Ronald, I wonder if you would mind doing me a favour — would you send this off. As host I hardly like to leave. I’ll entertain your friend.”

  Ronald rose at once. “Certainly,” he said, and took the form.

  “See if you can read it, my writing has been shaky ever since I was wounded in the hand by a Pathan in India.”

  “Now, Carstairs — let me recommend you a very excellent port. Ganzani, bring your old port along — the special.” He was talking rapidly while Ronald read the telegram.

  On the paper was written: “Go out and stay away for a quarter of an hour. I want to talk to Carstairs.”

  Ronald put it in his pocket. “Quite all right,” he said, and went out.

  “Carstairs — I got rid of our young friend for a purpose,” Sinclair said firmly. “I want to ask you a question; do you mind?”

  “Certainly not,” the other smiled at him.

  “You were staying at Skipton some weeks ago, and after young Ronald had seen you off by the train — you returned to the vicarage and had a long talk with the vicar?”

  Carstairs turned scarlet and a look of anger came to his face.

  Sinclair held up his hand.

  “Don’t deny it, please. I made careful enquiries at Skipton at the station. You did not travel by that train, but by the night mail. A face like yours can’t be hidden, you know.”

  “So this is the reason for asking me to lunch — a dirty trick. Is Ronald in the plot, too? I’ll never speak to him again if so.”

  “Steady. And don’t raise your voice, please. I asked you to lunch in his name, and asked him too; shall I tell you why?”

  Carstairs remained silent, tapping the table-cloth.

  “You have ignored his letters, and since you came back from Switzerland,” he laid emphasis on the word, “you have avoided him. I knew perfectly well if I asked you to meet me you would not do so. Don’t get angry — I simply want to know, and it’s very important, what you said to the vicar. It’s not idle curiosity, believe me.”

  There was a gravity in his voice which was unmistakable.

  “I absolutely refuse. It’s impertinence on your part — a private conversation . . .”

  Sinclair glanced round. Ganzani was at the other end of the room.

  “Very well, Mr. Carstairs,” Sinclair said quietly, and took from his pocket a sprig of mistletoe. “I think you left this behind at the vicarage.” He laid it on the table and watched the other.

  Carstairs’ fist closed in a sudden nervous jerk. He clutched the sprig, and shot a furious look at Sinclair.

  “Well?” The detective waited.

  “I don’t see what it’s got to do with you. Has Ronald . . .?”

  “Ronald knows nothing at all — he doesn’t even know I found this. No one knows,” he added slowly.

  There was a look of relief on Carstairs’ face. He seemed to take a quick resolve. “I still don’t see what business it is of yours, but — can I trust you to keep this to yourself?”

  “Certainly,” Sinclair said gravely.

  “All right then. I went back to ask the vicar whether he would consent to my engagement to Diana — Miss Shepherd.”

  “You were engaged?”

  A frown of annoyance came to Carstairs’ handsome face.

  “No,” he snapped. “I have never spoken to her about it — nor to her brother, if you want to know. I thought it was more decent to ask the father first — perhaps because I am partly foreign. He would not hear of it. In fact he was furious with me. We parted in anger — that’s why I have kept away from Ronald. I thought his father might have told him . . . I was dreadfully sorry to hear of his death; I was very fond of the old boy.”

  Carstairs was rapidly recovering his easy manner.

  “Why do you want to know all this?” he asked.

  “That’s quite simply explained. You see Ronald only knew some man had been with his father and was worried about it. He had no suspicions that it was you. I have told him nothing. Your explanation is entirely satisfactory.” Sinclar spoke in a tone of apology, which had baffled many in the days when he was in the Force. “Let’s say nothing more about it.”

  “That’s a curious bit of mistletoe you have,” he added casually, lighting a cigar, which with him was a rare luxury.

  “I only valued it because Diana gave it me,” Carstairs replied.

  “Well — you must have it back . . .” Sinclair took it from the table and handed it elaborately to the other.

  There was a smash of glass. Ganzani, who was coming down the room with a tray on which were a decanter of port and glasses, had slipped, and the contents of the tray had fallen to the floor.

  Muttering an Italian oath — he rushed from the room.

  Ronald came back, and fresh port was brought by a waiter, with ample apologies for the delay. Ganzani did not appear.

  “Not a word, mind,” Carstairs said hurriedly as Ronald took his seat. Sinclair reassured him with a nod.

  The two friends went off together, leaving Sinclair at the door — he had to rush off, he explained.

  In Shaftesbury Avenue Carstairs said off-handedly:

  “Who is your friend — what’s his name? He introduced himself — I didn’t catch it.”

  Ronald laughed boyishly. “Good heavens, man, you’ve been lunching and talking all this time and don’t know who he was — that’s Sir Arthur Sinclair, late of Scotland Yard.”

  Carstairs stopped dead in his track — just one moment — then he walked on. There was a hard look on his comely face.

  “Oh yes, I’ve heard of him — I didn’t know he was a friend of yours. That’s very interesting. We’ve just got time to go to a matinee if you care to join me.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  THE PARTY — AND AFTER

  “It’s all fixed up,” Reginald Shepherd said at dinner. “You’ll have to get dresses and things, Diana.”

  The girl looked up quickly. “What, Uncle?” she asked.

  Reginald rubbed his fat hands. “Your presentation at Court. Lady Gorringe is doing the necessary. They are poor as church mice, and they live on this sort of thing.”

  “Do you mean they take money for introductions and presentations?” Diana was shocked.

  “Lord bless you, yes — there’s plenty of ’em. She introduces young people with a view to matrimony and takes a percentage — and arranges for honours through her friends — it’s a regular trade.”

  “How horrible.”

  The uncle laughed. “You are a little country puss. You’ll get used to these things as you meet people. As you are out of mourning I thought of leading off by asking a few people round — and getting you some good introductions — you mustn’t tuck yourselves away. I’ve only been able to entertain men friends up till now. We’ll have a jolly party for your coming-out. I want you to know some decent people.”

  “Do you call these decent people?” Ronald asked. He always agreed with Diana.

  Reginald frowned.

  “They’re all right when you know them — you mustn’t be old-fashioned. I’m surprised at you, Ronald, after being at Cambridge. They know everyone who counts, and can get Diana invitations for dances — and race meetings. Of course, I
pay for everything, so we are not under any obligation to them.”

  Diana’s eyes sparkled in spite of the feeling of repulsion she felt for the methods employed for her. To meet people of her own age — get some tennis, and see races . . .

  “You are a darling,” she said, running round the table and giving her uncle a hug. Ronald did not share her enthusiasm. He had a stubborn sense of independence from his Scottish mother.

  Still, if it were giving Diana any pleasure . . .

  “I got Lady Gorringe to make out a list; I had to include one or two of my City friends, of course — with their women-folk. You shall send out the invitations to those I know — Lady Gorringe will see to the rest.”

  The next few days were spent in a whirl of delight by Diana. It was her first experience of being able to spend money on clothes without counting the cost.

  There were preparations to be made, too — the old house was turned upside down. Her one sorrow was that Ronald remained sulky. He refused to buy a new evening rig-out, and talked vaguely of getting a job abroad somewhere, but at each attempt he made to broach the subject of getting work to his uncle, he had been met with the same argument.

  “Plenty of time, my boy. I know the old-fashioned father or uncle would take you into his office, saying you must go through the mill, as he had done. I don’t believe in it. First, you haven’t the slightest business instinct, and would never make anything of it, and, secondly, because I had such a time myself I wouldn’t wish my worst enemy to go through the same. Business is a dirty thing at best. No, wait a bit and get to know people. Perhaps before long I may have a handle to my name, and you can stand for Parliament — there are all sorts of opportunities once you are in the House.”

  Ronald gave it up. He had only two friends — Carstairs, who was willing to meet him anywhere, but steadily refused to come to the house, to Ronald’s annoyance, and Dr. Smart, with whom he had struck up a queer friendship. They had met at the inquest and Ronald had been touched by the words of sympathy and the kindly manner of the doctor towards him.

  When he came to London, he had looked the doctor up, and found him an interesting well-bred man — not in regular practice, but studying some abstruse branch of medical science.