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Authors: Angus MacVicar
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inquiries the whole ghastly series of crimes would have passed unnoticed. Surely I am entitled to some small reward. Does it appeal to your sense of justice, Mr. MacLean, that I should give you my theories — freely and without reserve — to be relayed at once to all the great national newspapers, while the Gazette , my own paper, should remain in the backwash as usual?”
James, somewhat breathless, paused. Would his arguments, which, he realised, were woefully weak at certain points, be listened to by these older and more experienced men? And it suddenly struck him that he had been carried away by his sudden anger against the Fiscal to be a little more sarcastic than he had actually intended.
But his last question had apparently quietened the Fiscal, that upholder of the downtrodden. Mr. Archibald MacLean lifted a shoulder to James, swung round and stumped back to his seat by the inspector. He slumped down heavily, as he was in the habit of doing after a telling point had been raised by a defence lawyer.
“The young man,” remarked Detective-Inspector McKay in a deep, booming voice, “is probably correct in saying that the murders were planned for a considerable period before they actually occurred, and that the fact of the storm was merely incidental.” “Yes,” agreed Sergeant Wilson, his eyes flashing fiercely as he regarded James.
Inspector McMillan rubbed his thick hands together, while Major Dallas said:
“Well, MacLean, it cannot be helped now, at any rate. I am perfectly sure MacPherson is only too willing to give us all the help he can.”
“I am, sir, naturally,” said the editor of the Gazette . “But it seems my assistance is not appreciated.”
“Now, now, James!” interposed the Fiscal with a sudden change of front. “Don’t take up that attitude! We’ve always been friends. Maybe I spoke rather too hastily just now.”
There was a discreet knock at the door.
“Come in!” said Inspector McMillan, grateful for something which might relieve the tension. “Come in!”
Sergeant MacLeod, his thin-lipped mouth pursed with excitement, marched over to his immediate superior, holding a torn scrap of dirty paper in his hand.
“I found this ten minutes ago,” he explained, “wedged between the cushions in the back of the Daimler used by O’Hare and Muldoon. Must have dropped out of O’Hare’s pocket in his struggle with Mr. MacPherson.”
Sergeant MacLeod retired. The little group leaned over the table expectantly. On the scrap of paper was a queer scrawl such as a child might have drawn.
The mansion house of Dalbeg, which Professor Niven Campbell had occupied for some thirteen months previous to the murder of the Rev. Archibald Allan, was situated on the Blaan shore. Lord Kelvin had once remarked to his students at the University of Glasgow that the air in the vicinity of Dalbeg contained the second greatest percentage of ozone on the Scottish coast, a fact which James had often impressed upon prospective visitors to the parish of Blaan.
The many-gabled house stood, large and rambling, a legacy from the days of Queen Anne, at the foot of a precipitous, tree-covered hillside, which effectively sheltered it from the prevailing west wind. The ground upon which it had been built was a level stretch of land shaped like a half-moon, hemmed in at either extremity by rocky prominences, and extending in front of the main road, which had been laid almost on the sea-sand. The building was immediately surrounded by a small garden, gay in the summer with a multitude of flowers, while the remaining part of the half-circle of ground was laid with smooth, green turf.
On the evening of June the twenty-fifth a grey haze from the sea, caused by a cool breeze which had sprung up following the heat of the afternoon, lay over the mansion, lending it a strange atmosphere of romance and mystery such as is often suggested in the Celtic studies of Wallcousins, the artist.
James, whose mind was still much
James, somewhat breathless, paused. Would his arguments, which, he realised, were woefully weak at certain points, be listened to by these older and more experienced men? And it suddenly struck him that he had been carried away by his sudden anger against the Fiscal to be a little more sarcastic than he had actually intended.
But his last question had apparently quietened the Fiscal, that upholder of the downtrodden. Mr. Archibald MacLean lifted a shoulder to James, swung round and stumped back to his seat by the inspector. He slumped down heavily, as he was in the habit of doing after a telling point had been raised by a defence lawyer.
“The young man,” remarked Detective-Inspector McKay in a deep, booming voice, “is probably correct in saying that the murders were planned for a considerable period before they actually occurred, and that the fact of the storm was merely incidental.” “Yes,” agreed Sergeant Wilson, his eyes flashing fiercely as he regarded James.
Inspector McMillan rubbed his thick hands together, while Major Dallas said:
“Well, MacLean, it cannot be helped now, at any rate. I am perfectly sure MacPherson is only too willing to give us all the help he can.”
“I am, sir, naturally,” said the editor of the Gazette . “But it seems my assistance is not appreciated.”
“Now, now, James!” interposed the Fiscal with a sudden change of front. “Don’t take up that attitude! We’ve always been friends. Maybe I spoke rather too hastily just now.”
There was a discreet knock at the door.
“Come in!” said Inspector McMillan, grateful for something which might relieve the tension. “Come in!”
Sergeant MacLeod, his thin-lipped mouth pursed with excitement, marched over to his immediate superior, holding a torn scrap of dirty paper in his hand.
“I found this ten minutes ago,” he explained, “wedged between the cushions in the back of the Daimler used by O’Hare and Muldoon. Must have dropped out of O’Hare’s pocket in his struggle with Mr. MacPherson.”
Sergeant MacLeod retired. The little group leaned over the table expectantly. On the scrap of paper was a queer scrawl such as a child might have drawn.
The mansion house of Dalbeg, which Professor Niven Campbell had occupied for some thirteen months previous to the murder of the Rev. Archibald Allan, was situated on the Blaan shore. Lord Kelvin had once remarked to his students at the University of Glasgow that the air in the vicinity of Dalbeg contained the second greatest percentage of ozone on the Scottish coast, a fact which James had often impressed upon prospective visitors to the parish of Blaan.
The many-gabled house stood, large and rambling, a legacy from the days of Queen Anne, at the foot of a precipitous, tree-covered hillside, which effectively sheltered it from the prevailing west wind. The ground upon which it had been built was a level stretch of land shaped like a half-moon, hemmed in at either extremity by rocky prominences, and extending in front of the main road, which had been laid almost on the sea-sand. The building was immediately surrounded by a small garden, gay in the summer with a multitude of flowers, while the remaining part of the half-circle of ground was laid with smooth, green turf.
On the evening of June the twenty-fifth a grey haze from the sea, caused by a cool breeze which had sprung up following the heat of the afternoon, lay over the mansion, lending it a strange atmosphere of romance and mystery such as is often suggested in the Celtic studies of Wallcousins, the artist.
James, whose mind was still much
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