Free Death by the Mistletoe by Angus MacVicar

exercised over his sudden invitation to Dalbeg, admitted himself to be a little nervous as he parked his six-year-old Morris tourer — by name “Kate” — at the entrance to the avenue.
    He had spoken with Professor Campbell more than once, of course, on the subject of the latter’s learned but popular works on the history of ancient Celtic religions, two of which had been published during his short stay in the district; and the editor of the Gazette , that keen student of human nature, had found the old fellow interesting and charming, indeed, in a distinctly pawky way. He was, moreover, somewhat of an enigma to James, for his coming to Blaan had been preceded by a sudden retiral from the Celtic Chair at Edinburgh University just as he was in the midst of building up an international reputation as an archaeologist. Why he should thereafter have buried himself in Dalbeg with only a housekeeper and two servants for companions was, as a matter of fact, a puzzle to more men than the editor of the Gazette .
    During his year’s occupancy of the Dalbeg estate, however, he had, despite several long absences from home, made an altogether favourable impression upon his tenants and upon the Blaan folk generally. In many senses this latter fact savoured of the miraculous; for the people of Blaan did not allow themselves to be favourably impressed by anyone without putting up a stern struggle. But the Professor — a short, stout man, with ruddy cheeks and silken white hair — was by no means an aloof and unapproachable person, mixing, indeed, in the affairs of the parish with some zest; and this fact went a long way towards ensuring his popularity.
    But though he had no qualms about spending an evening with Professor Campbell, James realised that on this occasion the Rev. Duncan Nicholson — and heaven knew how many other damned public schoolboys of the same kidney — would be among the company. And he was conscious of his own awkwardness and lack of subjects for polite and refined conversation. Miss Eileen Campbell would — he both hoped and feared — be there also, and would at once notice his gaucherie and indubitably unpolished manners.
    And then James pulled himself up abruptly and cursed himself roundly for being a boyish fool. He strode up the long gravelled avenue whistling defiantly “A man’s a man for a’ that.”
    He was met on the wide flight of steps leading up to the great main door of Dalbeg by Eileen herself. Employing a mighty effort of will he refrained from blushing on this occasion, even though his breath was somewhat taken away by her loveliness.
    She was wearing a long, slim dinner-gown made of some filmy blue material which matched the colour of her eyes, and her hair was dressed in brown waves. There was a faint flush in her cheeks and her arms were rounded and delicately kissed by the sun.
    “I saw your car,” she greeted him. “I’m so glad you could come. Daddy and the others are in the garden.”
    James felt a sudden strange desire well up in his heart, which he crushed down on an instant, almost with horror. Good Lord, he thought! She was so small, so precious, so absolutely fresh and lovely. What a sacrilege for a large and uncouth individual like himself to be wanting to gather her up in his arms, and … oh, well! Besides, there was the Rev. Duncan Nicholson.
    “Did you not hear my old bus as well as see it, Miss Campbell?” asked James, and Eileen told herself that she liked him much better when he smiled like that; for the gloom had vanished from his eyes, leaving them sparkling and rather boyish.
    “As a matter of fact, I did!” replied Eileen, with a mischievous twinkle. “I thought it was an aeroplane which had broken down and was landing in our park!”
    “Poor old ‘Kate’!” sighed James, and they laughed together.
    Straight-backed and with supple stride, Eileen led the way into a lofty hall, where James hung up his waterproof and hat. She saw that he wore