by John Buchan
The sight of the lawyer was a surprise to Dickson and dissipated his notions of an aged and lethargic incompetent. Mr. Loudon was a strongly built man who could not be a year over fifty. He had a ruddy face, clean shaven except for a grizzled moustache; his grizzled hair was thinning round the temples; but his skin was unwrinkled and his eyes had all the vigour of youth. His tweed suit was well cut, and the buff waistcoat with flaps and pockets and the plain leather watchguard hinted at the sportsman, as did the half-dozen racing prints on the wall. A pleasant high-coloured figure he made; his voice had the frank ring due to much use out of doors; and his expression had the singular candour which comes from grey eyes with large pupils and a narrow iris.
“Sit down, Mr. McCunn. Take the arm-chair by the fire. I’ve had a wire from Glendonan and Speirs about you. I was just going to have a glass of toddy — a grand thing for these uncertain April nights. You’ll join me? No? Well, you’ll smoke anyway. There’s cigars at your elbow. Certainly, a pipe if you like. This is Liberty Hall.”
Dickson found some difficulty in the part for which he had cast himself. He had expected to condescend upon an elderly inept and give him sharp instructions; instead he found himself faced with a jovial, virile figure which certainly did not suggest incompetence. It has been mentioned already that he had always great difficulty in looking any one in the face, and this difficulty was intensified when he found himself confronted with bold and candid eyes. He felt abashed and a little nervous.
“I’ve come to see you about Huntingtower House,” he began.
“I know, so Glendonans informed me. Well, I’m very glad to hear it. The place has been standing empty far too long, and that is worse for a new house than an old house. There’s not much money to spend on it either, unless we can make sure of a good tenant. How did you hear about it?”
“I was taking a bit holiday and I spent a night at Dalquharter with an old auntie of mine. You must understand I’ve just retired from business, and I’m thinking of finding a country place. I used to have the provision shop in Mearns Street — now the United Supply Stores, Limited. You’ve maybe heard of it?”
The other bowed and smiled. “Who hasn’t? The name of Dickson McCunn is known far beyond the city of Glasgow.”
Dickson was not insensible of the flattery, and he continued with more freedom. “I took a walk and got a glisk of the House, and I liked the look of it. You see, I want a quiet bit a good long way from a town, and at the same time a house with all modern conveniences. I suppose Huntingtower has that?”
“When it was built fifteen years ago it was considered a model — six bathrooms, its own electric light plant, steam heating, and independent boiler for hot water, the whole bag of tricks. I won’t say but what some of these contrivances will want looking to, for the place has been some time empty, but there can be nothing very far wrong, and I can guarantee that the bones of the house are good.”
“Well, that’s all right,” said Dickson. “I don’t mind spending a little money myself if the place suits me. But of that, of course, I’m not yet certain, for I’ve only had a glimpse of the outside. I wanted to get into the policies, but a man at the lodge wouldn’t let me. They’re a mighty uncivil lot down there.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that,” said Mr. Loudon in a tone of concern.
“Ay, and if I take the place I’ll stipulate that you get rid of the lodgekeepers.”
“There won’t be the slightest difficulty about that, for they are only weekly tenants. But I’m vexed to hear they were uncivil. I was glad to get any tenant that offered, and they were well recommended to me.”
“They’re foreigners.”
“One of them is — a Belgian refugee that Lady Morewood took an interest in. But the other — Spittal, they call him — I thought he was Scotch.”
“He’s not that. And I don’t like the innkeeper either. I would want him shifted.”
Dr. Loudon laughed. “I dare say Dobson is a rough diamond. There’s worse folk in the world all the same, but I don’t think he will want to stay. He only went there to pass the time till he heard from his brother in Vancouver. He’s a roving spirit, and will be off overseas again.”
“That’s all right!” said Dickson, who was beginning to have horrid suspicions that he might be on a wild-goose chase after all. “Well, the next thing is for me to see over the House.”
“Certainly. I’d like to go with you myself. What day would suit you? Let me see. This is Friday. What about this day week?”
“I was thinking of to-morrow. Since I’m down in these parts I may as well get the job done.”
Mr. Loudon looked puzzled. “I quite see that. But I don’t think it’s possible. You see, I have to consult the owners and get their consent to a lease. Of course they have the general purpose of letting, but — well, they’re queer folk the Kennedys,” and his face wore the half-embarrassed smile of an honest man preparing to make confidences. “When poor Mr. Quentin died, the place went to his two sisters in joint ownership. A very bad arrangement, as you can imagine. It isn’t entailed, and I’ve always been pressing them to sell, but so far they won’t hear of it. They both married Englishmen, so it will take a day or two to get in touch with them. One, Mrs. Stukely, lives in Devonshire. The other — Miss Katie that was — married Sir Frances Morewood, the general, and I hear that she’s expected back in London next Monday from the Riviera. I’ll wire and write first thing to-morrow morning. But you must give me a day or two.”
Dickson felt himself waking up. His doubts about his own sanity were dissolving, for, as his mind reasoned, the factor was prepared to do anything he asked — but only after a week had gone. What he was concerned with was the next few days.
“All the same I would like to have a look at the place to-morrow, even if nothing comes of it.”
Mr. Loudon looked seriously perplexed. “You will think me absurdly fussy, Mr. McCunn, but I must really beg of you to give up the idea. The Kennedys, as I have said, are — well, not exactly like other people, and I have the strictest orders not to let any one visit the house without their express leave. It sounds a ridiculous rule, but I assure you it’s as much as my job is worth to disregard it.”
“D’you mean to say not a soul is allowed inside the House?”
“Not a soul.”
“Well, Mr. Loudon, I’m going to tell you a queer thing, which I think you ought to know. When I was taking a walk the other night — your Belgian wouldn’t let me into the policies, but I went down the glen — what’s that they call it? the Garple Dean — I got round the back where the old ruin stands and I had a good look at the House. I tell you there was somebody in it.”
“It would be Spittal, who acts as caretaker.”
“It was not. It was a woman. I saw her on the verandah.”
The candid grey eyes were looking straight at Dickson, who managed to bring his own shy orbs to meet them. He thought that he detected a shade of hesitation. Then Mr. Loudon got up from his chair and stood on the hearthrug looking down at his visitor. He laughed, with some embarrassment, but ever so pleasantly.
“I really don’t know what you will think of me, Mr. McCunn. Here are you, coming to do us all a kindness, and lease that infernal white elephant, and here have I been steadily hoaxing you for the last five minutes. I humbly ask your pardon. Set it down to the loyalty of an old family lawyer. Now, I am going to tell you the truth and take you into our confidence, for I know we are safe with you. The Kennedys are — always have been — just a wee bit queer. Old inbred stock, you know. They will produce somebody like poor Mr. Quentin, who was as sane as you or me, but as a rule in every generation there is one member of the family — or more — who is just a little bit—” and he tapped his forehead. “Nothing violent, you understand, but just not quite ‘wise and world-like,’ as the old folk say. Well, there’s a certain old lady, an aunt of Mr. Quentin and his sisters, who has always been about tenpence in the shilling. Usually she lives at Bournemouth, but on
e of her crazes is a passion for Huntingtower, and the Kennedys have always humoured her and had her to stay every spring. When the House was shut up that became impossible, but this year she took such a craving to come back, that Lady Morewood asked me to arrange it. It had to be kept very quiet, but the poor old thing is perfectly harmless, and just sits and knits with her maid and looks out of the seaward windows. Now you see why I can’t take you there to-morrow. I have to get rid of the old lady, who in any case was travelling south early next week. Do you understand?”
“Perfectly,” said Dickson with some fervour. He had learned exactly what he wanted. The factor was telling him lies. Now he knew where to place Mr. Loudon.
He always looked back upon what followed as a very creditable piece of play-acting for a man who had small experience in that line.
“Is the old lady a wee wizened body, with a black cap and something like a white cashmere shawl round her shoulders?”
“You describe her exactly,” Mr. Loudon replied eagerly.
“That would explain the foreigners.”
“Of course. We couldn’t have natives who would make the thing the clash of the countryside.”
“Of course not. But it must be a difficult job to keep a business like that quiet. Any wandering policeman might start inquiries. And supposing the lady became violent?”
“Oh, there’s no fear of that. Besides, I’ve a position in this country — Deputy Fiscal and so forth — and a friend of the Chief Constable. I think I may be trusted to do a little private explaining if the need arose.”
“I see,” said Dickson. He saw, indeed, a great deal which would give him food for furious thought. “Well, I must possess my soul in patience. Here’s my Glasgow address, and I look to you to send me a telegram whenever you’re ready for me. I’m at the Salutation to-night, and go home to-morrow with the first train. Wait a minute” — and he pulled out his watch—”there’s a train stops at Auchenlochan at 10.17. I think I’ll catch that... Well Mr. Loudon, I’m very much obliged to you, and I’m glad to think that it’ll no’ be long till we renew our acquaintance.”
The factor accompanied him to the door, diffusing geniality. “Very pleased indeed to have met you. A pleasant journey and a quick return.”
The street was still empty. Into a corner of the arches opposite the moon was shining, and Dickson retired thither to consult his map of the neighbourhood. He found what he wanted, and, as he lifted his eyes, caught sight of a man coming down the causeway. Promptly he retired into the shadow and watched the new-comer. There could be no mistake about the figure; the bulk, the walk, the carriage of the head marked it for Dobson. The innkeeper went slowly past the factor’s house; then halted and retraced his steps; then, making sure that the street was empty, turned into the side lane which led to the garden.
This was what sailors call a cross-bearing, and strengthened Dickson’s conviction. He delayed no longer, but hurried down the side street by which the north road leaves the town.
He had crossed the bridge of Lochan and was climbing the steep ascent which led to the heathy plateau separating that stream from the Garple before he had got his mind quite clear on the case. First, Loudon was in the plot, whatever it was; responsible for the details of the girl’s imprisonment, but not the main author. That must be the Unknown who was still to come, from whom Spidel took his orders. Dobson was probably Loudon’s special henchman, working directly under him. Secondly, the immediate object had been the jewels, and they were happily safe in the vaults of the incorruptible Mackintosh. But, third — and this only on Saskia’s evidences — the worst danger to her began with the arrival of the Unknown. What could that be? Probably, kidnapping. He was prepared to believe anything of people like Bolsheviks. And, fourth, this danger was due within the next day or two. Loudon had been quite willing to let him into the house and to sack all the watchers within a week from that date. The natural and right thing was to summon the aid of the law, but, fifth, that would be a slow business with Loudon able to put spokes in the wheels and befog the authorities, and the mischief would be done before a single policeman showed his face in Dalquharter. Therefore, sixth, he and Heritage must hold the fort in the meantime, and he would send a wire to his lawyer, Mr. Caw, to get to work with the constabulary. Seventh, he himself was probably free from suspicion in both Loudon’s and Dobson’s minds as a harmless fool. But that freedom would not survive his reappearance in Dalquharter. He could say, to be sure, that he had come back to see his auntie, but that would not satisfy the watchers, since, so far as they knew, he was the only man outside the gang who was aware that people were dwelling in the House. They would not tolerate his presence in the neighbourhood.
He formulated his conclusions as if it were an ordinary business deal, and rather to his surprise was not conscious of any fear. As he pulled together the belt of his waterproof he felt the reassuring bulges in its pockets which were his pistol and cartridges. He reflected that it must be very difficult to miss with a pistol if you fired it at, say, three yards, and if there was to be shooting that would be his range. Mr. McCunn had stumbled on the precious truth that the best way to be rid of quaking knees is to keep a busy mind.
He crossed the ridge of the plateau and looked down on the Garple glen. There were the lights of Dalquharter — or rather a single light, for the inhabitants went early to bed. His intention was to seek quarters with Mrs. Morran, when his eye caught a gleam in a hollow of the moor a little to the east. He knew it for the camp-fire around which Dougal’s warriors bivouacked. The notion came to him to go there instead, and hear the news of the day before entering the cottage. So he crossed the bridge, skirted a plantation of firs, and scrambled through the broom and heather in what he took to be the right direction.
The moon had gone down, and the quest was not easy. Dickson had come to the conclusion that he was on the wrong road, when he was summoned by a voice which seemed to arise out of the ground.
“Who goes there?”
“What’s that you say?”
“Who goes there?” The point of a pole was held firmly against his chest.
“I’m Mr. McCunn, a friend of Dougal’s.”
“Stand, friend.” The shadow before him whistled and another shadow appeared. “Report to the Chief that there’s a man here, name o’ McCunn, seekin’ for him.”
Presently the messenger returned with Dougal and a cheap lantern which he flashed in Dickson’s face.
“Oh, it’s you,” said that leader, who had his jaw bound up as if he had the toothache. “What are ye doing back here?”
“To tell the truth, Dougal,” was the answer, “I couldn’t stay away. I was fair miserable when I thought of Mr. Heritage and you laddies left to yourselves. My conscience simply wouldn’t let me stop at home, so here I am.”
Dougal grunted, but clearly he approved, for from that moment he treated Dickson with a new respect. Formerly when he had referred to him at all it had been as “auld McCunn.” Now it was “Mister McCunn.” He was given rank as a worthy civilian ally. The bivouac was a cheerful place in the wet night. A great fire of pine roots and old paling posts hissed in the fine rain, and around it crouched several urchins busy making oatmeal cakes in the embers. On one side a respectable lean-to had been constructed by nailing a plank to two fir-trees, running sloping poles thence to the ground, and thatching the whole with spruce branches and heather. On the other side two small dilapidated home-made tents were pitched. Dougal motioned his companion into the lean-to, where they had some privacy from the rest of the band.
“Well, what’s your news?” Dickson asked. He noticed that the Chieftain seemed to have been comprehensively in the wars, for apart from the bandage on his jaw, he had numerous small cuts on his brow, and a great rent in one of his shirt sleeves. Also he appeared to be going lame, and when he spoke a new gap was revealed in his large teeth.
“Things,” said Dougal solemnly, “has come to a bonny cripus. This very night we’ve been in a battle.”
He spat fiercely, and the light of war burned in his eyes.
“It was the tinklers from the Garple Dean. They yokit on us about seven o’clock, just at the darkenin’. First they tried to bounce us. We weren’t wanted here, they said, so we’d better clear. I telled them that it was them that wasn’t wanted. ‘Awa’ to Finnick,’ says I. ‘D’ye think we take our orders from dirty ne’er-do-weels like you?’ ‘By God,’ says they, ‘we’ll cut your lights out,’ and then the battle started.”
“What happened?’ Dickson asked excitedly.
“They were four muckle men against six laddies, and they thought they had an easy job! Little they kenned the Gorbals Die-Hards! I had been expectin’ something of the kind, and had made my plans. They first tried to pu’ down our tents and burn them. I let them get within five yards, reservin’ my fire. The first volley — stones from our hands and our catties — halted them, and before they could recover three of us had got hold o’ burnin’ sticks frae the fire and were lammin’ into them. We kinnled their claes, and they fell back swearin’ and stampin’ to get the fire out. Then I gave the word and we were on them wi’ our pales, usin’ the points accordin’ to instructions. My orders was to keep a good distance, for if they had grippit one o’ us he’d ha’ been done for. They were roarin’ mad by now, and twae had out their knives, but they couldn’t do muckle, for it was gettin’ dark, and they didn’t ken the ground like us, and were aye trippin’ and tumblin’. But they pressed us hard, and one o’ them landed me an awful clype on the jaw. They were still aiming at our tents, and I saw that if they got near the fire again it would be the end o’ us. So I blew my whistle for Thomas Yownie, who was in command o’ the other half of us, with instructions to fall upon their rear. That brought Thomas up, and the tinklers had to face round about and fight a battle on two fronts. We charged them and they broke, and the last seen o’ them they were coolin’ their burns in the Garple.”