by John Buchan
“Will he be at the Mains just now?” Dickson asked.
“I wadna wonder. He has a muckle place in England, but he aye used to come here in the back-end for the shootin’ and in April for birds. He’s clean daft about birds. He’ll be out a’ day at the craig watchin’ solans, or lyin’ a’ mornin’ i’ the moss lookin’ at bog-blitters.”
“Will he help, think you?”
“I’ll wager he’ll help. Onyway it’s your best chance, and better a wee bush than nae beild. Now, sit in to your breakfast.”
It was a merry meal. Mrs. Morran dispensed tea and gnomic wisdom. Saskia ate heartily, speaking little, but once or twice laying her hand softly on her hostess’s gnarled fingers. Dickson was in such spirits that he gobbled shamelessly, being both hungry and hurried, and he spoke of the still unconquered enemy with ease and disrespect, so that Mrs. Morran was moved to observe that there was “naething sae bauld as a blind mear.” But when in a sudden return of modesty he belittled his usefulness and talked sombrely of his mature years he was told that he “wad never be auld wi’ sae muckle honesty.” Indeed it was very clear that Mrs. Morran approved of her nephew. They did not linger over breakfast, for both were impatient to be on the road. Mrs. Morran assisted Saskia to put on Elspeth’s shoes. “‘Even a young fit finds comfort in an auld bauchle,’ as my mother, honest woman, used to say.” Dickson’s waterproof was restored to him, and for Saskia an old raincoat belonging to the son in South Africa was discovered, which fitted her better. “Siccan weather,” said the hostess, as she opened the door to let in a swirl of wind. “The deil’s aye kind to his ain. Haste ye back, Mem, and be sure I’ll tak’ guid care o’ your leddy cousin.”
The proper way to the Mains of Garple was either by the station and the Ayr road, or by the Auchenlochan highway, branching off half a mile beyond the Garple bridge. But Dickson, who had been studying the map and fancied himself as a pathfinder, chose the direct route across the Long Muir as being at once shorter and more sequestered. With the dawn the wind had risen again, but it had shifted towards the north-west and was many degrees colder. The mist was furling on the hills like sails, the rain had ceased, and out at sea the eye covered a mile or two of wild water. The moor was drenching wet, and the peat bogs were brimming with inky pools, so that soon the travellers were soaked to the knees. Dickson had no fear of pursuit, for he calculated that Dobson and his friends, even if they had got out, would be busy looking for the truants in the vicinity of the House and would presently be engaged with the old Tower. But he realized, too, that speed on his errand was vital, for at any moment the Unknown might arrive from the sea.
So he kept up a good pace, half-running, half-striding, till they had passed the railway, and he found himself gasping with a stitch in his side, and compelled to rest in the lee of what had once been a sheepfold. Saskia amazed him. She moved over the rough heather like a deer, and it was her hand that helped him across the deeper hags. Before such youth and vigour he felt clumsy and old. She stood looking down at him as he recovered his breath, cool, unruffled, alert as Diana. His mind fled to Heritage, and it occurred to him suddenly that the Poet had set his affections very high. Loyalty drove him to speak for his friend.
“I’ve got the easy job,” he said. “Mr. Heritage will have the whole pack on him in that old Tower, and him with such a sore clout on his head. I’ve left him my pistol. He’s a terrible brave man!”
She smiled.
“Ay, and he’s a poet too.”
“So?” she said. “I did not know. He is very young.”
“He’s a man of very high ideels.”
She puzzled at the word, and then smiled. “He is like many of our young men in Russia, the students — his mind is in a ferment and he does not know what he wants. But he is brave.”
This seemed to Dickson’s loyal soul but a chilly tribute.
“I think he is in love with me,” she continued.
He looked up startled, and saw in her face that which gave him a view into a strange new world. He had thought that women blushed when they talked of love, but he eyes were as grave and candid as a boy’s. Here was one who had gone through waters so deep that she had lost the foibles of sex. Love to her was only a word of ill omen, a threat on the lips of brutes, an extra battalion of peril in an army of perplexities. He felt like some homely rustic who finds himself swept unwittingly into the moonlight hunt of Artemis and her maidens.
“He is a romantic,” she said. “I have known so many like him.”
“He’s no that,” said Dickson shortly. “Why he used to be aye laughing at me for being romantic. He’s one that’s looking for truth and reality, he says, and he’s terrible down on the kind of poetry I like myself.”
She smiled. “They all talk so. But you, my friend Dickson” (she pronounced the name in two staccato syllables ever so prettily), “you are different. Tell me about yourself.”
“I’m just what you see — a middle-aged retired grocer.”
“Grocer?” she queried. “Ah, yes, épicier. But you are a very remarkable épicier. Mr. Heritage I understand, but you and those little boys — no. I am sure of one thing — you are not a romantic. You are too humorous and — and — I think you are like Ulysses, for it would not be easy to defeat you.”
Her eyes were kind, nay affectionate, and Dickson experienced a preposterous rapture in his soul, followed by a sinking, as he realized how far the job was still from being completed.
“We must be getting on, Mem,” he said hastily, and the two plunged again into the heather.
The Ayr road was crossed, and the fir wood around the Mains became visible, and presently the white gates of the entrance. A wind-blown spire of smoke beyond the trees proclaimed that the house was not untenanted. As they entered the drive the Scots firs were tossing in the gale, which blew fiercely at this altitude, but, the dwelling itself being more in the hollow, the daffodil clumps on the lawn were but mildly fluttered.
The door was opened by a one-armed butler who bore all the marks of the old regular soldier. Dickson produced a card and asked to see his master on urgent business. Sir Archibald was at home, he was told, and had just finished breakfast. The two were led into a large bare chamber which had all the chill and mustiness of a bachelor’s drawing-room. The butler returned, and said Sir Archibald would see him. “I’d better go myself first and prepare the way, Mem,” Dickson whispered, and followed the man across the hall.
He found himself ushered into a fair-sized room where a bright fire was burning. On a table lay the remains of breakfast, and the odour of food mingled pleasantly with the scent of peat. The horns and heads of big game, foxes’ masks, the model of a gigantic salmon, and several bookcases adorned the walls, and books and maps were mixed with decanters and cigar-boxes on the long sideboard. After the wild out of doors the place seemed the very shrine of comfort. A young man sat in an arm-chair by the fire with a leg on a stool; he was smoking a pipe, and reading the Field, and on another stool at his elbow was a pile of new novels. He was a pleasant brown-faced young man, with remarkably smooth hair and a roving humorous eye.
“Come in, Mr. McCunn. Very glad to see you. If, as I take it, you’re the grocer, you’re a household name in these parts. I get all my supplies from you, and I’ve just been makin’ inroads on one of your divine hams. Now, what can I do for you?”
“I’m very proud to hear what you say, Sir Archibald. But I’ve not come on business. I’ve come with the queerest story you ever heard in your life and I’ve come to ask your help.”
“Go ahead. A good story is just what I want this vile mornin’.”
“I’m not here alone. I’ve a lady with me.”
“God bless my soul! A lady!”
“Ay, a princess. She’s in the next room.”
The young man looked wildly at him and waved the book he had been reading.
“Excuse me, Mr. McCunn, but are you quite sober? I beg your pardon. I see you are. But you know, it isn’t done. Prince
sses don’t as a rule come here after breakfast to pass the time of day. It’s more absurd than this shocker I’ve been readin’.”
“All the same it’s a fact. She’ll tell you the story herself, and you’ll believe her quick enough. But to prepare your mind I’ll just give you a sketch of the events of the last few days.”
Before the sketch was concluded the young man had violently rung the bell. “Sime,” he shouted to the servant, “clear away this mess and lay the table again. Order more breakfast, all the breakfast you can get. Open the windows and get the tobacco smoke out of the air. Tidy up the place for there’s a lady comin’. Quick, you juggins!”
He was on his feet now, and, with his arm in Dickson’s, was heading for the door.
“My sainted aunt! And you topped off with pottin’ at the factor. I’ve seen a few things in my day, but I’m blessed if I ever met a bird like you!”
CHAPTER 11. GRAVITY OUT OF BED
It is probable that Sir Archibald Roylance did not altogether believe Dickson’s tale; it may be that he considered him an agreeable romancer, or a little mad, or no more than a relief to the tedium of a wet Sunday morning. But his incredulity did not survive one glance at Saskia as she stood in that bleak drawing-room among Victorian water-colours and faded chintzes. The young man’s boyishness deserted him. He stopped short in his tracks, and made a profound and awkward bow. “I am at your service, Mademoiselle,” he said, amazed at himself. The words seemed to have come out of a confused memory of plays and novels.
She inclined her head — a little on one side, and looked towards Dickson.
“Sir Archibald’s going to do his best for us,” said that squire of dames. “I was telling him that we had had our breakfast.”
“Let’s get out of this sepulchre,” said their host, who was recovering himself. “There’s a roasting fire in my den. Of course you’ll have something to eat — hot coffee, anyhow — I’ve trained my cook to make coffee like a Frenchwoman. The housekeeper will take charge of you, if you want to tidy up, and you must excuse our ramshackle ways, please. I don’t believe there’s ever been a lady in this house before, you know.”
He led her to the smoking-room and ensconced her in the great chair by the fire. Smilingly she refused a series of offers which ranged from a sheepskin mantle which he had got in the Pamirs and which he thought might fit her, to hot whisky and water as a specific against a chill. But she accepted a pair of slippers and deftly kicked off the brogues provided by Mrs. Morran. Also, while Dickson started rapaciously on a second breakfast, she allowed him to pour her out a cup of coffee.
“You are a soldier?” she asked.
“Two years infantry — 5th Battalion Lennox Highlanders, and then Flying Corps. Top-hole time I had too till the day before the Armistice, when my luck gave out and I took a nasty toss. Consequently I’m not as fast on my legs now as I’d like to be.”
“You were a friend of Captain Kennedy?”
“His oldest. We were at the same private school, and he was at m’tutors, and we were never much separated till he went abroad to cram for the Diplomatic and I started east to shoot things.”
“Then I will tell you what I told Captain Kennedy.” Saskia, looking into the heart of the peats, began the story of which we have already heard a version, but she told it differently, for she was telling it to one who more or less belonged to her own world. She mentioned names at which the other nodded. She spoke of a certain Paul Abreskov. “I heard of him at Bokhara in 1912,” said Sir Archie, and his face grew solemn. Sometimes she lapsed into French, and her hearer’s brow wrinkled, but he appeared to follow. When she had finished he drew a long breath.
“My aunt! What a time you’ve been through! I’ve seen pluck in my day, but yours! It’s not thinkable. D’you mind if I ask a question, Princess? Bolshevism we know all about, and I admit Trotsky and his friends are a pretty effective push; but how on earth have they got a world-wide graft going in the time so that they can stretch their net to an out-of-the-way spot like this? It looks as if they had struck a Napoleon somewhere.”
“You do not understand,” she said. “I cannot make any one understand — except a Russian. My country has been broken to pieces, and there is no law in it; therefore it is a nursery of crime. So would England be, or France, if you had suffered the same misfortunes. My people are not wickeder than others, but for the moment they are sick and have no strength. As for the government of the Bolsheviki it matters little, for it will pass. Some parts of it may remain, but it is a government of the sick and fevered, and cannot endure in health. Lenin may be a good man — I do not think so, but I do not know — but if he were an archangel he could not alter things. Russia is mortally sick and therefore all evil is unchained, and the criminals have no one to check them. There is crime everywhere in the world, and the unfettered crime in Russia is so powerful that it stretches its hand to crime throughout the globe and there is a great mobilizing everywhere of wicked men. Once you boasted that law was international and that the police in one land worked with the police of all others. To-day that is true about criminals. After a war evil passions are loosed, and, since Russia is broken, in her they can make their headquarters... It is not Bolshevism, the theory, you need fear, for that is a weak and dying thing. It is crime, which to-day finds its seat in my country, but is not only Russian. It has no fatherland. It is as old as human nature and as wide as the earth.”
“I see,” said Sir Archie. “Gad, here have I been vegetatin’ and thinkin’ that all excitement had gone out of life with the war, and sometimes even regrettin’ that the beastly old thing was over, and all the while the world fairly hummin’ with interest. And Loudon too!”
“I would like your candid opinion on yon factor, Sir Archibald,” said Dickson.
“I can’t say I ever liked him, and I’ve once or twice had a row with him, for used to bring his pals to shoot over Dalquharter and he didn’t quite play the game by me. But I know dashed little about him, for I’ve been a lot away. Bit hairy about the heels, of course. A great figure at local race-meetin’s, and used to toady old Carforth and the huntin’ crowd. He has a pretty big reputation as a sharp lawyer and some of the thick-headed lairds swear by him, but Quentin never could stick him. It’s quite likely he’s been gettin’ into Queer Street, for he was always speculatin’ in horseflesh, and I fancy he plunged a bit on the Turf. But I can’t think how he got mixed up in this show.”
“I’m positive Dobson’s his brother.”
“And put this business in his way. That would explain it all right... He must be runnin’ for pretty big stakes, for that kind of lad don’t dabble in crime for six-and-eightpence... Now for the layout. You’ve got three men shut up in Dalquharter House, who by this time have probably escaped. One of you — what’s his name? — Heritage? — is in the old Tower, and you think that they think the Princess is still there and will sit round the place like terriers. Sometime to-day the Danish brig wall arrive with reinforcements, and then there will be a hefty fight. Well, the first thing to be done it to get rid of Loudon’s stymie with the authorities. Princess, I’m going to carry you off in my car to the Chief Constable. The second thing is for you after that to stay on here. It’s a deadly place on a wet day, but it’s safe enough.”
Saskia shook her head and Dickson spoke for her.
“You’ll no’ get her to stop here. I’ve done my best, but she’s determined to be back at Dalquharter. You see she’s expecting a friend, and besides, if here’s going to be a battle she’d like to be in it. Is that so, Mem?”
Sir Archie looked helplessly around him, and the sight of the girl’s face convinced him that argument would be fruitless. “Anyhow she must come with me to the Chief Constable. Lethington’s a slow bird on the wing, and I don’t see myself convincin’ him that he must get busy unless I can produce the Princess. Even then it may be a tough job, for it’s Sunday, and in these parts people go to sleep till Monday mornin’.”
“That’s just wh
at I’m trying to get at,” said Dickson. “By all means go to the Chief Constable, and tell him it’s life or death. My lawyer in Glasgow, Mr. Caw, will have been stirring him up yesterday, and you two should complete the job... But what I’m feared is that he’ll not be in time. As you say, it’s the Sabbath day, and the police are terrible slow. Now any moment that brig may be here, and the trouble will start. I’m wanting to save the Princess, but I’m wanting too to give these blagyirds the roughest handling they ever got in their lives. Therefore I say there’s no time to lose. We’re far ower few to put up a fight, and we want every man you’ve got about this place to hold the fort till the police come.”
Sir Archibald looked upon the earnest flushed face of Dickson with admiration. “I’m blessed if you’re not the most whole-hearted brigand I’ve ever struck.”
“I’m not. I’m just a business man.”
“Do you realize that you’re levying a private war and breaking every law of the land?”
“Hoots!” said Dickson. “I don’t care a docken about the law. I’m for seeing this job through. What force can you produce?”
“Only cripples, I’m afraid. There’s Sime, my butler. He was a Fusilier Jock and, as you saw, has lost an arm. Then McGuffog the keeper is a good man, but he’s still got a Turkish bullet in his thigh. The chauffeur, Carfrae, was in the Yeomanry, and lost half a foot; and there’s myself, as lame as a duck. The herds on the home farm are no good, for one’s seventy and the other is in bed with jaundice. The Mains can produce four men, but they’re rather a job lot.”
“They’ll do fine,” said Dickson heartily. “All sodgers, and no doubt all good shots. Have you plenty guns?”