by John Buchan
“Is that true, Archie?” Lamancha’s voice had a magisterial tone.
“True — as — true. I know all about it, far Wattie Lithgow, who was Jim’s man, is with me now. He and his wife keep house for me at Crask. Jim never took but the one man with him, and that was Wattie, and he made him just about as cunning an old dodger as himself.”
Leithen yawned. “What sort of a place is Crask?” he inquired.
“Tiny little place. No fishin’ except some hill lochs and only rough shootin’. I take it for the birds. Most marvellous nestin’ ground in Britain barrin’ some of the Outer Islands. I don’t know why it should be, but it is. Something to do with the Gulf Stream, maybe. Anyhow, I’ve got the greenshank breedin’ regularly and the red-throated diver, and half a dozen rare duck. It’s a marvellous stoppin’ place in spring too, for birds goin’ north.”
“Are you much there?”
“Generally in April, and always from the middle of August till the middle of October. You see, it’s about the only place I know where you can do exactly as you like. The house is stuck away up on a long slope of moor, and you see the road for a mile from the windows, so you’ve plenty of time to take to the hills if anybody comes to worry you. I roost there with old Sime, my butler, and the two Lithgows, and put up a pal now and then who likes the life. It’s the jolliest bit of the year for me.”
“Have you any neighbours?”
“Heaps, but they don’t trouble me much. Crask’s the earthenware pot among the brazen vessels — mighty hard to get to and nothing to see when you get there. So the brazen vessels keep to themselves.”
Lamancha went to a shelf of books above a writing-table and returned with an atlas. “Who are your brazen vessels?” he asked.
“Well, my brassiest is old Claybody at Haripol — that’s four miles off across the hill.”
“Bit of a swine, isn’t he?” said Leithen.
“Oh, no. He’s rather a good old bird himself. Don’t care so much for his family. Then there’s Glenraden t’other side of the Larrig” — he indicated a point on the map which Lamancha was studying—”with a real old Highland grandee living in it — Alastair Raden — commanded the Scots Guards, I believe, in the year One. Family as old as the Flood and very poor, but just manage to hang on. He’s the last Raden that will live there, but that doesn’t matter so much as he has no son — only a brace of daughters. Then, of course, there’s the show place, Strathlarrig — horrible great house as large as a factory, but wonderful fine salmon-fishin’. Some Americans have got it this year — Boston or Philadelphia, I don’t remember which — very rich and said to be rather high-brow. There’s a son, I believe.”
Lamancha closed the atlas.
“Do you know any of these people, Archie?” he asked.
“Only the Claybody’s — very slightly. I stayed with them in Suffolk for a covert shoot two years ago. The Radens have been to call on me, but I was out. The Bandicotts — that’s the Americans — are new this year.
“Is the sport good?”
“The very best. Haripol is about the steepest and most sportin’ forest in the Highlands, and Glenraden is nearly as good. There’s no forest at Strathlarrig, but, as I’ve told you, amazin’ good salmon fishin’. For a west coast river, I should put the Larrig only second to the Laxford.”
Lamancha consulted the atlas again and appeared to ponder. Then he lifted his head, and his long face, which had a certain heaviness and sullenness in repose, was now lit by a smile which made it handsomer and younger.
“Could you have me at Crask this autumn?” he asked. “My wife has to go to Aix for a cure and I have no plans after the House rises.”
“I should jolly well think so,” cried Archie. “There’s heaps of room in the old house, and I promise you I’ll make you comfortable. Look here, you fellows! Why shouldn’t all three of you come? I can get in a couple of extra maids from Inverlarrig.”
“Excellent idea,” said Lamancha. “But you mustn’t bother about the maids. I’ll bring my own man, and we’ll have a male establishment, except for Mrs. Lithgow... By the way, I suppose you can count on Mrs. Lithgow?”
“How do you mean, ‘count’?” asked Archie, rather puzzled. Then a difficulty struck him. “But wouldn’t you be bored? I can’t show you much in the way of sport, and you’re not naturalists like me. It’s a quiet life, you know.”
“I shouldn’t be bored,” said Lamancha, “I should take steps to prevent it.”
Leithen and Palliser-Yeates seemed to divine his intention, for they simultaneously exclaimed.—”It isn’t fair to excite Archie, Charles,” the latter said. “You know that you’ll never do it.”
“I intend to have a try. Hang it, John, it’s the specific we were talking about — devilish difficult, devilish unpleasant, and calculated to make a man long for a dull life. Of course you two fellows will join me.”
“What on earth are you talkin’ about?” said the mystified Archie. “Join what?”
“We’re proposing to quarter ourselves on you, my lad, and take a leaf out of Jim Tarras’s book.”
Sir Archie first stared, then he laughed nervously, then he called upon his gods, then he laughed freely and long. “Do you really mean it? What an almighty rag!... But hold on a moment. It will be rather awkward for me to take a hand. You see I’ve just been adopted as prospective candidate for that part of the country.”
“So much the better. If you’re found out — which you won’t be — you’ll get the poaching vote solid, and a good deal more. Most men at heart are poachers.”
Archie shook a doubting head. “I don’t know about that. They’re an awfully respectable lot up there, and all those dashed stalkers and keepers and gillies are a sort of trade-union. The scallywags are a hopeless minority. If I get sent to quod—”
“You won’t get sent to quod. At the worst it will be a fine, and you can pay that. What’s the extreme penalty for this kind of offence, Ned?”
“I don’t know,” Leithen answered. “I’m not an authority on Scots law. But Archie’s perfectly right. We can’t go making a public exhibition of ourselves like this. We’re too old to be listening to the chimes at midnight.”
“Now, look here.” Lamancha had shaken off his glumness and was as tense and eager as a schoolboy. “Didn’t your doctor advise you to steal a horse? Well, this is a long sight easier than horse-stealing. It’s admitted that we three want a tonic. On second thoughts Archie had better stand out — he hasn’t our ailment, and a healthy man doesn’t need medicine. But we three need it, and this idea is an inspiration. Of course we take risks, but they’re sound sporting risks. After all, I’ve a reputation of a kind, and I put as much into the pool as anyone.”
His hearers regarded him with stony faces, but this in no way checked his ardour.
“It’s a perfectly first-class chance. A lonely house where you can see visitors a mile off, and an unsociable dog like Archie for a host. We write the letters and receive the answers at a London address. We arrive at Crask by stealth, and stay there unbeknown to the country-side, for Archie can count on his people and my man in a sepulchre. Also we’ve got Lithgow, who played the same game with Jim Tarras. We have a job which will want every bit of our nerve and ingenuity with a reasonable spice of danger — for, of course, if we fail we should cut queer figures. The thing is simply ordained by Heaven for our benefit. Of course you’ll come.”
“I’ll do nothing of the kind,” said Leithen.
“No more will I,” said Palliser-Yeates.
“Then I’ll go alone,” said Lamancha cheerfully. “I’m out for a cure, if you’re not. You’ve a month to make up your mind, and meanwhile a share in the syndicate remains open to you.”
Sir Archie looked as if he wished he had never mentioned the fatal name of Jim Tarras, “I say, you know, Charles,” he began hesitatingly, but was cut short.
“Are you going back on your invitation?” asked Lamancha sternly. “Very well, then, I’ve accepted it,
and what’s more I’m going to draft a specimen letter that will go to your Highland grandee, and Claybody and the American.”
He rose with a bound and fetched a pencil and a sheet of notepaper from the nearest writing-table. “Here goes—”
“Sir, I have the honour to inform you that I propose to kill a stag — or a salmon as the case may be — on your ground between midnight on — and midnight — . We can leave the dates open for the present. The animal, of course, remains your property and will be duly delivered to you. It is a condition that it must be removed wholly outside your bounds. In he event of the undersigned failing to achieve his purpose he will pay as forfeit one hundred pounds, and if successful fifty pounds to any charity you may appoint.
“I have the honour to be, your obedient humble servant.”
“What do you say to that?” he asked. “Formal, a little official, but perfectly civil, and the writer proposes to pay his way like a gentleman. Bound to make a good impression.”
“You’ve forgotten the signature,” Leithen observed dryly.
“It must be signed with a nom de guerre.” He thought for a moment. “I’ve got it. At once business-like and mysterious.”
At the bottom of the draft he scrawled the name “John Macnab.”
CHAPTER 2. DESPERATE CHARACTERS IN COUNCIL
Crask — which is properly Craoisg and is so spelled by the Ordnance Survey — when the traveller approaches it from the Larrig Bridge has the air of a West Highland terrier, couchant and regardant. You are to picture a long tilt of moorland running east and west, not a smooth lawn of heather, but seamed with gullies and patched with bogs and thickets and crowned at the summit with a low line of rocks above which may be seen peeping the spikes of the distant Haripol hills. About three-quarters of the way up the slope stands the little house, whitewashed, slated, grey stone framing the narrow windows, with that attractive jumble of masonry which belongs to an adapted farm. It is approached by a road which scorns detours and runs straight from the glen highway, and it looks south over broken moorland to the shining links of the Larrig, and beyond them to the tributary vale of the Raden and the dark mountains of its source. Such is the view from the house itself, but from the garden behind there is an ampler vista, since to the left a glimpse may be had of the policies of Strathlarrig and even of a corner of that monstrous mansion, and to the right of the tidal waters of the river and the yellow sands on which in the stillest weather the Atlantic frets. Crask is at once a sanctuary and a watchtower; it commands a wide countryside and yet preserves its secrecy, for, though officially approached by a road like a ruler, there are a dozen sheltered ways of reaching it by the dips and crannies of the hill-side.
So thought a man who about five o’clock on the afternoon of the 24th of August was inconspicuously drawing towards it by way of a peat road which ran from the east through a wood of birches. Sir Edward Leithen’s air was not more cheerful than when we met him a month ago, except that there was now a certain vigour in it which came from ill-temper. He had been for a long walk in the rain, and the scent of wet bracken and birches and bog myrtle, the peaty fragrance of the hills salted with the tang of the sea, had failed to comfort, though, not so long ago, it had had the power to intoxicate. Scrambling in the dell of a burn, he had observed both varieties of the filmy fern and what he knew to be a very rare cerast, and, though an ardent botanist, he had observed them unmoved. Soon the rain had passed, the west wind blew aside the cloud- wrack, and the Haripol tops had come out black against a turquoise sky, with Sgurr Dearg, awful and remote, towering above all. Though a keen mountaineer, the spectacle had neither exhilarated nor tantalised him. He was in a bad temper, and he knew that at Crask he should find three other men in the same case, for even the debonair Sir Archie was in the dumps with a toothache.
He told himself that he had come on a fool’s errand, and the extra absurdity was that he could not quite see how he had been induced to come. He had consistently refused: so had Palliser-Yeates; Archie as a prospective host had been halting and nervous; there was even a time when Lamancha, the source of all the mischief, had seemed to waver. Nevertheless, some occult force — false shame probably — had shepherded them all here, unwilling, unconvinced, cold-footed, destined to a preposterous adventure for which not one of them had the slightest zest... Yet they had taken immense pains to arrange the thing, just as if they were all exulting in the prospect. His own clerk was to attend to the forwarding of their letters including any which might be addressed to “John Macnab.”
The newspapers had contained paragraphs announcing that the Countess of Lamancha had gone to Aix for a month, where she would presently be joined by her husband, who intended to spend a week drinking the waters before proceeding to his grouse-moor of Leriot on the Borders. The Times, three days ago, had recorded Sir Edward Leithen and Mr John Palliser-Yeates as among those who had left Euston for Edinburgh, and more than one social paragrapher had mentioned that the ex-Attorney-General would be spending his holiday fishing on the Tay, while the eminent banker was to the be the guest of the Chancellor of the Exchequer at an informal vacation conference on the nation’s precarious finances. Lamancha had been fetched under cover of night by Archie from a station so remote that no one but a lunatic would think of using it. Palliser- Yeates had tramped for two days across the hills from the south, and Leithen himself, having been instructed to bring a Ford car, had had a miserable drive of a hundred and fifty miles in the rain, during which he had repeatedly lost his way. He had carried out his injunctions as to secrecy by arriving at two in the morning by means of this very peat road. The troops had achieved their silent concentration, and the silly business must now begin. Leithen groaned, and anathematised the memory of Jim Tarras.
As he approached the house he saw, to his amazement, a large closed car making its way down the slope. Putting his glass on it, he watched it reach the glen road and then turn east, passing the gates of Strathlarrig, till he lost it behind a shoulder of hill. Hurrying across the stable-yard, he entered the house by the back-door, disturbing Lithgow the Keeper in the midst of a whispered confabulation with Lamancha’s man, whose name was Shapp. Passing through the gun-room he found, in the big smoking-room which looked over the valley, Lamancha and Palliser-Yeates with the crouch of conspirators flattening their noses on the windowpane.
The sight of him diverted the attention of the two from the landscape.
“This is an infernal plant,” Palliser-Yeates exclaimed. “Archie swore to us that no one ever came here, and the second day a confounded great car arrives. Charles and I had just time to nip in here and lock the door, while Archie parleyed with them. He’s been uncommon quick about it. The brutes didn’t stay for more than five minutes.”
“Who were they?” Leithen asked.
“Only got a side glance at them. They seemed to be a stout woman and a girl — oh, and a yelping little dog. I expect Archie kicked him, for he was giving tongue from the drawing-room.”
The door opened to admit their host, who bore in one hand a large whisky- and-soda. He dropped wearily into a chair, where he sipped the beverage. An observer might have noted that what could be seen of his wholesome face was much inflamed, and that a bandage round chin and cheeks which ended in a top- knot above his scalp gave him the appearance of Ricquet with the Tuft in the Fairytale.
“That’s all right,” he said, in the tone of a man who has done a good piece of work. “I’ve choked off visitors at Crask for a bit, for the old lady will put it all round the country-side.”
“Put what?” said Leithen, and “Who is the old lady?” asked Lamancha, and “Did you kick the dog?” demanded Palliser-Yeates.
Archie looked drearily at his friends. “It was Lady Claybody and a daughter — I think the second one — and their horrid little dog. They won’t come back in a hurry — nobody will come back — I’m marked down as a pariah. Hang it, I may as well chuck my candidature. I’ve scuppered my prospects for the sake of you three asses.”
“What has the blessed martyr been and done?” asked Palliser-Yeates.
“I’ve put a barrage round this place, that’s all. I was very civil to the Claybodys, though I felt a pretty fair guy with my head in a sling. I bustled about, talking nonsense and offerin’ tea, and then, as luck would have it, I trod on the hound. That’s the worst of my game leg. The brute nearly had me over, and it started howlin’ — you must have heard it. That dog’s a bit weak in the head, for it can’t help barkin’ just out of pure cussedness — Lady Claybody says it’s high-strung because of its fine breedin’. It got something to bark for this time, and the old woman had it in her arms fondlin’ it and lookin’ very old-fashioned at me. It seems the beast’s name is Roguie and she called it her darlin’ Wee Roguie, for she’s pickin’ up a bit of Scots since she came to live in these parts... Lucky Mackenzie wasn’t at home. He’d have eaten it... Well, after that things settled down, and I was just goin’ to order tea, when it occurred to the daughter to ask what was wrong with my face. Then I had an inspiration.”
Archie paused and smiled sourly.
“I said I didn’t know, but I feared I might be sickenin’ for small-pox. I hinted that my face was a horrid sight under the bandage.”
“Good for you, Archie,” said Lamancha. “What happened then?”
“They bolted — fairly ran for it. They did record time into their car — scarcely stopped to say goodbye. I suppose you realise what I’ve done, you fellows. The natives here are scared to death of infectious diseases, and if we hadn’t our own people we wouldn’t have a servant left in the house. The story will be all over the country-side in two days, and my only fear is that it may bring some medical officer of health nosin’ round ... Anyhow, it will choke off visitors.”