by John Buchan
The front yielded him nothing. But at the flanking tower which he had first approached he got a glimmer of hope. There was a fire escape which had been allowed to fall into disrepair, but which was certainly still climbable. The question was would it give access to the ledge below the window? He thought that it might, and started to ascend.
Many of the rungs were rotten, and he had to move with extreme caution; indeed, at one moment he feared that the whole contraption would break loose from the wall. Now his early training proved its worth, for he was without a suspicion of vertigo, and could look down unmoved from any height. The fire-escape led up to the third story, and he found that by stepping to his left he could stand on the sill of a narrow window in the gap between the tower and the main façade. He got his hands on the ledge and to his relief found it broader than he had hoped — at least a foot and a half of hard stone. The difficulty would be to draw himself up on to it.
He achieved this, not without some tremor of the heart, for a foot and a half is not much of a landing-place. Very cautiously he laid himself along it, and then slowly raised himself to his feet. By turning his head he had a glimpse of a great swimming landscape running out into blue distances — he did not look twice, for even his cool head grew a little giddy at the sight. With his face to the wall of the castle he began to side-step along the ledge.
It proved far simpler than he had feared, for the stone was firm. He passed window after window, all closed and shuttered, till his heart began to sink. Had he blundered after all? Surely the window he had marked had been the fifth from the right. . . . And then he came to one which, as he approached it, seemed suddenly to move. A hand was lifting the lower sash, and an old face looked out into the sunlight.
Jaikie took a firm grip of the inner sill, for he felt that anything might happen, and the terrace was a long way below. “Prince Odalchini,” he said, “I’ve come back.”
The old face scarcely changed. Its eyes peered and blinked a little at the uncouth figure which seemed to be hanging in air.
“I’m Galt,” said the figure. “Do you mind me coming in?”
“Ah, yes — Mr Galt,” said the voice. “Certainly come in. You are very welcome. I do not think anyone has attempted that ledge since for a bet I did it as a boy. But my effort was limited to the traverse between two windows. You have come all the way from the North Tower! Magnificent! You will desire, I think, some refreshment.”
Dickson McCunn sat in a deep armchair sipping a mammoth cup of tea. Prince Odalchini had offered every kind of refreshment, but it had taken time to dig the old housekeeper and the older butler out of the cavernous lower regions, and indeed Janet and Alison had had to descend themselves and help to make tea. All seven were now sitting in the Prince’s cabinet, and for the last quarter of an hour the conversation had been chiefly an examination of Jaikie by the Prince and Randal Glynde. Dickson listened with only half an ear, for Jaikie was confirming what they already knew. He was more intent on savouring the full strangeness of this experience.
Two days ago he had been an ordinary convalescent at a German kurhaus, on the eve of returning to the homely delights of Blaweary. Now he found himself inside an old stone palace which was in a state of siege, a palace which he had entered like a rat through mysterious cellars. His mind kept casting back to the spring morning nine — or was it ten? — years ago, when, being freed for ever from the routine of business, he had set out on a walking-tour, and had found himself in another great house among desperate folk. He remembered his tremors and hesitations, and that final resolve which he had never regretted, which indeed had been the foundation of all his recent happiness. Was he destined to face another crisis? Looking back, it seemed to him that everything had been predestined. He had left the shop and set out on his travels because he was needed at Huntingtower. Had Providence decreed that Dr Christoph should give him back his health simply that he should come here?
Dickson felt solemn. He had that Calvinistic belief in the guidance of Allah which is stronger than any Moslem’s, and he had also the perpetual expectation of the bigoted romantic. . . . But he was getting an old man, too old for cantrips. His eye fell upon Prince Odalchini, who was also old, though he seemed to have grown considerably younger in the past half-hour. He felt that he had misjudged the Prince; his face was shrewder than he had thought, and he seemed to be talking with authority. Jaikie, too. Dickson was not following the talk, but Jaikie’s gravity was impressive, and the rest were listening to him eagerly. He felt a sudden uprush of pride in Jaikie. He was a different being now from the pallid urchin of Huntingtower, who had wept bitterly when he was getting dangerous.
His eyes roamed round the walls, taking in a square of old tapestry, and a line of dark kit-kat portraits. The window showed a patch of golden evening sky. The light caught Alison’s hair, and he began to wonder about her and Jaikie. Would they ever be man and wife? It would be a queer match between long descent and no descent at all — but it was a queer world, and nothing could be queerer than this place. Janet and Archie belonged to a familiar sphere, but Mr Glynde was like nothing so much as the Pied Piper of Hamelin. What was he, Dickson McCunn, doing among such outlandish folk? Dougal had said that they wanted his advice; but he felt as impotent as Thomas the Rhymer no doubt felt when he was consulted on the internal affairs of Fairyland. . . . Still, common sense was the same all the world over. But what if common sense was not wanted here, but some desperate quality of rashness, some insane adventurousness? He wished he were twenty years younger, for he remembered Prince John. He was sworn to do his best for the exiled monarch, and that very morning with a break in his voice he had renewed the pledge to the chauffeur McTavish.
By this time he was coming out of his dreams, and hearing something of the conversation. As he finished his tea Jaikie was putting the heart of his problem in staccato sentences, and Prince Odalchini and Mr Glynde with gloomy faces were nodding their assent. Something in the words stirred a reminiscence. . . .
“I mind,” said Dickson out of the depths of his chair.
It was the first time he had spoken, and the others turned to him, so that he felt a little embarrassed.
“I mind,” he said, “when Jimmy Turnbull was running for Lord Provost of Glasgow. He was well liked and far the best man for the job, but the feck of the Town Council didn’t fancy his backers, and if it had come to the vote Jimmy would have been beat. So Tam Dickson — he was my own cousin and was Baillie then and afterwards Lord Provost himself — Tam was the wily one and jerked his brains to think of a way out. What he did was this. He got Jimmy’s friends to drop Jimmy and put up one David Duthie, who was a blethering body that was never out of the papers. He had a sore job persuading them, he told me, but he managed it in the end. The consequence was that the very men that were opposed to Jimmy’s backers, now that he was quit of them, took up Jimmy, and since they were a majority of the Council he was triumphantly elected.”
Dickson’s apologue was received with blank faces by the others, with the exception of Randal Glynde. Into that gentleman’s eyes came a sudden comprehending interest, and Dickson saw it and was encouraged. His own mind was awaking to a certain clearness.
“If Prince John didn’t exist,” he asked, “is there anybody else the Monarchists could put up?”
“There is no one,” said Prince Odalchini sadly. “There is, of course, his uncle, the late king’s brother, the Archduke Hadrian, but he is impossible.”
“Tell us about the Archduke,” said Dickson.
“He is an old man, and very frail. He has not been in Evallonia for many years, and even his name is scarcely remembered. He is believed to be one of the greatest living numismatologists, and he has given his life to his hobby. I alone of the Evallonian nobility have kept in touch with him, and it was only yesterday that I had a letter from his secretary. His Royal Highness is a bachelor, and for long has lived in a chateau in France near Chantilly, scarcely going beyond his park walls. He is as strict a recluse a
s any mediæval hermit. Now he is bedridden, and I fear cannot have many months to live.”
Prince Odalchini rose, opened a cabinet, and took out a photograph.
“That is His Royal Highness, taken two years ago at my request, for I desired to have a memento of him. In my youth he was kind to me.”
He handed it to Dickson, who studied it carefully. It showed a man not unlike Mr Pickwick or the great Cavour, with a round face, large innocent eyes, and grey hair thinning on the temples — a man of perhaps seventy years, but, so far as could be judged from the photograph, still chubby and fresh-complexioned. It was passed round the company. Janet and Archie scarcely glanced at it, but Mr Glynde looked at it and then looked at Dickson, and his brow furrowed. Jaikie did the same, and when it came to Alison she cried out—”Why, Dickson, it might be you, if your hair was greyer.”
“I was just thinking that,” was the answer. Dickson retrieved the photograph and studied it again.
“What size of a man is he?” he asked. His clearness of mind was becoming acid.
“Shortish, about your own height,” said the Prince.
“Umphm! Now what hinders you to do the same with the Archduke as my cousin Tam Dickson did with David Duthie? Jaikie says that Juventus would be for Prince John but for you and your friends. Well, if you run the Archduke, they’ll take up Prince John, and since you tell me they’ll have the upper hand of you, they’ll put Prince John on the throne. D’you see what I mean? It’s surely common sense.”
This speech had a considerable effect on the others. Archie laughed idiotically, and Mr Glynde found it impossible to remain seated. But Prince Odalchini only shook his head.
“Ingenious,” he said, “but impossible. His Royal Highness is old and frail and bedridden. He would not consent, and even if he consented, he would be dead before he reached Evallonia.”
Dickson’s mind was moving by leaps to a supreme boldness.
“What for should he come near Evallonia? He need never leave his chateau, and indeed the closer he lies there the better. It’s not his person, but his name that you want. . . . See here, Prince. You say that nobody in Evallonia knows him, and few have ever seen him, but that there’s a general notion of what he looks like. Can you persuade your friends to change their minds about Prince John and declare for the Archduke as the older and wiser man and more suited for this crisis? If you do that, and put him or something like him on the throne, Juventus will come along in a week and fling him out and set up Prince John, and then you’ll all be happy together.”
The company was staring at him open-mouthed and wide-eyed, all except Prince Odalchini, who seemed inclined to be cross.
“But I tell you we cannot get His Royal Highness,” he said.
“I said ‘or something like him,’” was Dickson’s answer. His mind was now as limpid as an April morning.
“What on earth do you mean?”
“I mean somebody you can pass off as the Archduke.”
“And where shall we find him?” The Prince’s tone was ironical.
“What about myself?” said Dickson.
For an instant there was utter silence.
Prince Odalchini’s face showed a range of strong emotions, anger, perplexity, incredulity and then something that was almost hope. When he spoke, his words were inadequate to his feelings. “Are you mad?” he asked.
“‘Deed I’m not. I came here as a business man to give you my advice, and there it is. It’s a perfectly simple proposition, and there’s just the one answer. By the mercy of God I’m reasonably like the old man, though I’m a good deal younger, and anyway there is nobody to tell the differ. I’m willing to take the chance, though I suppose it will be high treason if I’m grippit, for I’m not going back on my word to Prince John. I’ll see yon lad with his hinder parts on the throne before I leave Evallonia, or my name’s not Dickson McCunn.”
“You realise that you would be running tremendous risks?”
“Ugh, ay, but I’ve taken risks before this. The only thing I stipulate is that I’m not left too long on the throne, for I wouldn’t be up to the job. I might manage a week before I went skelping across the frontier — but not more.”
Prince Odalchini’s expression had changed. There was now respect in it, and excitement, and a twitching humour.
“I think you are the boldest man I have ever met,” he said.
“Never heed that,” said Dickson. “My knees will likely be knocking together before I’ve done. What I want to know is, can you persuade the rest of your lot, Muresco particularly, to agree to this plan?”
The Prince considered. “It may be difficult, but I think it can be done. After all, it is the only way.”
“And can you upset the Republic and set up the Archduke?”
“Beyond doubt. For a little while — that is to say.”
“Last and most important, can Juventus be persuaded to accept Prince John?”
It was Jaikie who answered.
“I believe they could. Count Paul would jump at him, and so would the rank-and-file. I don’t know about the other leaders. There’s a woman who matters a good deal.”
“Prince John must marry her then. That’s all. We’re desperate folk and we’re not going to stick at trifles.” Dickson was in that mood of excited authority which always with him followed the taking of a great resolution. “But, Jaikie, it’s terrible important that, if I get that far, Juventus must force me to abdicate in a week — I couldn’t manage longer. It would be an awful business if at my time of life I was kept cocked up on a throne I didn’t want. There’s just the one job for you, and that’s to manage Juventus, and, mind, I’ve trusted you often and never known you fail. Away with you back to your camp, for there’s no time to lose.”
“We dine in half an hour,” said Prince Odalchini.
“Well, let’s get pencil and paper and work out the details.”
But they did not immediately get to business, for Alison rose and ceremoniously embraced Mr McCunn. Her kiss was like that of Saskia’s years before in the house of Huntingtower; it loosed a force of unknown velocity upon the world.
The twilight had fallen when Jaikie emerged from one of the terrace doors, which was promptly locked behind him. He proposed to return the way he had come and surrender himself to Ivar. After that he and Ashie must hold high converse. He had a task before him of immense difficulty and his head was already humming with plans. But Dickson’s certainty had given him hope, and he thanked his stars that he had not gone home, for now he was in the kind of adventure he had dreamed of, and his comrades were the people he loved best in the world. This was his notion of happiness.
He must hurry, if he was not to miss Ivar, so he short-circuited his route, by dropping from the successive terrace walls instead of going round by the stairways. . . . At the last of them he found that he had dropped into a human embrace which was strict and powerful, but not friendly.
His instinct of the afternoon had been right. Others besides himself had been lurking among the paths and statues of the terraces.
CHAPTER VIII. SPLENDIDE MENDAX
Jaikie’s captors, whoever they were, meant business. Before the sack was slipped over his head a cloth, sticky and sweet-smelling, was twisted round his mouth. He was vaguely aware of struggling against an immense suffocating eiderdown, and that was his last conscious moment for perhaps ten minutes. These minutes should have been hours if the intentions of his ill-wishers had been fulfilled. But in Jaikie they had struck a being oddly constituted. Just as it was nearly impossible to make him drunk, so he was notably insensitive to other forms of dope. Had he ever had to face a major operation, the anæsthetist would have had a difficult time with him. Moreover, his nose had come into contact with something hard and was bleeding copiously, which may have counteracted the stuff on the bandage. The consequence was that he presently regained his senses, and found himself in a position of intense bodily discomfort. He was being borne swiftly along by persons who treated him
with no more respect than as if he were a bundle of faggots.
He was a good deal frightened, but his anger was greater than his fright, and it was directed against himself. For the third time within a week he had stumbled blindly into captivity — first Ashie, then Ivar that very day, and now some enemy unknown. What had become of the caution on which he had prided himself? He had been an easy victim, because he had had no thought for anything but the immediate future, and had not recognised that he had been walking among hidden fires. He reproached himself bitterly. Ashie had trusted him, Prince Odalchini had trusted him, and he had proved himself only a blundering child. What especially rankled was that he must break his pledge to Ivar. That dutiful youth would be looking for him near the boundary of the park, and would set him down as a common liar.
Indignation, especially against one’s self, is a wonderful antidote to fear. It also tends to sharpen the wits. Jaikie, with a horrid crick in his neck and a back aching from rough treatment, began to think hard and fast. Who was responsible for this outrage? Certainly not Prince Odalchini or anyone connected with the House of the Four Winds. Not Juventus. Ivar was the only Greenshirt who knew of his visit to the castle, and Ivar was too much of a gentleman to resort to these brigand tricks. So far his conclusions were clear, but they were only negative. Who would want to capture him? Somebody who knew about his new job? — But the only people in the secret were his friends in the castle. Somebody who had a grudge against Prince Odalchini? — But that could only be Juventus, and he had ruled Juventus out. Somebody who had a grievance against himself? — But he was a humble stranger unknown in Evallonia. Somebody who hated Juventus and the Prince alike and who suspected him as a liaison between them? — Now, who filled that bill? Only the present Republican Government in Evallonia. But all his information was to the effect that that Government was shaking in its shoes, and that its members were making their best speed to the frontier. They could have neither leisure nor inclination to spy thus effectively on a castle at whose gates the myrmidons of Juventus were sitting.