Dr. Sam Johnson, Detector

by Lillian de la Torre

  “Me,” said Charles, and laughed to the echo. “What a gawk of a female I made. Old Kingsburgh lost all patience with me. ‘They call you a Pretender,’ says he as I fell over my skirts, ‘all I can say is that you are the worst at your trade I ever saw.’”

  “My father was a staunch man,” said Margaret softly. “When the Prince had got clean away, we begged him to save himself. ‘I’ll bide,’ says he. ‘I’m an old man, and may as well hang as die in my bed; and besides, who will light the great house if I take to the heather?’; and he stayed by the forms till they came from Fort Augustus and took him away.”

  “I wish,” said Allan Macdonald, “that my father could have lived to see this day.”

  “So do I too,” said Charles Stuart, “he was kind and staunch.”

  “And,” added Kingsburgh, “he could have laid your ruby in your hand without ado.”

  “Have no concern,” said I, “Dr. Johnson will lay the ruby in your hand before the night is through.”

  “I must find it first,” said my venerable friend. “Pray, sir, let us hear more of how the gem came to Kingsburgh.”

  “It came through my agency,” said Flora Macdonald. “I will tell you the story. ’Twas in June of ’46 that word came to me at my brother’s on South Uist, that he for whom we all prayed was hiding in the mountains, and desired my aid to pass over into Skye. We met at Milton by night, and a plan was concerted between us.”

  “I remember that night,” said the royal Stuart, “we met in the byre at Milton. ’Twas black dark; but I remember a soft hand, and a low voice, and a steadfast courage.”

  “Lady Clanranald got us a boat; but before we could go off,” said Flora Macdonald, “the militia had taken me up and brought me on suspicion before the commanding officer.”

  “Alack,” I exclaimed, “how was this remedied?”

  “The officer,” replied Flora, “was my mother’s second husband, and well-affected in secret. He gave me a pass—” she went to the writing-desk—“to carry us all safe into Skye.”

  She handed my companion a yellowing slip of paper. It was superscribed: “To Mistress Macdonald in the Island of Skye.” Dr. Johnson read out the crabbed lines:

  “I have sent your daughter from this country lest she should be frightened with the troops lying here. She has got one Betty Burke, an Irish girl, who, as she tells me, is a good spinster. If her spinning pleases you, you may keep her till she spins all your lint; or if you have any wool to spin, you may employ her. I have sent Neil Mackechan along with your daughter and Betty Burke to take care of them.”

  “A good spinster!” cried Charles. “O Lud, if I had stayed on Skye till I had spun all the lady’s lint, I’d be there yet!”

  “Prince Charlie,” said Flora Macdonald, “in those days and after, was the handsomest man I have ever seen.” The King smiled and pledged her in dumb show.

  “But alack, sir,” went on Flora, and laughed aloud, “in female gear, you were the awkwardest, most impudent jade imaginable, and had us all in terror that you would unfrock yourself before you had made good your escape.”

  “I submit, sir,” said Charles Stuart argumentatively, turning to my venerable friend, “I appeal to your candour, whether any man alive is to be expected to walk from Monkstadt to Kingsburgh, ay and embark in boats and ford burns, clad in a quilted petticoat and an Irish cape with a hood, and still keep his maidenly modesty? ’Tis not in nature, and that’s flat.”

  “Well, sir,” continued Flora Macdonald, “modest or no, we took wherry and rowed for Skye, on a night wild with storm. We were all in fear for our lives, all save the Prince; and he sat high in the stern and sang ballads till the day broke.”

  “I sang,” said Charles meditatively, replenishing his cup, “I sang ‘Gilderoy.’” He sang softly to himself, in a true clear voice:

  “Gilderoy was a bonny boy

  Had roses tull his shoon …”

  “’Twas the worse when day broke,” continued Flora, “for the militia spied us from Waternish, and fired on us; and only that the oars were locked in the guardhouse, the adventure had ended there.”

  “I wished that it had,” said Charles, “when we landed at Kilbride, and I had to spend the day lurking among the rocks. All the gnats on the Hebrides devoted the day to me.”

  “I hastened to Lady Macdonald at Monkstadt,” said Flora, “where I found a great company assembled, among them several officers of the militia. I was happy to see old Kingsburgh. My first thought was to ask after Allan, for I could not hear of him since Culloden. Allan’s father made me glad with the news that he was safe, and absconding in the heather.”

  “Ay,” said Kingsburgh, “lurking in the heather and thinking of you—and you dining with royalty!”

  “Lady Macdonald feared to receive the fugitive,” continued Flora Macdonald, “and my father-in-law volunteered to shelter him at Kingsburgh.”

  “I fared sumptuously in this house,” said Charles Stuart. “There was linen on the table. Lady Kingsburgh sat at my right hand, and Flora Macdonald on my left. I dined well on collops, eggs, butter, and cheese.”

  “And beer,” added Flora. “I remember your toast: ‘The health and prosperity of my landlord and landlady, and better times to us all.’”

  “’Tis still a good toast,” observed the royal guest. “Pray, Miss Macdonald, let us have more of your excellent punch.”

  He raised the replenished glass.

  “To the health and prosperity of my landlord and landlady, and better times to us all.”

  Kingsburgh bowed his acknowledgements. Flora continued with a smile:

  “Then our guest produced his pipe, an old thing as black as ink and worn to the very stump, sulphurous as the Pit—and you may be sure the ladies withdrew on the instant.”

  “’Twas a well-seasoned and deliciously fragrant dudeen,” said Charles Stuart firmly, “and well it served me in my days of absconding. With it, and old Kingsburgh’s famous punch, I comforted myself in talk with my host till nigh on to three. It was then I took the ruby from my bosom and begged him to hide it for me till happier times. He promised; and thus do I know beyond any cavil that the gem is here.”

  “And this transaction passed here, in this room?” enquired Dr. Johnson.

  “Here, in this room,” replied Charles.

  “There’s no hope in that,” said Kingsburgh, “for we have turned out the presses and sounded the walls and pried at the fireplace tiles. We must seek further.”

  “Pray continue your story,” said Dr. Johnson thoughtfully.

  “I slept that night between sheets,” said Charles Stuart, “and never awoke till past noon. Then in came my tirewomen, and inducted me again into the garments of Betty Burke.”

  “How we laughed, to be sure,” said Flora. “The Prince affected to have the vapours. I assure you, ’twas more like epilepsy.”

  “So,” said Charles, “by your fair hands I was garbed and shorn.”

  “Shorn?” I enquired.

  Flora Macdonald opened the locket at her bosom.

  “There was a great whispering in Gaelick,” said Charles with a smile, “and when I enquired what was to do, I learned that Lady Kingsburgh was urging Flora to beg a lock from my devoted head. On the instant I laid it in the lady’s lap, and she made a Samson of me.”

  I looked at the fine curl of light hair with its gleam of red.

  “I have worn it in my bosom ever since.” The blue eyes and the brown met in a moment of silence. Then Charles drew from his sporan a little jewelled snuff-box, turned it thoughtfully in his hand a moment, and then delicately took snuff.

  “Kingsburgh fitted me out,” he went on, “with new shoes and a stout plaid—”

  “My father treasured the old shoes,” said Kingsburgh, “you may see one still in the Prince’s chamber.”

  “And where are the clothes of Betty Burke?”

  “My father burned them that day,” said Margaret Macdonald.

  “The rest is soon t
old,” said the King. “Raasay met me with a boat at Portree, and there I took leave of Flora Macdonald. She gave me a snuff-box for a keepsake—”

  “You have it in your hand,” said Flora softly.

  “I carry it always,” said Charles. “We took leave without words, and the boat was launched.”

  “I watched it out of sight,” said Flora Macdonald.

  “In the end I got clear away,” concluded Charles, “and boarded a French vessel at Lochnanuagh, and so ended the adventure.”

  “And you, ma’am?” enquired Dr. Johnson.

  “They carried me off to London,” said the lady with a smile, “and lodged me in the Tower with the lions; but after a bit they let me out, and I became a lion in my own right for a while, in the drawing-rooms of St. James’s; till at last they tired of me, and so I came away back to the Hebrides and married Allan Macdonald.”

  “And lived happily ever after,” said the tall Highlander with a tender smile.

  “So have not I,” said Charles bitterly, “exile and treachery have been my portion since I left Scotland. But now I look for a better day, when my son will be King of England.”

  “A son,” cried Flora Macdonald joyfully, “you have an heir!”

  “A fine boy,” returned Charles proudly. “The child was born in Italy, but he will be brought up in Scotland. I have committed him secretly to the care of Clanranald. I myself go always in fear of assassination; it shall be otherwise with my child. Let his existence be a secret among us.”

  “It shall be so,” said Dr. Johnson solemnly.

  “It is for this,” said Charles Stuart, “that I must have the ruby. My brother the Cardinal is a wealthy man; he has taken a fancy to reunite the pair. He will give me its value, which shall serve to educate my son. Well, Dr. Johnson—”

  My learned friend was staring into the flame of the candle with an abstracted air, rolling his ponderous frame from side to side. With a start he returned his attention to the royal personage who addressed him.

  “You have looked in our heads, sir,” said Charles Stuart, “can you look in your own and find my ruby?”

  “Sir,” replied Dr. Johnson, “to bring our cerebral search to a happy conclusion, I ask only another bowl of poonch and a song.”

  “Sure this is a merry oracle,” cried Charles in approval.

  Margaret Macdonald brewed the punch, and the royal guest gave us “Gilderoy” with much applause. Still my friend sat with fixed gaze, and Charles Stuart launched into the minor strain of “Lochaber No More.”

  Midway in the song the candle began to flare and sputter. Flora Macdonald reached for the candlestick, but Dr. Johnson stayed her hand. In another moment there was a light click as something fell from old Kingsburgh’s candle into the silver candlestick.

  “Man is the master,” cried Dr. Johnson triumphantly, “by reason of the vision in his head.”

  He handed the candlestick to Charles Stuart. In its base, covered with congealing candle-wax, lay a heavy ring set with a huge stone.

  “Sir,” said Dr. Johnson, “by looking into old Kingsburgh’s head, I have found Mary Stuart’s ruby as I promised.”

  “I am your debtor,” cried Charles. “By what happy conjecture did you produce it so patly, like a stage play or a conjuring trick?”

  “Sir,” replied Dr. Johnson, “this house when I entered it was permeated with your presence. Old Kingsburgh and his family had preserved as sacred reliques the bed in which you slept, the sheets that wrapped you, and the ragged shoes you wore. Flora Macdonald wore in her bosom a lock of your hair. But there was one treasure different from these, and therefore mysterious to me—a candle in the room where you had slept. Why was it an object of special concern? Not because you had used it—it was a new candle, never lit. Not because it had been yours—you could not be thought to have burdened yourself with a wax taper in your dangerous journeys through the Highlands. The King’s candle already had my curious attention before you entered this house, before you laid your problem before me.

  “When we repaired hither, I brought it with me to burn in the King’s presence. By its light I listened to the story of the old days in an indescribable state of apprehension. My climax threatened to become an anticlimax; the old man had set the gem further down in the candle than I had looked for. But at last I saw its shape appearing; and as the wax was consumed it fell and so was revealed.”

  “Pray, Dr. Johnson,” I enquired, “how came you to light upon the candle, and not rather upon old Kingsburgh’s ditty painted upon the wall? I made sure it was his message to us, and if we could but read it aright we should find the ruby by his direction.”

  “So did I too,” confessed Kingsburgh, “for it repeats the word ‘ring’ as if by design. I came nigh to wrecking the wall where the word is painted, but ’tis solid, and has never been breached in my memory.”

  “You might have saved your pains,” said Dr. Johnson. “Old Kingsburgh’s verses were writ before Culloden; how then could they be a guide to the transaction of the ruby, which took place after Culloden? But the old man was pouring candles after the Prince’s visit. No, sir; I have looked in old Kingsburgh’s head as he poured the candles for the great house, and set aside for the King a candle worth £50,000.”

  “Sir,” said Kingsburgh, “we are all in your debt.”

  The dainty mistress of Kingsburgh flung her arms about my astonished friend, and saluted him with a fervent kiss; while Charles Stuart gratefully pressed his hand.

  “Bozzy, Bozzy,” cried he, “this will be something to tell at the Mitre, that I have kissed the lips of Flora Macdonald and pressed the hand of his Majesty King Charles III!”

  “Not so,” replied Charles with his affable smile; “for the sake of my son, this episode must remain a part of secret history.”

  And as such I have respected it; until now the deaths of all the principals, including, alas, that of the last male scion of the House of Stuart, at Ormaclade in the fourth year of his age, sets me free to narrate this romantick episode of our tour to the Hebrides.

  The Stolen Christmas Box

  The disappearance of little Fanny Plumbe’s Christmas box was but a prelude to a greater and more daring theft; and was itself heralded by certain uneasy signs and tokens. Of these was the strange cypher message which Mrs. Thrale intercepted; while I myself was never easy in my mind after seeing the old sailorman with the very particular wooden leg.

  Dr. Sam: Johnson and I passed him on Streatham common as we approached the estate of the Thrales, there to spend our Christmas. He sat on a stone hard by the gates in the unseasonable sunshine, and whittled. He wore the neckerchief and loose pantaloons of a seafaring man. He had a wind-beaten, heavy, lowering face, and a burly, stooped frame. His stump stuck out straight before him, the pantaloon drooping from it. That on which he whittled was his own wooden leg.

  ’Twas a very particular wooden leg. The cradle that accommodated his stump was high-pooped and arabesqued about like a man-of-war’s bow with carvings, upon the embellishment of which he was at the moment engaged. Into the butt was screwed a cylindrical post of about half the bigness of my wrist, turned in a lathe and wickedly shod with iron.

  As the carriage passed him at an easy pace, I stared down upon him. He extended his greasy flapped hat, and my venerable companion dropped into it a gratuity.

  We found the Thrale household pernitious dumpish, for all it was nigh onto Christmas. The tall, silent brew-master Thrale greeted us with his usual cold courtesy, his diminutive rattle of a wife with her usual peacock screeches of delight. Of the party also were Thrale’s grenadier of a sister, a strapping virago born to support the robes of a Lady Mayoress, and well on her way to that honour on the coat-tails of her husband, Alderman Plumbe. Plumbe topped his brother-in-law in height and doubled him in girth. His features were knobby and his temper cholerick. He scowled upon his children, Master Ralph, a lubber of fourteen, and Miss Fanny, a year older.

  Master Ralph was rapidly shooting
to his parents’ height, but unable to keep pace in solidity. He continually closed his short upper lip over his long upper teeth, which as continually protruded again. He bowed and grinned and twisted his wrists in our honour.

  Miss Fanny executed her duty curtsey with downcast eyes. Her person was tall and agreeably rounded, and sensibility played in red and white upon her cheek, playing the while, I own it, on the sensitive strings of my heart. Indeed, I could have been a knight-errant for Miss Fanny, had not I found below-stairs the veriest little witch of a serving-wench, pretty Sally, she who … but I digress.

  Among the company circulated learned Dr. Thomas, the schoolmaster, assiduously pouring oil, as became a clergyman, on waters that were soon revealed to be troubled. Miss Fanny was in a fit of the sullens (’twas of a lover dismissed, I gathered so much), and Mrs. Plumbe was clean out of humour, and the Alderman alternately coaxing and shouting.

  In an ill moment the latter conceived the idea of bribing Miss out of her pouts, and accordingly he fetches out the young lady’s Christmas box, four days too soon, and bestows it upon her then and there; a step which he was bitterly to regret before the week was out.

  “O Lud!” screamed Mrs. Thrale. “O Lud, ’tis a very Canopus!”

  “’Tis indeed,” said Dr. Sam: Johnson, “a star of the first magnitude.”

  ’Twas a handsome jewel, though to my eyes scarce suitable for so young a lady—an intaglio artfully cut, and set with a diamond needlessly great, whether for the brooch or for the childish bosom ’twas designed to adorn.

  “Sure,” screeched Mrs. Thrale in her usual reckless taste, “such a size it is, it cannot be the right gem. Say, is’t not paste?”

  “Paste!” cried the Alderman, purpling to his wattles. “I assure you, ma’am, ’tis a gem of the first water, such that any goldsmith in the city will give you £200 for.”