Huntingtower

by John Buchan

  CHAPTER IV

  DOUGAL

  "You'll do nothing of the kind," said Dickson. "You're coming home toyour supper. It was to be on the chap of nine."

  "I'm going back to that place."

  The man was clearly demented and must be humoured. "Well, you must waittill the morn's morning. It's very near dark now, and those are two uglycustomers wandering about yonder. You'd better sleep the night on it."

  Mr. Heritage seemed to be persuaded. He suffered himself to be led upthe now dusky slopes to the gate where the road from the village ended.He walked listlessly like a man engaged in painful reflection. Once onlyhe broke the silence.

  "You heard the singing?" he asked.

  Dickson was a very poor hand at a lie. "I heard something," he admitted.

  "You heard a girl's voice singing?"

  "It sounded like that," was the admission. "But I'm thinking it mighthave been a seagull."

  "You're a fool," said the Poet rudely.

  The return was a melancholy business, compared to the bright speed ofthe outward journey. Dickson's mind was a chaos of feelings, all of themunpleasant. He had run up against something which he violently, blindlydetested, and the trouble was that he could not tell why. It was allperfectly absurd, for why on earth should an ugly house, some overgrowntrees and a couple of ill-favoured servants so malignly affect him? Yetthis was the fact; he had strayed out of Arcady into a sphere thatfilled him with revolt and a nameless fear. Never in his experience hadhe felt like this, this foolish childish panic which took all the colourand zest out of life. He tried to laugh at himself but failed. Heritage,stumbling alone by his side, effectually crushed his effort to discoverhumour in the situation. Some exhalation from that infernal place haddriven the Poet mad. And then that voice singing! A seagull, he hadsaid. More like a nightingale, he reflected--a bird which in the fleshhe had never met.

  Mrs. Morran had the lamp lit and a fire burning in her cheerful kitchen.The sight of it somewhat restored Dickson's equanimity, and to hissurprise he found that he had an appetite for supper. There was newmilk, thick with cream, and most of the dainties which had appeared attea, supplemented by a noble dish of shimmering "potted-head." Thehostess did not share their meal, being engaged in some duties in thelittle cubby-hole known as the back kitchen.

  Heritage drank a glass of milk but would not touch food.

  "I called this place Paradise four hours ago," he said. "So it is, but Ifancy it is next door to Hell. There is something devilish going oninside that park wall and I mean to get to the bottom of it."

  "Hoots! Nonsense!" Dickson replied with affected cheerfulness."To-morrow you and me will take the road for Auchenlochan. We needn'ttrouble ourselves about an ugly old house and a wheen impidentlodge-keepers."

  "To-morrow I'm going to get inside the place. Don't come unless youlike, but it's no use arguing with me. My mind is made up."

  Heritage cleared a space on the table and spread out a section of alarge-scale Ordnance map.

  "I must clear my head about the topography, the same as if this were abattle-ground. Look here, Dogson.... The road past the inn that we wentby to-night runs north and south." He tore a page from a note-book andproceeded to make a rough sketch.[1]... "One end we know abuts on theLaver glen, and the other stops at the South Lodge. Inside the wallwhich follows the road is a long belt of plantation--mostly beeches andash--then to the west a kind of park, and beyond that the lawns of thehouse. Strips of plantation with avenues between follow the north andsouth sides of the park. On the sea side of the House are the stablesand what looks like a walled garden, and beyond them what seems to beopen ground with an old dovecot marked and the ruins of Huntingtowerkeep. Beyond that there is more open ground, till you come to the cliffsof the cape. Have you got that?... It looks possible from the contouringto get on to the sea cliffs by following the Laver, for all that sideis broken up into ravines.... But look at the other side--the Garpleglen. It's evidently a deep-cut gully, and at the bottom it opens outinto a little harbour. There's deep water there, you observe. Now theHouse on the south side--the Garple side--is built fairly close to theedge of the cliffs. Is that all clear in your head? We can't reconnoitreunless we've got a working notion of the lie of the land."

  [Footnote 1: The reader is referred to the improved version of Mr.Heritage's sketch reproduced as a frontispiece.]

  Dickson was about to protest that he had no intention of reconnoitring,when a hubbub arose in the back kitchen. Mrs. Morran's voice was heardin shrill protest.

  "Ye ill laddie! Eh--ye--ill--laddie! [_crescendo_] Makin' a hash o' myback door wi' your dirty feet! What are ye slinkin' roond here for, whenI tell't ye this mornin' that I wad sell ye nae mair scones till ye paidfor the last lot? Ye're a wheen thievin' hungry callants, and if therewere a polisman in the place I'd gie ye in chairge.... What's that yesay? Ye're no' wantin' meat? Ye want to speak to the gentlemen that'sbidin' here? Ye ken the auld ane, says you? I believe it's a muckle lee,but there's the gentlemen to answer ye theirsels."

  Mrs. Morran, brandishing a dishclout dramatically, flung open the door,and with a vigorous push propelled into the kitchen a singular figure.

  It was a stunted boy, who from his face might have been fifteen yearsold, but had the stature of a child of twelve. He had a thatch of fieryred hair above a pale freckled countenance. His nose was snub, his eyesa sulky grey-green, and his wide mouth disclosed large and damagedteeth. But remarkable as was his visage, his clothing was stillstranger. On his head was the regulation Boy Scout hat, but it wasseveral sizes too big, and was squashed down upon his immense red ears.He wore a very ancient khaki shirt, which had once belonged to afull-grown soldier, and the spacious sleeves were rolled up at theshoulders and tied with string, revealing a pair of skinny arms. Roundhis middle hung what was meant to be a kilt--a kilt of home manufacture,which may once have been a tablecloth, for its bold pattern suggested noknown clan tartan. He had a massive belt, in which was stuck a brokengully-knife, and round his neck was knotted the remnant of what had oncebeen a silk bandana. His legs and feet were bare, blue, scratched, andvery dirty, and his toes had the prehensile look common to monkeys andsmall boys who summer and winter go bootless. In his hand was a longash-pole, new cut from some coppice.

  The apparition stood glum and lowering on the kitchen floor. As Dicksonstared at it he recalled Mearns Street and the band of irregular BoyScouts who paraded to the roll of tin cans. Before him stood Dougal,Chieftain of the Gorbals Die-Hards. Suddenly he remembered thephilanthropic Mackintosh, and his own subscription of ten pounds to thecamp fund. It pleased him to find the rascals here, for in theunpleasant affairs on the verge of which he felt himself they were acomforting reminder of the peace of home.

  "I'm glad to see you, Dougal," he said pleasantly. "How are you allgetting on?" And then, with a vague reminiscence of the Scouts'code--"Have you been minding to perform a good deed every day?"

  The Chieftain's brow darkened.

  "'_Good deeds!_'" he repeated bitterly. "I tell ye I'm fair wore out wi'good deeds. Yon man Mackintosh tell't me this was going to be a grandholiday. Holiday! Govey Dick! It's been like a Setterday night in MainStreet--a' fechtin', fechtin'."

  No collocation of letters could reproduce Dougal's accent, and I willnot attempt it. There was a touch of Irish in it, a spice of music-hallpatter, as well as the odd lilt of the Glasgow vernacular. He was strongin vowels, but the consonants, especially the letter "t," were onlyaspirations.

  "Sit down and let's hear about things," said Dickson.

  The boy turned his head to the still open back door, where Mrs. Morrancould be heard at her labours. He stepped across and shut it. "I'm no'wantin' that auld wife to hear," he said. Then he squatted down on thepatchwork rug by the hearth, and warmed his blue-black shins. Lookinginto the glow of the fire, he observed, "I seen you two up by the BigHoose the night."

  "The devil you did," said Heritage, roused to a sudden attention. "Andwhere were you?"

  "Seven feet
from your head, up a tree. It's my chief hidy-hole, andGosh! I need one, for Lean's after me wi' a gun. He got a shot at metwo days syne."

  Dickson exclaimed, and Dougal with morose pride showed a rent in hiskilt. "If I had had on breeks, he'd ha' got me."

  "Who's Lean?" Heritage asked.

  "The man wi' the black coat. The other--the lame one--they ca' Spittal."

  "How d'you know?"

  "I've listened to them crackin' thegither."

  "But what for did the man want to shoot at you?" asked the scandalisedDickson.

  "What for? Because they're frightened to death o' onybody going neartheir auld Hoose. They're a pair of deevils, worse nor any Red Indian,but for a' that they're sweatin' wi' fright. What for? says you. Becausethey're hidin' a Secret. I knew it as soon as I seen the man Lean'sface. I once seen the same kind o' scoondrel at the Picters. When heopened his mouth to swear, I kenned he was a foreigner, like the ladsdown at the Broomielaw. That looked black, but I hadn't got at the worstof it. Then he loosed off at me wi' his gun."

  "Were you not feared?" said Dickson.

  "Ay, I was feared. But ye'll no' choke off the Gorbals Die-Hards wi' agun. We held a meetin' round the camp fire, and we resolved to get tothe bottom o' the business. Me bein' their Chief, it was my duty to makewhat they ca' a reckonissince, for that was the dangerous job. So a'this day I've been going on my belly about thae policies. I've foundout some queer things."

  Heritage had risen and was staring down at the small squatting figure.

  "What have you found out? Quick. Tell me at once." His voice was sharpand excited.

  "Bide a wee," said the unwinking Dougal. "I'm no' going to let ye intothis business till I ken that ye'll help. It's a far bigger job than Ithought. There's more in it than Lean and Spittal. There's the big manthat keeps the public--Dobson, they ca' him. He's a Namerican, whichlooks bad. And there's two-three tinklers campin' down in the GarpleDean. They're in it, for Dobson was colloguin' wi' them a' mornin'. WhenI seen ye, I thought ye were more o' the gang, till I mindit that one o'ye was auld McCunn that has the shop in Mearns Street. I seen that yedidn't like the look o' Lean, and I followed ye here, for I was thinkin'I needit help."

  Heritage plucked Dougal by the shoulder and lifted him to his feet.

  "For God's sake, boy," he cried, "tell us what you know!"

  "Will ye help?"

  "Of course, you little fool."

  "Then swear," said the ritualist. From a grimy wallet he extracted alimp little volume which proved to be a damaged copy of a work entitled_Sacred Songs and Solos_. "Here! Take that in your right hand and putyour left hand on my pole, and say after me, 'I swear no' to blab whatis telled me in secret and to be swift and sure in obeyin' orders,s'help me God!' Syne kiss the bookie."

  Dickson at first refused, declaring it was all havers, but Heritage'sdocility persuaded him to follow suit. The two were sworn.

  "Now," said Heritage.

  Dougal squatted again on the hearth-rug, and gathered the eyes of hisaudience. He was enjoying himself.

  "This day," he said slowly, "I got inside the Hoose."

  "Stout fellow," said Heritage; "and what did you find there?"

  "I got inside that Hoose, but it wasn't once or twice I tried. I found acorner where I was out o' sight o' anybody unless they had come thereseekin' me, and I sklimmed up a rone pipe, but a' the windies werelockit and I verra near broke my neck. Syne I tried the roof, and a soresklim I had, but when I got there there were no skylights. At the end Igot in by the coal-hole. That's why ye're maybe thinkin' I'm no' veryclean."

  Heritage's patience was nearly exhausted.

  "I don't want to hear how you got in. What did you find, you littledevil?"

  "Inside the Hoose," said Dougal slowly (and there was a melancholy senseof anti-climax in his voice, as of one who had hoped to speak of goldand jewels and armed men)--"inside that Hoose there's nothing but twowomen."

  Heritage sat down before him with a stern face.

  "Describe them," he commanded.

  "One o' them is dead auld, as auld as the wife here. She didn't look tome very right in the head."

  "And the other?"

  "Oh, just a lassie."

  "What was she like?"

  Dougal seemed to be searching for adequate words. "She is ..." he began.Then a popular song gave him inspiration. "She's pure as the lully inthe dell!"

  In no way discomposed by Heritage's fierce interrogatory air, hecontinued: "She's either foreign or English, for she couldn't understandwhat I said, and I could make nothing o' her clippit tongue. But I couldsee she had been greetin'. She looked feared, yet kind o' determined. Ispeired if I could do anything for her, and when she got my meaning shewas terrible anxious to ken if I had seen a man--a big man, she said,wi' a yellow beard. She didn't seem to ken his name, or else shewouldn't tell me. The auld wife was mortal feared, and was aye speakin'in a foreign langwidge. I seen at once that what frightened them wasLean and his friends, and I was just starting to speir about them whenthere came a sound like a man walkin' along the passage. She was forhidin' me in behind a sofy, but I wasn't going to be trapped like that,so I got out by the other door and down the kitchen stairs and into thecoal-hole. Gosh, it was a near thing!"

  The boy was on his feet. "I must be off to the camp to give out theorders for the morn. I'm going back to that Hoose, for it's a fightatween the Gorbals Die-Hards and the scoundrels that are frightenin'thae women. The question is, Are ye comin' with me? Mind, ye've sworn.But if ye're no', I'm going mysel', though I'll no' deny I'd be glad o'company. _You_ anyway----" he added, nodding at Heritage. "Maybe auldMcCunn wouldn't get through the coal-hole."

  "You're an impident laddie," said the outraged Dickson. "It's no' likelywe're coming with you. Breaking into other folks' houses! It's a job forthe police!"

  "Please yersel'," said the Chieftain and looked at Heritage.

  "I'm on," said that gentleman.

  "Well, just you set out the morn as if ye were for a walk up the Garpleglen. I'll be on the road and I'll have orders for ye."

  Without more ado Dougal left by way of the back kitchen. There was abrief denunciation from Mrs. Morran, then the outer door banged and hewas gone.

  The Poet sat still with his head in his hands, while Dickson, acutelyuneasy, prowled about the floor. He had forgotten even to light hispipe.

  "You'll not be thinking of heeding that ragamuffin boy," he ventured.

  "I'm certainly going to get into the House to-morrow," Heritageanswered, "and if he can show me a way so much the better. He's aspirited youth. Do you breed many like him in Glasgow?"

  "Plenty," said Dickson sourly. "See here, Mr. Heritage. You can'texpect me to be going about burgling houses on the word of a blagyirdladdie. I'm a respectable man--aye been. Besides, I'm here for aholiday, and I've no call to be mixing myself up in strangers' affairs."

  "You haven't. Only, you see, I think there's a friend of mine in thatplace, and anyhow there are women in trouble. If you like, we'll saygood-bye after breakfast, and you can continue as if you had neverturned aside to this damned peninsula. But I've got to stay."

  Dickson groaned. What had become of his dream of idylls, his gentlebookish romance? Vanished before a reality which smacked horribly ofcrude melodrama and possibly of sordid crime. His gorge rose at thepicture, but a thought troubled him. Perhaps all romance in its hour ofhappening was rough and ugly like this, and only shone rosy in theretrospect. Was he being false to his deepest faith?

  "Let's have Mrs. Morran in," he ventured. "She's a wise old body and I'dlike to hear her opinion of this business. We'll get common sense fromher."

  "I don't object," said Heritage. "But no amount of common sense willchange my mind."

  Their hostess forestalled them by returning at that moment to thekitchen.

  "We want your advice, mistress," Dickson told her, and accordingly, likea barrister with a client, she seated herself carefully in the big easychair, found and adjusted her spectacl
es, and waited with hands foldedon her lap to hear the business. Dickson narrated their pre-supperdoings, and gave a sketch of Dougal's evidence. His exposition wascautious and colourless, and without conviction. He seemed to expect arobust incredulity in his hearer.

  Mrs. Morran listened with the gravity of one in church. When Dicksonfinished she seemed to meditate.

  "There's no blagyird trick that would surprise me in thae new folk.What's that ye ca' them--Lean and Spittal? Eppie Home threepit to methey were furriners and these are no furrin names."

  "What I want to hear from you, Mrs. Morran," said Dickson impressively,"is whether you think there's anything in that boy's story?"

  "I think it's maist likely true. He's a terrible impident callant, buthe's no' a leear."

  "Then you think that a gang of ruffians have got two lone women shut upin that House for their own purposes?"

  "I wadna wonder."

  "But it's ridiculous! This is a Christian and law-abiding country. Whatwould the police say?"

  "They never troubled Dalquharter muckle. There's no' a polisman nearerthan Knockraw--yin Johnnie Trummle, and he's as useless as a frostittattie."

  "The wiselike thing, as I think," said Dickson, "would be to turn theProcurator-Fiscal on to the job. It's his business, no' ours."

  "Weel, I wadna say but ye're richt," said the lady.

  "What would you do if you were us?" Dickson's tone was subtlyconfidential. "My friend here wants to get into the House the morn withthat red-haired laddie to satisfy himself about the facts. I say no. Letsleeping dogs lie, I say, and if you think the beasts are mad report tothe authorities. What would you do yourself?"

  "If I were you," came the emphatic reply, "I would tak' the first trainhame the morn, and when I got hame I wad bide there. Ye're a dacentbody, but ye're no' the kind to be traivellin' the roads."

  "And if you were me?" Heritage asked with his queer crooked smile.

  "If I was a young and yauld like you I wad gang into the Hoose, and Iwadna rest till I had riddled oot the truith and jyled every scoondrelabout the place. If ye dinna gang, 'faith I'll kilt my coats and gangmysel'. I havena served the Kennedys for forty year no' to hae thehonour o' the Hoose at my hert.... Ye speired my advice, sirs, and ye'vegotten it. Now I maun clear awa' your supper."

  Dickson asked for a candle, and, as on the previous night, went abruptlyto bed. The oracle of prudence to which he had appealed had betrayed himand counselled folly. But was it folly? For him, assuredly, for DicksonMcCunn, late of Mearns Street, Glasgow, wholesale and retail provisionmerchant, elder in the Guthrie Memorial Kirk, and fifty-five years ofage. Ay, that was the rub. He was getting old. The woman had seen it andhad advised him to go home. Yet the plea was curiously irksome, thoughit gave him the excuse he needed. If you played at being young, you hadto take up the obligations of youth, and he thought derisively of hisboyish exhilaration of the past days. Derisively, but also sadly. Whathad become of that innocent joviality he had dreamed of, that happymorning pilgrimage of Spring enlivened by tags from the poets? Hisgoddess had played him false. Romance had put upon him too hard a trial.

  He lay long awake, torn between common sense and a desire to be loyal tosome vague whimsical standard. Heritage a yard distant appeared also tobe sleepless, for the bed creaked with his turning. Dickson foundhimself envying one whose troubles, whatever they might be, were notthose of a divided mind.