Mackintosh turned round. ‘One thing at a time. Do you notice that this place is fitted up in a pretty prosperous style? Electric light. Which must mean a petrol-engine somewhere at the back. Appleby, stand guard.’ He disappeared.
Hetherton moved to a window. ‘A pleasant view,’ he said. ‘Quite a commanding situation – only in winter a trifle exposed.’
There was silence. Mackintosh returned. ‘Petrol all right. Enough to run all the speedboats in Scotland. Drums of it.’
‘Drums?’ Appleby swung round. ‘You said drums – not tins?’
‘A couple of tins. But chiefly drums – four or five of them.’ Appleby beckoned everybody to a window. ‘You see where we are? Out of the glen and on a ridge that runs down pretty well due south to the loch: a commanding situation, as Hetherton says. But commanded, too.’
‘Very much so.’ Mackintosh pointed. ‘That little semicircle of hills just north of us. Our friends are there, you may bet. And with rifles. The idea will be to pin us here until some agreed hour when the evacuation from Troy will be completed; and then they’ll withdraw themselves. Of course if they knew of this’ – he pointed to the portfolio of sketches which Hetherton had now gathered together – ‘they’d risk the rumpus of a big assault and polish us off. Danger is they may do that, anyway. Can we get down the ridge to the loch and the pinewoods? I doubt it. There’s no real cover and they could simply pick us off.’
‘We must create our cover,’ Appleby said. ‘Up there at the top of the garden the ridge is quite steep; it falls away on either side through the heather. What would happen to those drums if we bowled them over?’
Mackintosh exclaimed sharply: ‘The sober likelihood is they’d bump a few yards and then stick in a tump of heather. But we’re beyond sobriety. And there’s just a chance they might roll.’ He paused. ‘But they’re only ten-gallon drums. One can’t precisely get a curtain of fire out of that.’
‘No fire without smoke – or not in heather. Can we roll the drums up behind the shelter of that hedge? It’s a ragged thing, but might serve. Bless the artist fellow who tried to make a garden on this bleak spot – even a dead one… Miss Grant, keep an eye on the skyline.’
He went out with Mackintosh. Behind her Sheila could hear Hetherton stirring the fire, throwing on another peat. ‘It is really remarkable,’ he said, ‘how quickly this sort of thing becomes all in the day’s work. But I wonder, would the interest last? Suddenly into one’s life comes a romantic and dangerous episode, and one is excited, keyed-up, acknowledging fear, anger – all sorts of relatively unfamiliar emotions. But – do you know? – I believe I should get a little bored if it went on for long.’
‘It can’t in the nature of the thing do that.’ Sheila laughed in spite of herself. For Hetherton had the air of conscientiously making a rather disreputable confession. The British Museum was the centre of his world, no doubt, with Dabdab as an exotic background; and not even romantic adventure was turning out so beguiling as that. ‘It can only be a matter of hours now. We are going to try to escape to the loch about a mile away. And an unknown number of men with rifles – all, we must hope, up there on the hill – are going to shoot us down if they can. I really don’t see much danger of boredom creeping in.’
Hetherton sighed. ‘My thoughts are very commonplace. For instance, I insistently reflect that this is no affair for a girl. Though it must be admitted’ – he chuckled – ‘that you have shown yourself quite the girl for the affair… What’s happening now?’
Sheila, whose eye had been searching the rising ground beyond the garden, glanced fleetingly at the nearer view. Appleby and Mackintosh had rolled two moderate-sized drums to the end of the ragged hedge that flanked the garden path; they were now returning on hands and knees. ‘Nearly ready.’ A thought struck her. ‘What about the drawings, Mr Hetherton? If we’re killed or captured with them that’s the end of the formula. Whereas if we leave them here in the near neighbourhood of a fire–’
She was interrupted by a little clatter behind. It was Appleby carrying an empty petrol tin. ‘Roll them into tight cylinders, Hetherton, and you’ll find you can get them all into this and screw on the cap. There’s a rubbish heap at the foot of the garden with not much that’s inflammable round about. We’ll pitch the tin there. Then if even one of us gets through–’
‘Appleby’ – Hetherton interrupted with sudden sharp anxiety – ‘are you sure we’re taking the right course? If we stay here there’s a chance that those people, knowing nothing of the drawings, will simply withdraw when they have covered the flight of their friends. Isn’t that our responsible course, even if it means the sacrifice of two men?’
‘No.’ Appleby shook his head vigorously. ‘Not even if we were sure that Evans’ brilliant stroke can be relied on. Not even if we were sure that the formula in isolation will be intelligible to other men. Orchard, Evans, Castle Troy are our objectives. We attack.’
He was gone. Hetherton fell to work on the drawings. Sheila continued to scan the hill. Turf and heather and here and there a boulder: it stood at the crown of the ridge like a threatening little fort. Twice, three times she suspected movement; once she saw it – a brief displacement of the skyline that must be a man doubled up and running. So they were really there. And – yes – by a large boulder a sudden gleam of metal: their armament, whatever it might be, was trained. She realized that if Appleby’s plan worked the commanding position of the hill was a point in their favour: at this place of vantage it was natural that the enemy should concentrate his force. Only the narrow strip of garden before her was tolerably screened; anything else they could reckon to command.
Appleby and Mackintosh again – two more drums. And now they were crouched down and working at them…and suddenly over they went, two on each side of the ridge, bumping down…bumping down and yet farther down, gushing petrol. And then one, two running tongues of fire, release – magically swift – of smoke in acrid clouds.
They were all together and running. Hetherton was pitching away his tin; Mackintosh was hugging another – for the boat, that – as he ran. Unthinkable to look back; but reassuringly she conjured up in her mind a great screen of flame and smoke. Flame there must be; she heard it crackling. Or was it–? Something sang by her ear; by Mackintosh’s flying feet in front of her rose first one and then another vicious little spurt of earth. It was. Perhaps they were shooting blindly. But once more: under fire.
Appleby called out something to Mackintosh. Sheila could not hear what. She could not hear because of other voices which confusedly filled the air. There’s a rug in the car. Our flagship was the Lion. My name is Alaster Mackintosh… She frowned as she ran and remembered how once before when she had taken to her heels the whole moor about her had broken into sound. An idiosyncrasy of her own silly mind. This time it was voices. Voices and music…the music of Johnny Cope. And then through the phantom music a real voice called out in warning and she felt herself grabbed by the arm. Vacancy appeared abruptly below her and swerved aside: a little quarry perhaps; she was too busy hearing things to see. But still she was running, which was the important thing: her legs told her that. Or did they? For the ground was lurching under her; it was rocking from side to side. Our arm is longer than that, Miss Grant. Too much caffeine… The voices were drowned in a sudden roar. Space wheeled on her sharply. And then amid the roar Mackintosh – the real Mackintosh – said: ‘It’s running beautifully. How’s the girl?’
‘The merest graze.’
Appleby’s voice. And she could hear besides the mounting throb of engines the hiss and lap of water. She opened her eyes. The whole sky was scudding past like a cloud.
23: My Kingdom for a Horse
Hetherton had found what was left of the sherry; Sheila sat up as it trickled down her throat. Her companions were around her, and beyond that were the blue waters of the loch. ‘Was I,’ she asked wonderingly, ‘really hit?’
‘A graze from a ricochet.’ Appleby, steering the boat, was briskly technical. ‘But it will count when it comes to handing out the medals.’
Hetherton’s features swung into Sheila’s view; they wore an expression of mild protest, as if he judged Appleby’s tone to be inadequately chivalrous. ‘You are going to be quite all right now, my dear. And for another spin in this admirable boat we could scarcely have hoped for a finer day.’ His gaze went placidly out across their wake. ‘The Wind-cuffer needs cloud to be really impressive – but this mild sunshine gives it a pleasantly pastoral air… And there is our fire burning still – your fire I ought to say, my dear Appleby. What a capital thought that was! We must hope, though, that no damage will be done to the property of innocent persons… Yes, a delightful day.’
‘Just right for a Sunday-school picnic.’ Mackintosh spoke while staring fixedly ahead. ‘Which reminds me of the marquee. Miss Grant, did you see it?’
‘A marquee? I haven’t seen one for months.’
‘Then it must have turned up after your departure from Troy. It was lying there ready to assemble when we were making our observations by moonlight.’
Sheila shook her head. ‘I don’t know. There was a party there yesterday afternoon; perhaps they were planning to give one on a bigger scale today. I think–’
She stopped, startled. Close to her ear, and distinct above the roar of the engine, came the sharp crack of some violent impact. They all ducked. There was a second crack and Mackintosh said, ‘Bullet.’
‘No.’ Appleby swung the boat towards land. ‘Not lead. Stone. In fact, the Boy David…there.’
They all looked. It was true. From the trees that stretched down almost to the water’s edge a tall young man in khaki shorts had broken cover; Sheila gave a cry of recognition, and in the same moment saw him twist round as he ran and let fly. Dick and his sling-shot. Again he was running and again he twisted round and took aim: for a split second she saw the thing dispassionately, like a complicated plastic sequence on canvas, oddly beautiful. And then it became grotesque, absurd. Dick was being pursued. He was being pursued by an old woman in a bonnet and long skirts. He was swinging round once more. And the old woman had paused, had raised her arm… Mackintosh swore; there was a flash under Sheila’s nose, a bang, an acrid smell; she was watching Dick swimming and the person who passed for an old woman drop down behind a tree trunk in a briskly soldierly way… Nobody, she said to herself, is necessarily what he appears to be; nobody – The boat swung round violently, gunwale dipping to the water as it shot between the swimming man and the shore.
‘All over to this side – keeping low.’ Appleby, boathook in hand, was leaning far out; the farther side of the boat rose behind them like a breastwork as they all did the same. And Dick was hauled on board. Sheila had grabbed a leg. He lay beside her, wet and gasping. It was astounding. She let go. She hadn’t known him very long. Dick.
He rolled over. ‘Sheila, are you still in this? What happened? I reckoned I arranged for you to quit.’ He turned quickly to the others as they all crouched low in the scudding boat. ‘But say! Whose side are you people on, anyway?’
‘Yours.’ Appleby was bent over the steering wheel.
He tossed his head. ‘Sheila knows I don’t have a side; I’m just a bit tangled up in passing.’ He sat up. ‘Listen. They’ve got Orchard – in that castle. But in a cottage north of the loch–’
‘We know; we’ve got it.’ Appleby nodded. ‘Half Caravaggio tucked away there in a petrol tin. But we’d like the man as well. In fact we’re going to get him now. And you were on the programme, too, only you’ve arrived early.’
‘We’ve a lot,’ Mackintosh said, ‘to congratulate you on – and one is that we find you roving free on the shores of this loch. There’s five minutes till we reach the danger zone. Will you explain?… The bottle, by the way, is sherry. And – oh – this is the bottle’s owner. Mr Hetherton, Mr Evans.’
Hetherton peered cautiously over the side of the boat; they had rounded a little cape and the sharp-shooting old woman was far behind. He sat up and beamed. ‘How do you do? May I say that at a happier time I look forward to your conversation with a great deal of pleasure? Ignorant though I am of the Baroque–’
‘I think–’ said Appleby with unusual mildness.
Hetherton was apologetic. ‘But of course. Mr Evans must tell us all he can.’
Dick rolled over and chuckled; he was squeezing water from his pants. ‘A pity to postpone the Baroque,’ he said, ‘just for a bunch of pesky spies–’
‘Pesky?’ said Hetherton, interested. ‘A good old Essex word. I wonder–’
Dick chuckled anew. ‘Mr Hetherton, you’re being previous again; we’ll keep that for after dinner tonight. And, first, thank you all for turning up when you did. Mind you, in a general way a sling-shot will hold a revolver any time. But that fellow was a trained sniper and I was driven to playing possum. When I saw your boat I took a shot at it from cover, and then ran for it when you turned in. I’m sorry for the old lady; it’s likely he’s booked for trouble for letting me go. He had me, you know, just about as good and tight as they had Sheila and me earlier. Luckily I just guessed right.’
‘Had you?’ asked Hetherton.
‘It was like this. I was making my way down the side of the loch, pretty sure I’d gotten away from them. And then I saw the old lady: he was sitting on the ground with one of his shoes off and looking kind of mournful – what the poet calls a female vagrant was what I made him out to be. So I went right up to him to try and get my bearings. Now, that was not guessing right. The trap was there and I deserved to tumble straight in. But fortunately the old lady was a mite too pleased with himself. His role was dummy, and that was all that was needed. But conceit made him utter. I asked the name of the loch and instead of holding me up straightaway he patted the turf beside him and spoke. A high cracked voice that was all in the picture – but what he said was: “Please take place.” Not just a good old Essex expression, Mr Hetherton. And the mistake gave me a few extra seconds to think up the right reply. And the poet gave it me: it’s funny how the poets keep on cropping up in this affair. Female vagrants ought to be crazed or the next thing to it. I took that line. When the old dame brought out his gun I patted him on the shoulder in a kindly way. I hadn’t put it to any of those people that I’m an American citizen: it struck me somehow that wouldn’t be quite fair. But likely they’d guessed. And likely it gave me an extra fifteen seconds of life: I wouldn’t put it stronger than that. So I patted the old lady on the shoulder and made as if to feel for a threepenny bit. It rattled him; he was a good shot, but otherwise a weak link in the chain. He hesitated and on that I took a chance and punched at his jaw. Missed him – but the movement got me uncovered. I jumped behind a tree. And after that it was just dodging and hiding. He’d had three shots before I saw you – and all good ones. You know the rest.’ And Dick Evans sat back and reached for the sherry.
‘Interesting.’ Appleby was letting the boat go all out. ‘But you don’t call it an adequate account of yourself since you left Miss Grant?’
‘I’ll come to that directly.’ Dick looked down the loch. ‘And that’s Essex for later on. The point is they’ve got Orchard in this castle, and the castle itself is in a pretty lonely spot. What’s your plan? And where are the rest of you?’
Mackintosh glanced up from reloading his revolver. ‘The rest of us in the immediate neighbourhood means a sergeant of police and two men at Troy village. That’s about two miles south of the castle. They have a motorcar and a telephone.’
‘Or,’ said Appleby, ‘they had those things last night. Now one doesn’t know. We came quickly and left our communications pretty tenuous. And now that time is all-important we may have to take it that we are up against the castle just on our own.’ He cut off the engine. ‘Here’s the little bay, the first place from whic
h to reconnoitre. Mackintosh, the glasses. And stand up and see what you can see.’
Mackintosh was already on his feet; now he produced a pair of binoculars and directed them down the loch. ‘We haven’t raised it yet,’ he said. ‘The promontory’s in the way. Get farther out. Can’t be helped if they spot us. If we want surprise we must land and walk; if we want speed we must announce ourselves with this infernal row. And I’m for speed.’ He balanced himself with difficulty as the boat once more leapt forward. Suddenly Sheila saw his mouth twitch. ‘Mr Evans, did you say lonely? Your impression’s out of date. Troy’s dead ahead. And so, as far as I can see, is half the population of Scotland. Appleby, straight on. Five more won’t make any odds.’
The boat was tearing past that tongue of land the centre of which Sheila had distinguished the evening before as the heart of the bay. Then it swung round and entered the southern stretch of the loch. They all leant forward and stared over the leaping prow. Castle Troy was before them: the bulk of it grey and massive and old, a modern wing clearly distinguishable, and before the whole the incongruous line of a balustraded terrace. Sheila leant farther forward. That was where she had made that last desperate bolt. Belamy Mannering and the false Alaster – they were there, behind those walls on which the sun so genially played, beneath that weathercock whose gilding flashed as she looked, that clock the face of which she would be able in half a minute to read. But why had Mackintosh said – She gave an exclamation of surprise. For to the left of the castle and outside its walls was a great flower garden – or what she had taken to be that. But her sense of perspective had been out. What she had absurdly taken for nodding blooms were human figures. Masses of people in summer dresses scattered about a park… She looked to the right. A great blob of white, brightly slashed with red. The marquee. She looked at the final stretch of the loch. Where the evening before there had been nothing but grey and lapping water there was now – magically – a little fleet of pleasure craft: rowing boats and miniature yachts.
The Secret Vanguard Page 16