The Secret Vanguard

by Michael Innes

  She heard Mackintosh’s abrupt laugh behind her. ‘Didn’t I say it was just right for a Sunday-school picnic? And that looks more or less like what it is. But we may bet it’s some devil’s trick or other as well. Question is: just what?’

  The boat was still leaping towards the strange spectacle ahead. ‘Sunday school?’ said Appleby. ‘I think not. Perhaps a mother’s meeting. That’s it: old wives. More old wives – scores of them.’

  ‘Do you mean,’ asked Dick incredulously, ‘scores more snipers?’

  ‘Not exactly that. Put it like this. The place is usually lonely. If we found it lonely with just a lurking fellow here and there we should know where we were: the odds would be that every figure was an enemy. But now we have the castle surrounded by clouds of innocent persons – only every twentieth person perhaps not so innocent. If we had a dozen men with us at this moment our job wouldn’t be too easy. As it is – well, it’s another clever bit of delaying action.’

  ‘Whatever’ – Sheila checked an inflection of desperation in her voice – ‘whatever can we do?’

  ‘What must we do? Presume that they haven’t yet beaten it with Orchard and bottle up egress from the castle. Then summon help.’

  ‘I doubt if we can bottle up egress, as you call it, for long.’ Mackintosh was systematically surveying the whole extent of the gala scene before them.

  ‘In that case’ – Dick Evans spoke decidedly – ‘we must substitute for the idea of egress the idea of ingress. In other words – attack.’

  Appleby had once more shut off the engine: the last word rang out in silence. Then Hetherton spoke. ‘Troy,’ he said. ‘The walls of Troy: there they are – and horribly impregnable they seem.’ He looked at Sheila, smiled, and broke into Greek. He paused. ‘In fact,’ he said, ‘what we want is a horse. A Trojan Horse.’

  24: Old Wives’ Tale

  ‘A Trojan horse?’ said Dick Evans. ‘A poet’s notion again. And I can think of yet another. Pegasus. Which means horse plus wings. If we could get up in the air and see what’s happening in that great courtyard we’d know better where we are. They may have bolted already – in which case you must just contact your organization and search as you can. Or they may be preparing now – in which case, as you say, the thing is to bottle them up… How do you think all these folk got here?’

  The boat was now riding in a little cove from which a corner of the straggling party in the castle grounds could still be seen. ‘Chara-banc,’ said Appleby. ‘But anything of the sort has probably been sent away till evening. Nothing for the enemy – meaning us – to commandeer. And that means that if they are planning to bolt now the necessary transport will be in the courtyard or offices. Pegasus would be quite the thing.’

  ‘I don’t see him.’ Mackintosh was scanning the shore. ‘But on the hill there to the right that group of Norwegian pines might do just as well. I suppose we were spotted coming down the loch, but I doubt if we shall be attacked unless we try to pierce this smart screen of mothers’-meeting stuff. With luck I can work round to the pines – and with a bit more climb one. Lurk here. Goodbye.’

  The boat rocked as he leapt ashore and was gone. Appleby looked at his watch, and the action seemed to usher in a period of waiting. All that was visible was oddly peaceful and innocent. Of Castle Troy a single battlemented tower rose into view; a corner of the balustraded terrace ran down to a small park in which a score or so of women strolled and gossiped with the measured animation of elderly merrymakers; on the water in the foreground bobbed the little fleet of small craft – intended, it would seem, for some later part of the entertainment, for all were deserted now. From where she sat Sheila could read the names: a tub of a rowing boat was called the Annie Laurie; there was a little yacht which had been named the Pax… And it was all, Sheila told herself again, disconcertingly peaceful; a laird in a big way was entertaining the grateful womenfolk of some neighbouring market town; a Union Jack and a Scottish Standard fluttered from the roof of a marquee; if she had to lurk here long she might almost find herself persuaded that this whole adventure was the creation of her own brain. But it was true. It was true, for instance, that Alaster Mackintosh had gone off to climb an uncommonly unclimbable tree… She remembered how, on the moor beneath the little croft, Dick had gone off. And she turned to him now. ‘Dick, what happened? And how did you get to where we found you?’

  His eyes were on the tips of the pine trees which Mackintosh ought now to have reached. ‘I suppose he’s right,’ he said. ‘The hill itself almost breasts the castle; if he makes the tree tops he’ll have a bird’s-eye view.’ He turned to her. ‘What happened? Not nearly so much as I intended to happen. Do you know I left you with the most extravagant ideas? And the first was to get captured again; to wait till you were safely out of the way and get myself smartly recaptured. For when I thought of it there seemed to be something odd in my being alive at all. Perhaps they thought of me – and had thought of you – as a useful prisoner; and perhaps if I returned to that role and was smart enough I might have my chance later on. But it all came to nothing, anyway. For I was captured – or kind of captured – long before I meant to be… Where do you think all the little boats came from? Would it be that big boathouse down the loch?’

  Sheila followed his glance. Just in sight, and on the other side of the water, was the deserted-seeming boathouse she had noticed on her dash from Castle Troy. It was certainly big enough to harbour a score of small craft. But she was eager for Dick’s story. ‘Kind of captured?’ she asked. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘One of those fellows must have slipped out of the house and up to the croft without my seeing him. When I did see him he was coming back – and in a great hurry – not so long after you were due to quit. I saw him, and in the same moment he saw me.’

  Appleby, his eye fixed on the pines, made an automatically disapproving noise.

  ‘Sure, it wasn’t too smart. I was exploring the outbuildings and he took me quite by surprise. He shouted at me. And I was just fishing out the sling-shot when I heard what he was shouting. It was in English. He was telling me to get out the car.’

  ‘Really,’ said Hetherton, ‘it sounds quite like fiction. If I–’ Appleby interrupted. ‘There’s Mackintosh: he’s made the lower branches of the farthest tree. He’s hoping he’ll be able to peer through the others while they screen him from the castle. Go on.’

  ‘It wasn’t so very surprising: any one man might make the mistake of thinking me legitimately in the picture. The odd thing was that they all did. The organization broke down just through being too big. I had enjoyed a stand-up fight with four or five of them the night before: nevertheless, there was nobody on the premises who knew me from Adam. And the initial mistake made, I had quite a long spin – a spin after Sheila here in a big car, a spin to Castle Troy, a spin to Fortmoil and round to the folk tailing Orchard. It was exciting, I must say; it kept on from minute to minute seeming stark incredible that they should keep on taking me for granted. But they did and I even got assigned to the tailing. That enabled me to slip in to Orchard in the night and put him wise. I did the drawings and then at dawn we made a break for it. They got him–’

  ‘Steady.’ Appleby, his hand in his pocket, had turned round and faced the shore. From behind a screen of low shrubs voices had become audible. The sound drew nearer: women’s voices, chattering hard. And then four women – four female figures – came into view, walking directly towards that point on the shore from which the boat lay a few feet out.

  ‘Miss Grant,’ Appleby said, ‘–what do you think? Is it the authentic Scottish provincial taste in hats and bonnets – or do you smell a rat?’ He laughed softly even as they could see his hand tightening on his revolver. ‘Clever. And wherever we went the same doubts would confront us.’ He paused. The women were within a dozen yards. ‘Good morning,’ he said politely.

  They paused, seemingly faintly pu
zzled. One, rather more magnificently dressed than the rest, bowed; a second called a cheerful ‘Good morning’ back; a third waved; the fourth vaguely stared, as if still absorbed only in the gossip going forward. And then they moved on. The voice of the woman who had bowed floated back. ‘Tourists, Mrs McKay; nothing but English tourists.’

  ‘In my case,’ said Hetherton, smiling at his companions, ‘the averment is not unjust. Incidentally, I think we may say in the common phrase that the lady is the real McKay. There was no deception.’

  Appleby nodded, his eye thoughtfully on the retreating women. Then he turned round. ‘Here’s Mackintosh.’

  ‘Three cars.’ Mackintosh had dropped lightly into the boat. ‘Three big cars in the courtyard all being loaded up now. Not a moment to lose. Shoelaces, please – including the spare pair from the sling-shot.’

  ‘Whatever for?’ asked Appleby, and stooped to his shoes as he spoke.

  Mackintosh had stripped off his jacket and turned it inside out; now he was briskly doing the same with his trousers. ‘For the Trojan Horse, my dear man.’ He produced a pocket knife and fell to slashing the clothes. ‘Am I hidden from view? Well, in I get – and trust to look like another of Mr Evans’ vagrants. A Trojan Horse, of course, ought to be something the Trojans are eager for. “Then Priamus impatient of delay enforced a wide breach in that rampiered wall.” But I must aim at something they may just tolerate: an old man proposing to peddle shoelaces to the servants’ hall… And now listen.’

  They had all handed him their shoelaces, and although the resulting stock-in-trade was scanty he appeared satisfied. He leapt to land again, trailed a hand in dust, and rubbed his face.

  ‘Listen.’ He was half turned to go. ‘There seem two ways in. One is a little postern now open in the doors beyond the drawbridge: I’m going that way. The other is a gate into that small walled garden there. You see? Get in there and before you is a line of French windows. But there’s a man on guard.’ He paused and once more surveyed the whole territory: Sheila saw that Appleby conceded all topographical matters to his command. ‘What about coming with me through this shrubbery and along the line of that little spinney? You’ll command the drawbridge and the road better from there if it all comes on you.’ He grinned, curiously happy. ‘As ten to one it will.’

  It took them five minutes. Sheila calculated, to reach their new position: the tail of a spinney not frequented by the picnic party from which they could look directly across the drawbridge to the main gateway of the castle. And here Mackintosh left them – to appear presently some distance behind them on the dusty ribbon of road which ran towards the castle. He was walking with a convincing tramp’s slouch; the shoelaces dangled in a little bunch over his arm. He was gone…and suddenly Sheila felt something turn cold inside her. ‘Mr Appleby,’ she whispered, ‘what is he going to do?’

  ‘See if he can get through that little postern in the big closed door beyond the moat. And if he can he’ll then shamble as near their cars as he can. And as soon as he’s challenged for more than a harmless pedlar he’ll go for the tyres with his gun. That’s the plan. Or – with luck – part of the plan.’

  Sheila was silent for a moment, forcing the cold to die within her. ‘Then it’s suicide,’ she said.

  ‘Suicide?’ His voice was low. ‘A very hazardous patrol. Call it that… By heaven, he’s in!’

  He was in. He had trudged past a scattering of women on a strip of lawn on the nearside of the moat, trudged across the drawbridge, and vanished through the postern. Sheila heard Dick gasp – heard him echo what had been a gasp from Appleby. Neither of them, she realized, had believed that Mackintosh could possibly make this first trick.

  Silence – silence and the muted activity of the wandering women, the murmur of their voices on what was now a warm summer morning air. Silence – and the beating of her own heart. And then a pistol shot, a shout, a succession of shots, shouting.

  ‘He’s–’ Appleby stopped. Across the hundred yards or so that separated them from the castle came another sound: the hum, the beat of an engine. Not, like the motorboat, very noisy – but powerful as it. And the sound rose and fell in an odd rhythm. Sheila saw Dick and Appleby look at each other.

  ‘Great snakes!’ Dick’s voice was harsh with excitement. ‘To think of that. He’s going round and round that darned courtyard getting up–’

  There was a splintering crash. Where a moment before there had been stout wooden doors with an open postern there was now a gaping hole and a lurching, battered, enormous Rolls Royce car. It thundered on the drawbridge, crazily swerved and then, as a crumpled front wing fell from it like a dead leaf, tore down the road towards them. Dust spurted; from somewhere there was a rattle of firing; they dived for deeper cover and caught only a glimpse of Mackintosh: a glimpse of his pale and blood-smeared face bent over the wheel… The Rolls Royce vanished in a cloud of dust.

  ‘That,’ Appleby said, ‘is very good. The situation is transformed. He’ll be in Troy in five minutes – and even if they’ve spiked us there we can reckon on an overwhelming force within an hour.’

  ‘Good?’ Dick Evans turned to grin at Hetherton. ‘As the yokels used to say in Suffolk long ago, it’s swell… Look at those women; they don’t much care for the unrehearsed effects.’

  On the women who were occupying themselves on the lawns before the castle the violent and unaccountable incidents of the last few seconds were naturally not without effect. A game of croquet had abruptly broken up; here and there groups had taken to a sort of huddled scampering; there were cries of alarm.

  ‘Interesting,’ said Appleby dispassionately, ‘ – interesting the way they behave. There has been shooting in the castle and a wounded man has made a spectacular escape in a car. Directed at him from the castle has been at least the fire of a submachine gun. All that is clear enough. But they are making nothing of it; they’re bolting towards the castle for protection from something they can’t analyse. It’s the natural centre of authority and they bolt for it. Interesting.’ He glanced at Sheila and she saw that the interest Appleby perceived was far from being an abstract one. ‘Question is, what will they do now – the enemy, I mean? Make a break for it without their transport? Give me the glasses.’ He took the binoculars Mackintosh had left behind him. ‘Someone on the drawbridge offering explanations to the advance guard of the agitated ladies. I can see through the nasty hole the car made right into the court. They’re working at the cars – every man jack I guess – getting sound tyres on one. They can’t carry a man off without a car, even if they know we’re still as weak as we are…’ He dropped the glasses. ‘And if they can’t carry him off–?’ For a second he let the question hang in air. ‘Hetherton, I think–’

  Appleby stopped again – but this time it was to swing round with a lightning movement. Something had snapped in the undergrowth of the spinney behind them. They waited tense with expectation. And a moment later relaxed. It was Mrs McKay – the real McKay – and her three friends.

  Or all relaxed except Appleby. From him came something like a shout of discovery. ‘Old wives!’ he cried – and rose up masterfully before the astonished ladies.

  25: Belamy Mannering’s Last Throw

  The sun had risen a fraction higher. It sparkled on the loch. And Appleby gave his skirts a kick. ‘Miss Grant, you alone are to the manner born – which is why I let you join in this last hazard. Let your imagination play upon an advancing rheumatism and you will be perfect. And now – forward.’

  The word roused Mrs McKay from a still slightly dazed contemplation of her trousers. ‘And why,’ she demanded, ‘should one of us not go instead of the lassie? If it’s the rheumatism you’re wanting, it and I have been acquaint these twenty years.’

  Appleby nodded. ‘Thank you. But you see Miss Grant knows something of the lie of the castle: not much, but it may be useful. Will you all four stay here? And don’t be
alarmed if we fail to return. Very soon there will be a strong force of police, and perhaps soldiers as well. When they come try to join them and explain what has happened.’

  The lady whose majestic clothing now adorned Hetherton put a tentative hand in a trousers pocket. ‘We’ll do that,’ she said. ‘To think of such carryings-on right here in Scotland! And at first we all thought you clean daft! I wonder–’ She stopped and pointed suddenly to the heavens. ‘I wonder would they be friends of yours up in that?’

  They glanced upwards. Far to the east an aeroplane had appeared, the sound of its engine still inaudible. It came perceptibly nearer as they looked.

  ‘Almost certainly.’ Appleby took a step towards the road. ‘And, if they begin to feel our forces gathering every moment may be important. But we must get round to the garden entrance as unobtrusively as possible. Four excited women here would naturally make for the drawbridge, which isn’t what we want. So we begin at a rambling walk and speed up later. Goodbye.’

  They moved down the road towards the castle, and then turned off at an angle to round it and reach the garden gate distinguished by Mackintosh. As a piece of amateur theatricals their proceeding was no doubt convincing enough at a distance, but it seemed unlikely to Sheila that they could successfully carry off the deception at anything like close quarters. They had between them three sun-bonnets and a parasol, and this would help. Dick was perhaps the weakest spot: his clothes, even with a good deal of ingenuity in bearing and in the putting on, were ludicrously small. But Appleby seemed confident. Possibly he had a plan.

  The aeroplane was above them and had banked to circle the castle. Dick looked up. ‘I suppose there’s no chance of signalling?’ he asked.

  ‘At the moment, none.’ Appleby was squinting under the rim of his bonnet. ‘You couldn’t wave more wildly than some of those women are waving just for the sake of waving. And they wouldn’t hear a shot… Bear right and avoid the ladies with the croquet mallets; they might show rather a noticeable surprise if they spotted us as not of their kind.’