The Leithen Stories

by John Buchan

  ‘It was at fower o’clock this mornin’ they started,’ he announced, ‘and they’re still comin’.’

  ‘Coming? Who?’ Leithen asked.

  ‘Jornalists. The place is crawlin’ wi’ them. I seen six on bicycles and five in cawrs and twa in the Inverlarrig dowgcairt. They’re a’ wantin’ to see auld Bandicott, but auld Bandicott will no see them. Mactavish stops them at the lodge, and speirs what they want, and they gie him cairds wi’ their names prentit, and he sends them up to the hoose, but he’ll no let them enter. Syne the message comes back that the maister will see them the day after the morn, but till then naebody maun put a fit inside the gates.’

  ‘What happened then?’ Leithen asked with acute interest.

  ‘It hasna happened – it’s still happenin’! I never in my life heard sic a lot o’ sweer words. Says ane, “Does the auld dotterel think he can defy the British Press? We’ll mak his life no worth leevin’.” Says another, “I’ve come a’ the gait frae London and I’ll no budge till I’ve seen the banes o’ that Viking!” One or twa went back to Inverlarrig, but the feck o’ them just scattered like paitricks. They clamb the wall, and they waded up the water, and they got in by the top o’ the linns. In half an hour there was half a dizzen o’ them inside the Strathlarrig policies. Man’ – here he fixed his glowing eye on Leithen – ‘if ye had been on the Lang Whang this mornin’ ye could have killed a fish and naebody the wiser.’

  ‘Good Lord! Are they there still?’

  ‘Na. They were huntit oot. Every man aboot the place was huntin’ them, and Angus was roarin’ like a bull. The young Laird thocht they were Bolshies and cam doun wi’ a gun. Syne the auld man appeared and spoke them fair and telled them he was terribly sorry, but he couldna see them for twa days, and if they contentit themselves that lang he would hae them a’ to their denner and show them everything. After that they gaed awa, but there’s aye mair arrivin’ and I’m expectin’ mair riots. They’re forritsome lads, thae jornalists, and a dour crop to shift. But they’re kind folk, and gie’d me a shillin’ a-piece for advisin’ them.’

  ‘What did you advise?’

  ‘I advised them to gang doun to Glenraden,’ said Benjie with a goblin smile. ‘I said they should gang and howk in the Piper’s Ring and they would maybe find mair treasure. Twa-three o’ them got spades and picks and startit off. I’m thinkin’ Macpherson will be after them wi’ a whup.’

  Leithen’s brows were puckered in thought. ‘It looks as if my bet with Archie wasn’t so crazy after all. This invasion is bound to confuse Bandicott’s plans. And you say it’s still going on? The gillies will be weary men before night.’

  ‘They will that,’ Benjie assented. ‘And there’s no a man o’ them can rin worth a docken, except Jimsie. Thae jornalists was far soopler.’

  ‘More power to the Press. Benjie, back you go and keep an eye on Strathlarrig, and stir up the journalists to a sense of their rights. Report here this afternoon at four, for we should be on the move by six, and I’ve a lot to say to you.’

  * * *

  In the course of the morning Leithen went for a walk among the scaurs and dingles of Crask Hill. He followed a footpath which took him down the channel of a tiny burn and led to a little mantelpiece of a meadow from which Wattie Lithgow drew a modest supply of bog-hay. His mind was so filled with his coming adventure that he walked with his head bent and at a turn of the path nearly collided with a man.

  Murmuring a gruff ‘Fine day,’ he would have passed on, when he became aware that the stranger had halted. Then, to his consternation, he heard his name uttered, and had perforce to turn. He saw a young man, in knickerbockers and heavy nailed boots, who smiled diffidently as if uncertain whether he would be recognised.

  ‘Sir Edward Leithen, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘I once had the pleasure of meeting you, sir, when you lunched with the Lobby journalists. I was then on the Lobby staff of the Monitor. My name is Crossby.’

  ‘Of course, of course. I remember perfectly. Let’s sit down, Mr Crossby, unless you’re in a hurry. Where are you bound for?’

  ‘Simply stretching my legs. I was climbing rocks at Sliga-chan when my paper wired me to come on here. The Press seem to have gone mad about this Viking’s tomb – think they’ve got hold of a second Tutankhamen. So I got a fisherman to take me and my bicycle over to the mainland and pedalled the rest of the road. I thought I had a graft with old Bandicott, for I used to write for his paper – The New York Bulletin, you know – but it appears there’s nothing doing. Odd business, for you don’t often find Americans shy of the Press. But I think I’ve found out the reason, and that makes a good enough story in itself. Perhaps you’ve heard it?’

  ‘No,’ said Leithen, ‘but I’d like to, if you don’t mind. I’m not a journalist, so I won’t give you away. Let’s have it.’

  He stole a glance at his companion, and saw a pleasant, shrewd, boyish face, with the hard sunburnt skin of one in the prime of physical condition. Like many others of his type, Leithen liked journalists as much as he disliked men of letters – the former had had their corners smoothed by a rough life, and lacked the vanity and spiritual pride of the latter. Also he had acquired from experience a profound belief in the honour of the profession, for at various times in his public career he had put his reputation into their hands and they had not failed him. It was his maxim that if you tried to bamboozle them they were out for your blood, but that if you trusted them they would see you through.

  ‘Let’s hear it, Mr Crossby,’ he repeated. ‘I’m deeply interested.’

  ‘Well, it’s a preposterous tale, but the natives seem to believe it. They say that some fellow, who calls himself John Macnab, has dared the magnates in these parts to prevent his killing a stag or a salmon in their preserves. He has laid down pretty stiff conditions for himself, for he has to get his beast off their ground and hand it back to them. They say he has undertaken to pay £500 to any charity the owner names if he succeeds and £1,000 if he fails – so he must have money to burn, and it appears that he has already paid the £500. He started on Glenraden, and the old Highland chief there had every man and boy for three days watching the forest. Then on the third day, when everybody was on the mountain-tops, in sails John Macnab and kills a stag under the house windows. He reckoned on the American’s dynamite charges in his search for the Viking to hide his shot. And he would have got away with it too, if one of the young ladies hadn’t appeared on the scene and cried ‘Desist!’ So what does this bandit do but off with his hat, makes his best bow, and says ‘Madame, your servant,’ and vanishes, leaving the chief richer by a thousand pounds. It’s Bandicott’s turn today and tomorrow, and the Strathlarrig household is squatting along the river banks, and the hard-working correspondent is chivvied away till the danger is past. I’m for Macnab myself. It warms my heart to think that there’s such a sportsman left alive. It’s pure Robin Hood.’

  Leithen laughed. ‘I back him too. Are you going to publish that story?’

  ‘Yes, why not? I’ve written most of it and it goes by the afternoon post.’ Mr Crossby pulled out a note-book and fluttered the leaves.

  ‘I call it “The Return of Harald Blacktooth.” Rather neat, I think. The idea is that when they started to dig up the old fellow his spirit reincarnated itself in John Macnab. I hope to have a second instalment, for something’s bound to happen at Strathlarrig today or tomorrow. Are you holidaying here, Sir Edward? Crask’s the name of this place, isn’t it? They told me that that mad fellow Roylance owned it.’

  Leithen nodded. He was bracing himself for another decision of the same kind as he had taken when he met Fish Benjie. Providence seemed to be forcing him to preserve his incognito only by sharing the secret

  ‘But, of course,’ Mr Crossby went on, ‘my main business here is the Viking, and I’m keen to find some way to get over Bandicott’s reticence. I don’t want to wait till the day after tomorrow and then come in with the ruck. I wonder … would it be too much to ask you to give me a
leg up? I expect you know the Bandicotts?’

  ‘Curiously enough, I don’t. I am not sure how far I can help you, Mr Crossby, but I rather think you can help me. Are you by any happy chance a long-distance runner?’

  The journalist opened his eyes. ‘Well, I used to be. South London Harriers, you know. And I’m in fairly good condition at present after ten days on the Coolin rocks.’

  ‘Well, if I can’t give you a story, I think I can put you in the way of an adventure. Will you come up to Crask to luncheon and we’ll talk it over?’

  SEVEN

  The Old Etonian Tramp

  SIR ARCHIE GOT himself into the somewhat ancient dress-coat which was the best he had at Crask, and about half-past seven started his Hispana (a car in which his friends would not venture with Archie as driver) down the long hill to the gates of Strathlarrig. He was aware that somewhere in the haugh above the bridge was Leithen, but the only figure visible was that of Jimsie, the Strathlarrig gillie, who was moodily prowling about the upper end. As he passed the Wood of Larrigmore Benjie’s old pony was grazing at tether, and the old cart rested on its shafts; the embers of a fire still glowed among the pine-needles, but there was no sign of Benjie. He was admitted after a parley by Mactavish the lodge-keeper, and when he reached the door of the house he observed a large limousine being driven off to the back premises by a very smart chauffeur. Only Haripol was likely to own such a car, and Sir Archie reflected with amusement that the host of John Macnab was about to attend a full conclave of the Enemy.

  The huge, ugly drawing-room looked almost beautiful in the yellow light of evening. A fire burned on the hearth after the fashion of Highland houses even in summer, and before it stood Mr Acheson Bandicott, with a small clean-shaven man, who was obviously the distinguished Professor in whose honour the feast was given, and Colonel Raden, a picturesque figure in kilt and velvet doublet, who seemed hard put to it to follow what was clearly a technical colloquy. Agatha and Junius were admiring the sunset in the west window, and Janet was talking to a blond young man who seemed possessed of a singularly penetrating voice.

  Sir Archie was unknown to most of the company, and when his name was announced everyone except the Professor turned towards him with a lively curiosity. Old Mr Bandicott was profuse in his welcome, Junius no less cordial, Colonel Raden approving, for indeed it was not in human nature to be cold towards so friendly a being as the Laird of Crask. Sir Archie was apologetic for his social misfeasances, congratulatory about Harald Blacktooth, eager to atone for the past by an exuberant neighbourliness. ‘Been havin’ a rotten time with the toothache,’ he told his host. ‘I roost up alone in my little barrack and keep company with birds … Bit of a naturalist, you know … Yes, sir, quite fit again, but my leg will never be much to boast of.’

  Colonel Raden appraised the lean, athletic figure. ‘You’ve been our mystery man, Sir Archibald. I’m almost sorry to meet you, for we lose our chief topic of discussion. You’re fond of stalking, they tell me. When are you coming to kill a stag at Glenraden?’

  ‘When will you ask me?’ Sir Archie laughed. ‘I’m still fairly good on the hill, but just now I’m sittin’ indoors all day tuggin’ at my hair and tryin’ to compose a speech.’

  Colonel Raden’s face asked for explanations.

  ‘Day after tomorrow in Muirtown. Big Unionist meetin’, and I’ve got to start the ball. It’s jolly hard to know what to talk about, for I’ve a pretty high average of ignorance about everything. But I’ve decided to have a shot at foreign policy. You see, Charles—’ Sir Archie stopped in a fright. He had been within an ace of giving the show away.

  ‘Of course.’ Pon my soul I had forgotten that you were our candidate. It’s an uphill fight I’m afraid. The people in these parts, sir, are the most obstinate reactionaries on the face of the globe; but they’ve been voting Liberal ever since the days of John Knox.’

  Mr Bandicott regarded Sir Archie with interest.

  ‘So you’re standing for Parliament,’ he said. ‘Few things impress me more in Great Britain than the way young men take up public life as if it were the natural coping-stone to their education. We have no such tradition, and we feel the absence of it. Junius would as soon think of running for Congress as of keeping a faro-saloon. Now I wonder, Sir Archibald, what induced you to take this step?’

  But Sir Archie was gone, for he had seen the beckoning eyes of Janet Raden. That young woman, ever since she had heard that the Laird of Crask was coming to dinner, had looked forward to this occasion as her culminating triumph. He had been her confidant about the desperate John Macnab, and from her he must learn the tale of her victory. Her pleasure was increased by the consciousness that she was looking her best, for she knew that her black gown was a good French model and well set off her delicate colouring. She looked with eyes of friendship on him as he limped across the room, and noted his lean distinction. No other country, she thought, produced this kind of slim, graceful, yet weathered and hard-bitten youth.

  ‘Do you know Mr Claybody?’

  Mr Claybody said he was delighted to meet his neighbour again. ‘It’s years,’ he said, ‘since we met at Ronham. I spend my life in the train now, and never get more than a few days at a time at Haripol. But I’ve managed to secure a month this year to entertain my friends. I was looking forward in any case to seeing you at Muirtown on the 4th. I’ve been helping to organise the show, and I consider it a great score to have got Lamancha. This place had never been properly worked, and with a little efficient organisation we ought to put you in right enough. There’s no doubt Scotland is changing, and you’ll have the tide to help you.’

  Mr Claybody was a very splendid person. He looked rather like a large edition of the great Napoleon, for he had the same full fleshy face, and his head was set on a thickish neck. His blond hair was beautifully sleek and his clothes were of a perfection uncommon in September north of the Forth. Not that Mr Claybody was either fat or dandified; he was only what the ballad calls ‘fair of flesh,’ and he employed a good tailor and an assiduous valet. His exact age was thirty-two, and he did not look older, once the observer had got over his curiously sophisticated eyes.

  But Sir Archie was giving scant attention to Mr Claybody.

  ‘Have you heard?’ Janet broke out. ‘John Macnab came, saw, and didn’t conquer.’

  ‘I’ve heard nothing else in the last two days.’

  ‘And I was right! He is a gentleman.’

  ‘No? Tell me all about the fellow.’ Sir Archie’s interest was perhaps less in the subject than in the animation which it woke in Janet’s eyes.

  But the announcement that dinner was served cut short the tale, though not before Sir Archie had noticed a sudden set of Mr Claybody’s jaw and a contraction of his eyebrows. ‘Wonder if he means to stick to his lawyer’s letter,’ he communed with himself. ‘In that case it’s quod for Charles.’

  The dining-room at Strathlarrig was a remnant of the old house which had been enveloped in the immense sheath of the new. It had eighteenth-century panelling unchanged since the days when Jacobite chiefs in lace and tartan had passed their claret glasses over the water, and the pictures were all of forbidding progenitors. But the ancient narrow windows had been widened, and Sir Archie, from where he sat, had a prospect of half a mile of the river, including Lady Maisie’s Pool, bathed in the clear amber of twilight. He was on his host’s left hand, opposite the Professor, with Agatha Raden next to him: then came Junius: while Janet was between Johnson Claybody and the guest of the occasion.

  Mr Claybody still brooded over John Macnab.

  ‘I call the whole thing infernal impertinence,’ he said in his loud, assured voice. ‘I confess I have ceased to admire undergraduate “rags.” He threatens to visit us, and my father intends to put the matter into the hands of the police.’

  ‘That would be very kind,’ said Janet sweetly. ‘You see, John Macnab won’t have the slightest trouble in beating the police.’

  ‘It’s the principle of the
thing, Miss Raden. Here is an impudent attack on private property, and if we treat it as a joke it will only encourage other scoundrels. If the man is a gentleman, as you say he is, it makes it more scandalous.’

  ‘Come, come, Mr Claybody, you’re taking it too seriously.’ Colonel Raden could be emphatic enough on the rights of property, but no Highlander can ever grow excited about trespass. ‘The fellow has made a sporting offer and is willing to risk a pretty handsome stake. I rather admire what you call his impudence. I might have done the same thing as a young man, if I had had the wits to think of it.’

  Mr Claybody was quick to recognise an unsympathetic audience. ‘Oh, I don’t mean that we’re actually going to make a fuss. We’ll give him a warm reception if he comes – that’s all. But I don’t like the spirit. It’s too dangerous in these unsettled times. Once let the masses get into their heads that landed property is a thing to play tricks with, and you take the pin out of the whole system. You must agree with me, Roylance?’

  Sir Archie, remembering his part, answered with guile. ‘Rather! Rotten game for a gentleman, I think. All the same, the chap seems rather a sportsman, so I’m in favour of letting the law alone and dealing with him ourselves. I expect he won’t have much of a look in on Haripol.’

  ‘I can promise you he won’t,’ said Mr Claybody shortly.

  Professor Babwater observed that it would be difficult for a descendant of Harald Blacktooth to be too hard on one who followed in Harald’s steps. ‘The Celt,’ he said, ‘has always sought his adventures in a fairy world. The Northman was a realist, and looked to tangible things like land and cattle. Therefore he was a conqueror and a discoverer on the terrestial globe, while the Celt explored the mysteries of the spirit. Those who, like you, sir’ – he bowed to Colonel Raden – ‘have both strains in their ancestry, should have successes in both worlds.’