by John Buchan
In the smoking-room they found the lamps lit, the windows shuttered, Crossby busy with the newspapers, Palliser-Yeates playing patience, and Leithen as usual deep in the works of Sir Walter Scott. ‘Well,’ was the unanimous question, ‘how did it go off?’
‘Not so bad,’ said Archie. ‘Charles was in great form. But what on earth has scared Mrs Lithgow?’
Leithen laid down his book. ‘We’ve had the devil of a time. Our base has been attacked. It looks as if we may have a rearguard action to add to our troubles. We’re practically besieged. Two hours ago I was all for burning our ciphers and retiring.’
‘Besieged? By whom?’
‘By the correspondents. Ever since the early afternoon. I fancy their editors have been prodding them with telegrams. Anyhow, they’ve forgotten all about Harald Blacktooth and are hot on the scent of John Macnab.’
‘But what brought them here?’
‘Method of elimination, I suppose. Your journalist is a sharp fellow. They argued that John Macnab must have a base near by, and, as it wasn’t Strathlarrig or Glenraden, it was most likely here. Also they caught sight of Crossby taking the air, and gave chase. Crossby flung them off – happily they can’t have recognised him – but they had him treed in the stable loft for three hours.’
‘Did they see you?’
‘No. Some got into the hall and some glued their faces to this window, but John was under the table and I was making myself very small at the back of the sofa … Mrs Lithgow handled them like Napoleon. Said the Laird was away and wouldn’t be back till midnight, but he’d see them at ten o’clock tomorrow. She had to promise that, for they are determined ruffians. They’d probably still be hanging about the place if it hadn’t been for this blessed rain.’
‘That’s not all,’ said Palliser-Yeates. ‘We had a visit from a lunatic. We didn’t see him, for Mrs Lithgow lured him indoors and has him shut up in the wine-cellar.’
‘Good God! What kind of lunatic?’ Sir Archie exclaimed.
‘Don’t know. Mrs Lithgow was not communicative. She said something about smallpox. Maybe he’s a fellow-sufferer looking for Archie’s company. Anyhow, he’s in the wine-cellar for Wattie to deal with.’
Sir Archie rose and marched from the room, and did not return till the party were seated at a late supper. His hair was harassed, and his eyes were wild.
‘It wasn’t the wine-cellar,’ he groaned, ‘it was the coal-hole. He’s upstairs now having a bath and changing into a suit of my clothes. Pretty short in the temper, too, and no wonder. For Heaven’s sake, you fellows, stroke him down when he appears. We’ve got to bank on his being a good chap and tell him everything. It’s deuced hard luck. Here am I just makin’ a promising start in my public career, and you’ve gone and locked up the local Medical Officer of Health who came to inquire into a reputed case of smallpox.’
TEN
In which Crime is Added to Crime
BY the mercy of Providence Doctor Kello fulfilled Archie’s definition of a ‘good chap.’ He was a sandy-haired young man from Dundee, who had been in the Air Force, and on his native dialect had grafted the intricate slang of that service. Archie had found him half-choked with coal-dust and wrath, and abject apologies had scarcely mollified him. But a hot bath and his host’s insistence that he should spend the night at Crask – Dr Kello knew very well that at the inn he would get no more than a sofa – had worked a miracle, and he appeared at the supper-table prepared to forgive and forget. He was a little awed by the company in which he found himself, and nervously murmured, ‘Pleased to meet ye’ in response to the various introductions. A good meal and Archie’s Veuve Clic-quot put him into humour with himself and at ease with his surroundings. He exchanged war reminiscences, and told stories of his professional life – ‘Ye wouldn’t believe, I tell ye, what queer folk the Highlanders are’ – and when later in the evening Archie, speaking as to a brother airman, made a clean breast of the John Macnab affair, he received the confession with obstreperous hilarity. ‘It’s the best stunt I ever heard tell of,’ he roared, slapping his knee. ‘Ye may depend on me to back ye up, too. Is it the journalists that’s worrying ye? You leave the merchants to me. I’ll shut their mouths for them. Ten o’clock tomorrow, is it? Well, I’ll be there with a face as long as my arm, and I’ll guarantee to send them down the hill like a kirk emptying.’
All night it rained in bucketfuls, and the Friday morning broke with the same pitiless deluge. Lamancha came down to breakfast in a suit of clothes which would have been refused by a self-respecting tramp, but which, as a matter of fact, had been his stalking outfit for a dozen years. The Merklands were not a dressy family. He studied the barograph, where the needle was moving ominously downward, and considered the dissolving skies and the mist which rose like a wall beyond the terrace.
‘It’s no good,’ he told his host. ‘You might as well try to stalk Haripol in a snow blizzard. Today must be washed out, and that leaves us only tomorrow. We’ll have to roost indoors, and we’re terribly at the mercy of that hive of correspondents.’
The hive came at ten, a waterproofed army defying the weather in the cause of duty. But in front of the door they were met by Dr Kello, with a portentous face.
‘Good morning, boys,’ he said. ‘Sir Archibald Roylance asked me to see ye on his behalf. My name’s Kello – I’m Medical Officer of Health for this part of the world. I’m very sorry, but ye can’t see Sir Archibald this morning. In fact, I want ye to go away and not come near the place at all.’
He was promptly asked for his reason.
‘The fact is that a suspected case of smallpox has been reported from Crask. That’s why I’m here. I say “suspected,” for, in my own opinion, it’s nothing of the sort. But I’m bound to take every precaution, and, for your own sakes, I can’t let a man-jack of ye a step nearer.’
The news was received in silence, and added to the depression of the dripping weather. A question was asked.
‘No, it’s not Sir Archibald. He’s as disappointed as you are at not being able to welcome ye. He says if ye come back in forty-eight hours – that’s the time when I hope to give the place a clean bill of health – he would like to stand ye drinks and have a crack with ye.’
Five minutes later the doctor returned to the smoking-room. ‘They’re off like good laddies, and I don’t think they’ll trouble ye for the next two days. Gosh! They’re as feared of infectious diseases as a Highlander. I’ll give them a wee while to go down the hill, and then I’ll start off home on my motor-bike. I’m very much obliged to you gentlemen for your good entertainment … Ye may be sure I’ll hold my tongue about the confidence ye’ve honoured me with. Not a cheep from me! But I can tell ye, I’ll be keeping my ears open for word of John Macnab. Good luck to ye, gentlemen!’
The departure of Doctor Kello was followed by the appearance of Wattie Lithgow, accompanied by Benjie, whose waterproof cape of ceremony had now its uses.
‘I’ve got bad news from this laddie,’ said the former, lugging Benjie forward by the ear. ‘He was at Haripol early this morning and a’ the folk there was speakin’ about it. Macnicol tell’t him—’
‘No, he didna,’ put in Benjie. ‘Macnicol’s ower prood to speak to me. I heard it frae the men in the bothy and frae ane o’ the lassies up at the big hoose.’
‘Weel, what a’body kens is maistly true. Ye’ll no guess what yon auld Claybody is daein’. Ye ken he’s a contractor, forbye ither things, and he’s got the contrack for makin’ the big dam at Kinlochbuie. There’s maybe a thousand navvies workin’ there, and he’s bringin’ ower a squad o’ them – Benjie says mair nor a hundred – to guaird the forest.’
‘Ass!’ exclaimed Palliser-Yeates. ‘He’ll drive every beast into Caithness.’
‘Na, na. Macnicol is not entirely wantin’ in sense. The navvies will no be allowed inside the forest. They’ll be a guaird outside – what’s that they ca’ it? – an outer barrage. Macnicol will see that a’ the deer are in the Sanctuary, and i
n this kind o’ weather it will no be that deeficult. But it will be verra deeficult for his lordship to get inside the forest, and it will be verra near an impossibeelity to get a beast out.’
Archie looked round the room. ‘Dashed unsportin’ I call it. I bet it’s the young ’un’s idea.’
‘Look here, Charles,’ said Leithen. ‘Isn’t it about time to consider whether you shouldn’t cry off this Haripol affair? It was different at the start. John and I had a fair sporting chance. Our jobs were steep enough, but yours is absolutely perpendicular … The Claybodys are not taking any chances, and a hundred able-bodied navvies is a different-sized proposition to a few gillies. The confounded Press has blazoned the thing so wide that if you’re caught you’ll be a laughing-stock to the whole civilised world. Don’t you see that you simply can’t afford to lose, any more than the Claybodys? Then, to put the lid on it, our base is under a perpetual threat from those newspaper fellows. I’d rather have all Scotland Yard after me than the Press – you agree, Crossby? I’m inclined to think that John Macnab has done enough pour chauffer la gloire. It’s insanity to go on.’
Lamancha shook his head. ‘It’s all very well for you – you won. I tell you frankly that nothing on earth will prevent me having a try at Haripol. All you say is perfectly true, but I don’t choose to listen to it. This news of Wattie’s only makes me more determined.’
Leithen subsided into his book, observing – ‘I suppose that is because you’re a great man. You’re a sober enough fellow at most times, but you’re able now and then to fling your hat over the moon. You can damn the consequences, which I suppose is one of the tests of greatness. John and I can’t, but we admire you, and we’ll bail you out.’
It was Sir Archie, strangely enough, who now abetted Lamancha’s obstinacy. ‘I grant you the odds are stiff,’ he declared, ‘but that only means that we must find some way to shorten them. Nothing’s impossible after yesterday. There was I gibbering with terror and not a notion in my head, and yet I got on fairly well, didn’t I, Wattie?’
‘Ye made a grand speech, sir. There was some said it was the best speech they ever heard in a’ their days. There was one man said ye was haverin’, but’ – fiercely – ‘he didna say it twice.’
‘We’ve the whole day to make a plan,’ Archie went on. ‘Hang it all, there must be some way to diddle the Claybodys. We’ve got a pretty good notion of the lie of the land, and Wattie’s a perfect Red Indian at getting up to deer. We muster four and a half able-bodied men, counting me as half. And there’s Benjie. Benjie, you’re a demon at strategy. Have you anything to say?’
‘Aye,’ said Benjie, ‘I’ve a plan. But ye’re ower particular here, and maybe ye wadna like it.’ This with a dark glance at Palliser-Yeates, who was leaving the room to get more tobacco.
‘We’ll have it, all the same. Let’s sit down to business. Stick the ordnance map on that table, Charles, and you, Ned, shut that book and give us the benefit of your powerful mind.’
Leithen rose, yawning. ‘I’ve left my pipe in the dining-room. Wait a moment till I fetch it.’
Now Dr Kello, on his departure, had left the front-door of the house open, and the steady downpour of rain blanketed all other sounds from outside. So it came to pass that when Archie’s quick ear caught the noise of footsteps on the gravel and he bounded into the hall, he was confronted with the spectacle of Colonel Raden and his daughters already across the doorstep. Moreover, as luck would have it, at that moment Leithen from the dining-room and Palliser-Yeates from his bedroom converged on the same point.
‘Hullo, Roylance,’ the Colonel cried. ‘This is a heathenish hour for a visit, but we had to have some exercise, and my daughters wanted to come up and congratulate you on your performance yesterday. A magnificent speech, sir! Uncommon good sense! What I—’
But the Colonel stopped short in mystification at the behaviour of his daughters, who were staring with wide eyes at two unknown figures who stood shamefacedly behind Sir Archie. This last, having no alternative, was trying to carry off things with a high hand.
‘Let me introduce,’ he was proclaiming, ‘Sir Edward Leithen– Mr Palliser-Yeates – Miss Raden, Miss Janet Raden, Colonel—’
But he was unheeded. Agatha was looking at Leithen and Janet at Palliser-Yeates, and simultaneously the two ejaculated, ‘John Macnab!’
Archie saw that it was all up. Shouting for Mrs Lithgow, he helped his visitors to get out of their mackintoshes, and ordered his housekeeper to have these garments dried. Then he ushered them into the smoking-room where were Lamancha and Crossby and Benjie and a good peat-fire. Wattie, at the first sound of voices, had discreetly retired.
‘Come along, Colonel, I’ll explain. Very glad to see you – have that chair … what about dry stockings? …’
But his hospitable bustle was unheeded. The Colonel, hopelessly at sea, was bowing to a tall man who in profound embarrassment was clearing books and papers out of chairs.
‘Yes, that’s Lord Lamancha. You heard him yesterday. Charles, this is Colonel Raden, and Miss Agatha and Miss Janet. That is Mr Crossby, the eminent journalist. That little scallywag is Fish Benjie, whom I believe you know … Sit down, please, all of you. We’re caught out and are going to confess. Behold the lair of John Macnab.’
Colonel Raden was recovering himself.
‘I read in the papers,’ he said, ‘that John Macnab is the reincarnation of Harald Blacktooth. In that case we are related. With which of these gentleman have I the honour to claim kin?’
The words, the tone, convinced Sir Archie that the danger was past, and his nervousness fled.
‘Properly speakin’, you’ve found three new relatives. There they are. Not bad fellows, though they’ve been givin’ me a hectic time. Now I retire – shoes off, feet fired, and turned out to grass. Ned, you’ve a professional gift of exposition. Fire away, and tell the whole story.’
Sir Edward Leithen obeyed, and it may be said that the tale lost nothing in his telling. He described the case of three gentlemen, not wholly useless to their country, who had suddenly fallen into ennui. He told of a cure, now perfected, but of a challenge not yet complete. ‘I’ve been trying to persuade Lord Lamancha to drop the thing,’ he said, ‘but the Claybodys have put his back up, and I’m not sure that I blame him. It didn’t matter about you or Bandicott, for you took it like sportsmen, and we should have felt no disgrace in being beaten by you. But Claybody is different.’
‘By Gad, sir, you are right,’ the Colonel shouted, rising to his feet and striding about the room. ‘He and his damned navvies are an insult to every gentleman in the Highlands. They’re enough to make Harald Blacktooth rise from the dead. I should never think anything of Lord Lamancha again – and I’ve thought a devilish lot of him up to now – if he took this lying down. Do you know, sir’ – turning to Lamancha – ‘that I served in the Scots Guards with your father – we called them the Scots Fusilier Guards in those days – and I am not going to fail his son.’
Sir Edward Leithen was a philosopher, with an acute sense of the ironies of life, and as he reflected that here was a laird, a Tory, and a strict preserver of game working himself into a passion over the moral rights of the poacher, he suddenly relapsed into helpless mirth. Colonel Raden regarded him sternly and uncomprehendingly, but Janet smiled, for she too had an eye for comedy.
‘I’m tremendously grateful to you,’ Lamancha said. ‘You know more about stalking than all of us put together, and we want your advice.’
‘Janet,’ commanded her parent, ‘you have the best brain in the family. I’ll be obliged if you’ll apply it to this problem.’
For an hour the anxious conclave surrounded the spread-out ordnance-map. Wattie was summoned, and with a horny finger expounded the probable tactics of Macnicol and the presumable disposition of the navvy guard. At the end of the consultation Lamancha straightened his back.
‘The odds are terribly steep. I can see myself dodging the navvies, and with Wattie’s help getting
up to a stag. But if Macnicol and the gillies are perched round the Sanctuary they are morally certain to spot us, and, if we have to bolt, there’s no chance of getting the beast over the march. That’s a hole I see no way out of.’
‘Janet,’ said the Colonel, ‘do you?’
Janet was looking abstractedly out of the window. ‘I think it is going to clear up,’ she observed, disregarding her father’s question. ‘It will be a fine afternoon, and then, if I am any judge of the weather, it will rain cats and dogs in the evening.’
‘We had better scatter after luncheon,’ said Lamancha, ‘and each of us go for a long stride. We want to be in training for tomorrow.’
After the Colonel had suggested half a dozen schemes, the boldness of which was only matched by their futility, the Radens rose to go. Janet signalled to Benjie, who slipped out after her, and the two spoke in whispers in the hall, while Archie was collecting the mackintoshes from the kitchen.
‘I want you to be at Haripol this afternoon. Wait for me a little on this side of the lodge about half-past three.’
Benjie grinned and nodded. ‘Aye, lady, I’ll be there.’ He, too, had a plan for shortening the odds, and he had so great a respect for Janet’s sagacity that he thought it probable that she might have reached his own conclusion.
As Janet had foretold, it was a hot afternoon. The land steamed in the sun, but every hill-top was ominously clouded. While the inhabitants of Crask were engaged in taking stealthy but violent exercise among the sinuousities of Sir Archie’s estate, Janet Raden mounted her yellow pony and rode thoughtfully towards Haripol by way of Inverlarrig and the high road. There were various short-cuts, suitable for a wild-cat like Benjie, but after the morning’s torrential rains she had no fancy for swollen bogs and streams. She found Benjie lurking behind a boulder near the lodge, and in the shelter of a clump of birches engaged him in earnest conversation. Then she rode decorously through the gates and presented herself at the castle door.