by J. R. Trtek
“Aw, the luck,” Boyd Watson said disconsolately. “Crumpleton’s not going to be speaking.”
“Who’s Crumpleton?” I asked, causing a man in front of me to turn round and silently frown with disdain.
“Crumpleton’s the old Australian premier,” Boyd Watson whispered. “He was to be the featured speaker tonight, aside from Sir Harry. They’ve got another bloke here in his stead. He’ll be speaking second.”
Someone near told us to be still, and I began to pay closer attention to the minister, who suddenly said, “And I present Sir Harry Christey!”
The hall erupted with loud applause, in which I joined, and I craned my neck to get a better look at the man I had sought these past two days. He was tall and relatively young, with light hair and sparkling dark eyes. I confess I found his cocky smile most infectious, and unconsciously I began clapping more earnestly as, dressed in a tweed suit and sweater vest, he grasped the podium with both hands. My fellow attendees had apparently the same reaction, so that after a moment Sir Harry was forced to raise his palms to quiet the multitude.
“Let’s make the Tories feel it!” he said in a somewhat high and nervous voice, which spurred another roar from the crowd. “They can already hear it!” the young politician said with a laugh. “And let’s make sure they appreciate it when the time comes!” He motioned downward, gesturing for the noise to abate, and after perhaps a minute, it finally did.
Sir Harry laughed again and then pulled from his jacket copious notes, which he attempted to arrange upon the lectern surface. His speech began awkwardly, with the man grasping his papers and reading from them and then stuttering a bit when he looked up to confront the crowd. But, as if remembering what he had written, the speaker ploughed ahead at full steam, declaiming like Alexander or Tree, until he once again could not recall his next point.59
In content, Sir Harry talked both of both peace and reform. “The so-called German menace is little more than a Tory invention,” he asserted. “It is a ploy intended to cheat the poor of their rights and dam up the great upwelling for social reform.” There were hoots of agreement. “But organised labour knows the Tory way with tricks,” the speaker went on, “and we’ll teach them a few ourselves!”
The crowd erupted with cheers and laughter, entranced by Sir Harry’s words if not his delivery. He continued with an exhortation about the need to reduce the size of the navy as a show of good faith to Berlin, before demanding that Germany do the same. Fellow workers in both nations would unite in peace if it weren’t for the Tories, he asserted. Indeed, he claimed, the entire world might be one if the opposing party could be wiped from the face of the planet, a statement that brought down the house.
I had, in the meanwhile, managed to slowly insinuate myself next to the wall, so that I might find some small relief by leaning against it. Thus, my view of the podium had become completely blocked. As Sir Harry ended his remarks, loud applause erupted, and with a sense of propriety—and a desire for personal safety—I joined in. I then heard but did not see the red-nosed chairman introduce a second speaker, described as an Australian Free Trader named Twisdon. My loud sigh was lost in the second round of clapping for this new presenter. Crossing my arms and lowering chin to my chest, I wondered how long this next oration would last.
“I suppose you already have heard much of my land of Australia,” Mr. Twisdon began, and by his sixth word I had lifted my head, stepped away from the wall, and begun to gently nudge myself forward through the crowd. One fellow gave me a mild push back, but I cared not that I might have given him offense, for my mind was completely taken with the speaker’s voice—which, despite the introduction, I recognised as that of Richard Hannay.
“Ours is a land without Tories,” said the man supposedly named Twisdon. “In Australia, there are only Liberals and Labour.” That statement brought another loud cheer from the crowd, forcing me back once more toward the wall, and I fought again to move ahead, so as to gain a glimpse of the speaker. As the latest round of applause subsided, I attained my goal and beheld Hannay, one hand raised as he continued his strenuous invective.
“In the long haul,” he was saying, “we can all work together. We can all do the right things. We can make the Empire a decent place in which all may live.” Hannay bowed as he concluded, and in the glare of the lights, I recognised the tanned face, though I noticed that his moustache had been greatly trimmed.
The hall erupted yet again, and amid the cheering and clapping, I found I could not advance through those still crowded before me. I could only watch and listen as the chairman urged Sir Harry Christey to rise again to stand beside him, with Hannay on the other side. The three men joined hands and raised their arms into the air, prompting more cheering from the audience. At length, the chairman proposed a vote of thanks to Sir Harry, ignoring Hannay altogether, and the hall approved the notion with a loud, “Aye!”
The rally itself now appeared to be at an end, and I saw an opportunity to advance toward the podium and latch onto Hannay. But as the meeting dissolved, everyone in chairs now suddenly rose to their feet, and those immediately before me milled about in conversation. The great mass of humanity within the hall began to assume the nature of a vast liquid cauldron, with currents that impeded my progress, or in some instances even drove me farther from my objective.
As I stood, occasionally on tiptoe, I saw Hannay and Sir Harry converse with the minister, Murray and others, but every time I glimpsed them anew, I saw that they had advanced closer to the door. I tried to force my way through the crowd with greater imperative, but those efforts only earned the scorn and anger of my fellow attendees.
“Here, sir!” said one. “There’s no need to be so rough!”
“You’ve disturbed my wife with that shove, ye impudent sod,” snarled another.
“Wait your turn,” I was told by yet another, who then added, “Are you a Tory spy?”
This question, spoken as an accusation rather than in mere jest, suddenly inflamed those within earshot, and I was threatened with being dragged outside and beaten, until Boyd Watson approached and vouched for my good intent. By then, however, I could no longer see either Sir Harry or Richard Hannay in the great hall. With the other Watson in tow, however, I at last was able to cross the floor and step outside into darkness, where I found Murray conversing with the red-nosed minister.
“Ah, Mr. Price,” said the tobacconist. “A very stirring rally, do ye not think?”
“Where is Sir Harry and the other speaker?” I asked breathlessly.
“Sir Harry and that fellow Twisdon? Why, they’re off to Dunfeardon, Sir Harry’s estate, I believe.”
“You mean they have left?”
“They left some five minutes ago, I’m afraid. Had you something to say to them?”
“It was Sir Harry I wished to meet!” I said. “And Twisdon as well,” I added disconsolately. “Is it possible to follow them to Sir Harry’s residence?”
“Tonight?” Murray glanced at Boyd Watson curiously. “I do not see how you might accomplish that. Watson and I must return to Dumfries this evening. Of course,” he added in a hesitant voice, “you may always enquire as to whether any other of our fellow rally-goers might be headed in that direction. Shall I ask around for you, Mr. Price?”
“Yes,” I replied on impulse. “It would be most appreciated.”
Twenty minutes later, I found myself in the tonneau of a different motor, crammed between two masons from Lockerbie.
“How far is it to Dunfeardon?” I asked.
“What say ye?” shouted the chauffeur, a fellow from Eaglesfield, whose wife sat beside him.
“I said, how far to Dunfeardon?”
“Oh, I reckon ye’ll have about five mile, once we set you off on the trail.”
“What?” I exclaimed, leaning forward, which caused the two masons to fall toward one another into the space I had vacated. “I thought we were going to Dunfeardon!”
“It’s no on our route,” the chauffeu
r calmly told me. “That fellow Murray said you wanted help in getting there.”
“Well, yes, but—”
“And it is help we’re providing ye. Ye’d likely no wish to start your walk from Brattleburn now, would ye?”
“But it’s well into evening,” I said. “And five miles—”
“Is five mile,” interjected one of the masons.
“Are we dropping him at the wood?” asked the other mason. “There be the inn just beyond it, on the path.” The man bent forward in the seat to look me in the eye. “Ye can stay the night there and start out at dawn, if ye’ve no fancy for walking in the dark, there.”
“Aye,” said the man from Eaglesfield. “There is your solution, sir.”
“The wood is coming up ahead,” his wife quietly noted.
“So it is,” said the chauffeur, who pulled his motorcar to the side of the road and brought it to a halt. He turned round and smiled at me in the darkness. “Here ye be, then. The inn is along that path, not far,” he indicated by pointing. “Ye can even see its lights from here, I think.”
I saw nothing as I stepped from the automobile, but I felt that I had no other choice if I were to have any hope of seeing Sir Harry Christey—and now, Richard Hannay—before dawn, and so I bade farewell to my brief companions, whose names I never learnt, and stepped off the road and onto a winding path that led through a small copse into abruptly hilly terrain, with a pass between the low peaks.
All was darkness save for the light of the moon, and after the better part of an hour, I ran into a road where, in the distance, I did at last see dim light ahead. It took me a short while to reach its vicinity, where I encountered a small stone bridge spanning a stream. On the other side was a cottage.
The chimney calmly smoked in the moonlight, and flickering candlelight was visible through dingy windows. I walked toward the house, half-seen twigs snapping and gravel crunching beneath my soles, and stepped onto the porch. Hearing nothing from within, I knocked softly.
I stood for what seemed many seconds, breathing the aroma of peat smoke, before the door was finally opened by a young man with a ruddy, boyish face who held a long clay pipe in his right hand.
“Good evening,” he said. “It’s a mite late to be on the road. You are in need of a place to rest?”
“This is the inn?” I asked.
He smiled gently and raised the pipe to his lips for an instant then exhaled. “It is an inn,” the young man replied. “For these parts, though, I suppose it is the inn. I am its landlord, and at your service.”
He moved to the side, as if inviting me to enter, and I took that presumption, stepping over the threshold. Near the hearth was a sturdy chair and table, upon which lay an open book.
“You have no lodgers at present?” I asked.
“None,” he said. “My grandmother is upstairs. Margit, our housekeeper, is still in the back, I believe. She can prepare a small repast if you are—”
“I am not hungry, no,” I said briskly. “I am, however, in great need of transport to a place called Dunfeardon.”
“Dunfeardon?” the young man said, stepping to the table before motioning for me to sit in a chair.
I politely shook my head at the offer.
“Ah yes, Dunfeardon,” he said. “The Christey manor, isn’t it? I know its general location, and it’s really not that far—as long as you’re not on foot.”
“But I am.”
“Oh, I see.”
He again sucked on his pipe and considered me with a thoughtful expression.
“May I ask a question, sir?” the young man said at last, his face momentarily obscured by a smoky exhalation. “Why do you lack transport other than your legs? You do not seem quite dressed for hiking, and this is hardly the hour—”
“I urgently need to see Sir Harry Christey, and I was travelling with acquaintances whom I thought would deposit me at Dunfeardon. My assumption was incorrect, and this is where I find myself. They recommended your establishment as a place where I might seek assistance.”
“Ah, I see. Well, what kind of assistance do you seek? A place for the night or transport to Dunfeardon?”
“The latter,” I said. “If it is at all possible at this hour.”
The young man shrugged. “It is…possible.”
“You have a motor, then?”
“I have a motor bicycle.”
“Can it accommodate me?”
“There is a sidecar. Have you any baggage outside, Mister…?”
“Watson,” I said, at last foregoing my seemingly useless alias. “John Watson. I carry nothing at the moment.”
“Good. I am Ewan Clark,” he said, taking the pipe in his left hand and offering me the other. I accepted it warmly, and then the young innkeeper reached for his book on the table and with thumb and forefinger bent a page to mark his place. “You’ve spoken of urgency, and so I assume you wish to set off immediately, despite the hour.”
“I do, yes.”
He nodded and stepped to the hearth to knock out his pipe. “Then I will make preparations to take you to Dunfeardon.”
“That is all rather kind of you,” I said with genuine emotion.
Ewan Clark looked at me and smiled shyly.
“I love adventure,” he declared. “I inherited this place from my father, and it provides little in the way of that. I must do my adventuring in the mind,” he added, gesturing toward his book. “Milton, for the present. However,” he went on, “lately I’ve had a touch of real excitement, and this will merely add to it. Excuse me for a moment.”
And with that, he left the room.
I heard low talking in the back of the house and then the tread of footsteps upon stairs somewhere beyond the wall in which the hearth was set. I stepped to the fire to warm myself and turned over the book to observe that it was indeed Paradise Lost.
Once more, I heard footsteps—now descending—and returned the volume to its original position upon the table. As I looked up, Clark reappeared from the back of the house.
“I’ve told my gran and Margit that I’m taking you to Dunfeardon,” he said.
“I do have some money that I can—”
“The thrill will be more than enough pay for me, sir,” he insisted, motioning toward the book. “Beside this and the events of the past two days, even Satan there can’t hold a candle. Just a few moments more while I change clothes, please.”
The innkeeper disappeared yet again, and I slowly cast my eye about the room, taking in its homespun quality and cosy air. After a moment, I noticed that an old woman had materialised from the back of the inn. Almost at once, the young man stepped around her and into the room. He was dressed in boots and a long coat, goggles upon his forehead.
“My grandmother is already in bed, and Margit here will tend to things while I am gone,” he said, indicating the woman, who did not smile as she was introduced to me. “Shall we go, then?”
“Yes, of course. This is awfully kind of you,” I said again as the young man strode to the door. He held it open for me to pass on ahead and out into the night.
“I’ve done rather a lot these past two days,” he said cheerfully. “After two weeks with no visitors, I’m suddenly in the midst of one adventure after another.” He closed the door behind him and, in the moonlight, directed me to a shed in the distance.
“And what adventures have those been?” I asked idly.
As we approached the shed, the innkeeper said, “For one, I’ve helped a man from South Africa, a mining magnate from Kimberley.60 He had been pursued by a gang of illegal diamond buyers across the Kalahari into German Africa, assaulted and nearly killed on board the ship bringing him to Britain—and an associate of his was murdered in London to boot. I read a bit about that killing myself in the newspaper,” he proclaimed while opening the door of the shed to reveal the dim outline of a motor bicycle within.
“A nasty business it was,” he declared. “As I told him myself, all pure Rider Haggard and Conan Doyle
.”
“Well, the parts about the Kalahari and Africa sound like pure Rider Haggard, to be sure,” I said primly, my interest in the young man’s story suddenly deepening.
By this time, the innkeeper had pulled the vehicle out of the shed. It appeared a sturdy contraption, with a sidecar as promised.
“And what became of this South African?” I said earnestly, for I knew who that South African man must have been. “When did you last see him?”
The man paused in his preparation of the motor bicycle and turned to face me in the moonlight. For the first time, his expression seemed one of suspicion.
“Why would you be asking about that?” he said in a voice that confirmed my perception of his changed mood. “Coming here as you have, on foot and at this hour, I thought you an honest man and not one who might be connected with the two that were chasing my mining magnate earlier today.”
“What two men?”
“My, curiouser and curiouser you become.” He stepped toward me, arms at his side, and I thought I saw his hands formed into fists.
“Yes, I am pursuing your South African friend as well,” I said abruptly, deciding now to brook no dishonesty on my part. “I pursue him, but as a friend and ally.”
The innkeeper halted in his advance upon me, and he lifted his chin, his eyes narrowing. “And how is that?”
“This is not about diamonds,” I told the young man. I reached into my jacket pocket, a gesture that appeared to give my companion alarm, and so I moved my hands back to my side. “May I show you a paper?” I asked calmly. “It is a letter of introduction to Sir Harry Christie, on official stationery, from a high government official.”
“Truly?” The man’s voice was neither sceptical nor credulous.
“I speak the truth,” I said. “Shall I give you the paper, so that you may see for yourself?”
“Perhaps.” He stepped closer to me. “Yes,” Clark said after a moment. “Yes, show me this letter of yours, then.”
I slowly pulled the paper from my jacket pocket and handed it him. Eyes straining in the moonlight, the young man read the letter. He gave it back to me and then spent a moment in thought.