Books: Huntingtower
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John Buchan >> Huntingtower
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The man--it was Spittal--walked rapidly along the verandah and out
of the garden door. He was talking to himself again, and Dickson,
who had a glimpse of his face, thought he looked both evil and furious.
Then came some anxious moments, for had the man glanced back when he
was once outside, he must have seen the tell-tale ladder. But he
seemed immersed in his own reflections, for he hobbled steadily along
the house front till he was lost to sight.
"That'll be the end o' them the day," said Dougal, as he helped
Heritage to pull up the ladder and stow it away. "We've got the
place to oursels, now. Forward, men, forward." He tried the handle
of the House door and led the way in.
A narrow paved passage took them into what had once been the garden
room, where the lady of the house had arranged her flowers, and the
tennis racquets and croquet mallets had been kept. It was very dusty,
and on the cobwebbed walls still hung a few soiled garden overalls.
A door beyond opened into a huge murky hall, murky, for the windows
were shuttered, and the only light came through things like port-holes
far up in the wall. Dougal, who seemed to know his way about,
halted them. "Stop here till I scout a bit. The women bide in a
wee room through that muckle door.' Bare feet stole across the oak
flooring, there was the sound of a door swinging on its hinges, and
then silence and darkness. Dickson put out a hand for companionship
and clutched Heritage's; to his surprise it was cold and all a-tremble.
They listened for voices, and thought they could detect a far-away sob.
It was some minutes before Dougal returned. "A bonny kettle o'
fish," he whispered. "They're both greetin'. We're just in time.
Come on, the pair o' ye."
Through a green baize door they entered a passage which led to the
kitchen regions, and turned in at the first door on their right.
From its situation Dickson calculated that the room lay on the
seaward side of the House next to the verandah. The light was bad,
for the two windows were partially shuttered, but it had plainly
been a smoking-room, for there were pipe-racks by the hearth, and on
the walls a number of old school and college photographs, a couple of
oars with emblazoned names, and a variety of stags' and roebucks' heads.
There was no fire in the grate, but a small oil-stove burned inside
the fender. In a stiff-backed chair sat an elderly woman, who seemed
to feel the cold, for she was muffled to the neck in a fur coat.
Beside her, so that the late afternoon light caught her face and head,
stood a girl.
Dickson's first impression was of a tall child. The pose, startled
and wild and yet curiously stiff and self-conscious, was that of a
child striving to remember a forgotten lesson. One hand clutched a
handkerchief, the other was closing and unclosing on a knob of the
chair back. She was staring at Dougal, who stood like a gnome in
the centre of the floor. "Here's the gentlemen I was tellin' ye
about," was his introduction, but her eyes did not move.
Then Heritage stepped forward. "We have met before, Mademoiselle,"
he said. "Do you remember Easter in 1918--in the house in the
Trinita dei Monte?"
The girl looked at him.
"I do not remember,' she said slowly.
"But I was the English officer who had the apartments on the floor
below you. I saw you every morning. You spoke to me sometimes."
"You are a soldier?" she asked, with a new note in her voice.
"I was then--till the war finished.'
"And now? Why have you come here?"
"To offer you help if you need it. If not, to ask your pardon
and go away."
The shrouded figure in the chair burst suddenly into rapid
hysterical talk in some foreign tongue which Dickson suspected
of being French. Heritage replied in the same language, and
the girl joined in with sharp questions. Then the Poet turned
to Dickson.
"This is my friend. If you will trust us we will do our best
to help you."
The eyes rested on Dickson's face, and he realized that he was in
the presence of something the like of which he had never met in his
life before. It was a loveliness greater than he had imagined was
permitted by the Almighty to His creatures. The little face was more
square than oval, with a low broad brow and proud exquisite eyebrows.
The eyes were of a colour which he could never decide on; afterwards
he used to allege obscurely that they were the colour of everything
in Spring. There was a delicate pallor in the cheeks, and the face
bore signs of suffering and care, possibly even of hunger; but for
all that there was youth there, eternal and triumphant! Not youth such
as he had known it, but youth with all history behind it, youth with
centuries of command in its blood and the world's treasures of beauty
and pride in its ancestry. Strange, he thought, that a thing so fine
should be so masterful. He felt abashed in every inch of him.
As the eyes rested on him their sorrowfulness seemed to be shot
with humour. A ghost of a smile lurked there, to which Dickson
promptly responded. He grinned and bowed.
"Very pleased to meet you, Mem. I'm Mr. McCunn from Glasgow."
"You don't even know my name," she said.
"We don't," said Heritage.
"They call me Saskia. This," nodding to the chair, "is my cousin
Eugenie....We are in very great trouble. But why should I tell you?
I do not know you. You cannot help me."
"We can try," said Heritage. "Part of your trouble we know already
through that boy. You are imprisoned in this place by scoundrels.
We are here to help you to get out. We want to ask no questions-
-only to do what you bid us."
"You are not strong enough," she said sadly. "A young man--an old
man--and a little boy. There are many against us, and any moment
there may be more."
It was Dougal's turn to break in, "There's Lean and Spittal and
Dobson and four tinklers in the Dean--that's seven ; but there's us
three and five more Gorbals Die-hards--that's eight."
There was something in the boy's truculent courage that cheered her.
"I wonder," she said, and her eyes fell on each in turn.
Dickson felt impelled to intervene.
"I think this is a perfectly simple business. Here's a lady shut up
in this house against her will by a wheen blagyirds. This is a free
country and the law doesn't permit that. My advice if for one of us
to inform the police at Auchenlochan and get Dobson and his friends
took up and the lady set free to do what she likes. That is, if
these folks are really molesting her, which is not yet quite clear
to my mind."
"Alas! It is not so simple as that," she said. "I dare not invoke
your English law, for perhaps in the eyes of that law I am a thief."
"Deary me, that's a bad business," said the startled Dickson.
The two women talked together in some strange tongue, and the elder
appeared to be pleading and the younger objecting. Then Saskia
seemed to come to a decision.
"I will tell you all," and she looked straight at Heritage. "I do
not think you would be cruel or false, for you have honourable faces..
..Listen, then. I am a Russian, and for two years have been an exile.
I will not now speak of my house, for it is no more, or how I escaped,
for it is the common tale of all of us. I have seen things more
terrible than any dream and yet lived, but I have paid a price for
such experience. First I went to Italy where there were friends, and
I wished only to have peace among kindly people. About poverty I do
not care, for, to us, who have lost all the great things, the want of
bread is a little matter. But peace was forbidden me, for I learned
that we Russians had to win back our fatherland again, and that the
weakest must work in that cause. So I was set my task, and it was
very hard....There were others still hidden in Russia which must be
brought to a safe place. In that work I was ordered to share."
She spoke in almost perfect English, with a certain foreign precision.
Suddenly she changed to French, and talked rapidly to Heritage.
"She has told me about her family," he said, turning to Dickson.
"It is among the greatest in Russia, the very greatest after the throne."
Dickson could only stare.
"Our enemies soon discovered me," she went on. "Oh, but they are
very clever, these enemies, and they have all the criminals of the
world to aid them. Here you do not understand what they are.
You good people in England think they are well-meaning dreamers who
are forced into violence by the persecution of Western Europe.
But you are wrong. Some honest fools there are among them, but the
power--the true power--lies with madmen and degenerates, and they
have for allies the special devil that dwells in each country.
That is why they cast their nets as wide as mankind."
She shivered, and for a second her face wore a look which Dickson
never forgot, the look of one who has looked over the edge of life
into the outer dark.
"There were certain jewels of great price which were about to be
turned into guns and armies for our enemies. These our people
recovered, and the charge of them was laid on me. Who would
suspect, they said, a foolish girl? But our enemies were very
clever, and soon the hunt was cried against me. They tried to rob
me of them, but they failed, for I too had become clever. Then they
asked for the help of the law--first in Italy and then in France.
Ah, it was subtly done. Respectable bourgeois, who hated the
Bolsheviki but had bought long ago the bonds of my country, desired
to be repaid their debts out of the property of the Russian crown
which might be found in the West. But behind them were the Jews,
and behind the Jews our unsleeping enemies. Once I was enmeshed in
the law I would be safe for them, and presently they would find the
hiding-place of the treasure, and while the bourgeois were clamouring
in the courts it would be safe in their pockets. So I fled.
For months I have been fleeing and hiding. They have tried to kidnap
me many times, and once they have tried to kill me, but I, too, have
become clever--oh, so clever. And I have learned not to fear."
This simple recital affected Dickson's honest soul with the
liveliest indignation. "Sich doings!" he exclaimed, and he could
not forbear from whispering to Heritage an extract from that
gentleman's conversation the first night at Kirkmichael.
"We needn't imitate all their methods, but they've got hold of the
right end of the stick. They seek truth and reality.' The reply
from the Poet was an angry shrug.
"Why and how did you come here?" he asked.
"I always meant to come to England, for I thought it the sanest
place in a mad world. Also it is a good country to hide in, for it
is apart from Europe, and your police, as I thought, do not permit
evil men to be their own law. But especially I had a friend, a
Scottish gentleman, whom I knew in the days when we Russians were
still a nation. I saw him again in Italy, and since he was kind and
brave I told him some part of my troubles. He was called Quentin
Kennedy, and now he is dead. He told me that in Scotland he had a
lonely chateau, where I could hide secretly and safely, and against
the day when I might be hard-pressed he gave me a letter to his
steward, bidding him welcome me as a guest when I made application.
At that time I did not think I would need such sanctuary, but a
month ago the need became urgent, for the hunt in France was very
close on me. So I sent a message to the steward as Captain Kennedy
told me."
"What is his name?" Heritage asked.
She spelt it, "Monsieur Loudon--L-O-U-D-O-N in the town of Auchenlochan."
"The factor," said Dickson, "And what then?"
"Some spy must have found me out. I had a letter from this Loudon
bidding me come to Auchenlochan. There I found no steward to
receive me, but another letter saying that that night a carriage
would be in waiting to bring me here. It was midnight when we
arrived, and we were brought in by strange ways to this house, with
no light but a single candle. Here we were welcomed indeed, but
by an enemy."
"Which?" asked Heritage. "Dobson or Lean or Spittal?"
"Dobson I do not know. Leon was there. He is no Russian, but
a Belgian who was a valet in my father's service till he joined
the Bolsheviki. Next day the Lett Spidel came, and I knew that I
was in very truth entrapped. For of all our enemies he is, save
one, the most subtle and unwearied."
Her voice had trailed off into flat weariness. Again Dickson was
reminded of a child, for her arms hung limp by her side; and her
slim figure in its odd clothes was curiously like that of a boy in a
school blazer. Another resemblance perplexed him. She had a hint
of Janet--about the mouth--Janet, that solemn little girl those
twenty years in her grave.
Heritage was wrinkling his brows. "I don't think I quite understand.
The jewels? You have them with you?"
She nodded.
"These men wanted to rob you. Why didn't they do it between here
and Auchenlochan? You had no chance to hide them on the journey.
Why did they let you come here where you were in a better position
to baffle them?"
She shook her head. "I cannot explain--except, perhaps, that
Spidel had not arrived that night, and Leon may have been
waiting instructions."
The other still looked dissatisfied. "They are either clumsier
villains than I take them to be, or there is something deeper in the
business than we understand. These jewels--are they here?"
His tone was so sharp that she looked startled--almost suspicious.
Then she saw that in his face which reassured her. "I have them
hidden here. I have grown very skilful in hiding things."
"Have they searched for them?"
"The first day they demanded them of me. I denied all knowledge.
Then they ransacked this house--I think they ransack it daily, but I
am too clever for them. I am not allowed to go beyond the verandah,
and when at first I disobeyed there was always one of them in wait to
force me back with a pistol behind my head. Every morning Leon
brings us food for the day--good food, but not enough, so that
Cousin Eugenie is always hungry, and each day he and Spidel question
and threaten me. This afternoon Spidel has told me that their
patience is at an end. He has given me till tomorrow at noon to
produce the jewels. If not, he says I will die."
"Mercy on us!" Dickson exclaimed.
"There will be no mercy for us," she said solemnly. "He and his
kind think as little of shedding blood as of spilling water. But I
do not think he will kill me. I think I will kill him first,
but after that I shall surely die. As for Cousin Eugenie,
I do not know."
Her level matter-of-fact tone seemed to Dickson most shocking, for
he could not treat it as mere melodrama. It carried a horrid
conviction. "We must get you out of this at once," he declared.
"I cannot leave. I will tell you why. When I came to this country
I appointed one to meet me here. He is a kinsman who knows England
well, for he fought in your army. With him by my side I have no fear.
It is altogether needful that I wait for him."
"Then there is something more which you haven't told us?"
Heritage asked.
Was there the faintest shadow of a blush on her cheek? "There is
something more," she said.
She spoke to Heritage in French, and Dickson caught the name
"Alexis" and a word which sounded like "prance." The Poet listened
eagerly and nodded. "I have heard of him," he said.
"But have you not seen him? A tall man with a yellow beard,
who bears himself proudly. Being of my mother's race he has
eyes like mine."
"That's the man she was askin' me about yesterday," said Dougal,
who had squatted on the floor.
Heritage shook his head. "We only came here last night. When did
you expect Prince--your friend."
"I hoped to find him here before me. Oh, it is his not coming that
terrifies me. I must wait and hope. But if he does not come in
time another may come before him."
"The ones already here are not all the enemies that threaten you?"
"Indeed, no. The worst has still to come, and till I know he is
here I do not greatly fear Spidel or Leon. They receive orders and
do not give them."
Heritage ran a perplexed hand through his hair. The sunset which
had been flaming for some time in the unshuttered panes was now
passing into the dark. The girl lit a lamp after first shuttering
the rest of the windows. As she turned up the wick the odd dusty
room and its strange company were revealed more clearly, and Dickson
saw with a shock how haggard was the beautiful face. A great pity
seized him and almost conquered his timidity.
"It is very difficult to help you," Heritage was saying. "You won't
leave this place, and you won't claim the protection of the law.
You are very independent, Mademoiselle, but it can't go on for ever.
The man you fear may arrive at any moment. At any moment, too, your
treasure may by discovered."
"It is that that weighs on me," she cried. "The jewels! They are
my solemn trust, but they burden me terribly. If I were only rid
of them and knew them to be safe I should face the rest with a
braver mind."
"If you'll take my advice," said Dickson slowly, "you'll get them
deposited in a bank and take a receipt for them. A Scotch bank
is no' in a hurry to surrender a deposit without it gets the
proper authority."
Heritage brought his hands together with a smack. "That's an idea.
Will you trust us to take these things and deposit them safely?"
For a little she was silent and her eyes were fixed on each of the
trio in turn. "I will trust you," she said at last. "I think you
will not betray me."
"By God, we won't!" said the Poet fervently. "Dogson, it's up to you.
You march off to Glasgow in double quick time and place the stuff in
your own name in your own bank. There's not a moment to lose.
D'you hear?"
"I will that," To his own surprise Dickson spoke without hesitation.
Partly it was because of his merchant's sense of property, which
made him hate the thought that miscreants should acquire that to
which they had no title ; but mainly it was the appeal in those
haggard childish eyes. "But I'm not going to be tramping the
country in the night carrying a fortune and seeking for trains that
aren't there. I'll go the first thing in the morning."
"Where are they?" Heritage asked.
"That I do not tell. But I will fetch them."
She left the room, and presently returned with three odd little
parcels wrapped in leather and tied with thongs of raw hide.
She gave them to Heritage, who held them appraisingly in his hand
and then passed them on to Dickson.
"I do not ask about their contents. We take them from you as they
are, and, please God, when the moment comes they will be returned to
you as you gave them. You trust us, Mademoiselle?"
"I trust you, for you are a soldier. Oh, and I thank you from my
heart, my friends" She held out a hand to each, which caused
Heritage to grow suddenly very red.
"I will remain in the neighbourhood to await developments," he said.
"We had better leave you now. Dougal, lead on."
Before going, he took the girl's hand again, and with a sudden
movement bent and kissed it. Dickson shook it heartily. "Cheer up,
Mem," he observed. "There's a better time coming.' His last
recollection of her eyes was of a soft mistiness not far from tears.
His pouch and pipe had strange company jostling them in his pocket
as he followed the others down the ladder into the night.
Dougal insisted that they must return by the road of the morning.
"We daren't go by the Laver, for that would bring us by the
public-house. If the worst comes to the worst, and we fall in wi'
any of the deevils, they must think ye've changed your mind and come
back from Auchenlochan."
The night smelt fresh and moist as if a break in the weather
were imminent. As they scrambled along the Garple Dean a pinprick
of light below showed where the tinklers were busy by their fire.
Dickson's spirits suffered a sharp fall and he began to marvel at
his temerity. What in Heaven's name had he undertaken? To carry
very precious things, to which certainly he had no right, through
the enemy to distant Glasgow. How could he escape the notice of
the watchers? He was already suspect, and the sight of him back
again in Dalquharter would double that suspicion. He must brazen
it out, but he distrusted his powers with such tell-tale stuff
in his pockets. They might murder him anywhere on the moor road
or in an empty railway carriage. An unpleasant memory of various
novels he had read in which such things happened haunted his mind..
..There was just one consolation. This job over, he would be quit
of the whole business. And honourably quit, too, for he would have
played a manly part in a most unpleasant affair. He could retire to
the idyllic with the knowledge that he had not been wanting when
Romance called. Not a soul should ever hear of it, but he saw
himself in the future tramping green roads or sitting by his winter
fireside pleasantly retelling himself the tale.
Before they came to the Garple bridge Dougal insisted that they
should separate, remarking that "it would never do if we were seen
thegither." Heritage was despatched by a short cut over fields to
the left, which eventually, after one or two plunges into ditches,
landed him safely in Mrs. Morran's back yard. Dickson and Dougal
crossed the bridge and tramped Dalquharter-wards by the highway.
There was no sign of human life in that quiet place with owls
hooting and rabbits rustling in the undergrowth. Beyond the woods
they came in sight of the light in the back kitchen, and both seemed
to relax their watchfulness when it was most needed. Dougal sniffed
the air and looked seaward.
"It's coming on to rain," he observed. "There should be a muckle
star there, and when you can't see it it means wet weather wi'
this wind."
"What star?" Dickson asked.
"The one wi' the Irish-lukkin' name. What's that they call it?
O'Brien?" And he pointed to where the constellation of the hunter
should have been declining on the western horizon.
There was a bend of the road behind them, and suddenly round it came
a dogcart driven rapidly. Dougal slipped like a weasel into a bush,
and presently Dickson stood revealed in the glare of a lamp.
The horse was pulled up sharply and the driver called out to him.
He saw that it was Dobson the innkeeper with Leon beside him.
"Who is it?" cried the voice. "Oh, you! I thought ye were off the day?"
Dickson rose nobly to the occasion.
"I thought myself I was. But I didn't think much of Auchenlochan,
and I took a fancy to come back and spend the last night of my
holiday with my Auntie. I'm off to Glasgow first thing the morn's morn."
"So!" said the voice. "Queer thing I never saw ye on the
Auchenlochan road, where ye can see three mile before ye."
"I left early and took it easy along the shore.'
"Did ye so? Well, good-sight to ye."
Five minutes later Dickson walked into Mrs. Morran's kitchen,
where Heritage was busy making up for a day of short provender.
"I'm for Glasgow to-morrow, Auntie Phemie," he cried. "I want you
to loan me a wee trunk with a key, and steek the door and windows,
for I've a lot to tell you."
CHAPTER VI
HOW MR. McCUNN DEPARTED WITH RELIEF AND RETURNED WITH RESOLUTION
At seven o'clock on the following morning the post-cart, summoned by
an early message from Mrs. Morran, appeared outside the cottage.
In it sat the ancient postman, whose real home was Auchenlochan,
but who slept alternate nights in Dalquharter, and beside him Dobson
the innkeeper. Dickson and his hostess stood at the garden-gate,
the former with his pack on his back, and at his feet a small stout
wooden box, of the kind in which cheeses are transported, garnished
with an immense padlock. Heritage for obvious reasons did not appear;
at the moment he was crouched on the floor of the loft watching the
departure through a gap in the dimity curtains.
The traveller, after making sure that Dobson was looking, furtively
slipped the key of the trunk into his knapsack.
"Well, good-bye, Auntie Phemie," he said. "I'm sure you've been
awful kind to me, and I don't know how to thank you for all
you're sending."
"Tuts, Dickson, my man, they're hungry folk about Glesca that'll be
glad o' my scones and jeelie. Tell Mirren I'm rale pleased wi' her
man, and haste ye back soon.
The trunk was deposited on the floor of the cart, and Dickson
clambered into the back seat. He was thankful that he had not to sit
next to Dobson, for he had tell-tale stuff on his person. The morning
was wet, so he wore his waterproof, which concealed his odd tendency to
stoutness about the middle.
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