Books: Huntingtower
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John Buchan >> Huntingtower
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"I'll run down and see this Loudon. Tell Glendonan and Spiers to
advise him to expect me, for I'll go this very day."
Mr. Caw resumed his conversation. "My client would like a telegram
sent at once to Mr. Loudon introducing him. He's Mr. Dickson McCunn
of Mearns Street--the great provision merchant, you know. Oh, yes!
Good for any rent. Refer if you like to the Strathclyde Bank,
but you can take my word for it. Thank you. Then that's settled.
Good-bye."
Dickson's next visit was to a gunmaker who was a fellow-elder with
him in the Guthrie Memorial Kirk.
"I want a pistol and a lot of cartridges," he announced. "I'm not
caring what kind it is, so long as it is a good one and not too big."
"For yourself?" the gunmaker asked. "You must have a license,
I doubt, and there's a lot of new regulations."
"I can't wait on a license. It's for a cousin of mine who's
off to Mexico at once. You've got to find some way of obliging
an old friend, Mr. McNair."
Mr. McNair scratched his head. "I don't see how I can sell you one.
But I'll tell you what I'll do--I'll lend you one. It belongs to my
nephew, Peter Tait, and has been lying in a drawer ever since he
came back from the front. He has no use for it now that he's
a placed minister."
So Dickson bestowed in the pockets of his water-proof a service
revolver and fifty cartridges, and bade his cab take him to the shop
in Mearns Street. For a moment the sight of the familiar place
struck a pang to his breast, but he choked down unavailing regrets.
He ordered a great hamper of foodstuffs--the most delicate kind of
tinned goods, two perfect hams, tongues, Strassburg pies, chocolate,
cakes, biscuits, and, as a last thought, half a dozen bottles of
old liqueur brandy. It was to be carefully packed, addressed to
Mrs. Morran, Dalquharter Station, and delivered in time for him to
take down by the 7.33 train. Then he drove to the terminus and
dined with something like a desperate peace in his heart.
On this occasion he took a first-class ticket, for he wanted to be alone.
As the lights began to be lit in the wayside stations and the clear
April dusk darkened into night, his thoughts were sombre yet resigned.
He opened the window and let the sharp air of the Renfrewshire uplands
fill the carriage. It was fine weather again after the rain, and a
bright constellation--perhaps Dougal's friend O'Brien- hung in the
western sky. How happy he would have been a week ago had he been
starting thus for a country holiday! He could sniff the faint scent
of moor-burn and ploughed earth which had always been his first reminder
of Spring. But he had been pitchforked out of that old happy world and
could never enter it again. Alas! for the roadside fire, the cosy inn,
the Compleat Angler, the Chavender or Chub!
And yet--and yet! He had done the right thing, though the Lord
alone knew how it would end. He began to pluck courage from his
very melancholy, and hope from his reflections upon the transitoriness
of life. He was austerely following Romance as he conceived it, and
if that capricious lady had taken one dream from him she might yet
reward him with a better. Tags of poetry came into his head which
seemed to favour this philosophy--particularly some lines of
Browning on which he used to discourse to his Kirk Literary Society.
Uncommon silly, he considered, these homilies of his must have been,
mere twitterings of the unfledged. But now he saw more in the lines,
a deeper interpretation which he had earned the right to make.
"Oh world, where all things change and nought abides,
Oh life, the long mutation--is it so?
Is it with life as with the body's change?--
Where, e'en tho' better follow, good must pass."
That was as far as he could get, though he cudgelled his memory
to continue. Moralizing thus, he became drowsy, and was almost
asleep when the train drew up at the station of Kirkmichael.
CHAPTER VII
SUNDRY DOINGS IN THE MIRK
From Kirkmichael on the train stopped at every station, but
no passenger seemed to leave or arrive at the little platforms
white in the moon. At Dalquharter the case of provisions was safely
transferred to the porter with instructions to take charge of it till
it was sent for. During the next new minutes Dickson's mind began to
work upon his problem with a certain briskness. It was all nonsense
that the law of Scotland could not be summoned to the defence.
The jewels had been safely got rid of, and who was to dispute
their possession? Not Dobson and his crew, who had no sort of title,
and were out for naked robbery. The girl had spoken of greater
dangers from new enemies--kidnapping, perhaps. Well, that was
felony, and the police must be brought in. Probably if all were
known the three watchers had criminal records, pages long, filed
at Scotland Yard. The man to deal with that side of the business
was Loudon the factor, and to him he was bound in the first place.
He had made a clear picture in his head of this Loudon--a derelict
old country writer, formal, pedantic, lazy, anxious only to get an
unprofitable business off his hands with the least possible trouble,
never going near the place himself, and ably supported in his lethargy
by conceited Edinburgh Writers to the Signet. "Sich notions of
business!" he murmured. "I wonder that there's a single county family
in Scotland no' in the bankruptcy court!" It was his mission to
wake up Mr. James Loudon.
Arrived at Auchenlochan he went first to the Salutation Hotel,
a pretentious place sacred to golfers. There he engaged a bedroom
for the night and, having certain scruples, paid for it in advance.
He also had some sandwiches prepared which he stowed in his pack,
and filled his flask with whisky. "I'm going home to Glasgow by the
first train in the to-morrow," he told the landlady," and now I've got
to see a friend. I'll not be back till late." He was assured that
there would be no difficulty about his admittance at any hour,
and directed how to find Mr. Loudon's dwelling.
It was an old house fronting direct on the street, with a
fanlight above the door and a neat brass plate bearing the legend
"Mr. James Loudon, Writer." A lane ran up one side leading
apparently to a garden, for the moonlight showed the dusk of trees.
In front was the main street of Auchenlochan, now deserted save for
a single roysterer, and opposite stood the ancient town house,
with arches where the country folk came at the spring and autumn
hiring fairs. Dickson rang the antiquated bell, and was presently
admitted to a dark hall floored with oilcloth, where a single
gas-jet showed that on one side was the business office and on
the other the living-rooms. Mr. Loudon was at supper, he was told,
and he sent in his card. Almost at once the door at the end
on the left side was flung open and a large figure appeared
flourishing a napkin. "Come in, sir, come in," it cried.
"I've just finished a bite of meat. Very glad to see you.
Here, Maggie, what d'you mean by keeping the gentleman standing
in that outer darkness?"
The room into which Dickson was ushered was small and bright,
with a red paper on the walls, a fire burning, and a big oil lamp
in the centre of a table. Clearly Mr. Loudon had no wife, for it
was a bachelor's den in every line of it. A cloth was laid on
a corner of the table, in which stood the remnants of a meal.
Mr. Loudon seemed to have been about to make a brew of punch,
for a kettle simmered by the fire, and lemons and sugar flanked
a pot-bellied whisky decanter of the type that used to be known as
a "mason's mell."
The sight of the lawyer was a surprise to Dickson and dissipated his
notions of an aged and lethargic incompetent. Mr. Loudon was a
strongly built man who could not be a year over fifty. He had
a ruddy face, clean shaven except for a grizzled moustache;
his grizzled hair was thinning round the temples; but his skin was
unwrinkled and his eyes had all the vigour of youth. His tweed suit
was well cut, and the buff waistcoat with flaps and pockets and
the plain leather watchguard hinted at the sportsman, as did the
half-dozen racing prints on the wall. A pleasant high-coloured
figure he made; his voice had the frank ring due to much use
out of doors; and his expression had the singular candour which
comes from grey eyes with large pupils and a narrow iris.
"Sit down, Mr. McCunn. Take the arm-chair by the fire. I've had
a wire from Glendonan and Speirs about you. I was just going to
have a glass of toddy--a grand thing for these uncertain April nights.
You'll join me? No? Well, you'll smoke anyway. There's cigars at
your elbow. Certainly, a pipe if you like. This is Liberty Hall."
Dickson found some difficulty in the part for which he had cast himself.
He had expected to condescend upon an elderly inept and give him
sharp instructions; instead he found himself faced with a jovial,
virile figure which certainly did not suggest incompetence. It has
been mentioned already that he had always great difficulty in looking
any one in the face, and this difficulty was intensified when he
found himself confronted with bold and candid eyes. He felt abashed
and a little nervous.
"I've come to see you about Huntingtower House," he began.
"I know, so Glendonans informed me. Well, I'm very glad to hear it.
The place has been standing empty far too long, and that is worse for
a new house than an old house. There's not much money to spend on it
either, unless we can make sure of a good tenant. How did you hear
about it?"
"I was taking a bit holiday and I spent a night at Dalquharter with
an old auntie of mine. You must understand I've just retired from
business, and I'm thinking of finding a country place. I used to
have the provision shop in Mearns Street--now the United Supply Stores,
Limited. You've maybe heard of it?"
The other bowed and smiled. "Who hasn't? The name of Dickson McCunn
is known far beyond the city of Glasgow."
Dickson was not insensible of the flattery, and he continued with
more freedom. "I took a walk and got a glisk of the House, and I liked
the look of it. You see, I want a quiet bit a good long way from a town,
and at the same time a house with all modern conveniences. I suppose
Huntingtower has that?"
"When it was built fifteen years ago it was considered a model--six
bathrooms, its own electric light plant, steam heating, and independent
boiler for hot water, the whole bag of tricks. I won't say but what
some of these contrivances will want looking to, for the place has been
some time empty, but there can be nothing very far wrong, and I can
guarantee that the bones of the house are good."
"Well, that's all right," said Dickson. "I don't mind spending a
little money myself if the place suits me. But of that, of course,
I'm not yet certain, for I've only had a glimpse of the outside.
I wanted to get into the policies, but a man at the lodge
wouldn't let me. They're a mighty uncivil lot down there."
"I'm very sorry to hear that," said Mr. Loudon in a tone of concern.
"Ay, and if I take the place I'll stipulate that you get rid
of the lodgekeepers."
"There won't be the slightest difficulty about that, for they are
only weekly tenants. But I'm vexed to hear they were uncivil.
I was glad to get any tenant that offered, and they were well
recommended to me."
"They're foreigners."
"One of them is--a Belgian refugee that Lady Morewood took
an interest in. But the other--Spittal, they call him--I thought
he was Scotch."
"He's not that. And I don't like the innkeeper either. I would
want him shifted."
Dr. Loudon laughed. "I dare say Dobson is a rough diamond.
There's worse folk in the world all the same, but I don't think
he will want to stay. He only went there to pass the time till
he heard from his brother in Vancouver. He's a roving spirit,
and will be off overseas again."
"That's all right!" said Dickson, who was beginning to have horrid
suspicions that he might be on a wild-goose chase after all.
"Well, the next thing is for me to see over the House."
"Certainly. I'd like to go with you myself. What day would
suit you? Let me see. This is Friday. What about this day week?"
I was thinking of to-morrow. Since I'm down in these parts I may as
well get the job done."
Mr. Loudon looked puzzled. "I quite see that. But I don't think
it's possible. You see, I have to consult the owners and get their
consent to a lease. Of course they have the general purpose of
letting, but--well, they're queer folk the Kennedys," and his
face wore the half-embarrassed smile of an honest man preparing
to make confidences. "When poor Mr. Quentin died, the place went
to his two sisters in joint ownership. A very bad arrangement,
as you can imagine. It isn't entailed, and I've always been pressing
them to sell, but so far they won't hear of it. They both married
Englishmen, so it will take a day or two to get in touch with them.
One, Mrs. Stukely, lives in Devonshire. The other--Miss Katie that
was--married Sir Frances Morewood, the general, and I hear that she's
expected back in London next Monday from the Riviera. I'll wire
and write first thing to-morrow morning. But you must give me
a day or two."
Dickson felt himself waking up. His doubts about his own sanity
were dissolving, for, as his mind reasoned, the factor was prepared
to do anything he asked--but only after a week had gone. What he was
concerned with was the next few days.
"All the same I would like to have a look at the place to-morrow,
even if nothing comes of it."
Mr. Loudon looked seriously perplexed. "You will think me absurdly
fussy, Mr. McCunn, but I must really beg of you to give up the idea.
The Kennedys, as I have said, are--well, not exactly like other
people, and I have the strictest orders not to let any one visit the
house without their express leave. It sounds a ridiculous rule,
but I assure you it's as much as my job is worth to disregard it."
"D'you mean to say not a soul is allowed inside the House?"
"Not a soul."
"Well, Mr. Loudon, I'm going to tell you a queer thing, which I
think you ought to know. When I was taking a walk the other night--
your Belgian wouldn't let me into the policies, but I went down
the glen--what's that they call it? the Garple Dean--I got round the
back where the old ruin stands and I had a good look at the House.
I tell you there was somebody in it."
"It would be Spittal, who acts as caretaker."
"It was not. It was a woman. I saw her on the verandah."
The candid grey eyes were looking straight at Dickson, who managed to
bring his own shy orbs to meet them. He thought that he detected a
shade of hesitation. Then Mr. Loudon got up from his chair and stood
on the hearthrug looking down at his visitor. He laughed, with some
embarrassment, but ever so pleasantly.
"I really don't know what you will think of me, Mr. McCunn.
Here are you, coming to do us all a kindness, and lease that
infernal white elephant, and here have I been steadily hoaxing you
for the last five minutes. I humbly ask your pardon. Set it down to
the loyalty of an old family lawyer. Now, I am going to tell you
the truth and take you into our confidence, for I know we are
safe with you. The Kennedys are--always have been--just a wee
bit queer. Old inbred stock, you know. They will produce somebody
like poor Mr. Quentin, who was as sane as you or me, but as a
rule in every generation there is one member of the family--
or more--who is just a little bit---" and he tapped his forehead.
"Nothing violent, you understand, but just not quite 'wise and
world-like.' as the old folk say. Well, there's a certain old lady,
an aunt of Mr. Quentin and his sisters, who has always been about
tenpence in the shilling. Usually she lives at Bournemouth, but one
of her crazes is a passion for Huntingtower, and the Kennedys have
always humoured her and had her to stay every spring. When the House
was shut up that became impossible, but this year she took such a
craving to come back, that Lady Morewood asked me to arrange it.
It had to be kept very quiet, but the poor old thing is perfectly
harmless, and just sits and knits with her maid and looks out of the
seaward windows. Now you see why I can't take you there to-morrow.
I have to get rid of the old lady, who in any case was travelling
south early next week. Do you understand?"
"Perfectly," said Dickson with some fervour. He had learned exactly
what he wanted. The factor was telling him lies. Now he knew
where to place Mr. Loudon.
He always looked back upon what followed as a very creditable piece
of play-acting for a man who had small experience in that line.
"Is the old lady a wee wizened body, with a black cap and something
like a white cashmere shawl round her shoulders?"
"You describe her exactly," Mr. Loudon replied eagerly.
"That would explain the foreigners."
"Of course. We couldn't have natives who would make the thing
the clash of the countryside."
"Of course not. But it must be a difficult job to keep a business
like that quiet. Any wandering policeman might start inquiries.
And supposing the lady became violent?"
"Oh, there's no fear of that. Besides, I've a position in this
country--Deputy Fiscal and so forth--and a friend of the Chief Constable.
I think I may be trusted to do a little private explaining if
the need arose."
"I see," said Dickson. He saw, indeed, a great deal which would
give him food for furious thought. "Well, I must possess my soul
in patience. Here's my Glasgow address, and I look to you to send me
a telegram whenever you're ready for me. I'm at the Salutation to-night,
and go home to-morrow with the first train. Wait a minute"--and he
pulled out his watch--"there's a train stops at Auchenlochan at 10.17.
I think I'll catch that....Well Mr. Loudon, I'm very much obliged to you,
and I'm glad to think that it'll no' be long till we renew
our acquaintance."
The factor accompanied him to the door, diffusing geniality.
"Very pleased indeed to have met you. A pleasant journey and
a quick return."
The street was still empty. Into a corner of the arches opposite
the moon was shining, and Dickson retired thither to consult his
map of the neighbourhood. He found what he wanted, and, as he
lifted his eyes, caught sight of a man coming down the causeway.
Promptly he retired into the shadow and watched the new-comer.
There could be no mistake about the figure; the bulk, the walk,
the carriage of the head marked it for Dobson. The innkeeper went
slowly past the factor's house; then halted and retraced his steps;
then, making sure that the street was empty, turned into the side
lane which led to the garden.
This was what sailors call a cross-bearing, and strengthened
Dickson's conviction. He delayed no longer, but hurried down
the side street by which the north road leaves the town.
He had crossed the bridge of Lochan and was climbing the steep
ascent which led to the heathy plateau separating that stream
from the Garple before he had got his mind quite clear on the case.
FIRST, Loudon was in the plot, whatever it was; responsible for
the details of the girl's imprisonment, but not the main author.
That must be the Unknown who was still to come, from whom Spidel took his
orders. Dobson was probably Loudon's special henchman, working directly
under him. SECONDLY, the immediate object had been the jewels, and they
were happily safe in the vaults of the incorruptible Mackintosh.
But, THIRD--and this only on Saskia's evidences--the worst danger to
her began with the arrival of the Unknown. What could that be?
Probably, kidnapping. He was prepared to believe anything of people
like Bolsheviks. And, FOURTH, this danger was due within the next
day or two. Loudon had been quite willing to let him into the
house and to sack all the watchers within a week from that date.
The natural and right thing was to summon the aid of the law, but,
FIFTH, that would be a slow business with Loudon able to put spokes
in the wheels and befog the authorities, and the mischief would be
done before a single policeman showed his face in Dalquharter.
Therefore, SIXTH, he and Heritage must hold the fort in the meantime,
and he would send a wire to his lawyer, Mr. Caw, to get to work
with the constabulary. SEVENTH, he himself was probably free from
suspicion in both Loudon's and Dobson's minds as a harmless fool.
But that freedom would not survive his reappearance in Dalquharter.
He could say, to be sure, that he had come back to see his auntie,
but that would not satisfy the watchers, since, so far as they knew,
he was the only man outside the gang who was aware that people
were dwelling in the House. They would not tolerate his presence
in the neighbourhood.
He formulated his conclusions as if it were an ordinary business deal,
and rather to his surprise was not conscious of any fear. As he pulled
together the belt of his waterproof he felt the reassuring bulges in
its pockets which were his pistol and cartridges. He reflected that
it must be very difficult to miss with a pistol if you fired it at, say,
three yards, and if there was to be shooting that would be his range.
Mr. McCunn had stumbled on the precious truth that the best way to be
rid of quaking knees is to keep a busy mind.
He crossed the ridge of the plateau and looked down on the Garple glen.
There were the lights of Dalquharter--or rather a single light, for
the inhabitants went early to bed. His intention was to seek quarters
with Mrs. Morran, when his eye caught a gleam in a hollow of the moor
a little to the east. He knew it for the camp-fire around which
Dougal's warriors bivouacked. The notion came to him to go there
instead, and hear the news of the day before entering the cottage.
So he crossed the bridge, skirted a plantation of firs, and scrambled
through the broom and heather in what he took to be the right direction.
The moon had gone down, and the quest was not easy. Dickson had come
to the conclusion that he was on the wrong road, when he was summoned
by a voice which seemed to arise out of the ground.
"Who goes there?"
"What's that you say?"
"Who goes there?" The point of a pale was held firmly against his chest.
"I'm Mr. McCunn, a friend of Dougal's."
"Stand, friend." The shadow before him whistled and another
shadow appeared. "Report to the Chief that there's a man here,
name o' McCunn, seekin' for him."
Presently the messenger returned with Dougal and a cheap lantern
which he flashed in Dickson's face.
"Oh, it's you," said that leader, who had his jaw bound up as if he
had the toothache. "What are ye doing back here?"
"To tell the truth, Dougal," was the answer, "I couldn't stay away.
I was fair miserable when I thought of Mr. Heritage and you laddies
left to yourselves. My conscience simply wouldn't let me stop at home,
so here I am."
Dougal grunted, but clearly he approved, for from that moment he
treated Dickson with a new respect. Formerly when he had referred to
him at all it had been as "auld McCunn." Now it was "Mister McCunn."
He was given rank as a worthy civilian ally. The bivouac was a
cheerful place in the wet night. A great fire of pine roots and old
paling posts hissed in the fine rain, and around it crouched several
urchins busy making oatmeal cakes in the embers. On one side a
respectable lean-to had been constructed by nailing a plank to two
fir-trees, running sloping poles thence to the ground, and thatching
the whole with spruce branches and heather. On the other side two
small dilapidated home-made tents were pitched. Dougal motioned his
companion into the lean-to, where they had some privacy from the
rest of the band.
"Well, What's your news?" Dickson asked. He noticed that the
Chieftain seemed to have been comprehensively in the wars, for apart
from the bandage on his jaw, he had numerous small cuts on his brow,
and a great rent in one of his shirt sleeves. Also he appeared
to be going lame, and when he spoke a new gap was revealed in
his large teeth.
"Things," said Dougal solemnly, "has come to a bonny cripus.
This very night we've been in a battle."
He spat fiercely, and the light of war burned in his eyes.
"It was the tinklers from the Garple Dean. They yokit on us about
seven o'clock, just at the darkenin'. First they tried to bounce us.
We weren't wanted here, they said, so we'd better clear. I telled
them that it was them that wasn't wanted. 'Awa' to Finnick,' says I.
'D'ye think we take our orders from dirty ne'er-do-weels like you?'
'By God,' says they, 'we'll cut your lights out,' and then the
battle started."
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