Complete Fictional Works of John Buchan (Illustrated)

by John Buchan

  “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 is 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 dwell
s 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 château, 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.