by John Buchan
“Our friend has quarrelled with keeper and beaten him soundly. I have taken charge at farm and frightened latter into docility. He will remain prisoner in charge of ally of mine till I give the word to release. Meantime, think it safer to bring friend to England and start on Monday. Will wire address in Scotland and wait your instructions. No danger of keeper sending message. Do not be anxious, all is well.”
Having got that clear in my head, I tore the cable into small pieces and flung them into the waste-paper basket.
“Well, are you going?” Medina asked.
“Not I. I’m off salmon-fishing for the present.” I took a cable form from the table and wrote: “Sorry, must cancel Leardal plan,” signed it “Hannay,” addressed it to “Andersen, Grand Hotel, Christiania,” and gave it to the porter to send off. I wonder what happened to that telegram. It is probably still stuck up on the hotel-board, awaiting the arrival of the mythical Andersen.
On our way back to Hill Street Medina put his arm in mine, and was very friendly. “I hope to get a holiday,” he said, “perhaps just after the beginning of June. Only a day or two off now. I may go abroad for a little. I would like you to come with me.”
That puzzled me a lot. Medina could not possibly leave town before the great liquidation, and there could be no motive in his trying to mislead me on such a point, seeing that I was living in his house. I wondered if something had happened to make him change the date. It was of the first importance that I should find this out, and I did my best to draw him about his plans. But I could get nothing out of him except that he hoped for an early holiday, and “early” might apply to the middle of June as well as to the beginning, for it was now the 27th of May.
Next afternoon at tea-time to my surprise Odell appeared in the smoking-room, followed by the long lean figure of Tom Greenslade. I never saw anybody with greater pleasure, but I didn’t dare to talk to him alone. “Is your master upstairs?” I asked the butler. “Will you tell him that Dr. Greenslade is here? He is an old friend of his.”
We had rather less than two minutes before Medina appeared. “I come from your wife,” Greenslade whispered. “She has told me all about the business, and she thought this was the safest plan. I was to tell you that she has news of Miss Victor and the Marquis. They are safe enough. Any word of the little boy?”
He raised his voice as Medina entered. “My dear fellow, this is a great pleasure. I had to be in London for a consultation, and I thought I would look up Hannay. I hardly hoped to have the luck to catch a busy man like you.”
Medina was very gracious — no, that is not the word, for there was nothing patronising in his manner. He asked in the most friendly way about Greenslade’s practice, and how he liked English country life after his many wanderings. He spoke with an air of regret of the great valleys of loess and the windy Central Asian tablelands where they had first foregathered. Odell brought in tea, and we made as pleasant a trio of friends as you could find in London. I asked a few casual questions about Fosse, and then I mentioned Peter John. Here Greenslade had an inspiration; he told me afterwards that he thought it might be a good thing to open a channel for further communications.
“I think he’s all right,” he said slowly. “He’s been having occasional stomach-aches, but I expect that is only the result of hot weather and the first asparagus. Lady Hannay is a little anxious — you know what she is, and all mothers to-day keep thinking about appendicitis. So I’m keeping my eye on the little man. You needn’t worry, Dick.”
I take credit to myself for having divined the doctor’s intention. I behaved as if I scarcely heard him, and as if Fosse Manor and my family were things infinitely remote. Indeed I switched off the conversation to where Medina had last left it, and I behaved towards Tom Greenslade as if his presence rather bored me, and I had very little to say to him. When he got up to go, it was Medina who accompanied him to the front door. All this was a heavy strain upon my self-command, for I would have given anything for a long talk with him — though I had the sense not to believe his news about Peter John.
“Not a bad fellow, that doctor of yours,” Medina observed on his return.
“No,” I said carelessly. “Rather a dull dog all the same, with his country gossip. But I wish him well, for it is to him that I owe your friendship.”
I must count that episode one of my lucky moments, for it seemed to give Medina some special satisfaction. “Why do you make this your only sitting-room?” he asked. “The library is at your disposal, and it is pleasanter in summer than any other part of the house.”
“I thought I might be disturbing your work,” I said humbly.
“Not a bit of it. Besides, I’ve nearly finished my work. After to-night I can slack off, and presently I’ll be an idle man.”
“And then the holiday?”
“Then the holiday.” He smiled in a pleasant boyish way, which was one of his prettiest tricks.
“How soon will that be?”
“If all goes well, very soon. Probably after the second of June. By the way, the Thursday Club dines on the first. I want you to be my guest again.”
Here was more food for thought. The conviction grew upon me that he and his friends had put forward the date of liquidation; they must have suspected something — probably from Sandy’s presence in England — and were taking no risks. I smoked that evening till my tongue was sore and went to bed in a fever of excitement. The urgency of the matter fairly screamed in my ears, for Macgillivray must know the truth at once, and so must Mary. Mercot was safe, and there was a chance apparently of Turpin and Miss Victor, which must be acted upon instantly if the main date were changed. Of the little boy I had given up all hope. . . . But how to find the truth! I felt like a man in a bad dream who is standing on the line with an express train approaching, and does not know how to climb back on to the platform.
Next morning Medina never left me. He took me in his car to the City, and I waited while he did his business, and then to call in Carlton House Terrace a few doors from the Victors’ house. I believe it was the residence of the man who led his party in the Lords. After luncheon he solemnly installed me in the library. “You’re not much of a reader, and in any case you would probably find my books dull. But there are excellent arm-chairs to doze in.”
Then he went out and I heard the wheels of his car move away. I felt a kind of awe creeping over me when I found myself left alone in the uncanny place, which I knew to be the devil’s kitchen for all his schemes. There was a telephone on his writing-table, the only one I had seen in the house, though there was no doubt one in the butler’s pantry. I turned up the telephone book and found a number given, but it was not the one on the receiver. This must be a private telephone, by means of which he could ring up anybody he wanted, but of which only his special friends knew the number. There was nothing else in the room to interest me, except the lines and lines of books, for his table was as bare as a bank-manager’s.
I tried the books, but most of them were a long sight too learned for me. Most were old, and many were in Latin, and some were evidently treasures, for I would take one down and find it a leather box with inside it a slim battered volume wrapped in wash-leather. But I found in one corner a great array of works of travel, so I selected one of Aurel Stein’s books and settled down in an arm-chair with it. I tried to fix my attention, but found it impossible. The sentences would not make sense to my restless mind, and I could not follow the maps. So I got up again, replaced the work on its shelf, and began to wander about. It was a dull close day, and out in the street a water-cart was sprinkling the dust and children were going park-wards with their nurses. . . . I simply could not account for my disquiet, but I was like a fine lady with the vapours. I felt that somewhere in that room there was something that it concerned me deeply to know.
I drifted towards the bare writing-table. There was nothing on it but a massive silver inkstand in the shape of an owl, a silver tray of pens and oddments, a leather case of notepaper and a big blotting-book. I
would never have made a good thief, for I felt both nervous and ashamed as, after listening for steps, I tried the drawers.
They were all locked — all, that is, except a shallow one at the top which looked as if it were meant to contain one of those big engagement tablets which busy men affect. There was no tablet there, but there were two sheets of paper.
Both had been torn from a loose-leaf diary, and both covered the same dates — the fortnight between Monday the 29th of May, and Sunday the 11th of June. In the first the space for the days was filled with entries in Medina’s neat writing, entries in some sort of shorthand. These entries were close and thick up to and including Friday the 2nd of June; after that there was nothing. The second sheet of paper was just the opposite. The spaces were virgin up to and including the 2nd of June; after that, on till the 11th, they were filled with notes.
As I stared at these two sheets, some happy instinct made me divine their meaning. The first sheet contained the steps that Medina would take up to the day of liquidation, which was clearly the 2nd of June. After that, if all went well, came peace and leisure. But if it didn’t go well, the second sheet contained his plans — plans I have no doubt for using the hostages, for wringing safety out of certain great men’s fears. . . . My interpretation was confirmed by a small jotting in long-hand on the first sheet in the space for 2nd June. It was the two words “Dies irae,” which my Latin was just good enough to construe.
I had lost all my tremors now, but I was a thousandfold more restless. I must get word to Macgillivray at once — no, that was too dangerous — to Mary. I glanced at the telephone and resolved to trust my luck.
I got through to the Wymondhams’ house without difficulty. Barnard the butler answered, and informed me that Mary was at home. Then after a few seconds I heard her voice.
“Mary,” I said, “the day is changed to the 2nd of June. You understand, warn everybody . . . I can’t think why you are worrying about that child.”
For I was conscious that Medina was entering the room. I managed with my knee to close the shallow drawer with the two sheets in it, and I nodded and smiled to him, putting my hand over the receiver.
“Forgive me using your telephone. Fact is, my wife’s in London and she sent me round a note here asking me to ring her up. She’s got the boy on her mind.”
I put the tube to my ear again. Mary’s voice sounded sharp and high-pitched.
“Are you there? I’m in Mr. Medina’s library and I can’t disturb him talking through this machine. There’s no cause to worry about Peter John. Greenslade is usually fussy enough, and if he’s calm there’s no reason why you shouldn’t be. But if you want another opinion, why not get it? We may as well get the thing straightened out now, for I may be going abroad early in June. . . . Yes, some time after the 2nd.”
Thank God Mary was quick-witted.
“The 2nd is very near. Why do you make such sudden plans, Dick? I can’t go home without seeing you. I think I’ll come straight to Hill Street.”
“All right,” I said, “do as you please.” I rang off and looked at Medina with a wry smile. “What fussers women are! Do you mind if my wife comes round here? She won’t be content till she has seen me. She has come up with a crazy notion of taking down a surgeon to give an opinion on the child’s appendix. Tommy rot! But that’s a woman’s way.”
He clearly suspected nothing. “Certainly let Lady Hannay come here. We’ll give her tea. I’m sorry that the drawing-room is out of commission just now. She might have liked to see my miniatures.”
Mary appeared in ten minutes, and most nobly she acted her part. It was the very model of a distraught silly mother who bustled into the room. Her eyes looked as if she had been crying and she had managed to disarrange her hat and untidy her hair.
“Oh, I’ve been so worried,” she wailed, after she had murmured apologies to Medina. “He really has had a bad tummy pain, and nurse thought last night that he was feverish. I’ve seen Mr. Dobson-Wray, and he can come down by the four-forty-five. . . . He’s such a precious little boy, Mr. Medina, that I feel we must take every precaution with him. If Mr. Dobson-Wray says it is all right, I promise not to fuss any more. I think a second opinion would please Dr. Greenslade, for he too looked rather anxious. . . . Oh, no, thank you so much, but I can’t stay for tea. I have a taxi waiting, and I might miss my train. I’m going to pick up Mr. Dobson-Wray in Wimpole Street.”
She departed in the same tornado in which she had come, just stopping to set her hat straight at one of the mirrors in the hall.
“Of course I’ll wire when the surgeon has seen him. And, Dick, you’ll come down at once if there’s anything wrong, and bring nurses. Poor, poor little darling! . . . Did you say after the 2nd of June, Dick? I do hope you’ll be able to get off. You need a holiday away from your tiresome family. . . . Good-bye, Mr. Medina. It was so kind of you to be patient with a silly mother. Look after Dick and don’t let him worry.”
I had preserved admirably the aloof air of the bored and slightly ashamed husband. But now I realised that Mary was not babbling at large, but was saying something which I was meant to take in.
“Poor, poor little darling!” she crooned as she got into the taxi. “I do pray he’ll be all right — I think he may, Dick. . . . I hope, oh I hope . . . to put your mind at ease . . . before the 2nd of June.”
As I turned back to Medina I had a notion that the poor little darling was no longer Peter John.
CHAPTER XVII. THE DISTRICT-VISITOR IN PALMYRA SQUARE
During the last fortnight a new figure had begun to appear in Palmyra Square. I do not know if Macgillivray’s watchers reported its presence, for I saw none of their reports, but they must have been cognisant of it, unless they spent all their time in the nearest public-house. It was a district-visitor of the familiar type — a woman approaching middle age, presumably a spinster, who wore a plain black dress and, though the weather was warm, a cheap fur round her neck, and carried a rather old black silk satchel. Her figure was good, and had still a suggestion of youth, but her hair, which was dressed very flat and tight and coiled behind in an unfashionable bun, seemed — the little that was seen of it — to be sprinkled with grey. She was dowdy, and yet not altogether dowdy, for there was a certain faded elegance in her air, and an observer might have noted that she walked well. Besides the black satchel she carried usually a sheaf of papers, and invariably and in all weathers a cheap badly-rolled umbrella.
She visited at the doctor’s house with the brass plate, and the music-teacher’s, and at the various lodging-houses. She was attached, it appeared, to the big church of St. Jude’s a quarter of a mile off, which had just got a new and energetic vicar. She was full of enthusiasm for her vicar, praised his earnestness and his eloquence, and dwelt especially, after the way of elderly maiden ladies, on the charm of his youth. She was also very ready to speak of herself, and eager to explain that her work was voluntary — she was a gentlewoman of modest but independent means, and had rooms in Hampstead, and her father had been a clergyman at Eastbourne. Very full of her family she was to those who would hear her. There was a gentle simplicity about her manners, and an absence of all patronage, which attracted people and made them willing to listen to her when they would have shut the door on another, for the inhabitants of Palmyra Square are not a courteous or patient or religious folk.
Her aim was to enlist the overworked general servants of the Square in some of the organisations of St. Jude’s. There were all kinds of activities in that enlightened church — choral societies, and mothers’ meetings, and country holiday clubs, and classes for adult education. She would hand out sheaves of literature about the Girls’ Friendly Society, and the Mothers’ Union, and such-like, and try to secure a promise of attendance at some of the St. Jude’s functions. I do not think she had much success at the doctor’s and the music-teacher’s, though she regularly distributed her literature there. The wretched little maids were too downtrodden and harassed to do more than listen dully
on the doorstep and say “Yes’m.” Nor was she allowed to see the mistresses, except one of the lodging-house keepers, who was a Primitive Methodist and considered St. Jude’s a device of Satan. But she had better fortune with the maid at No. 4.
The girl belonged to a village in Kent, and the district-visitor, it seemed, had been asked to look her up by the rector of her old parish. She was a large flat-faced young woman, slow of speech, heavy of movement, and suspicious of nature. At first she greeted the district-visitor coldly, but thawed at the mention of familiar names and accepted a copy of the St. Jude’s Magazine. Two days later, when on her afternoon out, she met the district-visitor and consented to walk a little way with her. Now the girl’s hobby was dress, and her taste was better than most of her class and aspired to higher things. She had a new hat which her companion admired, but she confessed that she was not quite satisfied with it. The district-visitor revealed a knowledge of fashions which one would have scarcely augured from her own sombre clothes. She pointed out where the trimming was wrong, and might easily be improved, and the girl — her name was Elsie Outhwaite — agreed. “I could put it right for you in ten minutes,” she was told. “Perhaps you would let me come and see you when you have a spare half-hour, and we could do it together. I’m rather clever at hats, and used to help my sisters.”
The ice was broken and the aloof Miss Outhwaite became confidential. She liked her place, had no cause to complain, received good wages, and above all was not fussed. “I minds my own business, and Madame minds ‘ers,” she said. Madame was a foreigner, and had her queer ways, but had also her good points. She did not interfere unnecessarily, and was not mean. There were handsome presents at Christmas, and every now and then the house would be shut up and Miss Outhwaite returned to Kent on generous board wages. It was not a hard billet, though of course there were a lot of visitors, Madame’s clients. “She’s a massoose, you know, but very respectable.” When asked if there were no other inmates of the house she became reticent. “Not what you would call reg’lar part of the family,” she admitted. “There’s an old lady, Madame’s aunt, that stops with us a but, but I don’t see much of ‘er. Madame attends to ‘er ‘erself, and she ‘as her private room. And of course there’s . . .” Miss Outhwaite seemed suddenly to recollect something, and changed the subject.
