Complete Fictional Works of John Buchan (Illustrated)

by John Buchan

  Janet stopped in her tracks. “What did you say?”

  “I said ‘No’ of course. I’ve only known him a week.” But her tone was such as to make her sister fear the worst.

  Mr Bandicott was an archaeologist, but he was also a business man, and he was disposed to use the whole apparatus of civilisation to announce his discovery to the world. With a good deal of trouble he got the two chief Scottish newspapers on the telephone, and dictated to them a summary of his story.

  He asked them to pass the matter on to the London press, and he gave them ample references to establish his good faith. Also he prepared a sheaf of telegrams and cables — to learned societies in Britain and America, to the great New York daily of which he was the principal owner, to the British Museum, to the Secretary for Scotland, and to friends in the same line of scholarship. Having left instructions that these messages should be despatched from Inverlarrig at dawn, he went to bed in a state of profound jubilation and utter fatigue.

  Next morning, while his father was absorbed in the remains of Harald Blacktooth, Junius summoned a council of war. To it there came Angus, the head- keeper, a morose old man near six-foot-four in height, clean-shaven, with eyebrows like a penthouse; Lennox, his second-in-command, whom Leithen had met on his reconnaissance; and two youthful watchers, late of Lovat’s Scouts, known as Jimsie and Davie. There were others about the place who could be mobilised if necessary, including the two chauffeurs, and under-footman and a valet; but, as Junius looked at this formidable quartet, and reflected on the narrow limits of the area of danger, he concluded that he had all the man-power he needed.

  “Now, listen to me, Angus,” he began. “This poacher Macnab proposes to start in to-morrow night at twelve o’clock, and according to his challenge he has forty-eight hours to get a fish in — up till midnight on the 3rd of September. I want your advice about the best way of checkmating him. You’ve attended to my orders, and let nobody near the river during the past week?”

  “Aye, sir, and there’s nobody socht to gang near it,” said Angus. “The country-side has been as quiet as a grave.”

  “Well, it won’t be after to-morrow night. You’ve probably heard that this Macnab killed a stag on Glenraden yesterday — killed it within half a mile of the house, and would have got away with it but for the younger Miss Raden.”

  They had heard of it, for the glen had talked of nothing else all night, but they thought it good manners to express amazement. “Heard ye ever the like?” said one. “Macnab maun be a fair deevil,” said another. “If I had just a grip of him,” sighed the blood-thirsty Angus.

  “It’s clear we’re up against something quite out of the common,” Junius went on, “and we daren’t give him the faintest outside chance. Now, let’s consider the river. You say you’ve seen nobody near it.”

  “There hasn’t been a line cast in the watter forbye your own, sir,” said Angus.

  “I just seen the one man fishin’ a’ week,” volunteered Jimsie. “It was on the Crask water below the brig. I jaloused that he was one of the servants from Crask, and maybe no very right in the heid. He had no notion of it at all, at all.”

  “Well, that’s so far good. Now what about he river outside the park? Our beat runs from the Larrig Bridge — what’s it like between the bridge and the lodge? You’ve never taken me fishing there.”

  “Ye wad need to be dementit before you went fishin’ there,” said Angus grimly. “There’s the stretch above the brig that they ca’ the Lang Whang. There was never man killed a saumon in it, for the fish dinna bide, but rin through to the Wood Pule. There’s fish in the Wood Pule, but the trees are that thick that ye canna cast a flee. Though I’ll no say,” he added meditatively, “that ye couldna cleek a fish out of it. I’d better put a watcher at the Wood Pule.”

  “You may rule that out, for the bargain says ‘legitimate means,’ and from all I know of Macnab he’s a sportsman and keeps his word. Well, then, we come to the park, where we’ve five pools — the Duke’s, the Black Scour, Davie’s Pot, Lady Maisie’s, and the Minister’s. We’ve got to keep our eyes skinned there... What about the upper water?”

  “There’s no a fish in it,’ said Lennox. “They canna get past the linn above the Minister’s. There was aye talk o’ makin’ a salmon ladder, but naething was done, and there’s nocht above the Minister’s but small broon troot.”

  “That makes it a pretty simple proposition,” said Junius. “We’ve just the five pools to guard. For the form of the thing we’ll keep watchers on all night, but we may take it that the danger lies only in the thirty-four hours of daylight. Now, remember, we’re taking no chances. Not a soul is to be allowed to fish on the Strathlarrig water till after midnight on the 3rd of September. Not even I or my father. Macnab’s a foxy fellow and I wouldn’t put it past him to disguise himself as Mr Bandicott or myself. Do you understand? If you see a man near the river, kick him out. If he has a rod in his hand, lock him up in the garage and send for me... No, better still. Nobody’s to be allowed inside the gates — except Colonel Raden and his daughters. You’d better tell the lodge-keeper, Angus. If anybody comes to call, they must come back another day. These are my orders, you understand, and I fire anyone who disobeys them. If the 3rd of September passes without accident there’s twenty dollars — I mean to say, five pounds — for each of you. That’s all I’ve got to say.”

  “Will we watch below the park, sir?” Angus asked.

  “Watch every damn foot of the water from the bridge to the linns.”

  Thus it came about that when Janet Raden took her afternoon ride past the Wood of Larrigmore she beheld a man patrolling the bog like a policeman on point duty, and when she entered the park for a gallop on the smooth turf she observed a picket at each pool. “Poor John Macnab!” she sighed. “He hasn’t the ghost of a chance. I’m rather sorry my family discovered America.”

  Next day, the 1st of September, the Scottish Press published a short account of Mr Bandicott’s discovery, and The Scotsman had a leader on it. About noon a spate of telegrams began, and the girl who carried them on a bicycle from Inverlarrig had a weary time of it. The following morning the Press of Britain spread themselves on the subject. The Times had a leader and an interview with a high authority at the British Museum; the Daily Mail had a portrait of Mr Bandicott and a sketch of his past career, a photograph of what purported to be a Viking’s tomb in Norway, and a chatty article on the law of treasure-trove. The Morning Post congratulated the discoverer in the name of science, but lamented in the name of patriotism that the honour should have fallen to an alien — views which led to an interminable controversy in its pages with the secretary of the Pilgrim’s Club and the president of the American Chamber of Commerce. The evening papers had brightly written articles on Strathlarrig, touching on the sport of deer-stalking, Celtic mysticism, the crofter question, and the law dealing with access to mountains. The previous evening, too, the special correspondents had begun to arrive from all points of the compass, so that the little inn of Inverlarrig had people sleeping in its one bathroom and under its dining-room table. By the morning of the 2nd of September the glen had almost doubled its male population.

  The morning, after some rain in the night, broke in the thin fog which promised a day of blazing heat. Sir Edward Leithen, taking the air after breakfast, decided that his attempt should be made in the evening, for he wanted the Larrig waters well warmed by the sun for the type of fishing he proposed to follow. Benjie had faithfully reported to him the precautions which the Bandicotts had adopted, and his meditations were not cheerful. With luck he might get a fish, but only by a miracle could he escape unobserved. His plan depended upon the Lang Whang being neglected by the watchers as not worthy of their vigilance, but according to Benjie’s account even the Lang Whang had become a promenade. He had now lost any half-heartedness in the business, and his obstinate soul was as set on victory as ever it had been the case in the Law Courts. For the past four days he had thought of nothing else
, — his interest in Palliser-Yeates’s attack on Glenraden had been notably fainter than that of the others; every energy he had of mind and body was centred upon killing a fish that night and carrying it off. With some amusement he reflected that he had dissipated the last atom of his ennui, and he almost regretted that apathy had been exchanged for this violent pre-occupation.

  Presently he turned his steps to the arbour to the east of the garden, which forms at once a hiding-place and a watch-tower. There he found his host busied about the preparation of his speech, with the assistance of Lamancha, who was also engaged intermittently in the study of the ordnance map of Haripol.

  “It’s a black look-out for you, Ned,” said Sir Archie. “I hear the Bandicotts have taped off every yard of their water, and have got a man to every three. Benjie says the place only wants a piper or two to be like the Muirtown Highland Gathering. What are you going to do about it?”

  “I’m going to have a try this evening. I can’t chuck in my hand, but the thing’s a stark impossibility. I hoped old Bandicott would be so excited at unearthing the Viking that he would forget about precautions, but he’s as active as a beaver.”

  “That’s the young ‘un. He don’t give a damn for Vikings, but he’s out to protect his fish. You’ve struck the American business mind, my lad, and it’s an awful thing for us casual Britons. I suppose you won’t let me come down and watch you. I’d give a lot to see a scrap between you and that troglodyte Angus.”

  At that moment Benjie, wearing the waterproof cape of ceremony, presented himself at the arbour door. He bore a letter which he presented to Sir Archie. The young man read it with a face which was at once perplexed and pleased.

  “It’s from old Bandicott. He says he has got some antiquarian swell — Professor Babwater I think the name is — coming to stay, and he wants me to dine tonight — says the Radens are coming too... This is the devil. What had I better do, Charles?”

  “Stay at home. You’ll put your foot in it somehow if you go. The girl who held up old John will be there, and she’s bound to talk about John Macnab, and you’re equally bound to give the show away.”

  “But I haven’t any sort of an excuse. Americans are noted for their politeness, and here I have been shutting the door in the face of the poor old chap when he toiled up the hill. He won’t understand it, and people will begin to talk, and that’s the quickest way to blow the gaff. Besides, I’ve got to give up this lie about my ill-health if I’m to appear at Muirtown the day after to-morrow. What do you say, Ned?”

  “I think you’d better go,” Leithen answered. “We can’t have the neighbourhood thinking you are plague-stricken. You’ll be drinking port, while I’m being carted by the gillies into the coal-hole. But for Heaven’s sake, Archie, go canny. That Raden girl will turn you inside out, if you give her a chance. And don’t you try and be clever, whatever happens. If there’s a row and you see me being frog-marched into captivity, don’t trouble to create a diversion. Behave as if you had never seen me in your life before... You hadn’t heard of John Macnab except from Miss Raden, and you’re desperately keen to hear more, you understand. Play the guileless innocent and rack your brains to think who he can be. Start any hare you like — that he’s D’Annunzio looking for excitement... or the Poet Laureate... or an escaped lunatic. And keep it up that you are in delicate health. Oh, and talk politics — they’re safe enough. Babble about the Rally, and how the great Lamancha’s coming up for it all the way from the Borders.”

  Archie nodded, with a contented look in his eyes. “I’m goin’ to take your advice. Where did you get this note, Benjie? From Mactavish at the lodge? All right, I’ll give you a line to take back with you... By the way, Ned, what’s your get-up to-night? I’d better know beforehand in case of accidents.”

  “I’m going to look the basest kind of poaching tramp. I’ve selected my costume from the combined wardrobes of this household, and I can tell you it’s pretty dingy. Mrs Lithgow is at present engaged in clouting the oldest pair of Wattie’s breeks for me... My only chance is to be a regular ragamuffin and the worst I need fear then is a rough handling from the gillies. Bandicott, I take it, is not the sort of fellow to want to prosecute. If I’m caught — which is fairly certain — I’ll probably get a drubbing and spend the night in a cellar and be given my breakfast next morning and kicked out. It’s a different matter for you, Charles, with the legally minded Claybody.”

  “What odds are you offerin’?” Sir Archie asked. “John backed himself and I took a tenner off him. What about an even fiver?”

  “I’ll give you three to one in five-pound notes that I win,” said Leithen grimly. “But that’s pride, not conviction.”

  “Done with you, my lad,” said Sir Archie, and departed to write an acceptance of the invitation to dinner.

  Fish Benjie remained behind, and it was clear that he had something to communicate. He caught Lamancha’s eye, who gave him the opening he sought by asking what was the news from Strathlarrig. Benjie had the instinct of the ballad-maker, and would begin his longer discourses with an epic flourish of the “Late at e’en drinkin’ the wine” style.

  “It was at fower o’clock this mornin’ they started,” he announced, “and they’re still comin’.”

  “Coming? Who?” Leithen asked.

  “Jornalists. The place is crawlin’ wi’ them. I seen six on bicycles and five in cawrs and twa in the Inverlarrig dowg-cairt. They’re a wantin’ to see auld Bandicott, but auld Bandicott will no see them. Mactavish stops them at the lodge, and speirs what they want, and they gie him cairds wi’ their names prentit, and he sends them up to the hoose, but he’ll no let them enter. Syne the message comes back that the maister will see them the day after the morn, but till then naebody maun put a fit inside the gates.”

  “What happened then?” Leithen asked with acute interest.

  “It hasna happened — it’s still happenin’! I never in my life heard sic a lot o’ sweer words. Says ane, ‘Does the auld dotterel think he can defy the British Press? We’ll mak his life no worth leevin’.’ Says another, ‘I’ve come a’ the gait frae London and I’ll no budge till I’ve seen the banes o’ that Viking!’ One or twa went back to Inverlarrig, but the feck o’ them just scattered like paitricks. They clamb the wall, and they waded up the water, and they got in by the top o’ the linns. In half an hour there was half a dizzen o’ them inside the Strathlarrig policies. Man” — here he fixed his glowing eye on Leithen—”if ye had been on the Lang Whang this mornin’ ye could have killed a fish and naebody the wiser.”

  “Good Lord! Are they there still?”

  “Na. They were huntit oot. Every man aboot the place was huntin’ them, and Angus was roarin’ like a bull. The young Laird thocht they were Bolshies and cam doun wi’ a gun. Syne the auld man appeared and spoke them fair and telled them he was terribly sorry, but he couldna see them for twa days, and if they contentit themselves that lang he would hae them a’ to their denner and show them everything. After that they gaed awa’, but there’s aye mair arrivin’ and I’m expectin’ mair riots. They’re forritsome lads, thae jornalists, and a dour crop to shift. But they’re kind folk, and gie’d me a shillin’ a-piece for advisin’ them.”

  “What did you advise?”

  “I advised them to gang doun to Glenraden,” said Benjie with a goblin smile. “I said they should gang and howk in the Piper’s Ring and they would maybe find mair treasure. Twa-three o’ them got spades and picks and startit off. I’m thinkin’ Macpherson will be after them wi’ a whup.”

  Leithen’s brows were puckered in thought. “It looks as if my bet with Archie wasn’t so crazy after all. This invasion is bound to confuse Bandicott’s plans. And you say it’s still going on? The gillies will be weary men before night.”

  “They will that,” Benjie assented. “And there’s no a man o’ them can rin worth a docken, except Jimsie. Thae jornalists was far soopler.”

  “More power the Press. Benjie, back you go and keep
an eye on Strathlarrig, and stir up the journalists to a sense of their rights. Report here this afternoon at four, for we should be on the move by six, and I’ve a lot to say to you.”

  In the course of the morning Leithen went for a walk among the scaurs and dingles of Crask Hill. He followed a footpath which took him down the channel of a tiny burn and led to a little mantelpiece of a meadow from which Wattie Lithgow drew a modest supply of bog-hay. His mind was so filled with his coming adventure that he walked with his head bent and at a turn of the path nearly collided with a man.

  Murmuring a gruff “Fine day,” he would have passed on, when he became aware that the stranger had halted. Then, to his consternation, he heard his name uttered, and had perforce to turn. He saw a young man, in knickerbockers and heavy nailed boots, who smiled diffidently as if uncertain whether he would be recognized.

  “Sir Edward Leithen, isn’t it?” he said. “I once had the pleasure of meeting you, sir, when you lunched with the Lobby journalists. I was then on the Lobby staff of the Monitor. My name is Crossby.”

  “Of course, of course. I remember perfectly. Let’s sit down, Mr Crossby, unless you’re in a hurry. Where are you bound for?”

  “Simply stretching my legs. I was climbing rocks at Sligachan when my paper wired me to come on here. The press seem to have gone mad about this Viking’s tomb — think they’ve got hold of a second Tutankhamen. So I get a fisherman to take me and my bicycle over to the mainland and pedalled the rest of the road. I thought I had a graft with old Bandicott, for I used to write for his paper — The New York Bulletin, you know — but it appears there’s nothing doing. Odd business, for you don’t often find Americans shy of the Press. But I think I’ve found out the reason, and that makes a good enough story in itself. Perhaps you’ve heard it?”

  “No,” said Leithen, “but I’d like to, if you don’t mind. I’m not a journalist, so I won’t give you away. Let’s have it.”