Complete Fictional Works of John Buchan (Illustrated)

by John Buchan

  Mr Craw was losing his nervousness and growing fluent. He felt that these two young men were of his own household, and he spoke to them as he would have addressed Freddy Barbon, or Sigismund Allins, or Archibald Bamff, or Bannister, his butler, or that efficient spinster Miss Elena Cazenove.

  “I don’t think you need be afraid, sir,” said Dougal. “The students who kidnapped you will have discovered their mistake as soon as they saw the real Linklater going about this morning. They won’t have a notion who was kidnapped, and they won’t want to inquire. You may be sure that they will lie very low about the whole business. What is to hinder you sending a wire to Castle Gay to have a car up here to-morrow, and go back to your own house as if nothing had happened? Mrs Catterick doesn’t know you from Adam, and you may trust Jaikie and me to hold our tongues.”

  “Unfortunately the situation is not so simple.” Mr Craw blinked his eyes, as if to shut out an unpleasing picture, and his hands began to flutter again. “At this moment there is a by-election in the Canonry — a spectacular by-election. . . . The place is full of journalists — special correspondents — from the London papers. They were anxious to drag me into the election, but I have consistently refused. I cannot embroil myself in local politics. Indeed, I intended to go abroad, for this inroad upon my rural peace is in the highest degree distasteful. . . . You may be very certain that these journalists are at this moment nosing about Castle Gay. Now, my household must have been alarmed when I did not return last night. I have a discreet staff, but they were bound to set inquiries on foot. They must have telephoned to Glasgow, and they may even have consulted the police. Some rumours must have got abroad, and the approaches to my house will be watched. If one of these journalists learns that I am here — the telegraph office in these country parts is a centre of gossip — he will follow up the trail. He will interview the woman of this cottage, he will wire to Glasgow, and presently the whole ridiculous business will be disclosed, and there will be inch headlines in every paper except my own.”

  “There’s something in that,” said Dougal. “I know the ways of those London journalists, and they’re a dour crop to shift. What’s your plan, sir?”

  “I have written a letter.” He produced one of Mrs Catterick’s disgraceful sheets of notepaper on which her disgraceful pen had done violence to Mr Craw’s neat commercial hand. “I want this put into the hand of my private secretary, Mr Barbon, at once. Every hour’s delay increases the danger.”

  “Would it not be best,” Dougal suggested, “if you got on to one of the bicycles — there are two in the outhouse, Mrs Catterick says — and I escorted you to Castle Gay this very night. It’s only about twenty miles.”

  “I have never ridden a bicycle in my life,” said Mr Craw coldly. “My plan is the only one, I fear. I am entitled to call upon you to help me.”

  It was Jaikie who answered. The first day’s walk in the hills was always an intoxication to him, and Mrs Catterick’s tea had banished every trace of fatigue.

  “It’s a grand night, Dougal,” he said, “and there’s a moon. I’ll be home before midnight. There’s nothing I would like better than a ride down Garroch to the Callowa. I know the road as well as my own name.”

  “We’ll go together,” said Dougal firmly. “I’m feeling fresher than when I started. . . . What are your instructions, sir?”

  “You will deliver this letter direct into Mr Barbon’s hands. I have asked him to send a car in this direction to-morrow before midday, and I will walk down the glen to meet it. It will wait for me a mile or so from this house. . . . You need not say how I came here. I am not in the habit of explaining my doings to my staff.”

  Mr Craw enclosed his letter in a shameful envelope and addressed it. His movements were brisker now and he had recovered his self-possession. “I shall not forget this, Mr Crombie,” he said benignly. “You are fortunate in being able to do me a service.”

  Dougal and Jaikie betook themselves to the outhouse to examine the bicycles of John Catterick and the herd of the west hirsel.

  “I eat the man’s bread,” said the former, “so I am bound to help him, but God forbid that I should ever want to accept his favours. It’s unbelievable that we should spend the first night of our holiday trying to save the face of Craw. . . . Did you ever see such an image? He’s more preposterous even than I thought. But there’s a decency in all things, and if Craw’s bones are to be picked it will be me that has the picking of them, and not those London corbies.”

  But this truculence did not represent Dougal’s true mind, which presently became apparent to his companion as they bumped their way among the heather bushes and flood-gravel which composed the upper part of the Garroch road. He was undeniably excited. He was a subaltern officer in a great army, and now he had been brought face to face with the general-in-chief. However ill he might think of that general, there was romance in the sudden juxtaposition, something to set the heart beating and to fire the fancy. Dougal regarded Mr Craw much as a stalwart republican might look on a legitimate but ineffectual monarch; yet the stoutest republican is not proof against an innocent snobbery and will hurry to a street corner to see the monarch pass. Moreover, this general-in-chief was in difficulties; his immediate comfort depended upon the humble subaltern. So Dougal was in an excited mood and inclined to babble. He was determined to do his best for his chief, but he tried to salve his self-respect by a critical aloofness.

  “What do you think of the great Craw?” he asked Jaikie.

  “He seems a pleasant fellow,” was the answer.

  “Oh, he’s soft-spoken enough. He has the good manners of one accustomed to having his own way. But, man, to hear him talk was just like hearing a grandfather-clock ticking. He’s one mass of artifice.”

  Dougal proceeded to a dissection of Mr Craw’s mind which caused him considerable satisfaction. He proved beyond question that the great man had no brains of his own, but was only an echo, a repository for other men’s ideas. “A cistern, not a spring,” was his conclusion. But he was a little dashed by Jaikie, who listened patiently to the analysis, and then remarked that he was talking rubbish.

  “If a man does as much in the world as Craw, and makes himself as important, it’s nonsense to say he has no brains. He must have plenty, though they may not be the kind you like. You know very well, Dougal, that you’re mightily pleased to have the chance of doing the great man a favour. And maybe rather flattered.”

  The other did not reply for a moment. “Perhaps I am,” he said at length. “We’re all snobs in a way — all but you. You’re the only true democrat I know. What’s the phrase—’Fellow to a beggar and brother to a king, if he be found worthy’? It’s no credit to you — it’s just the way you’re made.”

  After that it was impossible to get a word out of Jaikie, and even Dougal drifted by way of monosyllables into silence, for the place and the hour had their overmastering enchantments. There was no evening mist, and in the twilight every hill stood out clean-cut in a purple monochrome. Soon the road skirted the shores of the Lower Loch Garroch, twining among small thickets of birch and hazel, with the dark water on its right lapping ghostly shingle. Presently the glen narrowed and the Garroch grumbled to itself in deep linns, appearing now and then on some rockshelf in a broad pool which caught the last amethyst light of day. There had been no lamps attached to the bicycles of John Catterick and the herd of the west hirsel, so the travellers must needs move circumspectly. And then the hills fell back, the glen became a valley, and the Garroch ran free in wild meadows of rush and bracken.

  The road continued downstream to the junction with the Callowa not far from the town of Portaway. But to reach Castle Gay it was necessary to break off and take the hill-road on the left, which crossed the containing ridge and debouched in the upper part of Glen Callowa. The two riders dismounted, and walked the road which wound from one grassy howe to another till they reached the low saddle called the Pad o’ the Slack, and looked down upon a broader vale. Not that they
had any prospect from it — for it was now very dark, the deep autumn darkness which precedes moonrise; but they had an instinct that there was freer space before them. They remounted their bicycles, and cautiously descended a road with many awkward angles and hairpin bends, till they found themselves among trees, and suddenly came on to a metalled highway.

  “Keep to the right,” Jaikie directed. “We’re not more than two miles from the Castle gates.”

  The place had the unmistakable character of a demesne. Even in the gloom it had an air of being well cared for, and the moon, which now began to send a shiver of light through the darkness, revealed a high wall on the left — no dry-stone dyke but a masoned wall with a coping. The woods, too, were not the scrub of the hills, but well-grown timber trees and plantations of fir. Then the wall fell back, there were two big patches of greensward protected by chains and white stones, and between them a sweep of gravel, a castellated lodge, and vast gates like a portcullis. The Lord Rhynns of three generations ago had been unhappily affected by the Gothic Revival.

  “Here’s the place,” said Dougal. “It’s a mighty shell for such a wee body as Craw.”

  The gates were locked. There was a huge bell pendant from one of the pillars and this Jaikie rang. It echoed voluminously in the stillness, but there was no sign of life in the lodge. He rang again and yet again, making the night hideous, while Dougal hammered at the massive ironwork of the gate.

  “They’re all dead or drunk,” the latter said. “I’m positive there’s folk in the lodge. I saw a bit of a light in the upper window. What for will they not open?”

  Jaikie had abandoned the bell and was peering through the ironwork.

  “Dougal,” he whispered excitedly, “look here. This gate is not meant to open. Look what’s behind it. It’s a barricade. There’s two big logs jammed between the posts. The thing would keep a Tank out. Whoever is in there is terrified of something.”

  “There’s somebody in the lodge watching us. I’m certain of that. What do they mean by behaving as if they were besieged? I don’t like it, Jaikie. There’s something here we don’t understand — and Craw doesn’t understand. How can they expect to defend as big a space as a park? Any active man could get over the wall.”

  “Maybe they want to keep out motors. . . . Well, we needn’t waste time here. That letter has got to be delivered, and there’s more roads than the main road.”

  “Is there another entrance?”

  “Yes. This is the main one, but there’s a second lodge a mile beyond Starr — that’s the village — on the Knockraw road. But we needn’t worry about that. We can leave our bicycles, and get into the park at the Callowa bridge.”

  They remounted and resumed their course along the highway. One or two cottages were passed, which showed no sign of life, since the folk of these parts rise early and go early to bed. But in an open space a light was visible from a larger house on the slope to the right. Then came a descent and the noise of a rapid stream.

  The bicycles were shoved under a hawthorn bush, and Jaikie clambered on to the extreme edge of the bridge parapet.

  “We can do it,” he reported. “A hand traverse for a yard or two and then a ten-foot drop. There’s bracken below, so it will be soft falling.”

  Five minutes later the two were emerging from a bracken covert on to the lawn-like turf which fringed the Callowa. The moon was now well up in the sky, and they could see before them the famous wild park of Castle Gay. The guide-books relate that in it are both red deer and fallow-deer, and in one part a few of the ancient Caledonian wild cattle. But these denizens must have been asleep, for as Jaikie and Dougal followed the river they saw nothing but an occasional rabbit and a belated heron. They kept to the stream side, for Jaikie had once studied the ordnance map and remembered that the Castle was close to the water.

  The place was so magical that one of the two forgot his errand. It was a cup among high hills, but, seen in that light, the hills were dwarfed, and Jaikie with a start realised that the comb of mountain, which seemed little more than an adjacent hillock, must be a ridge of the great Muneraw, twenty miles distant. The patches of wood were black as ink against the pale mystery of the moonlit sward. The river was dark too, except where a shallow reflected the moon. The silence was broken only by the small noises of wild animals, the ripple of the stream, and an occasional splash of a running salmon.

  Then, as they topped a slope, the house lay before them. It stood on its own little plateau, with the ground falling from it towards the park and the stream, and behind it the fir-clad Castle Hill. The moon turned it into ivory, so that it had the air of some precious Chinese carving on a jade stand. In such a setting it looked tiny, and one had to measure it with the neighbouring landscape to realise that it was a considerable pile. But if it did not awe by its size, it ravished the eyes with its perfection. Whatever may have been crude and ugly in it, the jerry-building of our ancestors, the demented reconstruction of our fathers, was mellowed by night into a classic grace. Jaikie began to whistle softly with pure delight, for he had seen a vision.

  The practical Dougal had his mind on business. “It’s past eleven o’clock, and it looks as if they were all in their beds. I don’t see a light. There’ll be gardens to get through before we reach the door. We’d better look out for dogs too. The folk here seem a bit jumpy in their nerves.”

  But it was no dog that obstructed them. Since they had come in sight of their goal they had moved with circumspection, and, being trained of old to the game, were as noiseless as ferrets. They had left the wilder part of the park, had crossed a piece of meadowland from which an aftermath of hay had lately been taken, and could already see beyond a ha-ha the terraces of a formal garden. But while they guarded against sound, their eyes were too much on their destination to be wary about the foreground.

  So it befell that they crossed the ha-ha at the very point where a gentleman was taking his ease. Dougal fell over him, and the two travellers found themselves looking at the startled face of a small man in knickerbockers.

  His pipe had dropped from his mouth. Jaikie picked it up and presented it to him. “I beg your pardon, sir,” he said, “I hope you’re not hurt.” In the depths of the ha-ha there was shadow, and Jaikie took the victim of Dougal’s haste for someone on the Castle staff.

  “What are you doing here?” The man’s air was at once apologetic and defiant. There was that in his tone which implied that he might in turn be asked his business, that he had no prescriptive right to be sitting smoking in that ha-ha at midnight.

  So Jaikie answered: “Just the same as you. Taking the air and admiring the view.”

  The little man was recovering himself.

  “You gave me quite a start when you jumped on the top of me. I thought it was one of the gamekeepers after a poacher.” He began to fill his pipe. “More by token, who are you?”

  “Oh, we’re a couple of undergraduates seeing the world. We wanted a look at the Castle, and there’s not much you can see from the highroad, so we got in at the bridge and came up the stream. . . . We’re strangers here. There’s an inn at Starr, isn’t there? What sort of a place is it?”

  “Nothing to write home about,” was the answer. “You’d better go on to Portaway. . . . So you’re undergraduates? I thought that maybe you were of my own profession, and I was going to be a bit jealous. I’m on the staff of the Live Wire.”

  Dougal’s hand surreptitiously found Jaikie’s wrist and held it tight.

  “I suppose you’re up here to cover the by-election,” he observed, in a voice which he strove to keep flat and uninterested.

  “By-election be hanged! That was my original job, but I’m on to far bigger business. Do you know who lives in that house?”

  Two heads were mendaciously shaken.

  “The great Craw! Thomas Carlyle Craw! The man that owns all the uplift papers. If you’ve never heard of Craw, Oxford’s more of a mausoleum than I thought.”

  “We’re Cambridge,” said
Jaikie, “and of course we’ve heard of Craw. What about him?”

  “Simply that he’s the mystery man of journalism. You hear of him but you never see him. He’s a kind of Delphic oracle that never shows his face. The Wire doesn’t care a hoot for by-elections, but it cares a whole lot about Craw. He’s our big rival, and we love him as much as a cat loves water. He’s a go-getter, is Craw. There’s a deep commercial purpose behind all his sanctimonious bilge, and he knows how to rake in the shekels. His circulation figures are steadily beating ours by at least ten per cent. He has made himself the idol of his public, and, till we pull off the prophet’s mantle and knock out some of the sawdust, he has us licked all the time. But it’s the deuce and all to get at him, for the blighter is as shy as a wood nymph. So, when this election started, my chief says to me: ‘Here’s our chance at last,’ he says. ‘Off you go, Tibbets, and draw the badger. Get him into the limelight somehow. Show him up for the almighty fool he is. Publicity about Craw,’ he says, ‘any kind of publicity that will take the gilt off the image. It’s the chance of your life!’”

  “Any luck?” Dougal asked casually.

  Mr Tibbets’s voice became solemn. “I believe,” he said, “that I am on the edge of the world’s biggest scoop. I discovered in half a day that we could never get Craw to mix himself up in an election. He knows too much. He isn’t going to have the Wire and a dozen other papers printing his halting utterances verbatim in leaded type, and making nice, friendly comments. . . . No, that cock won’t fight. But I’ve found a better. D’you know what will be the main headline in to-morrow’s Wire? It will be ‘Mysterious Disappearance of Mr Craw — Household Distracted.’ — And by God, it will be true — every word of it. The man’s lost.”