Complete Fictional Works of John Buchan (Illustrated)

by John Buchan

  The hostess was cross-examining Mr Charvill about his knowledge of Scotland, which, it appeared, was confined to one visit to a Highland shooting lodge.

  “Then you know nothing about us at all,” she declared firmly. “Scotland is the Lowlands. Here we have a civilisation of our own, just as good as England, but quite different. The Highlands are a sad, depopulated place, full of midges and kilted haberdashers. I know your Highland lodges — my husband had an unfortunate craze for stalking — gehennas of pitch-pine and deer’s hair — not a bed fit to sleep in, and nothing for the unfortunate women to do but stump in hobnails between the showers along boggy roads!”

  Charvill laughed. “I admit I was wet most of the time, but it was glorious fun. I never in my life had so much hard exercise.”

  “You can walk?”

  “A bit. I was brought up pretty well on horseback, but since I came to England I have learned to use my legs.”

  “Then you are a fortunate young man. I cannot think what is to become of the youth of to-day. I was staying at Glenavelin last year, and the young men when they went to fish motored the half-mile to the river. My cousin had a wire from a friend who had taken Machray forest, begging him to find somebody over fifty to kill his stags, since his house was full of boys who could not get up the hills. You two,” her eyes passed from Dougal to Jaikie, “are on a walking tour. I’m very glad to hear it. That is a rational kind of holiday.”

  She embarked on stories of the great walkers of a century ago — Barclay of Urie, Horatio Ross, Lord John Kennedy. “My father in his youth once walked from Edinburgh to Castle Gay. He took two days, and he had to carry the little spaniel that accompanied him for the last twenty miles. We don’t breed such young men to-day. I daresay they are more discreet and less of an anxiety to their parents, and I know that they don’t drink so much. But they are a feeble folk, like the conies. They never want to fling their caps over the moon. There is a lamentable scarcity of wild oats of the right kind.”

  “Aunt Harriet,” said the girl, “is thinking of the young men she saw at balls this summer.”

  Mrs Brisbane-Brown raised her hands. “Did you ever know such a kindergarten? Pallid infants with vacant faces. It was cruel to ask a girl to waste her time over them.”

  “You asked me, you know, in spite of my protests.”

  “And rightly, my dear. It is a thing every girl must go through — her form of public-school education. But I sincerely pitied you, my poor child. When I was young and went to balls I danced with interesting people — soldiers, and diplomats, and young politicians. They may have been at the balls this season, but I never saw them. What I did see were hordes upon hordes of children — a sort of crèche — vapid boys who were probably still at school or only just beginning the University. What has become of the sound English doctrine that the upbringing of our male youth should be monastic till at least twenty-one? We are getting as bad as the Americans with their ghastly co-education.”

  Jaikie was glad when they rose from table. He had wanted to look at Alison, who sat next him, but that meant turning his head deliberately, and he had been too shy. He wished that, like Dougal, he had sat opposite her. Yet he had been cheered by Mrs Brisbane-Brown’s diatribes. Her condemnation of modern youth excluded by implication the three who lunched with her. She approved of Charvill, of course. Who wouldn’t? Charvill with his frank kindliness, his height, his orthodox good looks, was the kind of person Jaikie would have envied, had it been his nature to envy. But it would appear that she had also approved of Dougal and himself, and Jaikie experienced a sudden lift of the heart.

  Now he was free to look at Alison, as she stood very slim and golden in the big sunlit drawing-room. It was the most beautiful room Jaikie had ever beheld. The chairs and sofas were covered with a bright, large-patterned chintz, all roses, parrots, and hollyhocks; the carpet was a faded Aubusson, rescued from a bedroom in Castle Gay; above the mantelpiece, in a gilt case, hung a sword of honour presented to the late General Brisbane-Brown, and on the polished parts of the floor, which the Aubusson did not reach, lay various trophies of his marksmanship. There was a huge white fleecy rug, and between that and the fire a huge brass fender. There were vitrines full of coins and medals and Roman lamps and flint arrows and enamelled snuff-boxes, and cabinets displaying Worcester china and Leeds earthenware. On the white walls were cases of miniatures, and samplers, and two exquisite framed fans, and a multitude of water-colours, all the work of Mrs Brisbane-Brown. There were views from the terraces of Florentine villas, and sunsets on the Nile, and dawns over Indian deserts, and glimpses of a dozen strange lands. The series was her travel diary, the trophy of her wanderings, just as a man will mount heads on the walls of his smoking-room. But the best picture was that presented by the two windows, which showed the wild woods and hollows of the Castle park below, bright in the October afternoon, running to the dim purple of the Knockraw heather.

  In this cheerful and gracious room, before Middlemas had finished serving coffee, before Jaikie had made up his mind whether he preferred Alison in her present tidiness or in the gipsydom of the morning, there appeared a figure which effectually banished its complacent tranquillity.

  Mr Frederick Barbon entered by an open window, and his clothes and shoes bore the marks of a rough journey. Yet neither clothes nor figure seemed adapted for such adventures. Mr Barbon’s appearance was what old-fashioned people would have called “distinguished.” He was very slim and elegant, and he had that useful colouring which does not change between the ages of thirty and fifty; that is to say, he had prematurely grizzled locks and a young complexion. His features were classic in their regularity. Sometimes he looked like a successful actor; sometimes, when in attendance on his master, like a very superior footman in mufti who had not got the powder out of his hair; but there were moments when he was taken for an eminent statesman. It was his nervous blue eyes which betrayed him, for Mr Barbon was an anxious soul. He liked his little comforts, he liked to feel important and privileged, and he knew only too well what it was to be a poor gentleman tossed from dilemma to dilemma by the unsympathetic horns of destiny. Since the war — when he had held a commission in the Foot Guards — he had been successively, but not successfully, a land-agent (the property was soon sold), a dealer in motor-cars (the business went speedily bankrupt), a stockbroker on half-commission, the manager of a tourist agency, an advertisement tout, and a highly incompetent society journalist. From his father, the aged and penniless Clonkilty, he could expect nothing. Then in the service of Mr Craw he had found an undreamed of haven; and he was as determined as King Charles the Second that he would never go wandering again. Consequently he was always anxious. He was an admirable private secretary, but he was fussy. The dread that haunted his dreams was of being hurled once more into the cold world of economic strife.

  He sank wearily into a chair and accepted a cup of coffee.

  “I had to make a detour of nearly three miles,” he explained, “and come down on this place from the hill. I daren’t stop long either. Where is Mr Craw’s letter?”

  Dougal presented the missive, which Mr Barbon tore open and devoured. A heavy sigh escaped him.

  “Lucky I did not get this sooner and act on it,” he said. “Mr Craw wants to come back. But the one place he mustn’t come near is Castle Gay.”

  Dougal, though very hungry and usually a stout trencherman, had not enjoyed his luncheon. Indeed he had done less than justice to the excellent food provided. He was acutely aware of being in an unfamiliar environment, to which he should have been hostile, but which as a matter of plain fact he enjoyed with trepidation. Unlike Jaikie he bristled with class-consciousness. Mrs Brisbane-Brown’s kindly arrogance, the long-descended air of her possessions, the atmosphere of privilege so secure that it need not conceal itself — he was aware of it with a half-guilty joy. The consequence was that he was adrift from his moorings, and not well at ease. He had not spoken at table except in answer to questions, and he now stood
in the drawing-room like a colt in a flower-garden, not very certain what to do with his legs.

  The sight of the embarrassed Barbon revived him. Here was something he could understand, a problem in his own world. Craw might be a fool, but he belonged to his own totem, and this Barbon man (of his hostess’s world) was clearly unfit to deal with the web in which his employer had entangled himself. He found his voice. He gave the company a succinct account of how Mr Craw had come to be in the Back House of the Garroch.

  “That’s all I have to tell. Now you take up the story. I want to hear everything that happened since Wednesday night, when Mr Craw did not come home.”

  The voice was peremptory, and Mr Barbon raised his distinguished eyebrows. Even in his perplexity he felt bound to resent this tone.

  “I’m afraid . . . I . . . I don’t quite understand your position, Mr — ?”

  “My name’s Crombie. I’m on one of the Craw papers. My interest in straightening things out is the same as yours. So let’s pool our knowledge and be quick about it. You began to get anxious about Mr Craw at half-past eight on Wednesday, and very anxious by ten. What did you do?”

  “We communicated with Glasgow — with Mr Craw’s architect. He had accompanied him to the station and seen him leave by the six-five train. We communicated with Kirkmichael station, and learned that he had arrived there. Then I informed the police — very confidentially of course.”

  “The journalists got wind of that. They were bound to, since they sit like jackdaws on the steps of the telegraph office. So much for Wednesday. What about yesterday?”

  “I had a very anxious day,” said Mr Barbon, passing a weary hand over his forehead and stroking back his thick grizzled hair. “I hadn’t a notion what to think or do. Mr Craw, you must understand, intended to go abroad. He was to have left this morning, catching the London express at Gledmouth. Miss Cazenove and I were to have accompanied him, and all arrangements had been made. It seemed to me that he might have chosen to expedite his departure, though such a thing was very unlike his usual custom. So I got the London office to make inquiries, and ascertained that he had not travelled south. You are aware of Mr Craw’s dislike of publicity. I found myself in a very serious quandary. I had to find out what had become of him. Anything might have happened — an accident, an outrage. And I had to do this without giving any clue to those infernal reporters.”

  “Practically impossible,” said Dougal. “No wonder you were in a bit of a stew. I suppose they were round the house like bees yesterday.”

  “Like wasps,” said Mr Barbon tragically. “We kept them at arm’s length, but they have defeated us.” He produced from his pocket and unfolded a copy of a journal. “We have special arrangements at the Castle for an early delivery of newspapers, and this is to-day’s Live Wire. Observe the headings.”

  “I know all about that,” said Dougal. “We ran across the Wire man — Tibbets they call him — and he was fair bursting with his news. But this will only make the Wire crowd look foolish if they can’t follow it up. That’s what we’ve got to prevent. I took the liberty this morning of speaking to Tavish in Glasgow on the telephone, and authorising him — I pretended I was speaking for Mr Craw — to announce that Mr Craw had left for the Continent. That will give us cover to work behind.”

  “You might have spared yourself the trouble,” said Mr Barbon, unfolding another news-sheet. “This is to-day’s issue of the View. It contains that announcement. It was inserted by the London office. Now who authorised it?”

  “I heard of that from Tavish. Could it have been Mr Craw?”

  “It was not Mr Craw. That I can vouch for, unless he sent the authorisation after half-past seven on Wednesday evening, which on your story is impossible. It was sent by some person or persons who contrived to impress the London office with their authority, and who wished to have it believed that Mr Craw was out of the country. For their own purpose. Now, what purpose?”

  “I think I can make a guess,” said Dougal eagerly.

  “There is no need of guess-work. It is a matter of certain and damning knowledge. Mr Craw left for Glasgow on Wednesday before his mail arrived. In that mail there was a registered letter. It was marked ‘most confidential’ and elaborately sealed. I deal with Mr Craw’s correspondence, but letters marked in such a way I occasionally leave for him to open, so I did not touch that letter. Then, yesterday morning, at the height of my anxieties, I had a telephone message.”

  Mr Barbon paused dramatically. “It was not from London. It was from Knockraw House, a place some five miles from here. I knew that Knockraw had been let for the late autumn, but I had not heard the name of the tenant. It is the best grouse-moor in the neighbourhood. The speaker referred to a confidential letter which he said Mr Craw had received on the previous day, and he added that he and his friends proposed to call upon Mr Craw that afternoon at three o’clock. I said that Mr Craw was not at home, but the speaker assured me that Mr Craw would be at home to him. I did not dare to say more, but I asked for the name. It was given me as Casimir — only the one word. Then I think the speaker rang off.”

  “I considered it my duty,” Mr Barbon continued, “to open the confidential letter. When I had read it, I realised that instead of being in the frying pan we were in the middle of the fire. For that letter was written in the name of the inner circle of the—”

  “Evallonian Republicans,” interjected Dougal, seeking a cheap triumph.

  “It was not. It was the Evallonian Monarchists.”

  “Good God!” Dougal was genuinely startled, for he saw suddenly a problem with the most dismal implications.

  “They said that their plans were approaching maturity, and that they had come to consult with their chief well-wisher. There was an immense amount of high-flown compliment in it after the Evallonian fashion, but there was one thing clear. These people are in deadly earnest. They have taken Knockraw for the purpose, and they have had the assurance to announce to the world Mr Craw’s absence abroad so that they may have him to themselves without interruption. They must have had private information about his movements, and his intention of leaving Scotland. I don’t know much about Evallonian politics — they were a personal hobby of Mr Craw’s — but I know enough to realise that the party who wish to upset the republic are pretty desperate fellows. It was not only the certain notoriety of the thing which alarmed me, though that was bad enough. Imagine the play that our rivals would make with the story of Mr Craw plotting with foreign adventurers to upset a Government with which Britain is in friendly relations! It was the effect upon Mr Craw himself. He hates anything to do with the rough-and-tumble of political life. He is quite unfit to deal with such people. He is a thinker and an inspirer — a seer in a watch-tower, and such men lose their power if they go down into the arena.”

  This was so manifestly an extract from the table-talk of Mr Craw that Dougal could not repress a grin.

  “You laugh,” said Mr Barbon gloomily, “but there is nothing to laugh at. The fortunes of a great man and a great Press are at this moment on a razor-edge.”

  “Jaikie,” said Dougal in a whisper, “Mr McCunn was a true prophet. He said we were maybe going to set up the Jacobite standard on Garroch side. There’s a risk of another kind of Jacobite standard being set up on Callowa side. It’s a colossal joke on the part of Providence.”

  Mr Barbon continued his tale.

  “I felt utterly helpless. I did not know where Mr Craw was. I had the threatening hordes of journalists to consider. I had those foreign desperadoes at the gates. They must not be allowed to approach Castle Gay. I had no fear that Casimir and his friends would take the journalists into their confidence, but I was terribly afraid that the journalists would get on to the trail of Casimir. An Eastern European house-party at Knockraw is a pretty obvious mark. . . . I gave orders that no one was to be admitted at either lodge. I went further and had the gates barricaded, in case there was an attempt to force them.”

  “You lost your head the
re,” said Dougal. “You were making the journalists a gift.”

  “Perhaps I did. But when one thinks of Eastern Europe one thinks of violence. Look at this letter I received this morning. Note that it is addressed to me by my full name.”

  The writer with great simplicity and in perfect English informed the Honourable Frederick Barbon, M.C., that it was quite futile to attempt to deny his friends entrance to Castle Gay, but that they had no wish to embarrass him. Tomorrow at 11 a.m. they would wait upon Mr Craw, and if they were again refused they would take other means of securing an audience.

  Dougal whistled. “The writer of this knows all about the journalists. And he knows that Mr Craw is not at the Castle, but believes that you are hiding him somewhere. They’ve a pretty useful intelligence department.”

  Mrs Brisbane-Brown, who had listened to Mr Barbon’s recital with composure, now entered the conversation.

  “You mustn’t let your nerves get the upper hand of you, Freddy. Try to take things more calmly. I’m afraid that poor Mr Craw has himself to thank for his predicament. Why will newspaper owners meddle with things they don’t understand? Politics should be left to those who make a profession of them. But we must do our best to help him. Mr Crombie,” she turned to Dougal, whose grim face was heavy with thought, “you look capable. What do you propose?”

  The fire of battle had kindled in Dougal’s eyes, and Jaikie saw in them something which he remembered from old days.

  “I think,” he said, “that we’re in for a stiff campaign, and that it must be conducted on two fronts. We must find some way of heading off those Evallonians, and it won’t be easy. When a foreigner gets a notion into his head he’s apt to turn into a demented crusader. They’re all the same — Socialists, Communists, Fascists, Republicans, Monarchists — I daresay Monarchists are the worst, for they’ve less inside their heads to begin with. . . . And we must do it without giving the journalists a hint of what is happening. We must suppress Tibbets by force, if necessary.”