Complete Fictional Works of John Buchan (Illustrated)

by John Buchan

  “Perhaps the Evallonians will do that for you,” suggested Alison.

  “Very likely they will. . . . The second front is wherever Mr Craw may be. At all costs he must be kept away from here. Now, he can’t stay at the Back House of the Garroch. The journalists will very soon be on to the Glasgow students, and they’ll hear about the kidnapping, and they’ll track him to the Back House. I needn’t tell you that it’s all up with us if any reporter gets sight of Mr Craw. I think he had better be smuggled out of the country as quickly as possible.”

  Mr Barbon shook his head.

  “Impossible!” he murmured. “I’ve already thought of that plan and rejected it. The Evallonians will discover it and follow him, and they will find him in a foreign land without friends. I wonder if you understand that Mr Craw will be terrified at the thought of meeting them. Terrified! That is his nature. I think he would prefer to risk everything and come back here rather than fall into their hands in another country than his own. He has always been a little suspicious of foreigners.”

  “Very well. He can’t come back here, but he needn’t go abroad. He must disappear. Now, how is that to be managed?”

  “Jaikie,” he said, after a moment’s reflection, “this is your job. You’ll have to take charge of the Craw front.”

  Jaikie opened his eyes. He had not been attending very carefully, for the preoccupations of the others had allowed him to stare at Alison, and he had been wondering whether her hair should be called red or golden. For certain it had no connection with Dougal’s . . . Also, why a jumper and a short tweed skirt made a girl look so much more feminine than flowing draperies. . . .

  “I don’t quite understand,” he said.

  “It’s simple enough. We’re going to have some difficult work on the home front, and the problem is hopeless if it’s complicated by the presence of Mr Craw. One of us has to be in constant attendance on him, and keep him buried . . .”

  “But where?”

  “Anywhere you like, as long as you get him away from the Back House of the Garroch. He’ll not object. He’s not looking for any Evallonians. You’ve the whole of Scotland, and England too, to choose from. Pick your own hidy-hole. He’ll not be difficult to hide, for few people know him by sight and he looks a commonplace little body. It’s you or me — and better you than me, for you’re easy tempered, and I doubt Mr Craw and I would quarrel the first day.”

  Jaikie caught Alison’s eyes and saw in them so keen a zest for a new, exciting adventure that his own interest kindled. He would have immensely preferred to be engaged on the home front, but he saw the force of Dougal’s argument. He had a sudden vision of himself, tramping muddy roads in October rain, putting up at third-rate inns, eating bread and cheese in the heather — and by his side, a badly scared millionaire, a fugitive leader of the people. Jaikie rarely laughed aloud, but at the vision his face broke into a slow smile.

  “I’ll need a pair of boots,” he said, “not for myself — for Mr Craw. The things he is wearing would be knocked to pieces in half a day.”

  Mr Barbon, whose dejection had brightened at the sound of Dougal’s crisp mandates, declared that the boots could be furnished. He suggested other necessaries, which Jaikie ultimately reduced to a toothbrush, a razor, spare shirts, and pyjamas. A servant from the Castle would deliver them a mile up the road.

  “You’d better be off,” Dougal advised. “He’ll have been ranging round the Back House these last four hours like a hyena, and if you don’t hurry we’ll have him arriving here on his two legs. . . . You’ll have to give us an address for letters, for we must have some means of communication.”

  “Let it be Post Office, Portaway,” said Jaikie; and added, in reply to the astonished stare of the other, “Unless there’s a reflector above, the best hiding place is under the light.”

  CHAPTER VII. BEGINNING OF A GREAT MAN’S EXILE

  Jaikie had not a pleasant journey that autumn afternoon over the ridge that separates Callowa from Garroch and up the latter stream to the dark hills of its source. To begin with, he was wheeling the bicycle which Dougal had ridden, for that compromising object must be restored as soon as possible to its owner; and, since this was no easy business on indifferent roads, he had to walk most of the way. Also, in addition to the pack on his back, he had Dougal’s, which contained the parcel duly handed over to him a mile up the road by a Castle Gay servant. . . . But his chief discomfort was spiritual.

  From his tenderest years he had been something of a philosopher. It was his quaint and placid reasonableness which had induced Dickson McCunn, when he took in hand the destinies of the Gorbals Diehards, to receive him into his own household. He had virtually adopted Jaikie, because he seemed more broken to domesticity than any of the others. The boy had speedily become at home in his new environment, and with effortless ease had accepted and adapted himself to the successive new worlds which opened to him. He had the gift of living for the moment where troubles were concerned and not anticipating them, but in pleasant things of letting his fancy fly happily ahead. So he accepted docilely his present task, since he was convinced of the reason for it; Dougal was right — he was the better person of the two to deal with Craw. . . . But the other, the imaginative side of him, was in revolt. That morning he had received an illumination. He had met the most delightful human being he had ever encountered. And now he was banished from her presence.

  He was not greatly interested in Craw. Dougal was different; to Dougal Craw was a figure of mystery and power; there was romance in the midge controlling the fate of the elephant. To Jaikie he was only a dull, sententious, elderly gentleman, probably with a bad temper, and he was chained to him for an indefinite number of days. It sounded a bleak kind of holiday. . . . But at Castle Gay there were the Evallonians, and Mrs Brisbane-Brown, and an immense old house now in a state of siege, and Alison’s bright eyes, and a stage set for preposterous adventures. The lucky Dougal was there in the front of it, while he was condemned to wander lonely in the wings.

  But, as the increasing badness of the road made riding impossible, and walking gave him a better chance for reflection, the prospect slowly brightened. It had been a fortunate inspiration of his, the decision to keep Craw hidden in the near neighbourhood. It had been good sense, too, for the best place of concealment was the unexpected. He would not be too far from the main scene of conflict, and he might even have a chance of a share in it. . . . Gradually his interest began to wake in the task itself. After all he had the vital role. If a man-hunt was on foot, he had charge of the quarry. It was going to be a difficult business, and it might be exciting. He remembered the glow in Alison’s eyes, and the way she had twined and untwined her fingers. They were playing in the same game, and if he succeeded it was her approval he would win. Craw was of no more interest to him than the ball in a Rugby match, but he was determined to score a try with him between the posts.

  In this more cheerful mood he arrived at the Back House about the hour of seven, when the dark had fallen. Mrs Catterick met him with an anxious face and the high lilt of the voice which in her type is the consequence of anxiety.

  “Ye’re back? Blithe I am to see ye. And ye’re your lane? Dougal’s awa on anither job, says you? Eh, man, ye’ve been sair looked for. The puir body ben the hoose has been neither to haud nor to bind. He was a mile doun the road this mornin’ in his pappymashy buits. He didna tak a bite o’ denner, and sin’ syne he’s been sittin’ glunchin’ or lookin’ out o’ the windy.” Then, in a lowered voice, “For guid sake, Jaikie, do something, or he’ll loss his reason.”

  “It’s all right, Mrs Catterick. I’ve come back to look after him. Can you put up with us for another night? We’ll be off to-morrow morning.”

  “Fine that. John’ll no be hame or Monday. Ye’ll hae your supper thegither? It’s an ill job a jyler’s. Erchie will whistle lang ere he sees me at it again.”

  Jaikie did not at once seek Mr Craw’s presence. He spread his map of the Canonry on the kitchen table
and brooded over it. It was only when he knew from the clatter of dishes that the meal was ready in the best room that he sought that chamber.

  He found the great man regarding distastefully a large dish of bacon and eggs and a monstrous brown teapot enveloped in a knitted cosy of purple and green. He had found John Catterick’s razor too much for him, for he had not shaved that morning, his suit had acquired further whitewash from the walls of his bedroom, and his scanty hair was innocent of the brush. He had the air of one who had not slept well and had much on his mind.

  The eyes which he turned on Jaikie had the petulance of a sulky child.

  “So you’ve come at last,” he grumbled. “Where is Mr Crombie? Have you brought a car?”

  “I came on a bicycle. Dougal — Mr Crombie — is staying at Castle Gay.”

  “What on earth do you mean? Did you deliver my letter to Mr Barbon?”

  Jaikie nodded. He felt suddenly rather dashed in spirits. Mr Craw, untidy and unshaven and as cross as a bear, was not an attractive figure, least of all as a companion for an indefinite future.

  “I had better tell you exactly what happened,” he said, and he recounted the incidents of the previous evening up to the meeting with Tibbets. “So we decided that it would be wiser not to try to deliver the letter last night.”

  Mr Craw’s face showed extreme irritation, not unmingled with alarm.

  “The insolence of it!” he declared. “You say the Wire man has got the story of my disappearance, and has published it in to-day’s issue? He knows nothing of the cause which brought me here?”

  “Nothing. And he need never know, unless he tracks you to this place. The Wire stands a good chance of making a public goat of itself. Dougal telephoned to your Glasgow office and your own papers published to-day the announcement that you had gone abroad.”

  Mr Craw looked relieved. “That was well done. As a matter of fact I had planned to go abroad to-day, though I did not intend to announce it. It has never been my habit to placard my movements like a court circular. . . . So far good, Mr Galt. I shall travel south to-morrow night. But what possessed Barbon not to send the car at once? I must go back to Castle Gay before I leave, and the sooner the better. My reappearance will spike the guns of my journalistic enemies.”

  “It would,” Jaikie assented. “But there’s another difficulty, Mr Craw. The announcement of your going abroad to-day was not sent to your papers first by Dougal. It was sent by very different people. The day before yesterday, when you were in Glasgow, these same people sent you a letter. Yesterday they telephoned to Mr Barbon, wanting to see you, and then he opened the letter. Here it is.” He presented the missive, whose heavy seals Mr Barbon had already broken.

  Mr Craw looked at the first page, and then subsided heavily into a chair. He fumbled feverishly for his glasses, and his shaking hand had much ado to fix them on his nose. As he read, his naturally ruddy complexion changed to a clayey white. He finished his reading, and sat staring before him with unseeing eyes, his fingers picking nervously at the sheets of notepaper. Jaikie, convinced that he was about to have a fit, and very much alarmed, poured him out a scalding cup of tea. He drank a mouthful, and spilled some over his waistcoat.

  It was a full minute before he recovered a degree of self-possession, but self-possession only made him look more ghastly, for it revealed the perturbation of his mind.

  “You have read this?” he stammered.

  “No. But Mr Barbon told us the contents of it.”

  “Us?” he almost screamed.

  “Yes. We had a kind of conference on the situation this afternoon. At the Mains. There was Mr Barbon, and Miss Westwater, and her aunt, and Dougal and myself. We made a sort of plan, and that’s why I’m here.”

  Mr Craw clutched at his dignity, but he could not grasp it. The voice which came from his lips was small, and plaintive, and childish, and, as Jaikie noted, it had lost its precise intonation and had returned to the broad vowels of Kilmaclavers.

  “This is a dreadful business. . . . You can’t realise how dreadful. . . . I can’t meet these people. I can’t be implicated in this affair. It would mean absolute ruin to my reputation. . . . Even the fact of their being in this countryside is terribly compromising. Supposing my enemies got word of it! They would put the worst construction on it, and they would make the public believe it. . . . As you are aware, I have taken a strong line about Evallonian politics — an honest line. I cannot recant my views without looking a fool. But if I do not recant my views, the presence of those infernal fools will make the world believe that I am actually dabbling in their conspiracies. I, who have kept myself aloof from the remotest semblance of political intrigue! Oh, it is too monstrous!”

  “I don’t think the Wire people will get hold of it very easily,” was Jaikie’s attempt at comfort.

  “Why not?” he snapped.

  “Because the Evallonians will prevent it. They seem determined people, determined to have you to themselves. Otherwise they wouldn’t have got your papers to announce that you had gone abroad.”

  This was poor comfort for Mr Craw. He ejaculated “Good God!” and fell into a painful meditation. It was not only his repute he was thinking of, but his personal safety. These men had come to coerce him, and their coercion would not stop at trifles. I do not know what picture presented itself to his vision, but it was probably something highly melodramatic (for he knew nothing at first hand of foreign peoples) — dark sinister men, incredibly cunning, with merciless faces and lethal weapons in every pocket. He groaned aloud. Then a thought struck him.

  “You say they telephoned to Castle Gay,” he asked wildly. “Where are they?”

  “They are at Knockraw. They have taken the place for the autumn. Mr Barbon, as I told you, refused to let them in. They seemed to know about your absence from the Castle, but they believe that he can put his hand on you if he wants. So they are going there at eleven o’clock to-morrow morning, and they say they will take no denial.”

  “At Knockraw!” It was the cry of a fugitive who learns that the avenger of blood is in the next room.

  “Yes,” said Jaikie. “We’ve got the Recording Angel established in our back garden on a strictly legal tenure. We must face that fact.”

  Mr Craw seemed disinclined to face it. He sunk his face in his hands and miserably hunched his shoulders. Jaikie observed that the bacon and eggs were growing cold, but the natural annoyance of a hungry man was lost in pity for the dejected figure before him. Here was one who must have remarkable talents — business talents, at any rate, even if he were not much of a thinker or teacher. He was accustomed to make men do what he wanted. He had the gift of impressing millions of people with his strength and wisdom. He must often have taken decisions which required nerve and courage. He had inordinate riches, and to Jaikie, who had not a penny, the acquisition of great wealth seemed proof of a rare and mysterious power. Yet here was this great man, unshaven and unkempt, sunk in childish despair, because of a situation which to the spectator himself seemed simple and rather amusing.

  Jaikie had a considerable stock of natural piety. He hated to see human nature, in which he profoundly believed, making a discreditable exhibition of itself. Above all he hated to see an old man — Mr Craw seemed to him very old, far older than Dickson McCunn — behaving badly. He could not bring himself to admit that age, which brought success, did not also bring wisdom. Moreover he was by nature kindly, and did not like to see a fellow-being in pain. So he applied himself to the duties of comforter.

  “Cheer up, Mr Craw,” he said. “This thing is not so bad as all that. There’s at least three ways out of it.”

  There was no answer, save for a slight straightening of the shoulders, so Jaikie continued:

  “First, you can carry things with a high hand. Go back to Castle Gay and tell every spying journalist to go to blazes. Sit down in your own house and be master there. Your position won’t suffer. If the Wire gets hold of the story of the students’ rag, what does it matter?
It will be forgotten in two days, when the next murder or divorce comes along. Besides, you behaved well in it. You kept your temper. It’s not a thing to be ashamed of. The folk who’ll look foolish will be Tibbets with his bogus mysteries, and the editor who printed his stuff. If I were you I’d put the whole story of your adventure in your own papers and make a good yarn of it. Then you’ll have people laughing with you, not at you.”

  Mr Craw was listening. Jaikie understood him to murmur something about the Evallonians.

  “As for the Evallonians,” he continued, “I’d meet them. Ask the whole bally lot to luncheon or dinner. Tell them that Evallonia is not your native land, and that you’ll take no part in her politics. Surely a man can have his views about a foreign country without being asked to get a gun and fight for it. If they turn nasty, tell them also to go to the devil. This is a free country, and a law-abiding country. There’s the police in the last resort. And you could raise a defence force from Castle Gay itself that would make yon foreign bandits look silly. Never mind if the thing gets into the papers. You’ll have behaved well, and you’ll have reason to be proud of it.”

  Jaikie spoke in a tone of extreme gentleness and moderation. He was most anxious to convince his hearer of the desirability of this course, for it would remove all his own troubles. He and Dougal would be able with a clear conscience to continue their walking tour, and every minute his distaste was increasing for the prospect of taking the road in Mr Craw’s company.

  But that moderation was an error in tactics. Had he spoken harshly, violently, presenting any other course as naked cowardice, it is possible that he might have struck an answering spark from Mr Craw’s temper, and forced him to a declaration from which he could not have retreated. His equable reasonableness was his undoing. The man sitting hunched up in the chair considered the proposal, and his terrors, since they were not over-ridden by anger, presented it in repulsive colours to his reason.