Complete Fictional Works of John Buchan (Illustrated)

by John Buchan

  Maclellan was waiting for them, Maclellan in sea-boots and an ancient greatcoat of frieze.

  “Man, I’m glad to see ye, Mr McCunn,” was his greeting. “I’m vexed we’re to hae sae little o’ ye, but I’m proud to be able to oblige your freend . . . What did you say his name was? Mr Charles? It’s a grand nicht for our job, Mr Charles. The wind’s at our back — what there is o’t. It’s no muckle the noo, but there’ll be mair oot on the Solway. We’ll be in Markhaven by ane o’ the mornin’.”

  Dickson’s ear caught Maclellan’s misapprehension of Charvill. He did not correct it, for the name Maclellan gave the Prince was the name he had long given him in his heart.

  Far down the estuary he saw the lights of a ship, and from its funnel a thin fluff of smoke showed against the pale sky.

  “That’s the yatt that’s lyin’ off Fallatown,” Maclellan said. “She’s gettin’ up steam. She’ll be for off early in the mornin’.”

  It was the last touch that was needed to complete the picture. There lay the enemy ship, the English frigate, to prevent escape. Under its jaws the Prince must slip through to the sanctuary of France. The place was no longer an inlet on a lowland firth. It was Loch Nanuamh under the dark hills of Moidart — it was some Hebridean bay, with outside the vast shadowy plain of the Atlantic. . . .

  They were on the deck of the Rosabelle now, and, as the Prince unbuttoned his ulster to get at his cigarettes, Dickson saw the flutter of tartan, the gleam of silver, the corner of a blue riband. In that moment his spirit was enlarged. At last — at long last — his dream had come true. He was not pondering romance, he was living it. . . . He was no more the prosperous trader, the cautious business man, the laird of a few humdrum acres, the plump elder whose seat was the chimney-corner. He was young again, and his place was the open road and the seashore and the uncharted world. He was Lochiel, with a price on his head and no home but the heather. . . . He was Montrose in his lonely loyalty. . . . He was Roland in the red twilight of Roncesvalles. . . .

  The Prince was saying good-bye.

  “I’m very much obliged to you, Mr McCunn. Some day I hope we may meet again and renew our friendship. Meanwhile, will you wear this as a memento of our pleasant adventure?”

  He took a ring from his finger, a plain gold ring set with an engraved cornelian. Dickson received it blindly. He was to remember later the words which accompanied it, but at the moment he scarcely heard them. He took the Prince’s hand, bent low, and kissed it. Happily Maclellan was not looking.

  “God bless your Royal Highness,” he stammered, “and bring you safe to port. And if you ever have need of me, a word will bring me across the world.”

  He was on the bank now, the mooring rope had been loosed, and the Rosabelle was slipping gently down the current. Maclellan had begun to hoist the sail. The Prince stood in the stern and waved his hand, but Dickson did not respond. His thoughts were too insurgent for action. His whole soul was drawn to that patch of dark which was the boat, momentarily growing smaller, speeding down a pathway of silver into a golden haze.

  “I meant it,” he said firmly to himself. “By God, I meant it. . . . I’m sixty-one years of age on the 15th of next month, but a man’s just as old as his heart, and mine’s young. I’ve got the ring. . . . And maybe some day I’ll get the word!”

  He took his seat beside Wilkie and amazed him by his high spirits. All the road to Portaway he sang what seemed to be Jacobite songs. “I’ll to Lochiel and Appin and kneel to them,” he crooned. When they picked up Mrs Brisbane-Brown at the hotel, she travelled alone inside the car, for Dickson resumed the outside seat and his melodies. “Follow thee, follow thee, wha wadna follow thee!” he shouted.

  “Ye havena got the tune richt,” said the distracted Wilkie.

  “Who cares about the tune?” Dickson cried. “It’s the words that matter. And the words are great.”

  The car halted in the street of Starr village. Presently Dickson joined Mrs Brisbane-Brown inside, and the place beside the driver was taken by a bulky stranger.

  “A friend of mine,” he told the lady. “He’ll maybe come in useful at the Castle.”

  CHAPTER XIX. MR CRAW IS MASTER IN HIS OWN HOUSE

  A little after ten o’clock the front-door bell of Castle Gay was violently rung. The summons was answered by Bannister, unattended by the customary footmen. He opened upon a strange spectacle. A conventicle stood upon the doorstep, no less than six men, and behind them on the gravel were two large cars, in which other figures could be discerned. It was a fine night with a moon, and the astonished butler was left in no doubt about the strength of the visitors.

  An authoritative voice demanded Mr Craw. Bannister, jostled out of all his traditions, admitted that his master was at home.

  “We will speak with him,” said the voice.

  The butler stammered something about an appointment.

  “He will see us,” said the voice firmly. “You need announce no names. Take us to him at once.” By this time the six were well inside the doorway, and Bannister had retreated nervously into the hall. It was one of the six, not the butler, that shut the door behind them.

  Then Bannister seemed to recover himself. He offered to help the leader in removing his coat, for all six wore travelling ulsters. But he was roughly waved aside. “You will stay here, Hannus,” the leader said to one of the party, “and if anyone attempts to leave blow your whistle. Our friends outside will watch the other doors. Now, you,” he turned to Bannister, “take us instantly to Mr Craw.”

  The butler was certainly recovering. “Mr Craw is in the library,” he said, in a tone which was wonderfully composed considering the circumstances. “One moment, sir, and I will light the staircase.”

  He slipped into the cloakroom on the left side of the hall, and in a moment the great staircase was flooded with light. But in his three seconds of absence Bannister had done something more. He had switched on the light in a minute chamber at the base of the tower, which was one of the remnants of the old shell of the castle. This chamber had the advantage of looking directly upon the park, and a light in it shone like a signal beacon down the Callowa vale.

  “Will you follow me, sir?” he said, and five of the visitors, with eyes as wary as colts, ascended the broad carpeted stairs, while the sixth remained on duty below, standing rigid in the centre of the hall as if to avoid an ambush. It was odd behaviour, but not more odd than that shown by the ascending five. Bannister found himself poked in the back by the barrel of a pistol, and, when he looked round, the pistol’s owner grinned and nodded, to point his warning that he was not to be trifled with.

  Bannister took no notice. He had recovered the impassiveness of a well-trained servant. He behaved as if such visitors and such manners were in no way abnormal, and led them along the upper gallery and flung open the door of the library.

  “Gentlemen to see you, sir,” he announced, and when the five had crowded in he shut the door behind them. He seemed to be amused and to have urgent business on hand, for he darted down a side staircase towards the lower regions of the house, and as he went he chuckled.

  The library was half in dusk. There was a glow from the big fire on the hearth, and one lamp was lit in the central chandelier. The long lines of vellum and morocco on the walls made a dim pattern in the shadows, and the great Flemish tapestry was only a blur. But there was a reading-lamp on the big table, which partly illumined the blue velvet curtains of the six tall narrow windows.

  At the table in his accustomed chair sat Mr Craw, spectacles on nose, and a paper in his hand, and opposite him was the discreet figure of Miss Elena Cazenove, her pencil poised above her note-book. At the end of the table stood Mr Barbon, with the air of a secretary waiting to supplement or endorse some ukase of his chief. Both men wore dinner jackets. It was a pleasant picture of busy domesticity.

  Mr Craw raised his eyes from the paper at the interruption. He had nerved himself to a great effort and his heart was beating uncomfortably. But he m
anaged to preserve an air of self-possession. The features of the marble Augustus on the pedestal behind him were not more composed.

  “What does this mean?” he said sharply, in a voice to which nervousness gave the proper irritability. “Bannister!” He raised his voice. But the butler had gone, and the five men in ulsters had approached the table.

  He took off his spectacles, but he did not rise. “Who on earth are you?” he demanded. The words came out like pistol shots. The voice was a little startled, which in the circumstances was right.

  “Our names do not matter.” Mastrovin bent his heavy brows upon the comfortable figure in the chair. This was not quite what he had expected. He had hoped to come upon a full conclave, Royalty and Royalists and Craw in the act of conspiring. He had hoped for a dramatic entry, an embarrassed recognition, a profound discomfiture, and he found only an elderly gentleman dictating letters. Instead of a den of foxes he had stumbled upon a kennel of spaniels. He was conscious that he and his companions struck a discordant note in this firelit room. He must make the most of the discord.

  “I offer the conventional apologies for our intrusion, Mr Craw,” he said. “But, as you know well, those who play a certain game cannot always preserve the politenesses. We have come to have a few words with you and your guests.”

  “I shall not require you for the present, Miss Cazenove,” said Mr Craw, and the lady clutched her note-book and with a wavering snipelike motion left the room.

  “Well?” said Mr Craw, when the door had closed behind her. He had sat back in his chair and Barbon had moved to his side.

  “The guests to whom I refer,” Mastrovin continued, “are four Evallonian gentlemen in whom we are interested.”

  “Evallonian gentlemen!” exclaimed Mr Craw. “Barbon, this man must be mad.”

  “Let me give you their names,” said Mastrovin gently. “They are Count Casimir Muresco, of whom all the world has heard; Prince Odalchini, and Professor Jagon. Last, but by no means least, there is Prince John, the claimant to the Evallonian throne.”

  Mr Craw had pulled himself together and had entered on the line of conduct which had already been anxiously rehearsed.

  “I have heard of all four,” he said. “But what makes you think they are here? I do not keep foreign notables on the ice in my cellar.”

  “We have evidence that at this moment they are under your roof. Be well advised, Mr Craw. You cannot deceive us. We are perfectly informed of all that has been happening here. At this moment every exit from your house is watched. You had better surrender at discretion.”

  “Barbon,” said Mr Craw in a pained voice, “what in Heaven’s name is he talking about?”

  Mr Barbon was fussy and anxious in the ordinary relations of life, but not for nothing did the blood of a Cromwellian Barebones run in his veins. His war record had proved that he could be cool enough in certain emergencies. Now he was rather enjoying himself.

  “I’m sure I don’t know, sir,” he said. “The first three men are, or were, the shooting tenants in Knockraw. I knew Count Casimir slightly, and they came to dinner last Saturday night, and we dined with them on Monday. I heard that they had now gone home. I know nothing about Prince John. There was nobody of that name with the Knockraw people when they dined here.”

  “I see,” said Mr Craw. He turned to Mastrovin. “Is that information any use to you? Apparently you must look for your friends at Knockraw. I myself have been away from home and only returned last night. I know nothing whatever about your Evallonians. I never saw them in my life.”

  “I am sorry to be obliged to give you the lie,” said Mastrovin. “We have evidence that three of them came here two days ago. We know that Prince John is here — he was seen here this very day. I warn you, Mr Craw, that we are difficult people to trifle with.”

  “I have no desire to trifle with you.” Mr Craw’s manner was stately. “You come here uninvited, and cross-examine me in my own library. I have told you the literal truth. You, sir, have the air and speech of a gentleman. I shall be obliged if you will now withdraw.”

  For answer the five men came a little nearer, and Barbon sat himself on the arm of his chief’s chair. He was beginning to measure the physical prowess of the visitors. The difficulty lay in what they might have in their ulster pockets.

  Over the fireplace there was a huge coat of arms in stone, the complete achievement of the house of Westwater, and above this was a tiny balcony. It was flush with the wall and scarcely discernible from below — it was reached by a turret stair from the old keep, and may once have been a hiding-place, the Canonry equivalent of a “priest’s hole.” At this moment it held Alison and Jaikie. They had a full view of Mr Craw’s face and of the Evallonian profiles.

  “Will you inform us who are the present inmates of this house?” Mastrovin asked.

  “Let me see,” said Mr Craw. “Apart from Mr Barbon, whom you see here, there is Miss Cazenove, who has just gone, and Mr Crombie, who is one of my Press assistants. Then there is a young Australian friend called Charvill. There is also a country neighbour, Mr McCunn, but he is out this evening and will not be home till late. That is all, I think, Barbon, besides the domestic staff?”

  “Will you kindly have them assembled here?”

  The tone nettled Mr Craw, in spite of the restraint he had put upon himself.

  “You are insolent, sir,” he rapped out. “You would be justly served if I summoned my servants and had you kicked out-of-doors. Who are you to issue commands?”

  “We happen to be in command,” said Mastrovin with a thrust forward of his heavy chin. “Your household staff is depleted. Your outdoor staff is in Portaway and will not return till evening. They were seen to leave your park gates. We have our own people inside and outside this house. You will be wise to obey us.”

  Mr Craw, having remembered his part, shrugged his shoulders. He touched a button on the table, and Bannister appeared with a suddenness that suggested that he had been lurking outside the door.

  “Have the goodness to ask Mr Charvill and Mr Crombie to come here,” he said. “You will find them, I believe, in the billiard-room.”

  The billiard-room was at the other end of the house, but the rapidity with which the two presented themselves argued a less distant lair. Dougal had his pipe, and Robin Charvill had his finger in a novel to mark his place. Mastrovin cast an eye over their physical proportions, which were not contemptible. Craw was, of course, useless, but there were three able-bodied opponents if trouble came. But he was accustomed to similar situations, and had no doubt about his power to control them.

  “You say this is all your household. Very well. We will soon test your truthfulness. We are going to search your house. You four will remain here till I return, and two of my friends will keep you company. You” — he turned to Bannister, who stood discreetly in the background—”will accompany me.”

  Up in the gallery Jaikie chuckled. “Just what I hoped,” he whispered to Alison. “Bannister knows what to do. You and I must show them a little sport.” The two slipped out to the turret staircase.

  Rosenbaum and Dedekind were the two left behind to guard the prisoners in the library. They had done the same sort of thing before and knew their job, for they took up positions to cover the two doors. Each had his right hand in the pocket of his ulster. The face of the Jew Rosenbaum was heavy and solemn, expressionless as a ship’s figurehead, but Dedekind was more human. He shifted his feet, undid the top button of his ulster, for the night was not cold and the fire was good, and looked as if he would like to talk. But the party of four seemed to be oblivious of their gaolers. Mr Craw resumed his papers, Barbon was busy making entries in a note-book, Dougal had picked up a weekly journal, and Charvill had returned to his novel. They gave a fine example of British phlegm, and disregarded the intruders as completely as if they had been men come to wind up the clocks.

  Meantime Bannister, with the injured air of an abbot who is compelled to reveal to some raiding Goths the treasures
of his abbey, conducted Mastrovin, Ricci, and Calaman over the castle. They descended into the hall, where they found the sixth Evallonian at his lonely post: he reported that he had seen and heard no one. They investigated the big apartments on the ground-floor, including the nest of small rooms beyond the dining-hall. Then they made an elaborate survey of the main bedroom floors, both in the ancient central keep and the more modern wings. They found everything in order. They penetrated to Mr Craw’s luxurious chamber, to which he proposed, as we know, to add a private bathroom. They raided the rooms which housed Barbon and Dougal, Charvill and Dickson McCunn, and they satisfied themselves by an inspection of the belongings that the inmates were those whom Bannister named. They entered various bedrooms which were clearly unoccupied. And then they extended their researches to the upper floors.

  It was here that their tour became less satisfying. The upper floors of Castle Gay are like a rabbit-warren — clusters of small rooms, tortuous passages on different levels, unexpected staircases, unlooked-for cul-de-sacs. It was hard for any stranger to preserve his sense of direction, and to keep tally of all that he saw. The business was complicated by the hidden presence of Alison and Jaikie, and of Tibbets, who had been summoned from his own lair. Also of the beagle pups, Tactful and Pensive.

  Alison, who knew every cranny of the house, took command, and Jaikie and Tibbets in their stocking-soles followed. . . . The Evallonians would hear suddenly loud voices at a corridor’s end, and on arriving there find no one. Lights would be turned on and as suddenly turned off. There would be a skirl of idiot laughter as they came into a passage, cold and blue in the light of the moon. . . . Also there were dogs, dogs innumerable. A hound would suddenly burst into their midst and disappear. Ricci fell heavily on one of the stairways, because of a dog which swept him off his legs.