by John Buchan
Belses had gone as white as the scoured flagstones by the hearth. “How do you know?” he croaked.
“She told me so herself — unwillingly at first, and then frankly as to one whom she would never see again. It was a kind of testament before death. She has gone back to her husband in the hope that somehow she will be permitted to frustrate his purpose at the last moment. She has no care for herself, for she is beyond fear, as she is beyond hope. This day on the hills I have seen such courage as I did not know God had given to His creatures.”
Nanty’s solemn voice left a hush in the kitchen. The Chief Fisher broke it by shaking out the dottle of his pipe. In his broad comfortable speech he asked, “Wha’s to be murdered?”
“The King’s chief servant — Mrs Cranmer’s cousin and guardian — the Prime Minister.”
“Keep us a’! That canna be allowed ony gait.”
The matter-of-fact words seemed to dissipate the awe in Nanty’s face and harden it into purpose. Suddenly he found himself taking command and giving orders.
“There is no time to waste,” he said. “She has gone back to her husband because she believes that at any moment he may take the road. Hopcraw is done with, Hungrygrain is done with. The innkeeper, you tell me, has gone off early this morning with horses, and, Nickson says, so has the man Winfortune. Everything is in trim for the journey, and Cranmer any moment may follow with his unhappy wife. They will move fast, for relays of horses have been sent ahead. At all costs we must prevent them.” He turned to Nickson. “Who are left in Hungrygrain? I mean, the desperate ones.”
“They’re a’ desperate yins,” was the answer. “There’s vermin down in the village and along the waterside that are ripe for ony ill. But o’ Cranmer’s rank-riders, now that Purdey and Winfortune are gone, there’s just the three left. There’s Jerry Hartshorn, that’s his first whip, as they ca’ it, in the hunt. There’s Sloan that was chief o’ the Hopcraw pack. And there’s Meek, him that they ca’ Luck-in-the-Bag — the thrawnest deevil in a’ Cheviot.”
“Three desperadoes — four, counting Cranmer himself. There’s five of us here if Harry has got back his strength.”
“I have the strength of three men,” said Belses. “If Cranmer is mad, I shall presently be raving.”
“Have we any arms?”
Eben shook his head. “The Free Fishers dae their fechtin’ wi’ their nieves, or maybe a muckle stick. We’ve our whittles, but we’re aye sweir to use them.”
“We might borrow Tam’s gun,” said Bob, pointing to an ancient weapon above the chimney.
“It’s bustit,” said its owner. “Bustit thae ten years.”
Jock rose from his sheepskin.
“What is this talk about weapons? We have our hands and our feet and our teeth, and that’s enough. Nanty Lammas, you have harrowed my soul. I have been maligning a dove and shielding a kite, and now, by God! I’m going to have a hand in wringing the kite’s neck. En avant, lads. We’ll put a stopper on this ploy if we have to hough the horses and geld the men. The credit of the Free Fishers is at stake.”
“Who knows the house and its environs?” Nanty asked, and his tone was that of a regimental commander.
“I’ve snowkit round it,” said Bob, “and ken the lie o’ the land.”
“And I,” said Belses, “have some sort of notion of it.”
“You must keep in the background, Harry, for you are the only one of us that they have seen before. . . . Here is the plan we will follow. We will keep together till we are under the house wall — there are shrubberies of evergreens there which, according to Harry, make good cover. Then I detail Eben and Bob to go to the stables — Bob knows the road — and do what they can to spoil Cranmer’s hopes of travel. It may have to be a brutal business, but that cannot be helped. Harry will remain in cover, as our reserves, and also to form a link between the stable party and the rest of us. Jock and I will get into the house by force or by guile and deal with Cranmer.”
“How will you deal with him?” Belses asked.
Jock lifted a brawny fist and regarded it lovingly. “Knock him out — truss him up — whatever the Almighty permits us.”
“Supposing he is not alone?”
“Oh, then, if his trusties are with him, there’ll be a bonny rumpus.”
Eben took from his pocket a silver boat-call which he presented to Nanty.
“Blaw that if ye want Bob and me, but no till we’re needit, for there’s like to be a heap o’ wark in the stable.”
Nanty pocketed the whistle. “The one thing to make sure of,” he said, “is that we get to the house. Some of the vermin Nickson speaks of may be on the watch, and we cannot afford to be delayed. Thank God, there’s no moon for hours. If we are forced to separate, the rendezvous is this cottage. . . . Now give me a bite of meat, for I haven’t eaten since breakfast. In five minutes we take the road.”
Jock regarded him with quizzical admiration.
“Man, Nanty, this is like old times. The professor’s at the desk and we bejants sit doucely at his feet.”
There was a cart-track which crossed Yonder water within a hundred yards of the house, the very road by which the peats had been brought that had been Harry Belses’ means of escape. The five men had wormed their way to the bank of the stream without mishap. They had traversed the lower hill pastures, creeping by the dyke edges so as not to stir the sheep, and had crawled through a mile of thickets black as a tunnel, where there was no sound except that of sleepy birds. But when they drew together at the ford something struck on their ears above the rumble of Yonder. It was the sound of a horse’s hooves.
A rider was crossing the water. There was an open glade there and sufficient light to see his figure. As he emerged on their side Eben — who considered anything to do with horses as his business — rose silently like a gnome from the bracken, and with his great arm plucked him from the saddle. Bob took the bridle and quieted the frightened beast, but its plunging made little noise, for the grass was deep.
“It’s Meek,” he whispered. “It’s Luke-in-the-Bag. Canny, Eben, for he’ll bite like a weasel.”
The man in Eben’s arms was small and skinny, bareheaded, and in his shirt-sleeves. Eben’s great hand was over his mouth.
“One cheep, my mannie,” he said, “and your neck’s thrawn.”
The captive did not struggle, but remained passive, till Eben laid him on the ground. He looked up to see five faces bent on him, for Bob had by this time soothed the horse, and it was grazing peaceably.
It was Nanty who spoke.
“You’re the man Meek? Where are you taking that beast?”
“Ye would like to know, would ye? Well, it’s bound for hell to mount the devil’s grandma.”
“Tie him up,” said Nanty, and Eben, whose pockets always contained tarry twine, made a workmanlike job of it. The prisoner showed no alarm, and suffered himself to be bound without a struggle, whistling softly through his broken teeth.
“Gag him,” said Nanty, and Eben was about to obey, using a bit of a cork float from the same capacious pocket. But suddenly from far off came a sound like a magnified curlew’s call, or a huntsman’s view-halloa borne from a great distance. The man on the ground cocked his ears and grinned.
“Ye may gag me if ye please,” he said, “but ye won’t make nothing by it. Tod Meek’s goin’ to do ye no harm, seein’ he’s left all lonesome in this valley. That call ye heard was Jerry’s signal that him and me agreed on. It means that Squire and party are over Red Syke Edge. I’m afeard ye’re come late for the fair, gentles, whomsoever ye be.”
“Gag him, Eben,” said Nanty, “and roll him under the bushes. We can attend to him later. And tie up the horse to yon tree. The ruffian is right, and I fear the birds are flown. On to the house, and no more manoeuvring. You, Eben and Bob, have a look at the stables first — I doubt you’ll find them empty.”
He led the way through the shallow ford, raced up the bank, and came out on the shelf of ground which had b
een made into a shaggy lawn. Before them the house rose massive and dark, without one pinprick of light.
“Bide here, Harry,” Nanty ordered when they were under the wall. “When you hear my whistle fetch Eben and Bob, if they haven’t joined you. It would take a day to force the door, but we can break in a window. There — that’s the one for us.” The shutters were up on most, but this one was left unshuttered, though the sash had been bolted.
“That is the room where I last saw Mrs Cranmer,” said Belses.
Jock put his shoulder to the framework and the whole thing crumbled inward with a crash of glass. “Rotten as touchwood,” he said. “This place would never stand a siege. Wait on till I light Nickson’s lantern.”
Nanty and he squirmed through the aperture. There was still a spark among the ashes of the fire and the room smelt of recent use. The table, which, when Belses saw it, had been laden with papers, was bare, and the chairs stood about in disorder as if a conclave had just risen from them. Nanty cast an eye round.
“This was their last lair,” he whispered. “Now for exploration. Caution is the word, for there may be an ambush at any corner.”
They stole into a narrow passage, casting the lantern beam before them, and then into the shabby hall. No one of the doors on the ground floor was locked, and room after room was revealed empty. Some had clearly not been lived in for many days. In the huge kitchen, part of the old tower, there were hot ashes on the hearth, and, on a table, dishes with the remains of food. They crept up the staircase and found themselves in a maze of corridors, whose different levels marked successive stages in the house’s architecture. Often they stopped to listen, but the night was calm, there was no sound to break the stillness, not a creak of woodwork or a drip of mortar, only the echo of their own steps. The place had suddenly lost its mystery. Man had used it and had finished with it, and it had been flung aside like an old glove, to crumble unregarded in the winter frosts and the summer suns. The race of Cranmer had done with Hungrygrain.
“Hist!” said Jock. “I hear a step.”
They listened, and then moved softly in the direction of the sound. It came from the end of a corridor. As they halted it was repeated — footsteps hasty and careless, and then what seemed like dimly heard human speech.
“There are folk beyond that door,” Jock whispered. “More than one. I have ears like a gled, and I can hear two different voices.”
They waited, listening intently, and they heard the steps again. Then a crash as if a heavy foot had been driven against wood.
“We’ll get the others,” said Nanty. “Back with you, quick.”
They raced down the stair to the room by which they had entered, and blew the whistle. In a second Belses was at the window, and behind him Eben and Bob. When the three were inside Eben reported. “The stables are empty. Not a bit or a bridle or a beast to need them.”
“This house is not empty,” said Nanty. “In a room upstairs there are men — two at least. Follow me, and be ready for anything.”
In the room at the end of the corridor the steps had ceased. But there were voices, which came faintly through the thick door. Nanty tried the handle, but it would not turn. The key might be in the inside. “Open,” he cried.
The voices ceased.
“Open,” he cried again.
“How the devil can I open?” came from within, and the oak did not muffle the fury of the words. “You have locked the damned thing and got the key.”
“I’ve heard that voice before,” said Nanty. “It’s none of the Hungrygrain folk. Put your shoulder to it, lads.”
Eben did the work himself. His broad back took the door like a battering-ram, and lifted it clean off its rotting hinges. It fell inward and the lantern revealed a big wainscoted room wholly bare of furniture. There were cobwebs in the cornices and in the cracks of the shuttered windows, and the floor was as deep in dust as an August highway. In its centre stood a large man with a very red face. He seemed to expect an attack, for his fists were in a posture of defence. But, as he glared at the newcomers, bewilderment took the place of wrath in his eyes.
“Now who in God’s name are you?” he stammered. “I have seen you before.” He looked at Nanty, but especially at Jock.
Jock bowed. “I was presented to you yesterday morning, Sir Turnour, in the Red Lion at Berwick by Miss Christian Evandale.”
“The devil you were!” Jock’s words seemed to restore to the baronet some of his composure, as if they reminded him of a saner world than that in which he now found himself. “And you,” he turned to Nanty. “You also were there. . . . And, God bless my soul, there is my lord.” The sight of Belses was the final straw. He put his hand to his brow and ruffled his crisp hair. “Gentlemen,” he cried, “have the goodness to enlighten me. What are you doing here?”
Belses spoke.
“We came here to hinder the going of the people of this house and to prevent a great evil. Me you know already, Sir Turnour — too well for your pleasure, I fear. This is my former governor, Mr Anthony Lammas, now professor in the college of St Andrews. This is Mr John Kinloch, son to my Lord Mannour, of whom you have heard. The others are of the famous brotherhood of the Free Fishers. We are here on an errand which has the sanction of Government, but we are here too late. The corbies have flown and left in their place a most reputable gentleman. Now how did that gentleman get into this dubious nest?”
The grave and slightly mocking courtesy of Belses’ tone was a spark to the tinder of Sir Turnour’s grievances. His precise speech broke into a splutter of fury.
“Nest!” he cried. “A nest of carrion! . . . I came here this morning to settle a private matter. The man Cranmer had lied to me; lied to me insolently, and I could not pass it by. I asked for an interview, and was admitted to a den of a room where the door was locked behind me. I was not armed, or I would have shot away the lock. Then came Cranmer with three ugly sprouts of rascaldom at his back. He demanded the purpose of my visit, and when I told him he laughed in my face. Before I knew it the three ruffians had me pinioned, though I loosened the teeth in the head of one of them. Then, when I was at his mercy, this Cranmer poured out his venom. He said that he took little count of Brummels like me who should never leave St James’s Street. He invited me to return to my dressing-glasses and powder-puffs and the bullying of children, and not to meddle with the affairs of men. He said much more, but I shut my ears to it. They carried me to this place, cut my bonds, flung me in, and locked the door. I could hear Cranmer’s giggling laugh in the corridor. . . . That is my simple tale, my lord, and by God! for every letter of it I will make that man sweat blood.”
Belses bowed. “We are now allied in a common enmity,” he said. “The help which I begged last night from you for charity will now be given for hate. The purpose. . . . What on earth is that?”
From beyond the other door in the room came a wailful voice. . . .
“Let me out, sirs,” it moaned. “If it’s you, Professor, let me out for the love of God. I’m half smothered with the stour.”
“That,” said Sir Turnour, “is my fellow prisoner. I think it is the little man who was with us at the parson’s house.”
Where the baronet’s boot had failed Eben’s shoulder succeeded. The door of what had once been a powdering-closet fell in, and from it staggered a melancholy figure. Its face was grimed with soot, and its clothing was in sad disorder. What had once been a spruce dark coat was now riven down the back, and its pantaloons were grey with dust.
“Losh, it’s the wee town-clerk,” said Bob. “I warned ye, Mr Dott, that ye were set on a daft-like plan.”
“You did that,” said the scarecrow, “and you were right, but I had my duty to perform, and this is where it has landed me. I came here this morning seeking Mrs Cranmer on a small matter of business. I enquired for her at the door and they let me in, but that was all the civility they showed me. A black-avised man with the glower of the devil appeared — he wouldn’t listen to me — he just swor
e like a heathen — and the next I knew I was shut up in this press and the key turned. I was left my lone for hours, and then the door opened and a woman looked in. No, it wasn’t Mrs Cranmer — I couldn’t see her right, but I think it was a servant lass. She flung a bit paper at me and ran for it, but she first locked the door. After that I heard an awful stramash, which must have been the arrival of this gentleman. I heard him swearing — such profanity I never dreamed of in all my days — so I knew that he must be in the same creel as myself. We entered into conversation, and he did his best to kick the door open, but the donnered thing would not yield. . . . I’m as empty as a whistle, friends, for I haven’t broken bread since the morning. Is there no meat about the place?”
“Have you the paper?” Nanty asked.
He was given a torn and dirty slip which he held to the lantern. On it was written the words “Merry Mouth” in a fine pointed hand.
“It’s the name o’ our boat,” said Eben.
“It’s the name of something else,” said Nanty. “This house is an empty shell, and it’s no place for us longer. We must back to Nickson’s, for there’s much to be settled ere morning.”
