by John Buchan
“What do we look like?” Jock cried, as he tested the buckles of the galloways’ harness. “You’re the professor again, Nanty, or maybe a stickit minister — no, your skin’s too brown and your eye too bright for a stickit minister. I’m the country bumpkin off to see the world — it’s the devil’s ill luck that I haven’t my new suit from McKimmie’s. And Bob — God knows what Bob is — a cross between a Cameronian preacher and a fish-couper! Anyway, there’s nothing randy about the look of us — just three quiet lads travelling on their lawful occasions. It’s the chaise that troubles me. There’s a Corinthian dash about it that doesn’t set well with its occupants, and there will maybe be questions asked down the road.”
Bob alone had some knowledge of the country, and he had consulted with Tam Nickson and Sir Turnour. The view-halloa of Cranmer’s huntsman the night before showed that the party had taken the hill road to the south, and Sir Turnour had been clear about their purpose. Relays of horses had been sent on ahead, and they must mean to cross the Tyne at Corbridge, and make straight across the Durham moorlands to the great Carlisle-London road at Catterick Bridge. There they would no doubt take coach for their secret destination in Midlands. Nanty, who felt himself in command, had no other purpose than to follow their track, a track which would soon be lost in the bustle of a great highway. He was looking for a single inn in a vast unknown land, and all he knew was that it must lie somewhere adjacent to the shire of Norfolk. He must go south — ever south — and trust to Providence.
Jock proved that he could handle the ribbons, and, more important, that he could nurse his cattle. The galloways were fresh after their two days’ rest, and, easing them on the hills, and giving them their heads on the flat, he took them at a rattling pace over a switchback country in the bright afternoon. They crossed the bridge of Tyne long before sunset, and when the twilight fell were high up on the Weardale moors. The road was of hill gravel, often half overgrown with grass, but in the dry spring weather it was as good as the broadest highway. The air was fresh and tonic, the countryside full of the sound of young lambs and curlews, and weather and scene would have ordinarily sent Nanty’s spirits soaring. Yet he was profoundly depressed, and while Jock babbled cheerfully and Bob on the seat behind was a fount of rustic music, he wrapped himself gloomily in his thoughts.
For he was convinced that somehow the main responsibility of success or failure would rest on him, and he felt himself inadequate to the burden. What had become of the competent young man who had hitherto prided himself on meeting each task with an easy mastery? Not even the donning of his proper clothes had given him back his former self. The professor of logic, the St Andrews Questor, the legate of the Senatus and of Lord Mannour had been lost by the wayside. Also the boy who had been queerly mixed up in these personages and had longed hungrily for adventure. He felt himself to be crude, ignorant, callow, a blundering hobbledehoy who sought to match himself against the cunning of grown and desperate men.
Cranmer especially had become a figure that hag-rode his fancy. He had never seen him, but Bob had, and Bob had drawn his picture — a dead-white face — black, finely pencilled eyebrows — cold, wise, cruel eyes. He was afraid of Cranmer, he confessed to himself, afraid not so much of any bodily hurt Cranmer could do to him as of the malevolent power of his spirit. There lay evil incarnate, and he had never met evil, and shuddered virginally at the thought of it. Yet every mile was taking him nearer to Cranmer. He had no doubt about their meeting. He would find the Merry Mouth inn, and terrible things would befall there. There his courage would be tested and might fail him.
Yet he must not crack. His trouble was of the heart as well as of the head, for, if he failed, the pale woman he had met on the hills would be the victim. He remembered all her sad graces, the sudden child-like innocence of the eyes when they were freed from their tragic preoccupation, the lines about the mouth of an almost forgotten mirth, the soft voice, the exquisite modelling of the small face. He had never seen, never dreamed of anything like that girl in her rough clothes, so fragile and yet so resolute, so fine and yet so massive in her hopeless fidelities. Was he in love with her? He knew one thing only, that this was what he had dreamed of all his days, and had cherished too deep in his heart ever to profane with his reason.
He shut down the thought of her, for it only increased his nervousness, and tried to think coolly ahead, as became the leader of a forlorn hope. Sir Turnour had given him advice. In his inner pocket he carried several of Sir Turnour’s modish cartes-de-visite with a line scribbled on the back asking courtesy for the bearer, in case his journey took him into company where the baronet’s was an honoured name. There was also a letter on Sir Turnour’s personal note-paper to Richard Monckton, Esquire, of Flocksby Hall, a seat adjoining the Carlisle highroad, where the chaise was to be left when the travellers took the London coach. . . . That night they had better avoid a town, for he could not disguise from himself that their company was an odd one and might invite questions. Some wayside hostelry of the humbler kind was their mark. No need to change horses, for the galloways would carry them next day to Catterick Bridge. . . . Nanty got some consolation from recapitulating his meagre plans, and a little beyond Wilton-le-Wear he saw an inn which offered the sort of lodging he desired.
It was a small place, but with good stabling, for it was a noted meet of the local foxhounds, and within a quarter of a mile of the local kennels. It proved to be empty of guests, the landlord was friendly, they were shown clean bedrooms, and, when Jock had seen the galloways stabled and fed, they sat down to a comfortable supper. The curtains were not drawn on the window looking out on the road, and, while they were busy on a dish of Wear trout, there came a clatter of hooves which stopped at the taproom door.
Bob, who was sitting on the window side, took one glance at them, and then rose and, with a finger at his lips, left the room. He did not return till the fish had been removed and a loin of mutton set in its place. The others had meantime heard the hooves again, and observed a rider, leading several horses, pass on to the north.
“We’re on the right road,” said Bob. “Who think ye it was? Hartshorn, the Hungrygrain huntsman, nae less. Awa’ hame wi’ the beasts they rode the first stage on. He’s mighty dry, for he had two-three chopins o’ yill afore his thirst was slockened. Na, he doesna ken me, but I ken him. Afore this I’ve lookit on the ill-faured face o’ him frae the back o’ a dyke. I had a word wi’ the landlord, and he tells me a party gaed by about midday, a gentleman and a leddy and three serving-men. Hartshorn was ane o’ them. Purdey the innkeeper will hae the beasts for the next stage. We’ll maybe hear him jinglin’ by in the night.”
Next day they topped the last ridge of intervening moorland and came down on the broad haughs of Swale. Now they were on a much-frequented highway, with on each side a wide ribbon of grass — no longer the smooth hill gravel, but a surface still scored by winter ruts, which a dry spring and much traffic were beginning to level out. At the inn at Catterick Bridge they had their midday meal, and were there overtaken by the coach from Carlisle to the south. The Rapid was crowded in every inch, outside and inside, and they were told that there would be no vacant seat before York.
The landlord, a friendly Yorkshireman, scratched his head and gave them his best counsel. Clearly he took Nanty for some great man’s secretary, travelling in a hurry with two lesser servants. “Give your cattle two hours’ rest,” he said, “and they will carry you to Boroughbridge. There at one in the morning you can get the Umpire, which never to my knowledge has carried a full load. You’re for the south, you say, and have no mind to call at York? Well, the Umpire’s the thing for you. She’ll carry you to Doncaster, where you can take your choice of coaches — for Nottingham, Leicester, Brummagem, anywhere you please — or if it’s London you’re making for, you can follow the Great North Road. You can sup as snug at the Green Willow in Boroughbridge as at any house in the dales.”
The galloways took them all afternoon through a country which to N
anty’s northern eyes seemed the very tropics for richness. Every hedge was white with may, every orchard a sea of blossom, the ploughlands were green with sprouting corn, and in the fat meadows there pastured cattle of an amplitude strange to one accustomed to the little lean kine of Fife. The landscape soothed and satisfied him; surely he had come into a land so warm and settled that law-breakers would find their task harder than on the bleak Northumbrian moors.
“A change from the East Neuk,” he observed to Bob over his shoulder.
“A sore change,” was the answer. “I dinna like it. We’re ower far frae the sea. It wad choke me to bide here.”
At a toll-bar the gatekeeper called their attention to the fact that one of the galloways had cast a shoe. There was an inn a mile ahead, he said, and a blacksmith’s shop behind it. Boroughbridge was a matter of six miles farther.
The inn proved to be a roomy place, for it served a wide hunting country. The galloways were unyoked, the smith was found, and soon the music of his bellows was loud in the quiet evening. On the benches outside the door sat a row of countrymen with pots of beer, and from the inn parlour came the sound of men’s talk. One galloway was tethered to a bridle-ring in the sign-post, and the chaise with its pole erect stood in the space between the highroad and the inn door. Jock clamoured for ale, but Nanty and Bob declined refreshment. They stood a little shyly apart from the rustics on the bench, with that sense of mingled insecurity and distinction which attends all travellers.
To them there entered from the back parts a man with a string of horses, a tall fellow wearing a homespun coat with big pockets, corduroy breeches, and frieze leggings. At first he did not see the chaise. The landlord came out to speak to him.
Bob dug Nanty in the ribs.
“It’s Purdey,” he whispered. “The Hungrygrain innkeeper. I thought we wad hae passed him langsyne. He has come an unco way south. . . . Na, we’re safe enough. He has never cast eyes on ony o’ us, though I ken his thrawn face weel.”
Purdey was talking to the landlord, as one professional to another. He had a loud voice, and Nanty could hear every word.
“Grand weather for the road,” he was saying. “My gentlefolk have the luck o’t. No, I’m in no great hurry home. I’ll bed the night at Catterick Brig and be on Cheviot side the morn before the darkening, if I start at skriegh o’ day.”
A maid brought him a mug of ale.
“Here’s health,” he said. “I’ll no be travellin’ the roads for a bittie, but if ye hear of any young beasts of the kind we spoke of, ye can get word to me by Catterick Brig, or by Johnny Trott when he comes north to look at our yearlings. . . . Did ye say that ye had a gude-brother a hostler down Huntingdon way?”
“Not in Huntingdon, but nearby. Fenny Horton, they call the place. Been there for two and twenty years. Jem used to buy cattle from the fenmen, and he had the fortune to marry a pretty wench that was the only child of Bill Ashe — him that had the change-house and likewise brewed his own beer. Ever heard of Bill? He was a great man in them parts. By and by he died, so Jem hung up his hat and ever since has been as snug as a flea in a blanket.”
Purdey had finished his mug.
“That’s what I told my master. Knowing yourself, he likes the breed, and might put a bit o’ business in your brother’s way, when he’s down there. Well, I maun ride. Hold these beasts while I mount. . . . God in heaven, how came that here?”
He had turned round and seen the chaise — a type of vehicle, with its exceptional breadth, by no means common. It was plain that he recognised it. Then he saw the galloway by the sign-post and conjecture became a certainty.
There was lively suspicion in his eye — anxiety, too, for he was a faithful servant. Three days back he had seen the same chaise and the same horse in his own yard in Yonderdale. What had wafted them into Yorkshire? His eye ran over the toping countrymen, and then fell on Nanty and Bob. He was no longer the easy-going traveller, but a man fiercely inquisitive.
“Who brought that here?” he demanded of the landlord.
The latter nodded his head towards Nanty.
“There’s the gents,” he said. “The other nag is being shod in the smiddy.”
Purdey marched up to Nanty, looked him over, and apparently did not like what he saw.
“Is that your chaise, sir?” he asked, and his tone was menacing.
“No. It has been lent to me by a friend,” was the answer.
“Lent?” The stress on the word was insolent. “And where, may I ask, have ye brought it from?”
“I do not see how that concerns you.”
“It concerns me very closely.” Purdey’s speech had lost the burr of the hills, and had become sharp and precise. He must, in his time, thought Nanty, have filled other callings than that of innkeeper and dwelt in other places than Yonderdale. “Here’s dirty work, friend Robbins,” he called to the innkeeper. “This chaise put up at my place three days back. It is the property of a man of fashion, a baronet, who was a guest with me, and whom I left residing there. Now I find it a hundred miles off in the charge of God knows what. Who are these landloupers? I don’t like the cut of them. Lent, says they. Stolen, says I. It’s a case for a constable and the nearest justice.”
Jock had come out of the inn and joined them, and Nanty was conscious that the trio might present an odd appearance — Bob in a coat that had not been made for him, Jock in his half-raffish provincial clothes, and he himself like a cockerel in the company of jackdaws. It was plain that the landlord regarded them unfavourably. The rustics on the bench had lifted their faces from their alepots and were looking at him with slow, suspicious eyes. And there was Purdey bent on mischief. He saw in Purdey’s face something that was almost fear. The sight of this link with Yonderdale had roused the dread of pursuit. He would stop at nothing to wreck their plans.
“Ye’ve got to give some account of yourselves,” said the landlord. He was a short, fat man with a superficial air of good-fellowship, but his eyes were shifty and his mouth was cunning. “This gentleman speaks sense. Ye’re a queer crew to be driving a gentleman’s chaise, and unless ye can satisfy me as it’s right come by it’s my dooty to arrest ye pending further enquiries. There’s been overmuch thieving on this road of late, and us honest folk has got to be careful.”
The rustics had risen from their bench and were drifting round the disputants, foreseeing a better evening’s amusement than gossip. Nanty realised the delicacy of their position in a place where they were unknown and suspect, and where Purdey was at home.
“I assure you, sir, you have no cause for your suspicion,” he said. “We are lawful travellers and honest men. The chaise and horses were lent us by a friend to expedite the first part of our journey. I will give you the friend’s name. It was Sir Turnour Wyse.”
The landlord laughed.
“Ye’ve chosen the wrong lie. Sir Turnour Wyse, by God! There’s no man better known on the road. I knows Sir Turnour. We all knows Sir Turnour. He’s as likely to lend his fine chaise to fellows like you as to come here seeking a job as stableboy.”
“It’s Sir Turnour’s chaise,” said Purdey. “He is the gentleman I spoke of. I last saw him in my own house with his body-servant and his braw clothes and his shiny boots and his silver dressing-case, the very pattern of a Corinthian. And you have the impudence to tell me that he lent his chaise to three blackguards — one looking like a dominie, and one like a clerk in his Sunday best, and one like a ploughboy.”
The last word touched Bob on the raw, and his jaw set.
“Canny, my man,” he said, “or I’ll lowse every tooth in your heid.”
Purdey shrugged his shoulders. “He has a Scotch tongue. This is a new kind of Scotch packman. It’s a case for the constable, friend Robbins.”
Nanty drew from his pocket one of Sir Turnour’s cards.
“Will this convince you?” he asked the landlord. “Here is Sir Turnour’s card with his name engraved on it, which he gave me as an introduction to any of his fri
ends I might meet. There are some words in his own handwriting on the back of it. You know Sir Turnour, you say, so you know that he is an ill man to offend. Be careful, sir. If Sir Turnour comes to hear of this insolence he will flay the skin off you.”
The landlord was plainly shaken, but not so Purdey. “It’s maybe Sir Turnour’s card,” he cried, “but how was it gotten? Tell me that. Maybe the same way as the chaise — by violence or stoutrief. Sir Turnour is a braw fellow, but three to one is heavy odds, and these three are not weaklings. I tell you there has been murder done. As like as not, Sir Turnour is lying in a ditch with his throat cut.”
At the mention of murder the interest of the rustics perceptibly quickened. They drew off a little, but they never took their eyes from the three strangers. Here was entertainment for a fine evening. “Shall I fetch constable, master?” one of them asked, and the landlord nodded.
Nanty saw the position growing ugly. He feared, not only some maddening detention, but the making public of an errand in which secrecy was everything. For one moment he looked round the group with a wild idea of knocking down anybody who barred their way. He was not accustomed to this kind of scene, but it stirred some little ancient devil of his boyhood.
Then suddenly the grown man replaced the boy. He remembered Sir Turnour’s letter, and took it from his pocket-book.
“Whereabouts is Flocksby Hall?” he demanded, forcing his voice to an assurance he did not feel. “I have this letter from Sir Turnour to Squire Richard Monckton of Flocksby.”
