Complete Fictional Works of John Buchan (Illustrated)

by John Buchan

  “So be it. Sir Turnour must make up on Cranmer on the road, or reach the Merry Mouth before the mischief begins. Otherwise he might as well have stayed at home. You are right, Professor. There’s a feck o’ things we must leave to fortune. There’s got to be a fight at Overy, or on the road, or at the Merry Mouth, or the kail-pot’s coupit. . . . Now turn your mind another gait. Mr Spencer Perceval is hasting here to his niece’s summons, and will arrive some time the morn. If the mountain is coming to Mahomet, is it not possible to set Mahomet off on another road? There’s nothing we can do to stop Cranmer or hasten Sir Turnour, but can nothing be done to shoo away the Prime Minister?”

  “I have thought of that. But we do not know where he is coming from. It may be from a neighbouring country-seat. If it is from London he has a choice of roads. He may come from Huntingdon, or he may come by way of Cambridge.”

  “It’s the last day of April and Parliament is sitting. He’ll come from London, and so there’s but the two roads to watch. He’ll be coming post, and he’ll have his body servant, and he’s a notable wee body with his white face and his perjink clothes. There’s maybe nobody about Landbeach that’s much good in a fight, but somebody might be found to watch the roads and carry a letter. That wants thinking on. . . . Meantime, what are your own plans? You can get a bed at the Manor, but what will you do with yourself for the next four and twenty hours?”

  “I must keep watch on the Merry Mouth. Tomorrow, if no help arrives, I must see what I can do alone.”

  “Alone! But you’re a man of the long gown and not of the sword. Bethink you, Professor, you’ll have desperate folk to face, if the one-half of what you tell me is true.”

  Nanty shivered.

  “I am a broken reed, I know well. . . . But I cannot fail Mrs Cranmer. . . . I should never know another moment’s peace.”

  Miss Georgie did not look at him. She was addressing her staff, and her tone was unwontedly gentle. “Maybe he’ll not know many more moments either of peace or dispeace. . . . It’s a queer thing, but they’ve at last gotten a man in the Senatus of St. Andrews. I must see the Cranmer wife — she must be fair by-ordinar.”

  In the early twilight Nanty slipped through the bracken of the park to the western corner of it, which was within a stone’s throw of the Merry Mouth. He had been duly presented to the ladies of Landbeach, the old Countess who sat all day stiff in a chair with a head nodding like a china mandarin’s, and the young Lady Jane, who each spring suffered from a feverish languor. A groom had been sent to bring his baggage from the Fenny Horton inn, and he had made his toilet in a bedchamber which would have held, with room to spare, the whole of Mrs McKelvie’s dwelling. He had donned the breeches and buckled shoes of ceremony, and before dinner had strolled with Miss Kirsty down the great avenue to the lodge-gates, and then along the road to within sight of the Merry Mouth. In the mild bright afternoon it had seemed an innocent place, silent, tenantless, gently decadent. No chimney smoked, and there was no sign of human life — only a mallard in the adjacent sedge, and the first swallows skimming the mere.

  “You are certain?” the girl asked. “You are clear that you are not on a wild-goose chase? That place looks as harmless and as empty as the old doocot at Balbarnit.”

  “I am certain,” Nanty answered, “that very soon it will wake up into a hellish life.”

  But he had not been certain, and that was his worst trouble. He could have keyed himself up for some desperate trial of fortitude, but this doubt was fraying his nerves. At any moment his manhood might be tasted; yet again it might not; a thick curtain was over the future, and he could only wait miserably by its fringe. He had scarcely listened to Miss Kirsty’s chatter. She was curious about many things, Jock’s behaviour, Sir Turnour, Harry Belses, notably Mrs Cranmer; but when she saw his distraction she turned the talk to Fife and the friendly tattle of its burgh-towns. He saw her purpose and was grateful. She understood that he had his own private battle to fight, in which she could give him no aid but good-will.

  Dinner was a business of stiff ceremonial, and Nanty, when the ladies rose, was left to a ripe port and his own thoughts. This waiting was maddening him, and he felt the need, at any cost, for action. So he changed again into his second-best pantaloons and frieze leggings. The moon was in its last quarter, and night when it fell would be very dark. Now was the time to reconnoitre the Merry Mouth and see if life was yet stirring in it. He had a sense like a cat’s for movement in the dark, and it might be well to get the topography of the place into his head, for he did not know what might await him on the morrow.

  Kirsty, with a silk scarf over her golden hair, found him on the terrace about to drop from its balustrade into the park. She knew his purpose without asking it.

  “You will not be late?” she said. “I will give orders to the servants to sit up for you. And you will be careful — promise me.”

  “I will be careful. There is no danger, and this night-hawking is a game I played often as a boy. I am very quick and light on my feet, though I have sat so much at a desk. I cannot bide still to-night, for my thoughts trouble me.”

  “I understand,” she said. “Aunt Georgie is preparing for action. She has got herself a road-book and a map, and is studying them with two pairs of spectacles. She means business to-morrow. God be kind to you, Mr Lammas.”

  Nanty waited till the oak grove was in deep dusk before he entered it. Before him were the rugged back-parts of the inn, and the only sound was the cry of a hunting owl. He reached the containing wall, scrambled up on it, and looked down into the stable-yard.

  Here there was sound. It came from a building apart from the rest, which seemed of newer build. The yard was empty and the house was silent. He dropped from the wall and crept in the direction of the sound.

  There were horses there — he could hear their impatient movement, and the champing of their jaws. They had just been fed; therefore Winfortune or some other was in the neighbourhood. The barred windows were too high for him, and the door was locked, so he could not inspect them, but he knew their purpose. No doubt they were blood beasts, and tomorrow would be fresh for the road. They would be the means of escape for Cranmer and his gang.

  Nanty was happier now, for he had business on hand. He had found one thing of moment, and he might find out others. But he must be very wary, for Winfortune was near.

  He crept round the yard, finding himself much impeded by the immense litter of straw which he had seen that morning from his crutch in the oak-tree. Straw was everywhere, except in the vicinity of the stabled horses. It was pitched in great drifts against the wooden sheds which abutted on the house. . . . Now he guessed the explanation. Some time soon the place would be fired.

  Again he was comforted. This mission of his was not fruitless. The telling of his story had made it seem almost too fantastic, and there were moments when he had been inclined to Miss Georgie’s scepticism. But now he had confirmation — the horses and the straw. The stage was being duly set for a black drama.

  His assurance of this fact gave him confidence. The house was still silent and utterly dark, with not a glimmer of light in any window. Somewhere on the west side the old woman must have her lair, and she might well be asleep. But Winfortune would be about, for he had fed the horses within the last half-hour. He must be very careful of Winfortune, who was no doubt indoors eating his supper. But he must find out the lie of the land in these back parts, for it might be fateful knowledge in a crisis.

  He skirted a kind of pent-house, and came to a line of low barred windows, with many broken panes. Feeling his way he found the hollow of a door, and to his surprise it yielded to his pressure. He stopped for a moment to collect his thoughts, and see if he had the plan of the building in his mind. This was the back entrance, leading into a wing, a storey lower than the rest, which had been added to the main block. Why should he not enter? He was quick on his feet, and could move as softly as a cat. Also, he had the gift of half-vision in the dark which the Greeks said th
at Artemis gave to her votaries. If Winfortune was there he might spy on him, but he was pretty certain that he could not be spied upon by Winfortune.

  He found himself in a passage as dark as the inside of a nut. The floor was flagged and uneven, and he had to pick his steps. Presently it bent to the left, and he was aware of a thin line of light below a door.

  There was no sound in the room beyond, but the light flickered, as if it came not from a lamp but from a fire. Gently he felt the door, and found that it was ajar. Gently he pressed it open, and looked in. The room was empty. A small fire burned on the hearth, and there was a table which held the remains of supper — a loaf of bread, the knuckle of a ham, and an empty beer jug. It held something more — a quantity of papers arranged in little piles as if someone had just been sorting them.

  It was borne in upon Nanty that here was matter of extreme importance. At all costs he must see these papers. He moved forward to the table, and had his hands on one packet. . . .

  Suddenly he realised that the door has closed. More, there was the sound of a key turning. Someone had entered the room. He heard flint struck upon steel, and a candle flared up.

  It was Winfortune. And Winfortune had not come there by accident. He had been following him, for his dark face showed that he had found what he expected, and his gap-toothed mouth was stretched in a grin.

  “Ay,” he drawled. “And who may you be, mannie?”

  Nanty, whose heart had missed a beat at the sight of him, forced himself to a forlorn boldness.

  “Are you the landlord?” he demanded. “I am a traveller who could find no way into your accursed inn by the front door, so I was forced to try the back. Are your people all dead or asleep?”

  “Just so. Dead or asleep. But I am uncommon alive and wakeful.”

  Winfortune raised the candle and let it fall upon Nanty as he stood by the tell-tale papers.

  “You tried at the front door, did you, and got no answer? And being hungry and drouthy you would not be denied, so you came round by the back seeking the kitchen? You’ll be for a bed and a bite o’ supper.”

  Nanty nodded. He did not like the bantering drawl or the bright, malevolent eyes.

  “You’re a traveller,” Winfortune continued. “Where from, may I be so bold as to ask?”

  “From Scotland.”

  “Ay, you’ll be for the great fight the morn in Fenny Horton. But if you come from Scotland you’ve come in on the wrong side of the town. What’s your trade? You’ve the look of a schoolmaster, or a preacher, or maybe an attorney’s jackal.”

  He drew the candle back.

  “I’ll tell you your trade. You’re a liar. I watched you snowking in the yard and I set a trap for you, and you’re caught. You’re some damned kind of spy. Well, your travelling is done for a bit, my bonny lad. The Merry Mouth has no liking for you and your kind.”

  “You’re an uncivil fellow. Open the door and I will go my way.”

  “Nay, nay. Here you are and here you bide. You’ll get a night’s lodging, though I’ll not speak for the comfort of the bed, and maybe a long, long sleep.”

  The figure in the flickering candle-light was so uncanny that Nanty had to put a strong compulsion upon himself to choke down fear. But anger came to his aid. It would be ruin to all his plans if he were trussed up in the Merry Mouth, and prisoner before the battle was joined. Now he knew a different kind of fear, not of the man before him, but of his own failure.

  “I require you to open that door,” he said, and his voice was firm.

  “I’m listening. Any more commands from your worship?”

  Nanty measured his opponent with his eye. He was a big man, lean and bony, but he must be a score of years his elder. So far as he could see he was unarmed. There was nothing for it but the ancient appeal. He swept up a packet of papers and dashed it in his face, and at the same moment struck hard with his left hand at the gap-toothed mouth.

  He found himself caught in a hug like a bear’s. He was lifted from his feet, but crooked his legs in the table, while he belaboured the man’s face with his fists. He might have been battering a smith’s anvil. A great wrench dragged him from his anchorage, he felt himself swung in the air, and the next second his head crashed on the stone flags of the floor.

  CHAPTER XVI. Tells of a Sceptic’s Conversion

  About the time when Nanty was dropping from the wall into the stable-yard of the Merry Mouth, the cutter of that name was moving with the tide up a dark channel among mudflats over which the waters were steadily rising.

  The Merry Mouth had crossed the bar with the flood, its only piece of good fortune on the voyage. For, though the wind had not moved from the northwest, it had threatened to die away altogether. Off Flamborough Head the boat had lain becalmed for the better part of a day, and no seamanship of Eben Garnock’s had been able to conjure up a breeze. The result had been black depression on the part of Harry Belses, and explosive irritation on the part of Sir Turnour. Eben, accustomed to the fickleness of the sea, had sucked his pipe in silence, and Mr Dott, who had never before embarked on salt water, and had dreaded nausea, had been sunk in deep bodily content.

  But that afternoon the wind had been brisk, and they had made landfall well before the darkening. Eben, who seemed to have a special sense and had been there before, nosed his way into the mouth of a narrow channel between the sand-dunes, and the last light revealed wide samphire-covered flats gleaming pale under the steady lipping of the tide. Then darkness had fallen, and presently the Merry Mouth was at a rude landing-place, above which rose a black mass which must be trees.

  “God’s curse on all winds,” Sir Turnour cried, stretching his stiff limbs and shaking himself like a big dog. “Cranmer will have been gone for hours. Overy House is a mile off, and Overy’s our mark. I’d give a thousand guineas to catch the hound before he leaves his kennel. Make haste, Eben, and tie up that damned boat of yours. If the fellow has left we must pick up his scent before it is cold.”

  Beyond the trees lay pasturelands, which to east and west became saltings where the tide crept among the little creeks. At first the four of them ran, Mr Dott labouring heavily, but soon they dropped into a jog, and then into a walk, for the voyage had cramped their legs. They crossed rushy meadows, full of nesting snipe, and came to a mossy brick wall which fringed the park. After that they were on cropped turf, and made better going. They took no precautions, for under Sir Turnour’s leadership they were not secret spies, but brazen pirates new landed from the sea.

  The house rose before them, a huge Palladian structure, with in one window far up a solitary spark of light.

  Sir Turnour unbuckled one of his pistols and handed it to Belses.

  “You’re something of a marksman, my lord? Take that, but use it discreetly. Remember that Cranmer is my portion. No eavesdropping. Straight for the door.”

  There was a big old-fashioned bell which woke a babel of echoes. Sir Turnour rang it a second time, and a third, and then with his fists he beat a heavy tattoo on the door. “The place is a shell,” he said. “I greatly fear that the birds have flown. Another minute and we break in by a window.”

  But, though there was no sound of feet inside, the door was suddenly opened, and in the crack was the light of a candle and a woman’s white face. Harry Belses recognised it.

  “It is her maid,” he cried. “Mollison, where is your mistress?”

  The voice was familiar to the woman, and she advanced the candle so that it shone on the wrathful visage of Sir Turnour, the gravity of Eben, the solemnity of Mr Dott, and on Harry’s face, which she knew well. The fear went out of her eyes, and her cry was of relief.

  “Oh, my lord,” she cried, “she is gone. Not an hour ago. She and the master and the others. I thought it was my lady returning, for she said that—”

  “Let us have the story indoors,” said Sir Turnour, “for this doorstep is a trifle conspicuous. Go first, Belses. The woman knows you and may think the better of us on your account. Phew! The
place is dank. It has not been lived in for a twelvemonth.”

  The maid led the way into a big square hall, and the thin ray of the candle showed only a line of forbidding Roman busts and the rims of great dusky pictures. She lit a bunch of candles in what had once been a Spanish altar-lamp, and the light made the place less ghostly. She was a thin, elderly woman, in felt slippers and a night wrapper.

  “Mollison, my dear,” said Harry. “You must forgive our haste. We come on your mistress’s behalf, and you know me for a friend. Who is in this house?”

  “I am alone,” she said, and shivered.

  Harry slipped off his great-coat and put it over her shoulders.

  “There! You will be warmer now. You say your mistress left an hour ago. Where has she gone? Quick, for it is a matter of life and death to her.”

  “I do not know. She did not tell me. I was to wait here till word came for me.”

  “It was you who at Hungrygrain gave this man a paper with words written on it,” and he pointed to Mr Dott.

  She nodded. “It was by her order, and a difficult job I had of it.”

  “The words on it? The Merry Mouth. Where is that place?”

  “I do not know.” Her face had again become stupid with fear. “My lady — I do not think she knew either. I once heard her ask the master, and he laughed at her.”

  “When did you come here?” Sir Turnour demanded, and his peremptory tone frightened her into stammering.

  “Last night — I cannot remember when — but it was dark. I was blind-weary with travel — and my lady, too. Blind-weary.” Her voice tailed away into a moan.

  “What scares you, woman?” Sir Turnour demanded. “We are your friends.”

  There was more spirit in her reply.

  “It is my lady. I love her and she has gone from me. I am terrified for her sake. All this day she had a face like death, and when she left she was weeping — and she does not often weep. She is threatened by some terrible thing — and I do not know — I cannot help her.”