Complete Fictional Works of John Buchan (Illustrated)

by John Buchan

  Jaikie knew that the moment had come. The rescue party had arrived and he must join it. But how? It was not halting; in a moment Meleager’s chariot had passed on, and he was looking down on zebras ridden by cowboys. It was not a big circus, and the procession could not last long, so he must get ready for action.

  He noticed that it was hugging his side of the street, so that the accompanying crowd was all on the far pavement. That meant that Mastrovin’s watchers could not keep their places just below him. Did Randal Glynde mean him to drop down and move under the cover of the cavalcade? That must be it, he thought. He opened the window wide, and sat crouched on the sill.

  Then he noticed another thing. The whole procession was not lit up, but clusters of torches and flares alternated with no lights at all, and the dark patches were by contrast very dark. He must descend into one of these tracts of blackness.

  Marie Antoinette, or somebody like her, had just passed in a gaudy illuminated coach, and he made ready to drop into her wake. But a special tumult warned him that something odd was following. Though an unlit patch succeeded, the crowd on the opposite kerb seemed to be thicker. Straining his eyes to the right he saw a huge shadow moving up the alley, so close to his side of the street that it seemed to be shouldering the houses. It was high, not six feet below his perch, and it was broad, for it stretched across to the very edge of the runnel of water. And it moved fast, as fast as the trotting ponies, though the sound of its movement was lost in the general din.

  It was under him, and, clutching his rucksack, he jumped for it. A hand caught his collar, and dumped him between two pads. He found himself looking up at the stars from the back of the elephant Aurunculeia.

  He lay still for a time, breathing in the clean air, while Mr Glynde was busy with his duties as mahout. Presently they were out of the narrow street, and Aurunculeia swung more freely now that dust was under her and not cobbles.

  “You did well,” said Mr Glynde. “I did not overrate your intelligence.”

  Jaikie roused himself.

  “Thank God you came,” he said. “I don’t know how to thank you. But the job isn’t finished, for there are three other people left in that beastly house.”

  “So I guessed,” said Mr Glynde. “Well, everything in good time. First we must get you safely off. We cut things pretty fine, you know. Just as you joined our convoy someone came into your room with a light. I got a glimpse of his face and it was familiar. At present he is probably looking for you in the street. . . . But he may push his researches farther.”

  CHAPTER XI. THE BLOOD-RED ROOK

  Jaikie was not conscious of most of that evening’s ride. Thirty-six hours of short commons and the gentle swaying of Aurunculeia made him feel slightly sea-sick and then very drowsy. He found a strap in the trappings through which he crooked his arm, and the next he knew he was being lifted down a step-ladder by Randal Glynde in a place which smelt of horses and trodden herbage.

  Mr Glynde was a stern host. He gave him a bowl of soup with bread broken into it, but nothing more. “You must sleep before you eat properly,” he said, “or you’ll be as sick as a dog.” Jaikie, who was still a little light-headed, would have gladly followed this advice, when something in Randal’s face compelled his attention. It was very grave, and he remembered it only as merry. The sight brought back to him his immediate past, and the recollection of the stifling room in the ill-omened house effectively dispelled his drowsiness. He had left Alison behind him.

  “I can’t stay here,” he croaked. “I must get the others out. . . . That man’s a devil. He’ll stick at nothing. . . . What about Count Casimir? He’s a big swell here, isn’t he? and he has other Monarchists with him. . . . Where are we now? I should get to him at once, for every hour is important.” Then, as Randal remained silent, with the same anxious eyes, he said, “Oh, for God’s sake, do something. Make a plan. You know this accursed country and I don’t.”

  “You have just escaped from the most dangerous place in Europe,” said Randal solemnly. “I think you are safe now, but it was a narrower thing than you imagine. The wild beast is in his lair, and a pretty well-defended lair it is. You may smoke him out, but it may be a bad thing for those he has got in the lair beside him.”

  Jaikie’s wits were still muddled, but one feeling was clear and strong, a horror of that slum barrack in the mean street.

  “Are there no police in Krovolin?” he demanded.

  “The ordinary police would not be much use in what has been a secret rendezvous for years. The place is a honeycomb. You might plant an army round it, and Mastrovin would slip out — and leave ugly things behind him.”

  Jaikie shuddered.

  “Then I’m going back. You don’t understand. . . . I can’t go off and leave the others behind. You see, I brought your cousin here . . . Alison—” He ended his sentence with something like a moan.

  Randal for the first time smiled. “I expected something like that from you. It may be the only way — but not yet. Alison and the Roylances are not in immediate danger. At present to Mastrovin they are important means of knowledge. When that fails they may become hostages. Only in the last resort will they be victims.”

  “Give me a cigarette, please,” said Jaikie. He suddenly felt the clouds of nausea and weariness roll away from him. He had got his second wind. “Now tell me what is happening.”

  Randal nodded to a sheaf of newspapers on the floor of the caravan.

  “The popular press, at least the Monarchist brand of it, announces that the Archduke Hadrian has crossed the Evallonian frontier. One or two papers say that he is now in Krovolin. They all publish his portrait — the right portrait. Prince Odalchini’s staff-work is rather good.”

  Jaikie found himself confronted with a large-size photograph of Dickson McCunn. It must have been recently taken, for Mr McCunn was wearing the clothes which he had worn at Tarta.

  “I have other news,” Randal continued, “which is not yet in the press. The Archduke, being an old man, is at present resting from the fatigue of his journey. To-morrow afternoon, accompanied by his chief supporters, he will move to Melina through a rejoicing country. It has all been carefully stage-managed. His escort, two troops of the National Guard, arrive here in the morning. The distance is only fifteen miles, and part of the road will be lined with His Royal Highness’s soldiers. Melina is already occupied on his behalf, and the Palace is being prepared for his reception.”

  “Gosh!” said Jaikie. “How are people taking that?”

  “Sedately. The Evallonians are not a politically-minded nation. They are satisfied that the hated Republic is no more, and will accept any Government that promises stability. As for His Royal Highness, they have forgotten all about him, but they have a tenderness for the old line, and they believe him to be respectable.”

  “He is certainly that. How about Juventus?”

  “Juventus is excited, desperately excited, but not about the Archduke. They regard him as a piece of antiquated lumber, the last card of a discredited faction. But the rumour has gone abroad that Prince John has joined them, and that has given them what they have been longing for, a picturesque figure-head. I have my own ways of getting news, and the same report has come in from all the Wings. The young men are huzzaing for the Prince, who like themselves is young. Their presses are scattering his photograph broadcast. Their senior officers, many of whom are of the old families, are enthusiastic. Now at last the wheel has come full circle for them — they have a revolution of youth which is also a restoration, and youth will lead it. They are organised to the last decimal, remember, and they have the bulk of the national feeling behind them, except here in Krovolin and in the capital. They are sitting round the periphery of Evallonia waiting for the word to close in. Incidentally they have shut the frontier, and are puzzled to understand how the Archduke managed to cross it without their knowledge. When the word is given there will be a march on Melina, just like Mussolini’s march on Rome. There is only one trouble — the
Countess Araminta.”

  “Yes. What about her?” was Jaikie’s gloomy question.

  “That young woman,” said Randal, “must be at present in a difficult temper and not free from confusion of mind. She has not been consulted about Prince John; therefore she will be angry. All Juventus believes that the Prince is now with her Wing, but she knows that to be untrue. She has not seen His Royal Highness since she was a little girl. . . . Besides, there’s another complication. I said that Juventus was waiting. But not the Countess. Some days ago she took the bit between her teeth, and started to march on Krovolin. My information is that to-night she is encamped less than ten miles from this city. To-morrow should see her at its gates.”

  “Then she’ll pinch Mr McCunn before he starts.”

  “Precisely. At any rate there will be fighting, and for the sake of the future it is very necessary that there should be no fighting. At the first rifle-shot the game will get out of hand.”

  “Can’t you get him off sooner?”

  “Apparently no. Some time is needed for the arrangements in Melina, and already the programme has had to be telescoped.”

  “What a hideous mess! What’s to be done? She must be stopped.”

  “She must. That is the job to which I invite your attention.”

  “Me!” The ejaculation was wrung from Jaikie by a sudden realisation of the state of his garments. His flannel bags were shrunken and to the last degree grimy, his tweed jacket was a mere antique, his shoes gaped, his hands and presumably his face were black with dust. Once again he felt, sharp as a toothache, his extreme insignificance.

  Randal followed his glance. “You are certainly rather a scarecrow, but I think I can make you more presentable. You must go. You see, you are the last hope.”

  “Couldn’t you — ?” Jaikie began.

  “No,” was the decided answer. “I have my own work to do, which is as vital as yours. There is one task before you. You must get her to halt in her tracks.”

  “She won’t listen to me.”

  “No doubt she won’t — at first. She’ll probably have you sent to whatever sort of dungeon a field force provides. But you have one master-card.”

  “Prince John?”

  “Prince John. She must produce him or she will be put to public shame, and she hasn’t a notion where to look for him. She is a strong-headed young woman, but she can’t defy the public opinion of the whole of Juventus. You alone know where the Prince is.”

  “I don’t.”

  “You will be told . . . So you can make your terms. From what I remember of her you will have a rough passage, but you are not afraid of the tantrums of a minx.”

  “I am. Horribly.”

  Randal smiled. “I don’t believe you are really afraid of anything.”

  “I’m in a desperate funk of one thing, and that is, what is going to happen to Alison.”

  “So am I. You are fond, I think, of Cousin Alison. Perhaps you are lovers?”

  Jaikie blushed furiously.

  “I have been in love with her for two years.”

  “And she?”

  “I don’t know. I hope . . . some day.”

  “You are a chilly Northern pair of children. Well, she is my most beloved and adored kinswoman, and for her sake I would commit most crimes. We are agreed about that. It is for the sake of Alison and the sweet Lady Roylance that you and I are going into action. I wait in Krovolin and keep an eye on Mastrovin. He is a master of ugly subterranean things, but I also have certain moles at my command. There will be a watch kept on the Street of the White Peacock — that is the name of the dirty alley — a watch of which our gentleman will know nothing. When the Cirque Doré mobilises itself it has many eyes and ears. For you the task is to immobilise the Countess. Your price is the revelation of Prince John. Your reason, which she will assuredly ask, is not that the Archduke should get safely off to Melina — for remember your sympathies are with Juventus. It is not even that the coming revolution must not be spoiled by bloodshed, and thereby get an ill name in Europe. She would not listen to you on that matter. It is solely that your friends are in the power of Mastrovin, whom she venomously hates. If she enters Krovolin Mastrovin will be forced into action, and she knows what that will mean.”

  Jaikie saw suddenly a ray of hope.

  “What sort of woman is she?” he asked. “Couldn’t I put it to her that she has not merely to sit tight, but has to help to get my friends out of Mastrovin’s clutches? I can’t do anything myself, for I don’t know the place or the language. But she is sure to have some hefty fellows with her to make up a rescue party. She can’t refuse that if she’s anything of a sportsman. It’s a fair deal. She’ll have the Prince if she gives me my friends. By the way, I suppose you can produce the man when I call for him?”

  “I can. What’s more, I can give you something if she asks for proof. It’s the mourning ring prepared for his late Majesty, which only the royal family possess. She’ll recognise it.”

  Randal’s gravity had slightly melted. “I think you could do with a drink now,” he said. “Brandy and soda. I prescribe it, for it’s precisely what you need. Do you know, I think you have hit upon the right idea. Get her keen on doing down Mastrovin, and she won’t bother about the price. She’s an artist for art’s sake. Make it a fight between her and the Devil for the fate of three innocents and she’ll go raging into battle. I believe she has a heart, too. Most brave people have.”

  As he handed Jaikie his glass, he laughed.

  “There’s a good old English word that exactly describes your appearance. You look ‘varminty’ — like a terrier that has been down a badger’s earth, and got its nose bitten, and is burning to go down again.”

  The car, a dilapidated Ford, fetched a wide circuit in its southward journey, keeping well to the west of Krovolin, and cutting at right angles the road from the forest of St Sylvester. The morning was hazy and close, but after the last two days it seemed to Jaikie to be as fresh as April. They crossed the Silf, and saw it winding to its junction with the Rave, with the city smoking in the crook of the two streams. Beyond the Rave a rich plain stretched east towards the capital, and through that plain Dickson that afternoon must make his triumphant procession. Even now his escort would be jingling Krovolin-wards along its white roads.

  Jaikie had recovered his bodily vigour, but never in his life had he felt so nervous. The thought of Alison shut up in Mastrovin’s den gnawed like a physical pain. The desperate seriousness of his mission made his heart like lead. It was the kind of thing he had not been trained to cope with; he would do his best, but he had only the slenderest hope. The figure of the Countess Araminta grew more formidable the more he thought about her. Alison at Tarta had called her the Blood-red Rook — that had been Lady Roylance’s name for her — and had drawn her in colours which suggested a cross between a vampire and a were-wolf. Wild, exotic, melodramatic and reckless — that had been the impression left on his mind. And women were good judges of each other. He could deal with a male foreigner like Ashie whom Cambridge had partially tamed, but what could he do with the unbroken female of the species? He knew less about women than he knew about the physics of hyperspace.

  His forebodings made him go over again his slender assets. He knew the line he must take, provided she listened to him. But how to get an audience? The letters which Ashie had given him, being written on official flimsies, had been reduced to a degraded pulp by the rain, and he had flung them away. He had nothing except Randal’s ring, and that seemed to him an outside chance. His one hope was to get hold of Dr Jagon. Jagon would remember him from the Canonry — or on the other hand he might not. Still, it was his best chance. If he were once in Jagon’s presence he might be able to recall himself to him, and Jagon was the Countess’s civilian adviser. But his outfit might never get near Jagon; it might be stopped and sent packing by the first sentry.

  It was not a very respectable outfit. The car was a disgrace. He himself had been rigged up by Randal
in better clothes than his own duds, but he realised that they were not quite right, for the Cirque Doré was scarcely abreast of the fashions. He had a pair of riding breeches of an odd tubular shape, rather like what people at Cambridge wore for beagling, and they were slightly too large for him. His coat was one of those absurd Norfolk jacket things that continentals wear, made of smooth green cloth with a leather belt, and it had been designed for someone of greater girth than himself. He had, however, a respectable pair of puttees, and his boots, though too roomy, were all right, being a pair of Randal’s own. He must look, he thought, like a shop-boy on a holiday, decent but not impressive.

  Then for the first time he took notice of the chauffeur. He was one of the circus people, whom Randal had vouched for as a careful driver who knew the country. The chief point about the man’s appearance was that he wore a very ancient trench burberry, which gave him an oddly English air. He was apparently middle-aged, for he had greying side whiskers. His cheeks had the pallor which comes from the use of much grease-paint. There was nothing horsy about him, so Jaikie set him down as an assistant clown. He looked solemn enough for that. He wondered what language he spoke, so he tried him in French, telling him that their first business was to ask for Professor Jagon.

  “I know,” was the answer. “The boss told me that this morning.”