Complete Fictional Works of John Buchan (Illustrated)

by John Buchan

  She was slim and grey-haired and bright-eyed, with that air of brisk competence which shy women often cultivate in self-defence. There was obviously nothing wrong with her, but I saw at a glance that she was a precisian and would be a stickler about rules. So some instinct warned me to go canny. Luckily I began by saying only that I was an old friend of Anna Smith’s father, and that I had dropped in to see her and give her a message.

  Miss Barlock smiled. ‘It never rains but it pours,’ she said. ‘Dear Anna does not often have visits from friends. Her poor father, of course, has not been down for months. But this morning who should appear but Anna’s cousins? They and Anna must have passed you as you came in. They brought a letter from Mr. Smith, who asked me to allow them to carry off Anna a week before the holidays begin. They propose, I think, a cruise to the Northern capitals. I readily consented, for the child has been rather wilting in the hot weather.’

  At this I sat up and thought hard. It looked as if I was too late, and that the other side had got in first. I decided that it wasn’t the slightest good my showing Clanroyden’s chit. The others would have a water-tight case, a letter from Haraldsen himself in a good imitation of his handwriting, which perhaps Miss Barlock recognized, for she must have seen it in his early days in England. I thought how clever they had been in sending down an inconspicuous young man and a rather dowdy woman, instead of some smart female with scarlet lips and a distempered face whom the schoolmistress would have suspected. Those two were the very model of respectable country cousins. I couldn’t discredit them, for if I told Miss Barlock the truth I would only discredit myself. Clanroyden’s letter, even if she didn’t think it a forgery, couldn’t prevail against the ipsissima verba of Haraldsen. I realized I was in a cleft stick and must conduct myself discreetly. The first thing was to see Anna herself.

  Miss Barlock glanced at the cards which lay on the writing table. ‘Lady Bletso and her son — he is the young baronet — propose to give Anna luncheon in the Brewton Arms at one o’clock, and then to leave for London. The morning will be occupied in packing Anna’s things.’ I noted a baronetage on the table which had been moved from the stand of reference books. Miss Barlock was a cautious woman and had looked up her visitors before receiving them. I wondered who the true Bletsos were. I had heard of the name in Yorkshire.

  I said cordially that I was glad that Anna’s relations were carrying her off for a cruise. Excellent thing, I observed fatuously, to expand the mind of the young. But, having come so far, I would like to have a talk with the child, being her father’s friend, and also I had a message to her from him which I had promised to deliver. I would have liked to give her lunch, but since she was engaged for that to her cousins, might we have a short walk in the park together?

  Miss Barlock saw no objection. She rang a bell and bade a maid fetch Miss Margesson. Miss Margesson, she informed me, was the girl’s chief friend among the mistresses, had been given special charge of her by her father, and had on more than one occasion accompanied her abroad on holidays. Presently Miss Margesson appeared, and the sight of her gave me my first glimmer of hope. For here was one who had none of the repressions and pedantries of the ordinary schoolmistress. She was a tall girl, with a kind mouth, and clever, merry blue eyes. At all costs I must make her an ally.

  ‘Anna Smith’s packing is being attended to, Miss Margesson?’ her superior asked. ‘It will be completed in an hour? Very good. A car will come for her at a quarter to one to take her down to the Brewton Arms, where she will meet her cousins. Meantime, this is a friend of Anna’s father who has called to see her. Will you arrange that he has a short walk with Anna in the garden? Yes, now. It cannot be long, I fear, Mr. Lombard,’ she added, turning to me, ‘for Anna will no doubt desire to say good-bye to her mistresses and her friends.’

  Miss Margesson took me downstairs and out into a very pretty terraced garden at the back of the house. She went indoors and presently returned with Anna. For the first time I had a proper look at the child, and what I saw rather impressed me. She’s not much of a beauty, as you saw, but I thought that she had an uncommon sensible little face. I don’t know much about children, having none of my own, but the girl’s composure struck me as remarkable. She didn’t look as if she had inherited her father’s nerves. The sight of her was my second gleam of hope.

  There was no time to waste, so I plunged at once into my story.

  ‘Anna, my dear,’ I said, ‘we’ve never met before, but when I was young I knew your grandfather in South Africa and he made me and another man, whose name is General Hannay, promise to stand by your father if trouble came. Your father is in great danger — has been for a long time — and now it’s worse than ever. That’s why he hasn’t been to see you for so long. That’s why you’re called Smith here, when your real name is Haraldsen. That’s why his letters to you always come through a bank. Now you are also in danger. These people Bletso, who came this morning and say they’re your cousins, are humbugs. Their letter from your father is a fake. They come from your father’s enemies, and they want to get you into their power. Your friends discovered the danger and sent me down to bring you away. I’m only just in time. Will you trust me and do what I ask you?’

  That extraordinary child’s face did not change. She heard me with the same uncanny composure, her eyes never leaving mine. Then she turned to Miss Margesson and smiled. ‘What a lark, Margie!’ was all she said.

  But Miss Margesson didn’t take it that way. She looked scared and flustered.

  ‘What a ridiculous story!’ she said. ‘Say it’s nonsense, Anna. Your name’s Smith, all right.’

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ was the placid answer. ‘It’s Haraldsen. Sorry, Margie dear, but I couldn’t tell that even to you.’

  ‘But — but—’ Miss Margesson stammered in her uneasiness. ‘You know nothing about this man — you never saw him before. How do you know he’s speaking the truth? Your cousins had a letter from your father, and Miss Barlock, who is very shrewd, saw nothing wrong with it. They looked most respectable people.’

  ‘I didn’t like them much,’ said Anna, and again I had a gleam of hope. ‘The woman had ugly eyes behind her specs. And I never heard of any English cousins.’

  ‘But, darling, listen to me,’ Miss Margesson cried. ‘You never heard of this man either. How do you know he comes from your father? How do you know he is speaking the truth? If you have any doubt, let us go together to Miss Barlock and tell her that you don’t want to go on any cruise, and want to stay here till the end of the term. In the meantime you can get in touch with your father.’

  ‘That sounds good sense,’ I said; ‘but it won’t do. Your father’s enemies now know where you are. They are very clever people and quite unscrupulous. If you don’t go away with the Bletsos, they’ll find ways and means of carrying you off long before your father can interfere.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ said Miss Margesson rudely. ‘Do you expect me to believe this melodrama? You look honest, but you may be half-witted. What’s your profession?’

  ‘Not one for the half-witted,’ I said. ‘I’m what they call a merchant-banker,’ and I told her the name of my firm. That was a lucky shot, for Miss Margesson had a cousin in our employ, and I was able to tell her all about him. I think that convinced her of my bona fides.

  ‘But what do you propose to do with Anna?’ she demanded.

  ‘Take her straight to her father.’ That I had decided was the only plan. The girl would be in perpetual danger in London, now that our enemies had got on her trail.

  ‘Do you know where he is?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘and if we start at once I can get her there before midnight.’

  Then it suddenly occurred to me that I had one convincing piece of evidence at my disposal.

  ‘Anna,’ I said, ‘I can tell you something that must persuade you. You had a letter from your father on your birthday three days ago?’

  She nodded.

  ‘And it didn’t come from Lon
don enclosed in a bank envelope. It came from Scotland.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘it came from Scotland. He didn’t put any address on it, but I noticed that it had a Scotch postmark. That excited me, for I have always wanted to go to Scotland.’

  ‘Well, it was that letter of your father’s that gave his enemies the clue. One of them spotted the address in a Scotch post office. Your father’s friend, Lord Clanroyden, was worried, and he sent me here at once. Doesn’t that prove that I’m telling the truth?’ I looked towards Miss Margesson.

  Her scepticism was already shaken. ‘I don’t know what to think,’ she cried. ‘I can’t take any responsibility—’

  Then that astonishing child simply took charge.

  ‘You needn’t, Margie dear,’ she said. ‘Hop back into the house and carry on. I’m going with Mr. Lombard. I believe in him. I’m going to Scotland to my father.’

  ‘But her things are not packed,’ put in Miss Margesson. ‘She can’t leave like this—’

  ‘I’m afraid we can’t stand on the order of our going,’ I said. ‘It’s now just twelve o’clock, and any moment the Bletsos may turn up and make trouble. We can send for Anna’s things, and in two days everything will be explained to Miss Barlock. You must keep out of the business altogether. The last you saw of Anna and me was in the garden, and you know nothing of our further movements. But you might do me a great kindness and send this wire in the afternoon. It’s to Lord Clanroyden — you’ve heard of him? — he’s Anna’s father’s chief stand-by. He told me to bring Anna to London, but that’s too dangerous now. I want him to know that we have gone to Scotland.’ I scribbled a telegram on a leaf from my pocket-book.

  Miss Margesson was a good girl, and she seemed to share Anna’s conviction. She hugged and kissed the child. ‘Write to me soon,’ she said, ‘for I shall be very anxious,’ and ran into the house.

  ‘Now for the road,’ I said. ‘My car is at the front door. I’ll pick you up in the main avenue out of sight of the house. Can you get there without being seen? And bring some sort of coat. Pinch another girl’s if you can’t find your own. The thicker the better, for it will be chilly before we get to Laverlaw.’

  I picked up Anna in the avenue all right, and we swung out of the lodge gates at precisely a quarter-past twelve. Then I saw something which I didn’t much like. Just outside the gates a car was drawn up, a very powerful car of foreign make, coloured yellow and black. It looked to me like a Stutz. The only occupant was a chauffeur in uniform, who was reading a newspaper. He glanced sharply at me, and for a moment seemed about to challenge us. When we had passed I looked back and saw that he had started the car and was moving in the direction of the village. I guessed that this was the Bletsos’ car, and that the man had gone to seek his master. He did not look quite like an ordinary chauffeur.

  That was the start of our journey. My plan was to get into the Great North Road as soon as possible — Stamford seemed the best point to join it at — and then to let the Bentley rip on the best highway in England. I didn’t see how we could be seriously pursued even if that confounded chauffeur had spotted our departure. But I was all in a dither to reach Laverlaw that night. This young Lochinvar business was rather out of my usual line, and I wanted to get it over.

  Well, we got to Stamford without mishap, and after that we did a spell of over sixty to the hour. The morning had been hot and bright, but the wind had shifted, and I thought we might soon run into dirty weather. At first I had kept looking back to see if we were followed, but there was no sign of a black and yellow car, and after a little I forgot about it. Lunch was our next problem, and, as there was a lot of traffic on the road, I feared that if we looked for it in a good hotel we should be hung up. I consulted Anna, and she said that she didn’t care what she ate as long as there was enough of it, for she was very hungry. So we drew up at a little place, half pub and half tea-house, at the foot of a long hill just short of Newark. While my petrol tank was being filled we had a scratch meal, beer and sandwiches for me, while Anna’s fancy was coffee and buns, of which she accounted for a surprising quantity. I also bought two pounds of chocolates and a box of biscuits, which turned out to be a lucky step.

  We were just starting when I happened to cast my eyes back up the hill. I have a good long-distance eyesight, and there at the top, about half a mile away, I saw a car which was unpleasantly like the Stutz I had seen at Brewton. A minute later I lost it, for some traffic got in the way, but I saw it again, not a quarter of a mile off. There could be no mistake about the wasp-like thing, and I didn’t think it likely that another car of the same make and colour would be on the road that day.

  If its occupants had glasses — and they were pretty certain to have — they must have spotted us. I drove the Bentley as hard as I dared, and tried to think out our position. They knew of course what our destination was. They certainly had the pace of us, for I had heard wonderful stories of what a Stutz could do in that line — and this was probably super-charged — so it wasn’t likely that we could shake them off. If we stopped for the night in any town we should be at the mercy of people whose cleverness Clanroyden had put very high, and somehow or other they would get the better of me. A halt of that kind I simply dared not risk. The road before us for the next hundred miles or so was through a populous country, and I didn’t believe that they would try a hold-up on it. That would be too risky with so many cars on the road, and they would not want trouble with the police or awkward inquiries. But I had driven a good deal back and forward to Scotland, and I knew that to get to Laverlaw I must pass through some lonely country. Then would be their chance. I couldn’t stand up against the toothy young man and the formidable-looking chauffeur. I would be left in a ditch with a broken head and Anna would be spirited away.

  My chief feeling was a firm determination to go all out to get to Laverlaw. I couldn’t outwit or outpace them, so I must trust to luck. Every mile was bringing us nearer safety, and if it was bringing us nearer the northern moorlands, I must shut down on the thought. At first I was afraid of scaring Anna, but, when I saw her face whipped into colour by the wind and her bright enjoying eyes, I considered that there was no danger of that.

  ‘You remember the car we saw at the school gates?’ I said. ‘The black and yellow thing? I’ve a notion that it’s behind us. You might keep an eye on it, for I want both of mine for this bus.’

  ‘Oh, are we being chased?’ she cried. ‘What fun!’ And after that she sat with her head half screwed round and issued regular bulletins.

  Beyond Bawtry we got into the rain, a good steady north-country downpour. We also got into a tangle of road repairs, where we had to wait our turn at several single-track patches. At the last of these the Stutz was in the same queue and I managed to get a fairly good view of it. There was no mistake about it. I saw the chauffeur in his light-grey livery coat, the same fellow who had stared at us at Brewton. The others in the back of the car were of course invisible.

  Beyond Pontefract the rain became a deluge, and it was clear from the swimming roads that a considerable weight of water had already fallen. It was now between four and five, and from constant hangups we were making poor speed. The Stutz had made no attempt to close on us, though it obviously had the greater pace, and I thought I knew the reason. Its occupants had argued as I had done. They didn’t want any row in this populous countryside, but they knew I was making for Laverlaw, and they knew that to get there I must pass through some desolate places. Then their opportunity would come.

  In a big village beyond Boroughbridge they changed their tactics. ‘The Wasp is nearly up on us,’ Anna informed me, and I suddenly heard a horn behind me, the kind of terrifying thing that they fix on French racing cars. The street was fairly broad, and it could easily pass. I saw their plan. They meant to get ahead of me, and wait for me. Soon several routes across the Border would branch off and they wanted to make certain that I did not escape them. I groaned, for the scheme I had been trying to frame was now knocked
on the head.

  And then we had a bit of unexpected luck. Down a side street came a tradesman’s van, driven by one of those hatless youths whom every motorist wants to see hanged as an example, for they are the most dangerous things on the road. Without warning it clipped over the bows of the Stutz. I heard shouting and a grinding of brakes, but I had no time to look back and it was Anna who reported what happened. The Stutz swung to the left, mounted the pavement, and came to rest with its nose almost inside the door of a shop. The van-driver lost his head, skidded, hit a lamp-post, slewed round and crashed into the Stutz’s off front wing. There was a very pretty mix-up.

  ‘Glory be,’ Anna cried, ‘that has crippled the brute. Well done the butcher’s boy!’

  But she reported that so far as she could see the Stutz had not been damaged seriously. Only the van, which had lost a wheel. But there was a crowd, and a policeman with a note-book, and I thought that the whole business might mean a hold-up of a quarter of an hour. I had a start again, and I worked the Bentley up to a steady eighty on a beautiful stretch of road. My chief trouble was the weather, for the rain was driving so hard that the visibility was rotten, and I could see little in front of me and Anna little behind.

  I had to make up my mind on the route, for Scotch Corner was getting near. If I followed the main North Road by Darlington and Durham I would be for the next hundred miles in a thickly settled country. But that would take me far from Laverlaw, and I would have the long Tweed valley before I got to it. If I turned left by Brough to Appleby, I should have to cross desolate moorlands, which would give the Stutz just the kind of country it wanted. I remembered a third road, which ran through mining villages where there would be plenty of people about. It was a perfectly good road, though the map marked most of it second-class. Besides, it was possible that the Stutz didn’t know about it, and, if I had a sufficient start, might assume that I had gone by either Darlington or Brough. Anyhow, unless it caught me up soon, it would be at fault. Clearly it was my best chance.