by J. R. Trtek
“Yes,” I answered, untruthfully. “That is my purpose here, after all. It is not supposed to be known,” I added in a conspiratorial tone.
“I quite understand,” replied Taylor.
And so, after bidding farewell to the two inspectors from Edinburgh, I asked the young constable to see if Murray and his friend would convey me to the evening political rally, where I hoped to finally introduce myself to Sir Harry Christey. In the meanwhile, I set out about Dumfries in hopes of finding some suggestion that Richard Hannay had recently passed through the village. It also occurred to me that I might perhaps stumble upon evidence of Sherlock Holmes as well.
I strode toward the centre of town and was twice accosted by local folk who asked me if I were associated with the flyer who was camped along the Abbey Road. I freely admitted to the relationship and did not give a negative response to my greeters when they asked if an aerodrome was planned for Dumfries—evidently, word had quickly spread of my supposed intent.
In time, I found myself nearing the town’s small train station and decided to pause there to see what idle enquiry might turn up. I was not long in finding success far beyond my modest hopes.
An old man and his dog sat front of the station office. Of the two, I was noticed first by the canine, a glaring brute whose expression gave me second thoughts about approaching, but I steeled myself and did not turn back.
“Halloa,” I cheerfully called out.
The dog snorted, while its owner lifted his face, revealing bloodshot eyes that stared vacantly from below a moth-eaten tweed cap. Squinting, he punctuated the animal’s incipient, low growl with a repetitious, “Aye, aye, aye?”
“I see we are both enjoying the summer weather,” I declared. The dog stopped growling, but then it discreetly bared its teeth in my direction. “That is to say, all three of us,” I added.
“Dunno about enjoying, necessarily,” the man said plaintively. “Experiencing, aye, but that goes without saying.”
“Quiet about, is it?”
The dog suddenly stood and began viciously barking at me. I reared back, before the old man turned in his chair and kicked at the animal, which shied away and began whimpering before settling itself upon the ground several feet away.
“Quiet enough now,” said the old man, who suddenly tilted in his chair and became flatulent for the better portion of a minute. “I misspoke, it seems,” he added as he leaned back.57
It was now obvious to me that he was inebriated.
“Have you encountered strangers in the past day or two?” I asked cautiously. “Perhaps a suspicious-looking man?”
“Aye, I have, as a matter of fact.”
“Truly?” I said with sudden interest. “When and where?”
“Now and here,” he said, once more pulling his cap down over his eyes.
“Yes, that is right amusing.”
“If ye think so.”
I smiled, but only the dog seemed to be paying me any attention now, and the glint in its eyes silently suggested the interest was nothing if not a malevolent one. Thus, seeking to put more distance between myself and the pair, I turned to make my way farther into town, but not wishing to leave even this noxious stranger in any mood other than a pleasant one, I asked in the spirit of good fellowship, “Can you suggest an establishment where I might find some good whisky?”
“No, but I can point ye away from some bad brandy.”
I nodded and then turned again to go.
“I’m a strong teetotaller, ye know,” the old man bellowed. “I took the pledge last Martinmas, and I havena touched a drop of whisky sinsyne. I was sair temptit at Hogmanay, ye know, but I dinna touch a drop then, either. That’s what I told the fellow what ran away from the train.”
I stopped and turned round.
“He wouldna listen to me, though,” the man went on. “Just wanted to get off the carriage. Dunno where he thought he was going.”
The dog had curled up, facing away from us, and I stepped back to the station porch.
“What man was that?” I asked.
“The man on the train. The slow train, do ye ken? Day before yesterday it was.”
“What did he look like?”
“Mature, fit type of a man,” my companion drawled, between hiccups. “A collared shirt he wore, good flannel as near as I could make out, but not as fine as his tweeds. Aye, but the best about him were the boots. Good and strong—and nailed. I thought—”
“Was he tanned and did he have a moustache?” I enquired.
“Who is there about who doesn’t have a touch of sun, eh? Except perhaps you. And as for moustaches, who can remember? You have one. Is not that enough?”
I paused, uncertain what to ask next, but the man took the opportunity to say more. “I canna remember today any more than I could yesterday, when the parson kept asking me about it,” he proclaimed.
“Parson?”
“Aye, the parson which come in on the train from the south. Curious fellow, asking about much like you.”
“Did he have a goatee?”
“They dunna allow those on the train,” said the man. “At least, not the proper ones. A dog, yes,” he added wistfully, glancing at his own animal. “But never—”
“Chin whiskers!” I said. “Did he have chin whiskers and eyeglasses? Was he tall and did he—”
“Aye, aye,” insisted the man, holding up his hands. “All those things and more, I suppose. He just kept asking and asking, like you. Asking about all manner of meaningless stuff.”
“And where is this parson now?”
The old man shrugged. “Where are any of us, if ye ken what I mean?”
“Please,” I said. “Can you tell me where this parson might be?”
He looked up and tilted his cap back, revealing a leathery forehead. Rubbing his dirty, pink nose, the man replied, “Reckon I guessed he was going off to find the man who left the slow train.”
“And where was that?”
“Aye, up farther north. Up the way, along the tracks.”
He thought for a moment. “What did I tell the parson? It wasn’t as far as the one station—the one by the tarn. No, two stations down from that. Actually, not at the station at all. We were stopped, you see, waiting for a train going west to let us pass. There were police on the west-going carriages, and they was coming down the line, to board us.”
“But where was this?”
“It was by the river.”
“Which one?”
“The one we were stopped aside of! We were not moving, just waiting for the policemen to get on board. I remember seeing a culvert. And the dog here was barking. Lay his teeth into the man’s trouser leg he did, but the fellow got loose and made off. Had the mutt tied to me waist with a rope. It’s best that way, when you be on the train.”
“Yes, go on.”
“Well,” said the man, impatiently, “the dog tries going after the man, but it’s tied to me waist. So when the dog jumps out, it pulls me with him. Just tumbled out, you know,” he added, looking down at his knees. “See the stain there. A pity.”
I saw a myriad of stains, all of them old, upon the man’s worn trousers. “And then what happened?” I asked.
“And what would you think?” replied the man indignantly. “I got back onto the carriage, of course, pulling the dog up with me. The train ran on to Dumfries here, and then you come along.”
“And the man who left the train?”
“What about him? He left the train along the track up north, by a culvert. Have ye not been listening? Havena seen him since. Dunna need to. Do you?”
“And the parson,” I said. “What did you say became of him?”
“I told ye: the parson took the slow train up north too. Yesterday. Saw him buy the ticket.”
“Thank you.”
The man coughed and then leaned back, planting his palms on his knees. “Funny man, that parson,” he remarked.
“Oh?” I said. “How so?”
“O
nly man the dog here ever has took a liking to. Most funny.”
“I am certain it was,” I replied, glancing at the animal, who immediately bared its teeth again. “Good day, sir.”
“May that it be,” he called after me as I strode away from the station. “May that it be.”
I now felt some small glimmer of hope, for despite my own stalled pursuit, there was no doubt in my mind that the parson had been Sherlock Holmes, who perhaps had succeeded in tracking Hannay’s movements into the Scottish hinterlands.
This belief was but minor consolation, however, as I spent the remainder of the afternoon desperately roaming about Dumfries in search of more information that might pertain to the fugitive from Portland Place. In various inns, taverns and shops, however, my enquiries came back dry as a bone.
Later, as I hiked the outskirts of town, I encountered Constable Charlie Taylor.
“Halloa, Mr. Price,” he called to me from across the way, hand waving and eyes flashing. “I have word from Murray, sir!”
I crossed the pathway and greeted him. He accepted my hand bashfully, perhaps still smarting from the error of his overzealousness.
“The tobacconist and his friend will take you to the rally tonight, Mr. Price, in the motor.”
I expressed my gratitude to the young man and commented on my affection for the area, leading me to remind him of my past visits for trout fishing.
“Perhaps you will return for that sport exclusively,” he said. “Have you decided yet upon a possible site for the airfield?”
“Perhaps,” I replied, lying yet again. “There are, however, several factors that will weigh upon the final choice.”
“I see,” said Taylor. “Do you wish a bit to eat before leaving for the political rally, Mr. Price?”
“Well, I had not considered that.”
“My wife would be happy to provide, if you like.”
“I do not wish to impose—”
“There’s no imposition at all,” the young policeman said. “We’d be honoured to have you accept.”
“I confess I have enjoyed myself immensely at your table.”
Taylor smiled. “Then you will accept?”
And with a nod, I fell into step with him, the two of us ambling on back toward the centre of Dumfries. Along the way, I espied Captain Harper, who caught sight of me as well and approached. He gave Charlie Taylor a cautious eye.
“And how are your efforts coming, Mr. Price?” asked the airman.
“He’s picking a spot for your aerodrome,” the constable interjected. “Do you know when it’s going to be built?”
Harper’s face assumed a wry grin, and he looked at me with a sparkle in his eye. “Oh well, I wouldn’t know that,” the captain said. “Mr. Price is the man who would have the answer.”
“As to the timing of construction, I am not privy to the government’s intentions in that regard,” I stammered, wishing to change the subject of our conversation.
“My wife and I are providing Mr. Price with a meal, Captain,” said Taylor, unknowingly fulfilling my desire. “Perhaps you might join us?”
“I should not wish to impose,” Harper replied.
“I earlier used that argument without effect,” I declared jovially. “Come along with us, Captain. In return for the treasured memories from above that you have given me, I wish to facilitate the tickling of your palate.”
The pilot nodded acquiescence with a bemused grin.
“If the two of you do not mind,” said Charlie Taylor, “I’ll run ahead and along home to have Averil prepare another two plates. You remember the way, Mr. Price?”
“Of course.”
“Very well. We’ll expect you both shortly,” the policeman said before setting off in the direction of his cottage.
“You have made a lasting peace with the local constabulary, it appears,” Captain Harper observed.
“Yes, and then some.”
“And how is your survey for our new field coming, sir?” the young man said puckishly.
“Quite well,” I replied, with raised brow.
The airman clasped hands behind his back and strolled along with me. “Well, sir, whatever your business here really is, I hope it is going well.”
“I confess I have no idea,” I told him. “And thank you for your discretion.”
“Duty, sir.”
“Yes, duty.”
“And I suppose I should eat rather quickly,” the pilot added. “The petrol for the aeroplane may arrive this evening.”
Captain Harper and I were treated to a meal of fish soup and steak pie, and the two young men exchanged pleasantries concerning their respective positions and duties while Mrs. Taylor and I listened. Eventually, after a dessert of pudding, I saw the pilot off along the Abbey Road to reunite with his aeroplane and there await the arrival of more fuel.
Constable Taylor stood with me outside the cottage for a short while thereafter, until a gleaming motor pulled up in the fading light of early evening.
“You be Mr. Price?” shouted the man sitting next to the chauffeur as both I and Charlie Taylor approached the vehicle.
“Yes,” I answered, looking at the tall, thin, grey-haired individual. “You are Mr. Murray?”
“That I am, sir: Gavin Murray. Well, Charlie,” the tobacconist said playfully to the constable, “I guess ye don’t need to make your introductions now, do ye?”
“I suppose not, Mr. Murray,” Taylor replied, eyeing the chauffeur, “except for—”
“And this one at the wheel is my friend and political compatriot, Mr. Boyd Watson,” added the tobacconist quickly.
“Did you say Watson?” I enquired, stepping up to the second man to extend my hand. “I know a Watson.”
The stout, clean-shaven man took my hand. “And I know several Prices,” he replied, eyes flashing. “So you’re to join us at the rally tonight? Jump in, then.”
“Aye,” said Murray. “It’s a glad welcome we extend to our fellow Liberal kith and kin from England, eh?”
I looked across to Charlie Taylor, who appeared discreetly embarrassed, and I gathered that he had gently lied about my reasons for wishing to attend. I smiled at him, however, silently grateful for the innocent deceit, and then looked at the two men in the automobile.
“Yes,” I said, “and it is heart-warming to be so greeted.” I got in the tonneau of the motor and sat back.
“I will keep your luggage safe in the meanwhile, Mr. Price,” said Taylor.
“Thank you,” I replied, having decided the valise would be an impediment. I did not know what would be the result of my meeting with Bullivant’s godson, but if I were granted the use of his motor, I could easily return to Dumfries for my belongings.
“Ready, Mr. Price?” asked Murray.
“Quite ready, sir.”
And with that, we were off. The better part of an hour was spent on winding roads that led eventually to the town of Brattleburn.58 We drew up along the side of a central street and were immediately accosted by several people, most of them older men, one of whom wore a rosette. As we left the motor, I noticed that Murray was now sporting a similar badge as well.
“Shall we go into the hall then?” the tobacconist asked of me and my fellow Watson. “Sir Harry and the guest speaker have not yet arrived, but they are expected shortly.”
I nodded assent, and in the company of my two travelling partners and those who had greeted us, I walked down the street and then through a door that opened onto a spacious hall already filled with perhaps half a thousand people. To my mild surprise, the majority were women, with most of the remainder being men near my age, though a few younger ones were scattered among them. All the chairs I saw were occupied, and so as Murray joined his beribboned colleagues on the dais, Boyd Watson and I made our way to the side of the hall and there stood together amid a crush of fellow attendees.
“I hear the Australian is a good speaker,” Watson shouted in my ear amid the growing din. “I reckon he will give the
Tories a good drubbing tonight.”
“Indeed,” was all I offered in response while admiring the draped banners and numerous bouquets that adorned either side of the stage. A lectern had been placed in its centre, and there I watched Murray in heated consultation with other presumed organisers of the event. At length, I began to feel rather warm in the crowded hall and wished for some form of refreshment, but as I looked round the expanse I saw no relief for my thirst, though I did espy two policemen standing by the door.
More people entered the hall, pushing both myself and Boyd Watson ever farther to the side. I detected some slight commotion at the open doorway, and then the house lights darkened. As the great space dimmed, an anxious rustle of anticipation passed through the crowd.
Though several individuals were standing in front of me, limiting my view, I did witness a small entourage stride across the hall from the direction of the open door as Murray, standing on stage near the lectern, raised his hands and began to clap earnestly. A wave of applause spread throughout the large room, and I fell in with my fellow attendees, slapping palms together fervently for what reason I knew not.
Several male voices shouted encouragement, which caused me to once again recall that most of those within the space were female. One heavy-set woman rose ponderously from her chair to clap with enthusiasm and then whistle in such a shrill manner that my ears were discomforted.
Beside me, Boyd Watson took some liberty in lightly jabbing me with his elbow.
“Even our women can beat the Tory men, eh?” he shouted, and I nodded briskly, hoping my rapid agreement would cause him to stop poking me.
At length, the crowd settled, and those who had just entered the hall mounted the dais to take seats on the far side of the lectern, out of my line of vision. It was then that a devious-looking minister, whom Boyd Watson told me was the chairman, brought the meeting to order. Even at such a great distance, his bright red nose was a sight to behold, and I stood there, my attention fixed upon on that great glowing proboscis rather than the man’s words, until my companion broke that concentration with another nudge to the ribs.
