JOHN BUCHAN Ultimate Collection: Spy Classics, Thrillers, Adventure Novels & Short Stories, Including Historical Works and Essays (Illustrated). Buchan John
“I think it’s maist likely true. He’s a terrible impident callant, but he’s no’ a leear.”
“Then you think that a gang of ruffians have got two lone women shut up in that house for their own purposes?”
“I wadna wonder.”
“But it’s ridiculous! This is a Christian and law-abiding country. What would the police say?”
“They never troubled Dalquharter muckle. There’s no’ a polisman nearer than Knockraw—yin Johnnie Trummle, and he’s as useless as a frostit tattie.”
“The wiselike thing, as I think,” said Dickson, “would be to turn the Procurator-Fiscal on to the job. It’s his business, no’ ours.”
“Well, I wadna say but ye’re richt,’ said the lady.
“What would you do if you were us?” Dickson’s tone was subtly confidential. “My friend here wants to get into the House the morn with that red-haired laddie to satisfy himself about the facts. I say no. Let sleeping dogs lie, I say, and if you think the beasts are mad, report to the authorities. What would you do yourself?”
“If I were you,” came the emphatic reply, “I would tak’ the first train hame the morn, and when I got hame I wad bide there. Ye’re a dacent body, but ye’re no’ the kind to be traivellin’ the roads.”
“And if you were me?’ Heritage asked with his queer crooked smile.
“If I was young and yauld like you I wad gang into the Hoose, and I wadna rest till I had riddled oot the truith and jyled every scoondrel about the place. If ye dinna gang, ‘faith I’ll kilt my coats and gang mysel’. I havena served the Kennedys for forty year no’ to hae the honour o’ the Hoose at my hert. Ye’ve speired my advice, sirs, and ye’ve gotten it. Now I maun clear awa’ your supper.”
Dickson asked for a candle, and, as on the previous night, went abruptly to bed. The oracle of prudence to which he had appealed had betrayed him and counselled folly. But was it folly? For him, assuredly, for Dickson McCunn, late of Mearns Street, Glasgow, wholesale and retail provision merchant, elder in the Guthrie Memorial Kirk, and fifty-five years of age. Ay, that was the rub. He was getting old. The woman had seen it and had advised him to go home. Yet the plea was curiously irksome, though it gave him the excuse he needed. If you played at being young, you had to take up the obligations of youth, and he thought derisively of his boyish exhilaration of the past days. Derisively, but also sadly. What had become of that innocent joviality he had dreamed of, that happy morning pilgrimage of Spring enlivened by tags from the poets? His goddess had played him false. Romance had put upon him too hard a trial.
He lay long awake, torn between common sense and a desire to be loyal to some vague whimsical standard. Heritage a yard distant appeared also to be sleepless, for the bed creaked with his turning. Dickson found himself envying one whose troubles, whatever they might be, were not those of a divided mind.
CHAPTER 5
OF THE PRINCESS IN THE TOWER
Very early the next morning, while Mrs. Morran was still cooking breakfast, Dickson and Heritage might have been observed taking the air in the village street. It was the Poet who had insisted upon this walk, and he had his own purpose. They looked at the spires of smoke piercing the windless air, and studied the daffodils in the cottage gardens. Dickson was glum, but Heritage seemed in high spirits. He varied his garrulity with spells of cheerful whistling.
They strode along the road by the park wall till they reached the inn. There Heritage’s music waxed peculiarly loud. Presently from the yard, unshaven and looking as if he had slept in this clothes, came Dobson the innkeeper.
“Good morning,” said the poet. “I hope the sickness in your house is on the mend?”
“Thank ye, it’s no worse,” was the reply, but in the man’s heavy face there was little civility. His small grey eyes searched their faces.
“We’re just waiting for breakfast to get on the road again. I’m jolly glad we spent the night here. We found quarters after all, you know.”
“So I see. Whereabouts, may I ask?”
“Mrs. Morran’s. We could always have got in there, but we didn’t want to fuss an old lady, so we thought we’d try the inn first. She’s my friend’s aunt.”
At this amazing falsehood Dickson started, and the man observed his surprise. The eyes were turned on him like a searchlight. They roused antagonism in his peaceful soul, and with that antagonism came an impulse to back up the Poet. “Ay,” he said, “she’s my auntie Phemie, my mother’s half-sister.”
The man turned on Heritage.
“Where are ye for the day?”
“Auchenlochan,” said Dickson hastily. He was still determined to shake the dust of Dalquharter from his feet.
The innkeeper sensibly brightened. “Well, ye’ll have a fine walk. I must go in and see about my own breakfast. Good day to ye, gentlemen.”
“That,” said Heritage as they entered the village street again, “is the first step in camouflage, to put the enemy off his guard.”
“It was an abominable lie,” said Dickson crossly.
“Not at all. It was a necessary and proper ruse de guerre. It explained why we spent the right here, and now Dobson and his friends can get about their day’s work with an easy mind. Their suspicions are temporarily allayed, and that will make our job easier.”
“I’m not coming with you.”
“I never said you were. By ‘we’ I refer to myself and the red-headed boy.”
“Mistress, you’re my auntie,” Dickson informed Mrs. Morran as she set the porridge on the table. “This gentleman has just been telling the man at the inn that you’re my Auntie Phemie.”
For a second their hostess looked bewildered. Then the corners of her prim mouth moved upwards in a slow smile.
“I see,” she said. “Weel, maybe it was weel done. But if ye’re my nevoy ye’ll hae to keep up my credit, for we’re a bauld and siccar lot.”
Half an hour later there was a furious dissension when Dickson attempted to pay for the night’s entertainment. Mrs. Morran would have none of it. “Ye’re no’ awa’ yet,” she said tartly, and the matter was complicated by Heritage’s refusal to take part in the debate. He stood aside and grinned, till Dickson in despair returned his notecase to his pocket, murmuring darkly the “he would send it from Glasgow.”
The road to Auchenlochan left the main village street at right angles by the side of Mrs. Morran’s cottage. It was a better road than that by which they had come yesterday, for by it twice daily the postcart travelled to the post-town. It ran on the edge of the moor and on the lip of the Garple glen, till it crossed that stream and, keeping near the coast, emerged after five miles into the cultivated flats of the Lochan valley. The morning was fine, the keen air invited to high spirits, plovers piped entrancingly over the bent and linnets sang in the whins, there was a solid breakfast behind him, and the promise of a cheerful road till luncheon. The stage was set for good humour, but Dickson’s heart, which should have been ascending with the larks, stuck leadenly in his boots. He was not even relieved at putting Dalquharter behind him. The atmosphere of that unhallowed place lay still on his soul. He hated it, but he hated himself more. Here was one, who had hugged himself all his days as an adventurer waiting his chance, running away at the first challenge of adventure; a lover of Romance who fled from the earliest overture of his goddess. He was ashamed and angry, but what else was there to do? Burglary in the company of a queer poet and a queerer urchin? It was unthinkable.
Presently,