The Leithen Stories. Buchan John
brows over that of the Edinburgh solicitors. Then he stared into the fire, and emitted short grunts which might have equally well been chuckles or groans.
‘Well, what do you think of the chances?’ asked Archie at length.
‘Would the gentlemen be good shots?’ asked Lithgow.
‘Mr Palliser-Yeates, who has drawn Glenraden, is a very good shot,’ Archie replied, ‘and he has stalked on nearly every forest in Scotland. Lord Lamancha – Charles, you’re pretty good, aren’t you?’
‘Fair,’ was the answer. ‘Good on my day.’
‘And Sir Edward Leithen is a considerable artist on the river. Now, Wattie, you understand that they want to win – want to get the stags and the salmon – but it’s absolute sheer naked necessity that, whether they fail or succeed, they mustn’t be caught. John Macnab must remain John Macnab, an unknown blighter from London. You know who Lord Lamancha is, but perhaps you don’t know that Sir Edward Leithen is a great lawyer, and Mr Palliser-Yeates is one of the biggest bankers in the country.’
‘I ken all about the gentlemen,’ said Lithgow gravely. ‘I was readin’ Mr Yeates’s letter in The Times about the debt we was owin’ America, and I mind fine Sir Edward’s speeches in Parliament about the Irish Constitution. I didna altogether agree with him.’
‘Good for you, Wattie. You see, then, how desperately important it is that the thing shouldn’t get out. Mr Tarras didn’t much care if he was caught, but if John Macnab is uncovered there will be a high and holy row. Now you grasp the problem, and you’ve got to pull up your socks and think it out. I don’t want your views to-night, but I should like to have your notion of the chances in a general way. What’s the bettin’? Twenty to one against?’
‘Mair like a thousand,’ said Lithgow grimly. ‘It will be verra, verra deeficult. It will want a deal o’ thinkin’.’ Then he added, ‘Mr Tarras was an awfu’ grand shot. He would kill a runnin’ beast at fower hundred yards – aye, he could make certain of it.’
‘Good Lord, I’m not in that class,’ Palliser-Yeates exclaimed.
‘Aye, and he was more than a grand shot. He could creep up to a sleepin’ beast in the dark and pit a knife in its throat. The sauvages in Africa had learned him that. There was plenty o’ times when him and me were out that it wasna possible to use the rifle.’
‘We can’t compete there,’ said Lamancha dolefully.
‘But I wad not say it was impossible,’ Lithgow added more briskly. ‘It will want a deal o’ thinkin’. It might be done on Haripol – I wadna say but it might be done, but you auld man at Glenraden will be ill to get the better of. And the Strathlarrig water is an easy water to watch. Ye’ll be for only takin’ shootable beasts, like Mr Tarras, and ye’ll not be wantin’ to cleek a fish? It might be not so hard to get a wee staggie, or to sniggle a salmon in one of the deep pots.’
‘No, we must play the game by the rules. We’re not poachers.’
‘Then it will be verra, verra deeficult.’
‘You understand,’ put in Lamancha, ‘that, though we count on your help, you yourself mustn’t be suspected. It’s as important for you as for us to avoid suspicion, for if they got you it would implicate your master, and that mustn’t happen on any account.’
‘I ken that. It will be verra, verra deeficult. I said the odds were a thousand to one, but I think ten thousand wad be liker the thing.’
‘Well, go and sleep on it, and we’ll see you in the morning. An’ tell your wife I don’t want any boys comin’ up to the house with fish. She must send elsewhere and buy ’em. Good-night, Wattie.’
When Lithgow had withdrawn the four men sat silent and meditative in their chairs. One would rise now and then and knock out his pipe, but scarcely a word was spoken. It is to be presumed that the thoughts of each were on the task in hand, but Leithen’s must have wandered. ‘By the way, Archie,’ he said, ‘I saw a very pretty girl on the road this afternoon, riding a yellow pony. Who could she be?’
‘Lord knows!’ said Archie. ‘Probably one of the Raden girls. I haven’t seen ’em yet.’
When the clock struck eleven Sir Archie arose and ordered his guests to bed.
‘I think my toothache is gone,’ he said, switching off his turban and revealing a ruffled head and scarlet cheek. Then he muttered: ‘A thousand to one! Ten thousand to one! It can’t be done, you know. We’ve got to find some way of shortenin’ the odds!’
ROSY-FINGERED DAWN, when, attended by mild airs and a sky of Italian blue, she looked in at Crask next morning, found two members of the household already astir. Mr Palliser-Yeates, coerced by Wattie Lithgow, was starting with bitter self-condemnation to prospect what his guide called ‘the yont side o’ Glenraden.’ A quarter of an hour later Lamancha, armed with a map and a telescope, departed alone for the crest of hill behind which lay the Haripol forest. After that peace fell on the place, and it was not till the hour of ten that Sir Edward Leithen descended for breakfast.
The glory of the morning had against his convictions made him cheerful. The place smelt so good within and without, Mrs Lithgow’s scones were so succulent, the bacon so crisp, and Archie, healed of the toothache, was so preposterous and mirthful a figure that Leithen found a faint zest again in the contemplation of the future. When Archie advised him to get busy about the Larrig he did not complain, but accompanied his host to the gun-room, where he studied attentively on a large-scale map the three miles of the stream in the tenancy of Mr Bandicott.
It seemed to him that he had better equip himself for the part by some simple disguise, so, declining Archie’s suggestion of a kilt, he returned to his bedroom to refit. Obviously the best line was the tourist, so he donned a stiff white shirt and a stiff dress collar with a tartan bow-tie contributed from Sime’s wardrobe. Light brown boots in which he had travelled from London took the place of his nailed shoes, and his thick knickerbocker stockings bulged out above them. Sime’s watch-chain, from which depended a football club medal, a vulgar green Homburg hat of Archie’s, and a camera slung on his shoulders completed the equipment. His host surveyed him with approval.
‘The Blackpool season is beginning,’ he observed. ‘You’re the born tripper, my lad. Don’t forget the picture post cards.’ A bicycle was found, and the late Attorney-General zigzagged warily down the steep road to the Larrig bridge.
He entered the highway without seeing a human soul, and according to plan turned down the glen towards Inverlarrig. There at the tiny post-office he bought the regulation picture post cards, and conversed in what he imagined to be the speech of Cockaigne with the aged post-mistress. He was eloquent on the beauties of the weather and the landscape and not reticent as to his personal affairs. He was, he said, a seeker for beauty-spots, and had heard that the best were to be found in the demesne of Strathlarrig. ‘It’s private grund,’ he was told, ‘but there’s Americans bidin’ there and they’re kind folk and awfu’ free with their siller. If ye ask at the lodge, they’ll maybe let ye in to photograph.’ The sight of an array of ginger-beer bottles inspired him to further camouflage, so he purchased two which he stuck in his side-pockets.
East of the Bridge of Larrig he came to the chasm in the river above which he knew began the Strathlarrig water. The first part was a canal-like stretch among bogs, which promised ill for fishing, but beyond a spit of rock the Larrig curled in towards the road edge, and ran in noble pools and swift streams under the shadow of great pines. This, Leithen knew from the map, was the Wood of Larrigmore, a remnant of the ancient Caledonian Forest. By the water’s edge the covert was dark, but towards the roadside