In the calm, mystic sundown of the August evening, after nine hours in
the express from Euston, I was driving with Wyman in Fred Fenwick's
Perth-cart up the side of Loch Ken, that long romantic stretch of water
hemmed in by the high, heather-clad hills of Galloway. We were covering
that seven miles of winding road that lies between New Galloway station
and New Galloway burgh.
Southern Scotland surely possesses no wilder or more charming and
picturesque district than the Glenkens, and here, in the heart of them,
the drive was refreshing, for the air was keen after stifling London;
and the many burns and cascades we passed fell with soft rippling music
over the mossy, bracken-covered roadsides.
The magnificent scenery, the sunset glow upon the unruffled surface of
the loch, the dark purple of the distant hills, and the marvellous
shades of the heather, did not, however, attract us, for we were both
too full of the warm welcome which we knew was awaiting us at Crailloch,
beyond Balmaclellan village. Through the long, white High Street of New
Galloway we rattled in the dusk, up the steep hill, over the Ken Bridge,
and then, following the broad river bed, turned in at last through the
lodge gates and pulled up before the great square Elizabethan mansion,
with its ornate exterior and high, twisted chimneys.
Fred Fenwicke, still in shooting-kit, came forth ere we could bring the
cart to a standstill, and from the lighted hall came a chorus of
hurrahs, expressing pleasure at our arrival.
"Well, Allan, old fellow!" cried Fred, grasping my hand warmly, "this is
a real pleasure, to see you in Scotland again! Connie's in there
somewhere, and there's a whole crowd of boys you know." And then he
turned to give a similarly cordial greeting to Walter, and left me to
enter the fine hall, where the majority of the house party had, in the
idle hours before dinner, assembled to greet us.
The instant I entered a merry voice shouted, "What, ho, there! Allan
the Author!" It was Sammy Waldron, or, to give him his correct name,
Captain Samuel Waldron, of the Bengal Police, home on two years' leave,
and one of the best of good fellows.
Then Mrs Fenwicke, one of the smartest of women and the best of
hostesses, whom everyone called Connie, shook me warmly by the hand,
expressed her pleasure at our coming, and next moment we found ourselves
in the centre of perhaps one of the merriest house parties in the whole
of Scotland. Many of the people I had met before in that same big,
well-furnished hall, with its splendid trophies of the chase and of
Indian frontier wars. Fred Fenwicke and his wife, the merriest and most
easy-going pair of any I knew, usually had the same party for the
shooting, many of them being Anglo-Indians. In addition to Sammy
Waldron, a well set up, fair-haired officer, tough as nails, who for
over twenty years had been engaged on and off fighting the Indian
frontier tribes, and who was usually the life and soul of the party,
there was Jack Handsworth, or Major John Handsworth, C.I.E., owner of
wide estates within sight of the Himalayas, who was never seen without a
cigar except at meals; his son Godfrey, a smartly groomed fellow of whom
everyone held golden opinions; Miss Handsworth, Jack's sister; Mrs
Payling, an exceedingly pleasant and very good-looking widow of middle
age, who lived in summer in England and in winter in India, whose manner
of speech was very deliberate, who was possessed of a keen sense of
humour, and who always wore exquisite gowns, and wore them well. She
was, indeed, one of those few women whose clothes seem part of them. In
addition, there were two brothers named Sale, well-known solicitors in
London, a merry pair, full of humour; and several other men and women
whom I knew more or less intimately.
Certainly Fred Fenwicke never made a mistake in the arrangement of his
house parties. His guests were never ill-assorted. Sometimes he had a
quiet set of visitors, but this was seldom. Indeed, the fun and
merriment at Crailloch was always a continuous round, for everyone did
just as he liked; shot, cycled, fished for salmon or trout, went
excursions, or wandered over the heather-clad hills. There was no
restraint, and everyone came there for thorough enjoyment.
"Well," exclaimed Fred, as we stood with him in the dining-room having a
"peg" before dressing, "nice lot of boys I've got this time, aren't
they?"
"Too keen a crowd for me, I fear!" I laughed, for I knew from
experience that when the shooters who were my fellow-guests
foregathered, the fun was fast and furious.
For answer, my old friend only raised his glass in welcome and laughed
across it merrily.
About thirty-eight, tall and dark, with a distinctly military bearing,
and dressed in a smart tweed and gaiters, he looked the very pink of
condition. Living that healthy, open-air life on the Scotch estate had
tanned his face and neck, and had brought him to a perfection of
"fitness" seldom seen in a man. His vitality was marvellous. From the
moment he came down in the morning to open the letter-bag until the
small hours when the last billiard players drained their final "pegs,"
he was constantly active. He loved the country, he loved Scotland, he
loved shooting, of which he had plenty, and above all loved the
companionship of the few men who were his intimate friends--the men who
now formed the house party.
Connie Fenwicke was just as happy, just as fond of country life, and
just as generous in her hospitality as her husband. Wife and husband
thoroughly understood each other, and such was their independent
position that, when tired of life at Crailloch, they took a voyage to
Australia, where Fred Fenwicke was interested in certain companies.
Though fond of Scotland, and living there even through the town season,
they were nevertheless essentially cosmopolitan, well known in Monte
Carlo, in Florence, and in Rome. More, indeed, need not be said save
that they were a pair such as one seldom met, whose house was
hospitality itself.
Walter was not so intimate a friend as myself; but before that night was
out Fred Fenwicke had admitted him to that charmed circle of close
acquaintances, and he declared himself absolutely at home.
Dinner was always the solemn function at Crailloch, as it is in most
country houses, for the shooters were then clean, the ladies in pretty
frocks, and amusing, and Fred's _chef_ was acknowledged to be one of the
best in Scotland. After the ladies had left the table and coffee had
been served in the big, old dining-room, with its splendid family
portraits, I took Fred aside, for I had detected in him an anxiety to
know the reason I had so suddenly come up to visit him. He knew that it
was not on account of sport, for near-sightedness prevented my shooting,
and I had heard him pass a remark _sotto voce_ at table with Sammy
Waldron that it must be on account of some love affair.
In order to set my old friend's mind at rest I took him along to his
study, the only sanctum private from guests, and told him that the
reason of the suddenness of my visit was because I wanted to study on
the spot the history of Threave Castle.
"Oh! that's it!" he cried, removing his cigar from his lips. "Well, I
suppose you've got some book or other in view, eh?"
"H'm, yes," I answered after a moment's hesitation. "I'm studying the
history of the place. Perhaps I may write a book about it. I want you
to help me. Have you any books dealing with the subject?"
"I fear I haven't," was his response. "Threave is about fourteen miles
from here, on a solitary and un-get-at-able island in the Dee. I've
never been there myself; but I know a man, Mr Batten, the
archaeologist, who lives in Castle-Douglas, who has the finest
collection of works dealing with Galloway and the neighbourhood, and who
has written a book regarding those parts. I'll write to him. He'll
lend you a lot of books, no doubt, and perhaps he'll go over to Threave
with you. He's an excellent fellow, and a great friend of mine. But,"
he added, "Walter is helping you, I suppose?"
"Yes. We are making certain investigations," was my cautious reply.
"At present we can't say anything definite, except that I may possibly
lay the scene of my new book there."
"Well, I'll assist you, Allan, old chap, if you'll promise to be silent
upon Crailloch and all the boys here." And he laughed merrily. "When I
told them you were coming they all wanted to know if you were going to
write a book. They haven't forgotten those articles last season about
Nice and Monte."
"I'll let them down lightly, I promise you," was my reply. "Only I tell
you my object in confidence. I don't wish the whole crowd to know."
"Of course not, my dear fellow," he responded. "I'll help you. I'll
write to Batten, and we'll arrange a little picnic over to Threave. You
needn't tell anyone your real reason for going there."
And so I left the arrangements in his hands. After three days of
merriment and nights of music, billiard playing, and practical joking,
Fred received a note from Mr Batten saying that he had obtained
permission from the laird for us to visit Threave, and that he would be
pleased not only to accompany us, but also to lend me the several rare
and out-of-print works in his collection that dealt with the history of
the famous stronghold.
To us this was good news indeed, and two mornings later, in a party of
ten, including several others on cycles, we drove in a pair-horse brake
away along the bank of Loch Ken, through the long, whitewashed villages
of Parton and Crossmichael, down to a spot beside the winding Dee, where
at a lonely farmhouse we were met by Mr Batten, who proved a most
affable and valuable guide.
The party was an extremely merry one, and being compelled to leave the
brake some half-mile from the river, each of us carried part of the
provisions off which we were to lunch on arrival on the island.
The day was superb for August, one of those brilliant mornings seldom
experienced in Scotland so late in the season, and much good-humoured
banter was exchanged as the whole party trudged through the wide fields
of corn just falling to the sickle.
Presently, on coming up the brae-face, we suddenly obtained a view of
the broad, winding river sparkling in the sunshine below; and beyond,
upon its solitary island, given over to the rooks and waterfowl, rose
the stern, grim keep of what was once the home of the Black Douglas,
which even today stands out grey and forbidding in the autumn sunlight.
Wyman was walking beside me, carrying a basketful of bottles of soda
water, and as the view burst upon me I turned to him and said:
"Can it be possible that the casket of which old Godfrey speaks is
hidden upon that island?"
"Maybe," was his reply. "It certainly looks just the sort of outlandish
place to hold a mystery. But we must say nothing to anyone. Let's take
our observation in silence. They'll enjoy their picnic while we will
refer to that memorandum you made of the parchment record."
At that moment Sammy Waldron, ruddy and sun-tanned, in a rough cycling
suit, came up and began to chaff Walter regarding the soda--he himself
being the bearer of a quantity of that spirit very precious with men on
such occasions, being assisted in its transport by the ever humorous
Mrs Payling, well turned-out as usual, and brimming over with good
humour. Being a widow, with a son in the Indian service, she was
essentially a man's companion as well as being a _chic_ woman. She was
chatting with Mr Batten, while Fred Fenwicke was walking with Connie
and two ladies of the party a little in advance.
At last we all gained the water's edge, and, depositing our loads,
proceeded to examine the laird's boat, a key of which Mr Batten had
obtained. It was half-full of water, and there were no oars.
After some search a labourer was discovered who knew the spot where the
oars were concealed, and he having pointed them out under a hedge, we
discovered that they were so badly rotted by the weather that there was
scarcely any blade left, and, further, that there were no rowlocks.
Sammy, Godfrey Handsworth, and the two Sales commenced to bale out the
water with drinking-glasses, while the rest of the party, now being very
hungry and thirsty, sat impatiently on the bank watching, and passing
sarcastic remarks upon the slow progress of the work.
At length, however, it was concluded, and some of the provisions were
taken aboard: Sammy being elected coxswain, with the two Sales as
rowers. Then they took in a male volunteer on the trial trip.
"The husbands' boat for Margate!"
"Nice day for a sail!" and "Man the lifeboat!" were among the derisive
shouts and jeers amid which the venturous party put off into the stormy
and rather dangerous waters of the Dee. The course of the boat with
such oars and without rowlocks was necessarily erratic, and the absurd
antics of the rowers and of Sammy as coxswain convulsed us on shore.
Amid-stream the rowers, affecting fatigue, commenced to refresh
themselves upon the provisions which we had sent across, and calmly
lunched, leaving us hungry and empty.
After a long and tempestuous voyage they landed their first freight;
then returned and took a second and a third. In the fourth Wyman and
myself were included, and after running on a mud-bank and having a very
exciting and ludicrous time of it, we at last, laughing merrily, sprang
ashore on that wild, unvisited island, where, according to The Closed
Book, the wonderful emeralds of Lucrezia Borgia had, through centuries,
lain hidden.
Mr Batten assured us that no one had landed there for at least a year
or more; but the instant we gained the shore we turned our first
attention to discovering any traces of those whom we knew were aware of
the old monk's secret in common with ourselves.