SUNDRY DOINGS IN THE MIRK
From Kirkmichael on the train stopped at every station, but no passenger
seemed to leave or arrive at the little platforms white in the moon. At
Dalquharter the case of provisions was safely transferred to the porter
with instructions to take charge of it till it was sent for. During the
next ten minutes Dickson's mind began to work upon his problem with a
certain briskness. It was all nonsense that the law of Scotland could
not be summoned to the defence. The jewels had been safely got rid of,
and who was to dispute their possession? Not Dobson and his crew, who
had no sort of title, and were out for naked robbery. The girl had
spoken of greater dangers from new enemies--kidnapping perhaps. Well,
that was felony, and the police must be brought in. Probably if all were
known the three watchers had criminal records, pages long, filed at
Scotland Yard. The man to deal with that side of the business was Loudon
the factor, and to him he was bound in the first place. He had made a
clear picture in his head of this Loudon--a derelict old country writer,
formal, pedantic, lazy, anxious only to get an unprofitable business off
his hands with the least possible trouble, never going near the place
himself, and ably supported in his lethargy by conceited Edinburgh
Writers to the Signet. "Sich notions of business!" he murmured. "I
wonder that there's a single county family in Scotland no' in the
bankruptcy court!" It was his mission to wake up Mr. James Loudon.
Arrived at Auchenlochan he went first to the Salutation Hotel, a
pretentious place sacred to golfers. There he engaged a bedroom for the
night and, having certain scruples, paid for it in advance. He also had
some sandwiches prepared which he stowed in his pack, and filled his
flask with whisky. "I'm going home to Glasgow by the first train
to-morrow," he told the landlady, "and now I've got to see a friend.
I'll not be back till late." He was assured that there would be no
difficulty about his admittance at any hour, and directed how to find
Mr. Loudon's dwelling.
It was an old house fronting direct on the street, with a fanlight above
the door and a neat brass plate bearing the legend "Mr. James Loudon,
Writer." A lane ran up one side leading apparently to a garden, for the
moonlight showed the dusk of trees. In front was the main street of
Auchenlochan, now deserted save for a single roysterer, and opposite
stood the ancient town house, with arches where the country folk came at
the spring and autumn hiring fairs. Dickson rang the antiquated bell,
and was presently admitted to a dark hall floored with oil-cloth, where
a single gas-jet showed that on one side was the business office and on
the other the living-rooms. Mr. Loudon was at supper, he was told, and
he sent in his card. Almost at once the door at the end on the left
side was flung open and a large figure appeared flourishing a napkin.
"Come in, sir, come in," it cried. "I've just finished a bite of meat.
Very glad to see you. Here, Maggie, what d'you mean by keeping the
gentleman standing in that outer darkness?"
The room into which Dickson was ushered was small and bright, with a red
paper on the walls, a fire burning and a big oil lamp in the centre of a
table. Clearly Mr. Loudon had no wife, for it was a bachelor's den in
every line of it. A cloth was laid on a corner of the table, on which
stood the remnants of a meal. Mr. Loudon seemed to have been about to
make a brew of punch, for a kettle simmered by the fire, and lemons and
sugar flanked a pot-bellied whisky decanter of the type that used to be
known as a "mason's mell."
The sight of the lawyer was a surprise to Dickson and dissipated his
notions of an aged and lethargic incompetent. Mr. Loudon was a strongly
built man who could not be a year over fifty. He had a ruddy face,
clean-shaven except for a grizzled moustache; his grizzled hair was
thinning round the temples; but his skin was unwrinkled and his eyes had
all the vigour of youth. His tweed suit was well cut, and the buff
waistcoat with flaps and pockets and the plain leather watchguard hinted
at the sportsman, as did the half-dozen racing prints on the wall. A
pleasant high-coloured figure he made; his voice had the frank ring due
to much use out of doors; and his expression had the singular candour
which comes from grey eyes with large pupils and a narrow iris.
"Sit down, Mr. McCunn. Take the arm-chair by the fire. I've had a wire
from Glendonan and Speirs about you. I was just going to have a glass of
toddy--a grand thing for these uncertain April nights. You'll join me?
No? Well, you'll smoke anyway. There's cigars at your elbow. Certainly,
a pipe if you like. This is Liberty Hall."
Dickson found some difficulty in the part for which he had cast himself.
He had expected to condescend upon an elderly inept and give him sharp
instructions; instead he found himself faced with a jovial, virile
figure which certainly did not suggest incompetence. It has been
mentioned already that he had always great difficulty in looking any one
in the face, and this difficulty was intensified when he found himself
confronted with bold and candid eyes. He felt abashed and a little
nervous.
"I've come to see you about Huntingtower House," he began.
"I know. So Glendonan's informed me. Well, I'm very glad to hear it. The
place has been standing empty far too long, and that is worse for a new
house than an old house. There's not much money to spend on it either,
unless we can make sure of a good tenant. How did you hear about it?"
"I was taking a bit holiday and I spent a night at Dalquharter with an
old auntie of mine. You must understand I've just retired from business,
and I'm thinking of finding a country place. I used to have the big
provision shop in Mearns Street--now the United Supply Stores, Limited.
You've maybe heard of it?"
The other bowed and smiled. "Who hasn't? The name of Dickson McCunn is
known far beyond the city of Glasgow."
Dickson was not insensible of the flattery, and he continued with more
freedom. "I took a walk and got a glisk of the House and I liked the
look of it. You see, I want a quiet bit a good long way from a town, and
at the same time a house with all modern conveniences. I suppose
Huntingtower has that?"
"When it was built fifteen years ago it was considered a model--six
bathrooms, its own electric light plant, steam heating, an independent
boiler for hot water, the whole bag of tricks. I won't say but what some
of these contrivances will want looking to, for the place has been some
time empty, but there can be nothing very far wrong, and I can guarantee
that the bones of the house are good."
"Well, that's all right," said Dickson. "I don't mind spending a little
money myself if the place suits me. But of that, of course, I'm not yet
certain, for I've only had a glimpse of the outside. I wanted to get
into the policies, but a man at the lodge wouldn't let me. They're a
mighty uncivil lot down there."
"I'm very sorry to hear that," said Mr. Loudon in a tone of concern.
"Ay, and if I take the place I'll stipulate that you get rid of the
lodgekeepers."
"There won't be the slightest difficulty about that, for they are only
weekly tenants. But I'm vexed to hear they were uncivil. I was glad to
get any tenant that offered, and they were well recommended to me."
"They're foreigners."
"One of them is--a Belgian refugee that Lady Morewood took an interest
in. But the other--Spittal, they call him--I thought he was Scotch."
"He's not that. And I don't like the innkeeper either. I would want him
shifted."
Mr. Loudon laughed. "I dare say Dobson is a rough diamond. There's worse
folk in the world all the same, but I don't think he will want to stay.
He only went there to pass the time till he heard from his brother in
Vancouver. He's a roving spirit, and will be off overseas again."
"That's all right!" said Dickson, who was beginning to have horrid
suspicions that he might be on a wild-goose chase after all. "Well, the
next thing is for me to see over the House."
"Certainly. I'd like to go with you myself. What day would suit you? Let
me see. This is Friday. What about this day week?"
"I was thinking of to-morrow. Since I'm down in these parts I may as
well get the job done."
Mr. Loudon looked puzzled. "I quite see that. But I don't think it's
possible. You see, I have to consult the owners and get their consent to
a lease. Of course they have the general purpose of letting, but--well,
they're queer folk the Kennedys," and his face wore the half-embarrassed
smile of an honest man preparing to make confidences. "When poor Mr.
Quentin died, the place went to his two sisters in joint ownership. A
very bad arrangement, as you can imagine. It isn't entailed, and I've
always been pressing them to sell, but so far they won't hear of it.
They both married Englishmen, so it will take a day or two to get in
touch with them. One, Mrs. Stukely, lives in Devonshire. The other--Miss
Katie that was--married Sir Francis Morewood, the general, and I hear
that she's expected back in London next Monday from the Riviera. I'll
wire and write first thing to-morrow morning. But you must give me a day
or two."
Dickson felt himself waking up. His doubts about his own sanity were
dissolving, for, as his mind reasoned, the factor was prepared to do
anything he asked--but only after a week had gone. What he was concerned
with was the next few days.
"All the same I would like to have a look at the place to-morrow, even
if nothing comes of it."
Mr. Loudon looked seriously perplexed. "You will think me absurdly
fussy, Mr. McCunn, but I must really beg of you to give up the idea. The
Kennedys, as I have said, are--well, not exactly like other people, and
I have the strictest orders not to let any one visit the house without
their express leave. It sounds a ridiculous rule, but I assure you it's
as much as my job is worth to disregard it."
"D'you mean to say not a soul is allowed inside the House?"
"Not a soul."
"Well, Mr. Loudon, I'm going to tell you a queer thing, which I think
you ought to know. When I was taking a walk the other night--your
Belgian wouldn't let me into the policies, but I went down the
glen--what's that they call it? the Garple Dean--I got round the back
where the old ruin stands and I had a good look at the House. I tell you
there was somebody in it."
"It would be Spittal, who acts as caretaker."
"It was not. It was a woman. I saw her on the verandah."
The candid grey eyes were looking straight at Dickson, who managed to
bring his own shy orbs to meet them. He thought that he detected a shade
of hesitation. Then Mr. Loudon got up from his chair and stood on the
hearthrug looking down at his visitor. He laughed, with some
embarrassment, but ever so pleasantly.
"I really don't know what you will think of me, Mr. McCunn. Here are
you, coming to do us all a kindness, and lease that infernal white
elephant, and here have I been steadily hoaxing you for the last five
minutes. I humbly ask your pardon. Set it down to the loyalty of an old
family lawyer. Now, I am going to tell you the truth and take you into
our confidence, for I know we are safe with you. The Kennedys
are--always have been--just a wee bit queer. Old inbred stock, you know.
They will produce somebody like poor Mr. Quentin, who was as sane as you
or me, but as a rule in every generation there is one member of the
family--or more--who is just a little bit----" and he tapped his
forehead. "Nothing violent, you understand, but just not quite 'wise and
world-like,' as the old folk say. Well, there's a certain old lady, an
aunt of Mr. Quentin and his sisters, who has always been about tenpence
in the shilling. Usually she lives at Bournemouth, but one of her crazes
is a passion for Huntingtower, and the Kennedys have always humoured her
and had her to stay every spring. When the House was shut up that became
impossible, but this year she took such a craving to come back, that
Lady Morewood asked me to arrange it. It had to be kept very quiet, but
the poor old thing is perfectly harmless, and just sits and knits with
her maid and looks out of the seaward windows. Now you see why I can't
take you there to-morrow. I have to get rid of the old lady, who in any
case was travelling south early next week. Do you understand?"
"Perfectly," said Dickson with some fervour. He had learned exactly what
he wanted. The factor was telling him lies. Now he knew where to place
Mr. Loudon.
He always looked back upon what followed as a very creditable piece of
play-acting for a man who had small experience in that line.
"Is the old lady a wee wizened body, with a black cap and something like
a white cashmere shawl round her shoulders?"
"You describe her exactly," Mr. Loudon replied eagerly.
"That would explain the foreigners."
"Of course. We couldn't have natives who would make the thing the clash
of the countryside."
"Of course not. But it must be a difficult job to keep a business like
that quiet. Any wandering policeman might start inquiries. And supposing
the lady became violent?"
"Oh, there's no fear of that. Besides, I've a position in this
county--Deputy Fiscal and so forth--and a friend of the Chief Constable.
I think I may be trusted to do a little private explaining if the need
arose."
"I see," said Dickson. He saw, indeed, a great deal which would give him
food for furious thought. "Well, I must just possess my soul in
patience. Here's my Glasgow address, and I look to you to send me a
telegram whenever you're ready for me. I'm at the Salutation to-night,
and go home to-morrow with the first train. Wait a minute"--and he
pulled out his watch--"there's a train stops at Auchenlochan at 10.17. I
think I'll catch that.... Well, Mr. Loudon, I'm very much obliged to
you, and I'm glad to think that it'll no be long till we renew our
acquaintance."
The factor accompanied him to the door, diffusing geniality. "Very
pleased indeed to have met you. A pleasant journey and a quick return."
The street was still empty. Into a corner of the arches opposite the
moon was shining, and Dickson retired thither to consult his map of the
neighbourhood. He found what he wanted and, as he lifted his eyes,
caught sight of a man coming down the causeway. Promptly he retired into
the shadow and watched the new-comer. There could be no mistake about
the figure; the bulk, the walk, the carriage of the head marked it for
Dobson. The inn-keeper went slowly past the factor's house; then halted
and retraced his steps; then, making sure that the street was empty,
turned into the side lane which led to the garden.
This was what sailors call a cross-bearing, and strengthened Dickson's
conviction. He delayed no longer, but hurried down the side street by
which the north road leaves the town.
He had crossed the bridge of Lochan and was climbing the steep ascent
which led to the heathy plateau separating that stream from the Garple
before he had got his mind quite clear on the case. _First_, Loudon was
in the plot, whatever it was; responsible for the details of the girl's
imprisonment, but not the main author. That must be the Unknown who was
still to come, from whom Spidel took his orders. Dobson was probably
Loudon's special henchman, working directly under him. _Secondly_, the
immediate object had been the jewels, and they were happily safe in the
vaults of the incorruptible Mackintosh. But, _third_--and this only on
Saskia's evidence--the worst danger to her began with the arrival of the
Unknown. What could that be? Probably, kidnapping. He was prepared to
believe anything of people like Bolsheviks. And, _fourth_, this danger
was due within the next day or two. Loudon had been quite willing to let
him into the house and to sack all the watchers within a week from that
date. The natural and right thing was to summon the aid of the law,
but, _fifth_, that would be a slow business with Loudon able to put
spokes in the wheels and befog the authorities, and the mischief would
be done before a single policeman showed his face in Dalquharter.
Therefore, _sixth_, he and Heritage must hold the fort in the meantime,
and he would send a wire to his lawyer, Mr. Caw, to get to work with the
constabulary. _Seventh_, he himself was probably free from suspicion in
both Loudon's and Dobson's minds as a harmless fool. But that freedom
would not survive his reappearance in Dalquharter. He could say, to be
sure, that he had come back to see his auntie, but that would not
satisfy the watchers, since, so far as they knew, he was the only man
outside the gang who was aware that people were dwelling in the House.
They would not tolerate his presence in the neighbourhood.
He formulated his conclusions as if it were an ordinary business deal,
and rather to his surprise was not conscious of any fear. As he pulled
together the belt of his waterproof he felt the reassuring bulges in its
pockets which were his pistol and cartridges. He reflected that it must
be very difficult to miss with a pistol if you fired it at, say, three
yards, and if there was to be shooting that would be his range. Mr.
McCunn had stumbled on the precious truth that the best way to be rid of
quaking knees is to keep a busy mind.
He crossed the ridge of the plateau and looked down on the Garple glen.
There were the lights of Dalquharter--or rather a single light, for the
inhabitants went early to bed. His intention was to seek quarters with
Mrs. Morran, when his eye caught a gleam in a hollow of the moor a
little to the east. He knew it for the camp-fire around which Dougal's
warriors bivouacked. The notion came to him to go there instead, and
hear the news of the day before entering the cottage. So he crossed the
bridge, skirted a plantation of firs, and scrambled through the broom
and heather in what he took to be the right direction.
The moon had gone down, and the quest was not easy. Dickson had come to
the conclusion that he was on the wrong road, when he was summoned by a
voice which seemed to arise out of the ground.
"Who goes there?"
"What's that you say?"
"Who goes there?" The point of a pole was held firmly against his chest.
"I'm Mr. McCunn, a friend of Dougal's."
"Stand, friend." The shadow before him whistled and another shadow
appeared. "Report to the Chief that there's a man here, name o' McCunn,
seekin' for him."
Presently the messenger returned with Dougal and a cheap lantern which
he flashed in Dickson's face.
"Oh, it's you," said that leader, who had his jaw bound up as if he had
the toothache. "What are ye doing back here?"
"To tell the truth, Dougal," was the answer, "I couldn't stay away. I
was fair miserable when I thought of Mr. Heritage and you laddies left
to yourselves. My conscience simply wouldn't let me stop at home, so
here I am."
Dougal grunted, but clearly he approved, for from that moment he treated
Dickson with a new respect. Formerly when he had referred to him at all
it had been as "auld McCunn." Now it was "Mister McCunn." He was given
rank as a worthy civilian ally.
The bivouac was a cheerful place in the wet night. A great fire of pine
roots and old paling posts hissed in the fine rain, and around it
crouched several urchins busy making oatmeal cakes in the embers. On one
side a respectable lean-to had been constructed by nailing a plank to
two fir-trees, running sloping poles thence to the ground, and thatching
the whole with spruce branches and heather. On the other side two small
dilapidated home-made tents were pitched. Dougal motioned his companion
into the lean-to, where they had some privacy from the rest of the band.
"Well, what's your news?" Dickson asked. He noticed that the Chieftain
seemed to have been comprehensively in the wars, for apart from the
bandage on his jaw, he had numerous small cuts on his brow, and a great
rent in one of his shirt sleeves. Also he appeared to be going lame, and
when he spoke a new gap was revealed in his large teeth.
"Things," said Dougal solemnly, "has come to a bonny cripus. This very
night we've been in a battle."
He spat fiercely, and the light of war burned in his eyes.
"It was the tinklers from the Garple Dean. They yokit on us about seven
o'clock, just at the darkenin'. First they tried to bounce us. We
weren't wanted here, they said, so we'd better clear. I telled them that
it was them that wasn't wanted. 'Awa' to Finnick,' says I. 'D'ye think
we take our orders from dirty ne'er-do-weels like you?' 'By God,' says
they, 'we'll cut your lights out,' and then the battle started."
"What happened?" Dickson asked excitedly.
"They were four muckle men against six laddies, and they thought they
had an easy job! Little they kenned the Gorbals Die-Hards! I had been
expectin' something of the kind, and had made my plans. They first tried
to pu' down our tents and burn them. I let them get within five yards,
reservin' my fire. The first volley--stones from our hands and our
catties--halted them, and before they could recover three of us had got
hold o' burnin' sticks frae the fire and were lammin' into them. We
kinnled their claes, and they fell back swearin' and stampin' to get the
fire out. Then I gave the word and we were on them wi' our poles, usin'
the points accordin' to instructions. My orders was to keep a good
distance, for if they had grippit one o' us he'd ha' been done for. They
were roarin' mad by now, and twae had out their knives, but they
couldn't do muckle, for it was gettin' dark, and they didn't ken the
ground like us, and were aye trippin' and tumblin'. But they pressed us
hard, and one o' them landed me an awful clype on the jaw. They were
still aiming at our tents, and I saw that if they got near the fire
again it would be the end o' us. So I blew my whistle for Thomas Yownie,
who was in command o' the other half of us, with instructions to fall
upon their rear. That brought Thomas up, and the tinklers had to face
round about and fight a battle on two fronts. We charged them and they
broke, and the last seen o' them they were coolin' their burns in the
Garple."
"Well done, man. Had you many casualties?"
"We're a' a wee thing battered, but nothing to hurt. I'm the worst, for
one o' them had a grip o' me for about three seconds, and Gosh! he was
fierce."
"They're beaten off for the night, anyway?"
"Ay, for the night. But they'll come back, never fear. That's why I said
that things had come to a cripus."
"What's the news from the House?"
"A quiet day, and no word o' Lean or Dobson."
Dickson nodded. "They were hunting me."
"Mr. Heritage has gone to bide in the Hoose. They were watchin' the
Garple Dean, so I took him round by the Laver foot and up the rocks.
He's a grand climber, yon. We fund a road up the rocks and got in by the
verandy. Did ye ken that the lassie had a pistol? Well, she has, and it
seems that Mr. Heritage is a good shot wi' a pistol, so there's some
hope thereaways.... Are the jools safe?"
"Safe in the bank. But the jools were not the main thing."
Dougal nodded. "So I was thinkin'. The lassie wasn't muckle the easier
for gettin' rid o' them. I didn't just quite understand what she said to
Mr. Heritage, for they were aye wanderin' into foreign langwidges, but
it seems she's terrible feared o' somebody that may turn up any moment.
What's the reason I can't say. She's maybe got a secret, or maybe it's
just that she's ower bonny."
"That's the trouble," said Dickson and proceeded to recount his
interview with the factor, to which Dougal gave close attention. "Now
the way I read the thing is this. There's a plot to kidnap that lady,
for some infernal purpose, and it depends on the arrival of some person
or persons, and it's due to happen in the next day or two. If we try to
work it through the police alone, they'll beat us, for Loudon will
manage to hang the business up till it's too late. So we must take up
the job ourselves. We must stand a siege, Mr. Heritage and me and you
laddies, and for that purpose we'd better all keep together. It won't be
extra easy to carry her off from all of us, and if they do manage it
we'll stick to their heels.... Man, Dougal, isn't it a queer thing that
whiles law-abiding folk have to make their own laws?... So my plan is
that the lot of us get into the House and form a garrison. If you don't,
the tinklers will come back and you'll no' beat them in the daylight."
"I doubt no'," said Dougal. "But what about our meat?"
"We must lay in provisions. We'll get what we can from Mrs. Morran, and
I've left a big box of fancy things at Dalquharter station. Can you
laddies manage to get it down here?"
Dougal reflected. "Ay, we can hire Mrs. Sempill's powny, the same that
fetched our kit."
"Well, that's your job to-morrow. See, I'll write you a line to the
station-master. And will you undertake to get it some way into the
House?"
"There's just the one road open--by the rocks. It'll have to be done. It
_can_ be done."
"And I've another job. I'm writing this telegram to a friend in Glasgow
who will put a spoke in Mr. Loudon's wheel. I want one of you to go to
Kirkmichael to send it from the telegraph office there."
Dougal placed the wire to Mr. Caw in his bosom. "What about yourself? We
want somebody outside to keep his eyes open. It's bad strawtegy to cut
off your communications."
Dickson thought for a moment. "I believe you're right. I believe the
best plan for me is to go back to Mrs. Morran's as soon as the old
body's like to be awake. You can always get at me there, for it's easy
to slip into her back kitchen without anybody in the village seeing
you.... Yes, I'll do that, and you'll come and report developments to
me. And now I'm for a bite and a pipe. It's hungry work travelling the
country in the small hours."
"I'm going to introjuice ye to the rest o' us," said Dougal. "Here,
men!" he called, and four figures rose from the side of the fire. As
Dickson munched a sandwich he passed in review the whole company of the
Gorbals Die-Hards, for the pickets were also brought in, two others
taking their places. There was Thomas Yownie, the Chief of Staff, with a
wrist wound up in the handkerchief which he had borrowed from his neck.
There was a burly lad who wore trousers much too large for him, and who
was known as Peer Pairson, a contraction presumably for Peter Paterson.
After him came a lean tall boy who answered to the name of Napoleon.
There was a midget of a child, desperately sooty in the face either from
battle or from fire-tending, who was presented as Wee Jaikie. Last came
the picket who had held his pole at Dickson's chest, a sandy-haired
warrior with a snub nose and the mouth and jaw of a pug-dog. He was Old
Bill, or in Dougal's parlance "Auld Bull."
The Chieftain viewed his scarred following with a grim content. "That's
a tough lot for ye, Mr. McCunn. Used a' their days wi' sleepin' in
coalrees and dunnies and dodgin' the polis. Ye'll no beat the Gorbals
Die-Hards."
"You're right, Dougal," said Dickson. "There's just the six of you. If
there were a dozen, I think this country would be needing some new kind
of a government."