Chapter VII. Sundry Doings in the Mirk

Huntingtower

by John Buchan

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 few 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 in the 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 oilcloth, 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, in 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 Glendonans 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 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,
and 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."

Dr. 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 Frances 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 country--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 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 innkeeper
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
evidences--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 pales, 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 souple yin, 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 until it's too late.
So we must take on 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 coal-rees 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."