SIR EDWARD LEITHEN'S MYSTERIES - Complete Series. Buchan JohnЧитать онлайн книгу.
Sir Erchibald,” said the butler. “There’s a wee laddie comes up here selling haddies verra near every day.”
“Bless my soul, Sime. I thought no one came up here. You know my orders.”
“This is just a tinker laddie, Sir Erchibald. He sleeps in a cairt down about Larrigmore. He just comes wi’ his powny and awa’ back, and doesna’ bide twae minutes. Mistress Lithgow was anxious for haddies, for she said gentlemen got awfu’ tired of saumon and trout.’
“All right, Sime. I’ll speak to Mrs. Lithgow. She’d better tell him we don’t want any more. By the way, we ought to see Lithgow after dinner. Tell him to come to the smoking-room.”
When Sime had put the port on the table and withdrawn, Leithen lifted up his voice.
“Look here, before we get too deep into this thing, let’s make sure that we know where we are. We’re all three turned up here—why, I don’t know. But there’s still time to go back. We realise now what we’re in for. Are you clear in your minds that you want to go on?”
“I am,” said Lamancha doggedly. “I’m out for a cure. Hang it, I feel a better man already.”
“I suppose your profession makes you take risks,” said Leithen dryly, “Mine doesn’t. What about you, John?”
Palliser-Yeates shifted uneasily in his chair. “I don’t want to go on. I feel no kind of keenness, and my feet are rather cold. And yet—you know—I should feel rather ashamed to turn back.”
Archie uplifted his turbaned head. “That’s how I feel, though I’m not on myself in this piece. We’ve given hostages, and the credit of John Macnab is at stake. We’ve dared old Raden and young Bandicott, and we can’t decently cry off. Besides, I’m advertised as a smallpox patient, and it would be a pity to make a goat of myself for nothing. Mind you, I stand to lose as much as anybody, if we bungle things.”
Leithen had the air of bowing to the inevitable. “Very well, that’s settled. But I wish to Heaven I saw myself safely out of it. My only inducement to go on is to score off that bounder Claybody. He and his attorney’s letter put my hackles up.”
In the smoking-room Lamancha busied himself with preparing three slips of paper and writing on them three names.
“We must hold a council of war,” he said. “First of all, we have taken measures to keep our presence here secret. My man Shapp is all right. What about your people, Archie?”
“Sime and Carfrae have been warned, and you may count on them. They’re the class of lads that ask no questions. So are the Lithgows. We’ve no neighbours, and they’re anyway not the gossiping kind, and I’ve put them on their Bible oath. I fancy they think the reason is politics. They’re a trifle scared of you, Charles, and your reputation, for they’re not accustomed to hidin’ Cabinet Ministers in the scullery. Lithgow’s a fine crusted old Tory.”
“Good. Well, we’d better draw for beats, and get Lithgow in.”
The figure that presently appeared before them was a small man, about fifty years of age, with a great breadth of shoulder and a massive face decorated with a wispish tawny beard. His mouth had the gravity and primness of an elder of the Kirk, but his shrewd blue eyes were not grave. The son of a Tweeddale shepherd who had emigrated years before to a cheviot farm in Sutherland, he was in every line and feature the Lowlander, and his speech had still the broad intonation of the Borders. But all his life had been spent in the Highlands on this and that deer forest, and as a young stalker he had been picked out by Jim Tarras for his superior hill craft. To Archie his chief recommendation was that he was a passionate naturalist, who was as eager to stalk a rare bird with a field-glass as to lead a rifle up to deer. Other traits will appear in the course of this narrative; but it may be noted here that he was a voracious reader and in the long winter nights had amassed a store of varied knowledge, which was patently improving his master’s mind. Archie was accustomed to quote him for most of his views on matters other than ornithology and war.
“Do you mind going over to that corner and shuffling these slips? Now, John, you draw first.”
Mr. Palliser-Yeates extracted a slip from Lithgow’s massive hand.
“Glenraden,” he cried. “Whew, I’m for it this time.”
Leithen drew next. His slip read Strathlarrig.
“Thank God, I’ve got old Claybody,” said Lamancha. “Unless you want him very badly, Ned?”
Leithen shook his head. “I’m content. It would be a bad start to change the draw.”
“Sit down, Wattie,” said Archie. “Here’s a dram for you. We’ve summoned you to a consultation. I daresay you’ve been wonderin’ what all this fuss about secrecy has meant. I’m going to tell you. You were with Jim Tarras, and you’ve often told me about his poachin’. Well, these three gentlemen want to have a try at the same game. They’re tired of ordinary sport, and want something more excitin’. It wouldn’t do, of course, for them to appear under their real names, so they’ve invented a nom de guerre—that’s a bogus name, you know. They call themselves collectively, as you might say, John Macnab. John Macnab writes from London to three proprietors, same as Jim Tarras used to do, and proposes to take a deer or a salmon on their property between certain dates. There’s a copy of the letter, and here are the replies that arrived tonight. Just you read ‘em.”
Lithgow, without moving a muscle of his face, took the documents. He nodded approvingly over the original letter. He smiled broadly at Colonel Raden’s epistle, puzzled a little at Mr. Bandicott’s, and wrinkled his 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. Pallisers-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 was no possible to use the rifle.”