SIR EDWARD LEITHEN'S MYSTERIES - Complete Series. Buchan JohnЧитать онлайн книгу.
It warms my heart to think that there’s such a sportsman left alive. It’s pure Robin Hood.”
Leithen laughed, “I back him too. Are you going to publish that story?”
“Yes, why not? I’ve written most of it and it goes by the afternoon post.” Mr Crossby pulled out a note-book and fluttered the leaves.
“I call it ‘The Return of Harald Blacktooth.’ Rather neat, I think. The idea is that when they started to dig up the old fellow his spirit reincarnated itself in John Macnab. I hope to have a second instalment, for something’s bound to happen at Strathlarrig to-day or to-morrow. Are you holidaying here, Sir Edward? Crask’s the name of this place, isn’t it? They told me that that mad fellow Roylance owned it.”
Leithen nodded. He was bracing himself for another decision of the same kind as he had taken when he met Fish Benjie. Providence seemed to be forcing him to preserve his incognito only by sharing the secret.
“But, of course,” Mr Crossby went on, “my main business here is the Viking, and I’m keen to find some way to get over Bandicott’s reticence. I don’t want to wait till the day after to-morrow and then come in with the ruck. I wonder…would it be too much to ask you to give me a leg up? I expect you know the Bandicotts?”
“Curiously enough, I don’t. I am not sure how far I can help you, Mr Crossby, but I rather think you can help me. Are you by any happy chance a long-distance runner?”
The journalist opened his eyes. “Well, I used to be. South London Harriers, you know. And I’m in fairly good condition at present after ten days on the Coolin rocks.”
“Well, if I can’t give you a story, I think I can put you in the way of an adventure. Will you come up to Crask to luncheon and we’ll talk it over.”
VII.
THE OLD ETONIAN TRAMP
Sir Archie got himself into the somewhat ancient dress-coat which was the best he had at Crask, and about half-past seven started his Hispana (a car in which his friends would not venture with Archie as driver) down the long hill to the gates of Strathlarrig. He was aware that somewhere in the haugh above the bridge was Leithen, but the only figure visible was that of Jimsie, the Strathlarrig gillie, who was moodily prowling about the upper end. As he passed the Wood of Larrigmore Benjie’s old pony was grazing at tether, and the old cart rested on its shafts; the embers of a fire still glowed among the pine-needles, but there was no sign of Benjie. He was admitted after a parley by Mactavish the lodge-keeper, and when he reached the door of the house he observed a large limousine being driven off to the back premises by a very smart chauffeur. Only Haripol was likely to own such a car, and Sir Archie reflected with amusement that the host of John Macnab was about to attend a full conclave of the Enemy.
The huge, ugly drawing-room looked almost beautiful in the yellow light of evening. A fire burned on the hearth after the fashion of Highland houses even in summer, and before it stood Mr Acheson Bandicott, with a small clean-shaven man, who was obviously the distinguished Professor in whose honour the feast was given, and Colonel Raden, a picturesque figure in kilt and velvet doublet, who seemed hard put to it to follow what was clearly a technical colloquy. Agatha and Junius were admiring the sunset in the west window, and Janet was talking to a blond young man who seemed possessed of a singularly penetrating voice.
Sir Archie was unknown to most of the company, and when his name was announced everyone except the Professor turned towards him with a lively curiosity. Old Mr Bandicott was profuse in his welcome, Junius no less cordial, Colonel Raden approving, for indeed it was not in human nature to be cold towards so friendly a being as the Laird of Crask. Sir Archie was apologetic for his social misfeasances, congratulatory about Harald Blacktooth, eager to atone for the past by an exuberant neighbourliness. “Been havin’ a rotten time with the toothache,” he told his host. “I roost up alone in my little barrack and keep company with birds…Bit of a naturalist, you know…Yes, sir, quite fit again, but my leg will never be much to boast of.”
Colonel Raden appraised the lean, athletic figure. “You’ve been our mystery man, Sir Archibald. I’m almost sorry to meet you, for we lose our chief topic of discussion. You’re fond of stalking, they tell me. When are you coming to kill a stag at Glenraden?”
“When will you ask me?” Sir Archie laughed. “I’m still fairly good on the hill, but just now I’m sittin’ indoors all day tuggin’ at my hair and tryin’ to compose a speech.”
Colonel Raden’s face asked for explanations.
“Day after to-morrow in Muirtown. Big Unionist meetin’ and I’ve got to start the ball. It’s jolly hard to know what to talk about, for I’ve a pretty high average of ignorance about everything. But I’ve decided to have a shot at foreign policy. You see, Charles—” Sir Archie stopped in a fright. He had been within an ace of giving the show away.
“Of course. ‘Pon my soul I had forgotten that you were our candidate. It’s an uphill fight I’m afraid. The people in these parts, sir, are the most obstinate reactionaries on the face of the globe; but they’ve been voting Liberal ever since the days of John Knox.”
Mr Bandicott regarded Sir Archie with interest.
“So you’re standing for Parliament,” he said. “Few things impress me more in Great Britain than the way young men take up public life as if it were the natural coping-stone to their education. We have no such tradition, and we feel the absence of it. Junius would as soon think of running for Congress as of keeping a faro-saloon. Now I wonder, Sir Archibald, what induced you to take this step?”
But Sir Archie was gone, for he had seen the beckoning eyes of Janet Raden. That young woman, ever since she had heard that the Laird of Crask was coming to dinner, had looked forward to this occasion as her culminating triumph. He had been her confidant about the desperate John Macnab, and from her he must learn the tale of her victory. Her pleasure was increased by the consciousness that she was looking her best, for she know that her black gown was a good French model and well set off her delicate colouring. She looked with eyes of friendship on him as he limped across the room, and noted his lean distinction. No other country, she thought, produced this kind of slim, graceful, yet weathered and hard-bitten youth.
“Do you know Mr Claybody?”
Mr Claybody said he was delighted to meet his neighbour again. “It’s years,” he said, “since we met at Ronham. I spend my life in the train now, and never get more than a few days at a time at Haripol. But I’ve managed to secure a month this year to entertain my friends. I was looking forward in any case to seeing you at Muirtown on the 4th. I’ve been helping to organise the show, and I consider it a great score to have got Lamancha. This place had never been properly worked, and with a little efficient organisation we ought to put you in right enough. There’s no doubt Scotland is changing, and you’ll have the tide to help you.”
Mr Claybody was a very splendid person. He looked rather like a large edition of the great Napoleon, for he had the same full fleshy face, and his head was set on a thickish neck. His blond hair was beautifully sleek and his clothes were of a perfection uncommon in September north of the Forth. Not that Mr Claybody was either fat or dandified; he was only what the ballad calls “fair of flesh,” and he employed a good tailor and an assiduous valet. His exact age was thirty-two, and he did not look older, once the observer had got over his curiously sophisticated eyes.
But Sir Archie was giving scant attention to Mr Claybody.
“Have you heard?” Janet broke out. “John Macnab came, saw, and didn’t conquer.’
“I’ve heard nothing else in the last two days.”
“And I was right! He is a gentleman.”
“No? Tell me all about the fellow.” Sir Archie’s interest was perhaps less in the subject than in the animation