Brothers & Sisters - John & Anna Buchan Edition (Collection of Their Greatest Works). Buchan JohnЧитать онлайн книгу.
a moment brought spirit and matter into exquisite unison. “We receive but what we give,” says the poet, “and in our life alone doth Nature live.” Such a mind was Mr McCunn’s, such a maker of idylls was the laird of Blaweary. He alone of men perceived the romance into which he had stumbled, and by perceiving created it. Cogitavit, ergo fuit.
Prince John did not go to bed on Thursday afternoon as Jaikie had advised. On the contrary he played bridge after dinner till close on midnight, and was with difficulty restrained from convoying Robin Charvill on his road to Castle Gay. But next morning he stayed in bed. It was a mild bright day of late autumn; the pheasants were shouting in the woods; the roads were alive with voters hastening to Portaway; Charvill was to be observed, by those who were meant to observe him, sitting on a seat on the Castle terrace in the royal white waterproof: and in the midst of that pleasant bustle of life Prince John was kept firmly between the sheets at the Mains, smoking many cigarettes and reading a detective novel provided by Alison. The cause of this docility was Dickson, who came over after breakfast and took up position in the sitting-room adjoining the royal bed-chamber. It was his duty to see the Prince out of the country, and he was undertaking it in a business spirit.
Jaikie, his headquarters the Green Tree, spent a busy morning over transport. Wilkie, the mechanic at the Hydropathic, was his chief instrument, and he was also his intelligence officer. He brought news of the Evallonians. Allins had been having a good many conferences in the town, he reported, chiefly in a low class of public house. He had also hired two cars for the evening—the cars only, for his party preferred to find the drivers. “He’s got the Station Hotel Daimler,” said Wilkie, “and young Macvittie’s Bentley. They’ll be for a long run, nae doot. Maybe they’re leaving the place, for Tam Grierson tells me they’ve got a’ their bags packed and have settled their bills… I’ve got our Rolls for you. Ay, and I’ve got my orders clear in my mind. I bring the Mains folk down to the Ball, and syne I’m at the hotel at ten-thirty to take the young gentleman doun to Rinks, and back again to take the leddies home… ‘Deed, yes. I’ll haud my tongue, and ye can see for yersel’ I’m speirin’ nae questions. For this day and this nicht I’m J. Galt’s man and naebody else’s.” He laid a confidential and reassuring finger against his nose.
The one incident of note on that day was Jaikie’s meeting with Tibbets. He ran against him in the Eastgate, and, on a sudden inspiration, invited him to the Green Tree and stood him luncheon—Mrs Fairweather’s plain cooking, far better than the pretentious fare of the Station Hotel.
“Mr Tibbets,” he said solemnly, when his guest had stayed his hunger, “you’re proud of your profession, aren’t you?”
“You may say so,” was the answer.
“And you’re jealous of its honour? I mean that, while you are always trying to get the better of other papers, yet if any attack is made on the Press as a whole, you all stand together like a stone wall.”
“That’s so. We’re very proud of our solidarity. You get a Government proposing a dirty deal, and we’d smash them in twenty-four hours.”
“I thought so. You’re the most powerful trade-union on earth.”
“Just about it.”
“Then, listen to me. I’m going to confess something. That walking-tour we told you about was all moonshine. Dougal—he’s my friend—is a journalist on one of the Craw papers, and he’s been at Castle Gay for the last week. I’m not a journalist, but there was rather a mix-up and I had to lend a hand… You scored heavily over your interview with Craw.”
“My biggest scoop so far,” said Tibbets modestly.
“Well, it was all bogus, you know. You never saw Craw. You saw another man, a friend of mine, who happened to be staying at the Castle. He didn’t know he was being interviewed, so he talked freely… You had a big success, because your readers thought Mr Craw was recanting his opinions, and you emphasised it very respectfully in no less than three leaders… Naturally, Craw’s pretty sore.”
Tibbets’s jaw had fallen and consternation looked out of his eyes.
“He can’t repudiate it,” he stammered.
“Oh yes, he can. He wasn’t in the house at the moment. He’s there now, but he wasn’t last Sunday.”
“Where was he?”
“He was with me,” said Jaikie. “Don’t make any mistake. He has a perfectly watertight alibi. He’s only got to publish the facts in his own papers to make the Wire look particularly foolish.”
“And me,” said Tibbets in a hollow voice. “They’ve just raised my screw. Now they’ll fire me.”
“Probably,” said Jaikie coolly. “It will be the hoax of the year, and the Wire is sensitive about hoaxes. It has been had lots of times… But you may ask why the thing hasn’t been disavowed already? This is Friday, and your interview appeared last Monday. A telegram to the View signed with Craw’s private code-word would have done the trick. That telegram was written out, but it wasn’t sent. Can you guess why?”
Tibbets, sunk in gloom, looked far from guessing.
“I stopped it. And the reason was because we want your help. What’s more, that telegram need never be sent. The interview can remain unrepudiated and your own reputation untarnished. It has done a good deal of harm to Craw, but he’ll say no more about it if—”
“If?” came Tibbets’s sharp question.
“If you give us a hand in an altogether different matter. Craw is being bullied by a gang of foreigners—Evallonians—Evallonian Republicans. That would be grand stuff for the Wire, wouldn’t it? Yes, but not a word must appear about it unless it is absolutely necessary, for, you see, this is a case for your famous solidarity. A portion of the British Press is being threatened, and in defence the rest of it must stand shoulder to shoulder. You’re the only representative of the rest on the spot; and I want you to come with me to-night to Castle Gay to see what happens. There may be no need for your help—in which case you must swear that you’ll never breathe a word about the business. On the other hand, you may be badly wanted. In Craw’s interest it may be necessary to show up a foreign plot to intimidate a British newspaper proprietor, and between the Wire and the View we ought to make a pretty good effort. What do you say?”
Tibbets looked at Jaikie with eyes in which relief was mingled with disappointment.
“Of course I agree,” he said. “I promise that, unless you give me the word, I will wipe anything I may see or hear clean out of my memory. I promise that, if you give me the word, I will put my back into making the highest and holiest row in the history of the British Press… But, Mr Galt, I wish you hadn’t brought in that interview as the price of my help. I needn’t tell you I’ll be thankful if it is allowed to stand. It means a lot to me. But, supposing Craw disowned it straight away, I’d still be glad to come in on to-night’s show. I’ve got my professional standards like other people, and I’m honest about them. If Craw’s independence is threatened by somebody outside our trade, then I’m out to defend him, though he were doing his damnedest to break me. Have you got that?”
“I’ve got it,” said Jaikie, “and I apologise. You see I’m not a journalist myself.”
Dickson McCunn spent the day, as he would have phrased it, “in waiting.” He was both courtier and business man. Middlemas was left to see to the packing of the Prince’s kit. Dickson’s was no menial task; it was for him to act for one day as Chief of Staff to a great man in extremity. He occupied his leisure in investigating Mrs Brisbane-Brown’s reference library, where he conned the history of the royal house of Evallonia. There could be no doubt of it; the blood of Stuart and Sobieski ran in the veins of the young gentleman now engaged in bed with a detective novel and a box of cigarettes.
He lunched alone with Mrs Brisbane-Brown. Alison, it appeared, was at the Castle, to which late the night before Mr Craw had also been secretly conveyed. In the afternoon Dickson fell asleep, and later was given