Next day, the 1st of September, the Scottish Press published a short account of Mr Bandicott’s discovery, and The Scotsman had a leader on it. About noon a spate of telegrams began, and the girl who carried them on a bicycle from Inverlarrig had a weary time of it. The following morning the Press of Britain spread themselves on the subject. The Times had a leader and an interview with a high authority at the British Museum; the Daily Mail had a portrait of Mr Bandicott and a sketch of his past career, a photograph of what purported to be a Viking’s tomb in Norway, and a chatty article on the law of treasure-trove. The Morning Post congratulated the discoverer in the name of science, but lamented in the name of patriotism that the honour should have fallen to an alien – views which led to an interminable controversy in its pages with the secretary of the Pilgrims’ Club and the president of the American Chamber of Commerce. The evening papers had brightly written articles on Strathlarrig, touching on the sport of deer-stalking, Celtic mysticism, the crofter question, and the law dealing with access to mountains. The previous evening, too, the special correspondents had begun to arrive from all points of the compass, so that the little inn of Inverlarrig had people sleeping in its one bathroom and under its dining-room table. By the morning of the 2nd of September the glen had almost doubled its male population.
The morning, after some rain in the night, broke in the thin fog which promised a day of blazing heat. Sir Edward Leithen, taking the air after breakfast, decided that his attempt should be made in the evening, for he wanted the Larrig waters well warmed by the sun for the type of fishing he proposed to follow. Benjie had faithfully reported to him the precautions which the Bandicotts had adopted, and his meditations were not cheerful. With luck he might get a fish, but only by a miracle could he escape unobserved. His plan depended upon the Lang Whang being neglected by the watchers as not worthy of their vigilance, but according to Benjie’s account even the Lang Whang had become a promenade. He had now lost any half-heartedness in the business, and his obstinate soul was as set on victory as ever it had been the case in the Law Courts. For the past four days he had thought of nothing else, – his interest in Palliser-Yeates’s attack on Glenraden had been notably fainter than that of the others; every energy he had of mind and body was centred upon killing a fish that night and carrying it off. With some amusement he reflected that he had dissipated the last atom of his ennui, and he almost regretted that apathy had been exchanged for this violent pre-occupation.
Presently he turned his steps to the arbour to the east of the garden, which forms at once a hiding-place and a watch-tower. There he found his host busied about the preparation of his speech, with the assistance of Lamancha, who was also engaged intermittently in the study of the ordnance map of Haripol.
‘It’s a black look-out for you, Ned,’ said Sir Archie. ‘I hear the Bandicotts have taped off every yard of their water, and have got a man to every three. Benjie says the place only wants a piper or two to be like the Muirtown Highland Gathering. What are you going to do about it?’
‘I’m going to have a try this evening. I can’t chuck in my hand, but the thing’s a stark impossibility. I hoped old Bandicott would be so excited at unearthing the Viking that he would forget about precautions, but he’s as active as a beaver.’
‘That’s the young ‘un. He don’t give a damn for Vikings, but he’s out to protect his fish. You’ve struck the American business mind, my lad, and it’s an awful thing for us casual Britons. I suppose you won’t let me come down and watch you. I’d give a lot to see a scrap between you and that troglodyte Angus.’
At that moment Benjie, wearing the waterproof cape of ceremony, presented himself at the arbour door. He bore a letter which he presented to Sir Archie. The young man read it with a face which was at once perplexed and pleased.
‘It’s from old Bandicott. He says he has got some antiquarian swell – Professor Babwater I think the name is – coming to stay, and he wants me to dine tonight – says the Radens are coming too . . . This is the devil. What had I better do, Charles?’
‘Stay at home. You’ll put your foot in it somehow if you go. The girl who held up old John will be there, and she’s bound to talk about John Macnab, and you’re equally bound to give the show away.’
‘But I haven’t any sort of excuse. Americans are noted for their politeness, and here have I been shutting the door in the face of the poor old chap when he toiled up the hill. He won’t understand it, and people will begin to talk, and that’s the quickest way to blow the gaff. Besides, I’ve got to give up this lie about my ill-health if I’m to appear at Muirtown the day after tomorrow. What do you say, Ned?’
‘I think you’d better go,’ Leithen answered. ‘We can’t have the neighbourhood thinking you are plague-stricken. You’ll be drinking port, while I’m being carted by the gillies into the coal-hole. But for Heaven’s sake, Archie, go canny. That Raden girl will turn you inside out, if you give her a chance. And don’t you try and be clever, whatever happens. If there’s a row and you see me being frog-marched into captivity, don’t trouble to create a diversion. Behave as if you had never seen me in your life before ... You hadn’t heard of John Macnab except from Miss Raden, and you’re desperately keen to hear more, you understand. Play the guileless innocent and rack your brains to think who he can be. Start any hare you like – that he’s D’Annunzio looking for excitement ... or the Poet Laureate ... or an escaped lunatic. And keep it up that you are in delicate health. Oh, and talk politics – they’re safe enough. Babble about the Rally, and how the great Lamancha’s coming up for it all the way from the Borders.’
Archie nodded, with a contented look in his eyes. ‘I’m goin’ to take your advice. Where did you get this note, Benjie? From Mactavish at the lodge? All right, I’ll give you a line to take back with you . . . By the way, Ned, what’s your get-up to-night? I’d better know beforehand in case of accidents.’
‘I’m going to look the basest kind of poaching tramp. I’ve selected my costume from the combined wardrobes of this household, and I can tell you it’s pretty dingy. Mrs Lithgow is at present engaged in clouting the oldest pair of Wattle’s breeks for me ... My only chance is to be a regular ragamuffin, and the worst I need fear then is a rough handling from the gillies. Bandicott, I take it, is not the sort of fellow to want to prosecute. If I’m caught – which is fairly certain – I’ll probably get a drubbing and spend the night in a cellar and be given my breakfast next morning and kicked out. It’s a different matter for you, Charles, with the legally minded Claybody.’
‘What odds are you offerin’?’ Sir Archie asked. ‘John backed himself and I took a tenner off him. What about an even fiver?’
‘I’ll give you three to one in five-pound notes that I win,’ said Leithen grimly. ‘But that’s pride, not conviction.’
‘Done with you, my lad,’ said Sir Archie, and departed to write an acceptance of the invitation to dinner.
Fish Benjie remained behind, and it was clear that he had something to communicate. He caught Lamancha’s eye, who gave him the opening he sought by asking what was the news from Strathlarrig. Benjie had the instinct of the ballad-maker, and would begin his longer discourses with an epic flourish of the ‘Late at e’en drinkin’ the wine’ style.
‘It was at fower o’clock this mornin’ they started,’ he announced, ‘and they’re still comin’.’
‘Coming? Who?’ Leithen asked.
‘Jornalists. The place is crawlin’ wi’ them. I seen six on bicycles and five in cawrs and twa in the Inverlarrig dowgcairt. They’re a’ wantin’ to see auld Bandicott, but auld Bandicott will no see them. Mactavish stops them at the lodge, and speirs what they want, and they gie him cairds wi’ their names prentit, and he sends them up to the hoose, but he’ll no let them enter. Syne the message comes back that the maister will see them the day after the morn, but till then naebody maun put a fit inside the gates.’
‘What happened then?’ Leithen asked with acute interest.
‘It hasna happened – it’s still happenin’! I never in my life heard sic a lot o’ sweer words. Says ane, “Does the auld dotterel think he can defy the British Press? We’ll mak his life no worth leevin’.” Says another, “I’ve come a’ the gait frae London and I’ll no budge till I’ve seen the banes o’ that Viking!” One or twa went back to Inverlarrig, but the feck o’ them just scattered like paitricks. They clamb the wall, and they waded up the water, and they got in by the top o’ the linns. In half an hour there was half a dizzen o’ them inside the Strathlarrig policies. Man’ – here he fixed his glowing eye on Leithen – ‘if ye had been on the Lang Whang this mornin’ ye could have killed a fish and naebody the wiser.’
‘Good Lord! Are they there still?’
‘Na. They were huntit oot. Every man aboot the place was huntin’ them, and Angus was roarin’ like a bull. The young Laird thocht they were Bolshies and cam doun wi’ a gun. Syne the auld man appeared and spoke them fair and telled them he was terribly sorry, but he couldna see them for twa days, and if they contentit themselves that lang he would hae them a’ to their denner and show them everything. After that they gaed awa, but there’s aye mair arrivin’ and I’m expectin’ mair riots. They’re forritsome lads, thae jornalists, and a dour crop to shift. But they’re kind folk, and gie’d me a shillin’ a-piece for advisin’ them.’
‘What did you advise?’
‘I advised them to gang doun to Glenraden,’ said Benjie with a goblin smile. ‘I said they should gang and howk in the Piper’s Ring and they would maybe find mair treasure. Twa-three o’ them got spades and picks and startit off. I’m thinkin’ Macpherson will be after them wi’ a whup.’
Leithen’s brows were puckered in thought. ‘It looks as if my bet with Archie wasn’t so crazy after all. This invasion is bound to confuse Bandicott’s plans. And you say it’s still going on? The gillies will be weary men before night.’
‘They will that,’ Benjie assented. ‘And there’s no a man o’ them can rin worth a docken, except Jimsie. Thae jornalists was far soopler.’
‘More power to the Press. Benjie, back you go and keep an eye on Strathlarrig, and stir up the journalists to a sense of their rights. Report here this afternoon at four, for we should be on the move by six, and I’ve a lot to say to you.’
In the course of the morning Leithen went for a walk among the scaurs and dingles of Crask Hill. He followed a footpath which took him down the channel of a tiny burn and led to a little mantelpiece of a meadow from which Wattie Iithgow drew a modest supply of bog-hay. His mind was so filled with his coming adventure that he walked with his head bent and at a turn of the path nearly collided with a man.
Murmuring a gruff ‘Fine day,’ he would have passed on, when he became aware that the stranger had halted. Then, to his consternation, he heard his name uttered, and had perforce to turn. He saw a young man, in knickerbockers and heavy nailed boots, who smiled diffidently as if uncertain whether he would be recognised.
‘Sir Edward Leithen, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘I once had the pleasure of meeting you, sir, when you lunched with the Lobby journalists.
I was then on the Lobby staff of the Monitor. My name is Crossby.’
‘Of course, of course. I remember perfectly. Let’s sit down, Mr Crossby, unless you’re in a hurry. Where are you bound for?’
‘Simply stretching my legs. I was climbing rocks at Sligachan when my paper wired me to come on here. The Press seem to have gone mad about this Viking’s tomb – think they’ve got hold of a second Tutankhamen. So I got a fisherman to take me and my bicycle over to the mainland and pedalled the rest of the road. I thought I had a graft with old Bandicott, for I used to write for his paper – The New York Bulletin, you know – but it appears there’s nothing doing. Odd business, for you don’t often find Americans shy of the Press. But I think I’ve found out the reason, and that makes a good enough story in itself. Perhaps you’ve heard it?’
‘No,’ said Leithen, ‘but I’d like to, if you don’t mind. I’m not a journalist, so I won’t give you away. Let’s have it.’
He stole a glance at his companion, and saw a pleasant, shrewd, boyish face, with the hard sunburnt skin of one in the prime of physical condition. Like many others of his type, Leithen liked journalists as much as he disliked men of letters – the former had had their corners smoothed by a rough life, and lacked the vanity and spiritual pride of the latter. Also he had acquired from experience a profound belief in the honour of the profession, for at various times in his public career he had put his reputation into their hands and they had not failed him. It was his maxim that if you tried to bamboozle them they were out for your blood, but that if you trusted them they would see you through.
‘Let’s hear it, Mr Crossby,’ he repeated. ‘I’m deeply interested.’
‘Well, it’s a preposterous tale, but the natives seem to believe it. They say that some fellow, who calls himself John Macnab, has dared the magnates in these parts to prevent his killing a stag or a salmon in their preserves. He has laid down pretty stiff conditions for himself, for he has to get his beast off their ground and hand it back to them. They say he has undertaken to pay £500 to any charity the owner names if he succeeds and £1,000 if he fails – so he must have money to burn, and it appears that he has already paid the £500. He started on Glenraden, and the old Highland chief there had every man and boy for three days watching the forest. Then on the third day, when everybody was on the mountain-tops, in sails John Macnab and kills a stag under the house windows. He reckoned on the American’s dynamite charges in his search for the Viking to hide his shot. And he would have got away with it too, if one of the young ladies hadn’t appeared on the scene and cried “Desist!” So what does this bandit do but off with his hat, makes his best bow, and says, “Madame, your servant”, and vanishes, leaving the chief richer by a thousand pounds. It’s Bandicott’s turn today and tomorrow, and the Strathlarrig household is squatting along the river banks, and the hard-working correspondent is chivvied away till the danger is past. I’m for Macnab myself. 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 today or tomorrow. 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 tomorrow 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?’
SEVEN
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