Suddenly he rose to his feet, for things were happening at the far side of the haugh. Jimsie stood in an attitude of expectation – he seemed to be hearing something far up-stream. Leithen heard it too, the cry of excited men . . . Jimsie stood on one foot for a moment in doubt; then he turned and doubled towards the Wood of Larrigmore ... The gallant Crossby had got to business and was playing hare to the hounds inside the park wall. If human nature had not changed, Leithen thought, the whole force would presently join the chase – Angus and Lennox and Jimsie and Dave and doubtless many volunteers. Heaven send fleetness and wind to the South London Harrier, for it was his duty to occupy the interest of every male in Strathlarrig till such time as he subsided with angry expostulation into captivity.
The road was empty, the valley was deserted, when Leithen raced across the bridge and up the south side of the river. It was not two hundred yards to his chosen stand, a spit of gravel below a high bank at the tail of a long pool. Close to the other bank, nearly thirty yards off, was the shelf where fish lay of an evening. He tested the water with his hand, and its temperature was at least 6o°. His theory, which he had learned long ago from the aged Bostonian, was that under such conditions some subconscious memory revived in salmon of their early days as parr when they fed on surface insects, and that they could be made to take a dry-fly.
He got out his line to the required length with half a dozen casts in the air, and then put his fly three feet above the spot where a salmon was wont to lie. It was a curious type of cast, which he had been practising lately in the early morning, for by an adroit check he made the fly alight in a curl, so that it floated for a second or two with the leader in a straight line away from it. In this way he believed that the most suspicious fish would see nothing to alarm him, nothing but a hapless insect derelict on the water.
Sir Archie had spoken truth in describing Leithen to Wattie Iithgow as an artist. His long, straight, delicate casts were art indeed. Like thistledown the fly dropped, like thistledown it floated over the head of the salmon, but like thistledown it was disregarded. There was indeed a faint stirring of curiosity. From where he stood Leithen could see that slight ruffling of the surface which means an observant fish . . .
Already ten minutes had been spent in this barren art. The crisis craved other measures.
His new policy meant a short line, so with infinite stealth and care Leithen waded up the side of the water, sometimes treading precarious ledges of peat, sometimes waist deep in mud and pond-weed, till he was within twenty feet of the fishing-ground. Here he had not the high bank for a shelter, and would have been sadly conspicuous to Jimsie, had that sentinel remained at his post. He crouched low and cast as before with the same curl just ahead of the chosen spot.
But now his tactics were different. So soon as the fly had floated past where he believed the fish to be, he sank it with a dexterous twist of the rod-point, possible only with a short line. The fly was no longer a winged thing; drawn away underwater, it roused in the salmon early memories of succulent nymphs . . . At the first cast there was a slight swirl, which meant that a fish near the surface had turned to follow the lure. The second cast the line straightened and moved swiftly upstream.
Leithen had killed in his day many hundreds of salmon – once in Norway a notable beast of fifty-five pounds. But no salmon he had ever hooked had stirred in his breast such excitement as this modest fellow of eight pounds. ‘“ ‘Tis not so wide as a church-door,”‘ he reflected with Mercutio, ‘ “but ‘twill suffice” – if I can only land him.’ But a dry-fly cast and a ten-foot rod are a frail wherewithal for killing a fish against time. With his ordinary fifteen-footer and gut of moderate strength he could have brought the little salmon to grass in five minutes, but now there was immense risk of a break, and a break would mean that the whole enterprise had failed. He dared not exert pressure; on the other hand, he could not follow the fish except by making himself conspicuous on the greensward. Worst of all, he had at the best ten minutes for the job.
Thirty yards off an otter slid into the water. Leithen wished he was King of the Otters, as in the Highland tale, to summon the brute to his aid.
The ten minutes had lengthened to fifteen – nine hundred seconds of heart-disease – when, wet to the waist, he got his pocket-gaff into the salmon’s side and drew it on to the spit of gravel where he had started fishing. A dozen times he thought he had lost, and once when the fish ran straight up the pool his line was carried out to its last yard of backing. He gave thanks to high Heaven, when, as he landed it, he observed that the fly had all but lost its hold and in another minute would have been free. By such narrow margins are great deeds accomplished.
He snapped the cast from the line and buried it in mud. Then cautiously he raised his head above the bank. The gloaming was gathering fast, and so far as he could see the haugh was still empty. Pushing his rod along the ground, he scrambled on to the turf.
Then he had a grievous shock. Jimsie had reappeared, and he was in full view of him. Moreover, there were two men on bicycles coming up the road, who, with the deplorable instinct of human nature, would be certain to join in any pursuit. He was on turf as short as a lawn, cumbered with a tell-tale rod and a poached salmon. The friendly hags were a dozen yards off, and before he could reach them his damning baggage would be noted.
At this supreme moment he had an inspiration, derived from the memory of the otter. To get out his knife, cut a ragged wedge from the fish, and roll it in his handkerchief was the work of five seconds. To tilt the rod over the bank so that it lay in the deep shadow was the work of three more . . . Jimsie had seen him, for a wild cry came down the stream, a cry which brought the cyclists off their machines and set them staring in his direction. Leithen dropped his gaff after the rod, and began running towards the Larrig bridge – slowly, limpingly, like a frightened man with no resolute purpose of escape. And as he ran he prayed that Benjie from the deeps of the moss had seen what had been done and drawn the proper inference.
It was a bold bluff, for he had decided to make the salmon evidence for, not against him. He hobbled down the bank, looking over his shoulder often as if in terror, and almost ran into the arms of the cyclists, who, warned by Jimsie’s yells, were waiting to intercept him. He dodged them, however, and cut across to the road, for he had seen that Jimsie had paused and had noted the salmon lying blatantly on the sward, a silver splash in the twilight. Leithen doubled up the road as if going towards Strathlarrig, and Jimsie, the fleet of foot, did not catch up with him till almost on the edge of the Wood of Larrigmore. The cyclists, who had remounted, arrived at the same moment to find a wretched muddy tramp in the grip of a stalwart but breathless gillie.
‘I tell ye I was daein’ nae harm,’ the tramp whined. ‘I was walkin’ up the waterside – there’s nae law to keep a body frae walkin’ up a waterside when there’s nae fence – and I seen an auld otter killin’ a saumon. The fish is there still to prove I’m no leein’.’
‘There is a fush, but you wass thinkin’ to steal the fush, and you would have had it in your breeks if I hadna seen you. That is poachin’, ma man, and you will come up to Strathlarrig. The master said that anyone goin’ near the watter was to be lockit up, and you will be lockit up. You can tell all the lees you like in the mornin’.’
Then a thought struck Jimsie. He wanted the salmon, for the subject of otters in the Larrig had been a matter of dispute between him and Angus, and here was evidence for his own view.
‘Would you two gentlemen oblige me by watchin’ this man while I rin back and get the fush? Bash him on the head if he offers to rin.’
The cyclists, who were journalists out to enjoy the evening air, willingly agreed, but Leithen showed no wish to escape. He begged a fag in a beggar’s whine, and, since he seemed peaceable, the two kept a good distance for fear of infection. He stood making damp streaks in the dusty road, a pitiable specimen of humanity, for his original get-up was not improved by the liquefaction of his clothes and a gene
rous legacy of slimy peat. He seemed to be nervous, which indeed he was, for if Benjie had not seized his chance he was utterly done, and if Jimsie should light upon his rod he was gravely compromised.
But when Jimsie returned in a matter of ten minutes he was empty-handed.
‘I never kenned the like,’ he proclaimed. ‘That otter has come back and gotten the fush. Ach, the maleecious brute!’
The rest of Leithen’s progress was not triumphant. He was conducted to the Strathlarrig lodge, where Angus, whose temper and wind had alike been ruined by the pursuit of Crossby, laid savage hands upon him, and frog-marched him to the back premises. The head-keeper scarcely heeded Jimsie’s tale. ‘Ach, ye poachin’ va-aga-bond. It is the jyle ye’ll get,’ he roared, for Angus was in a mood which could only be relieved by violence of speech and action. Rumbling Gaelic imprecations, he hustled his prisoner into an outhouse, which had once been a larder and was now a supplementary garage, slammed and locked the door, and, as a final warning, kicked it viciously with his foot, as if to signify what awaited the culprit when the time came to sit on his case.
Sir Archie, if not a skeleton at the feast, was no better than a shadow. The fragment of drama which he had witnessed had rudely divorced his mind from the intelligent conversation of Mr Bandicott, he was no longer slightly irritated by Mr Clay-body, he forgot even the attractions of Janet. What was going on in that twilit vale? Lady Maisie’s Pool had still a shimmer of gold, but the woods were now purple and the waterside turf a dim amethyst, the colour of the darkening sky. All sound had ceased except the rare cry of a bird from the hill, and the hoot of a wandering owl . . . Crossby had beyond doubt been taken, but where was Leithen?
He was recalled to his surroundings by Janet’s announcement that Mr Bandicott proposed to take them all in his car to the meeting at Muirtown.
‘Oh, I say,’ he pleaded, ‘I’d much rather you didn’t. I haven’t a notion how to speak – no experience, you see – only about the third time I’ve opened my mouth in public. I’ll make an awful ass of myself, and I’d much rather my friends didn’t see it. If I know you’re in the audience, Miss Janet, I won’t be able to get a word out.’
Mr Bandicott was sympathetic. ‘Take my advice, and do not attempt to write a speech and learn it by heart. Fill yourself with your subject, but do not prepare anything except the first sentence and the last. You’ll find the words come easily when you once begin – if you have something you really want to say.’
‘That’s the trouble – I haven’t. I’m goin’ to speak about foreign policy, and I’m dashed if I can remember which treaty is which, and what the French are making a fuss about, or why the old Boche can’t pay. And I keep on mixing up Poincaré and Mussolini ... I’m goin’ to write it all down, and if I’m stuck I’ll fish out the paper and read it. I’m told there are fellows in the Cabinet who do that when they’re cornered.’
‘Don’t stick too close to the paper,’ the Colonel advised. ‘The Highlander objects to sermons read to him, and he may not like a read speech.’
‘Whatever he does I’m sure Sir Archibald will be most enlightening,’ Mr Bandicott said politely. ‘Also I want to hear Lord Lamancha. We think rather well of that young man in America. How do you rate him here?’
Mr Claybody, as a habitant of the great world, replied. ‘Very high in his own line. He’s the old-fashioned type of British statesman, and people trust him. The trouble about him and his kind is that they’re a little too far removed from the ordinary man – they’ve been too cosseted and set on a pedestal all their lives. They don’t know how to handle democracy. You can’t imagine Lamancha rubbing shoulders with Tom, Dick and Harry.’
‘Oh, come!’ Sir Archie broke in. ‘In the war he started as a captain in a yeomanry regiment, and he commanded a pretty rough Australian push in Palestine. His men fairly swore by him.’
‘I daresay,’ said the other coldly. ‘The war doesn’t count for my argument, and Australians are not quite what I mean.’
The butler, who was offering liqueurs, was seen to speak confidentially to Junius, who looked towards his father, made as if to speak, and thought better of it. The elder Mr Bandicott was once more holding the table.
‘My archaeological studies,’ he said, ‘and my son’s devotion to sport are apt to circumscribe the interest of my visits to this country. I do not spend more than a couple of days in London, and when I am there the place is empty. Sometimes I regret that I have not attempted to see more of English society in recent years, for there are many figures in it I would like to meet. There are some acquaintances, too, that I should be delighted to revive. Do you know Sir Edward Leithen, Mr Claybody? He was recently, I think, the British Attorney-General’
Mr Claybody nodded. ‘I know him very well. We have just briefed him in a big case.’
‘Sir Edward Leithen visited us two years ago as the guest of our Bar Association. His address was one of the most remarkable I have ever listened to. It was on John Marshall – the finest tribute ever paid to that great man, and one which I venture to say no American could have equalled. I had very little talk with him, but what I had impressed me profoundly with the breadth of his outlook and the powers of his mind. Yes, I should like to meet Sir Edward Leithen again.’
The company had risen and were moving towards the drawing-room.
‘Now I wonder,’ Mr Claybody was saying. ‘I heard that Leithen was somewhere in Scotland. I wonder if I could get him up for a few days to Haripol. Then I could bring him over here.’
An awful joy fell upon Sir Archie’s soul. He realised anew the unplumbed preposterousness of life.
Ere they reached the drawing-room Junius took Agatha aside.
‘Look here, Miss Agatha, I want you to help me. The gillies have been a little too active. They’ve gathered in some wretched hobo they found looking at the river, and they’ve annexed a journalist who stuck his nose inside the gates. It’s the journalist that’s worrying me. From his card he seems to be rather a swell in his way – represents the Monitor and writes for my father’s New York paper. He gave the gillies a fine race for their money, and now he’s sitting cursing in the garage and vowing every kind of revenge. It won’t do to antagonise the Press, so we’d better let him out and grovel to him, if he wants apologies ... The fact is, we’re not in a very strong position, fending off the newspapers from Harald Blacktooth because of this ridiculous John Macnab. If you could let the fellow out it would be casting oil upon troubled waters. You could smooth him down far better than me.’
‘But what about the other? A hobo, you say! That’s a tramp, isn’t it?’
‘Oh, tell Angus to let him out too. Here are the keys of both garages. I don’t want to turn this place into a lock-up. Angus won’t be pleased, but we have to keep a sharp watch for John Macnab tomorrow, and it’s bad tactics in a campaign to cumber yourself with prisoners.’
The two threaded mysterious passages and came out into a moonlit stable-yard. Junius handed the girl a great electric torch. ‘Tell the fellow we eat dirt for our servants’ officiousness. Offer him supper, and – I tell you what – ask him to lunch the day after tomorrow. No, that’s Muirtown day. Find out his address and we’ll write to him and give him first chop at the Viking. Blame it all on the gillies.’
Agatha unlocked the door of the big garage and to her surprise found it brilliantly lit with electric light. Mr Crossby was sitting in the driver’s seat of a large motor-car, smoking a pipe and composing a story for his paper. At the sight of Agatha he descended hastily.
‘We’re so sorry,’ said the girl. ‘It’s all been a stupid mistake. But, you know, you shouldn’t have run away. Mr Bandicott had to make rules to keep off poachers, and you ought to have stopped and explained who you were.’
To this charming lady in the grass-green gown Mr Crossby’s manner was debonair and reassuring.
‘No apology is needed. It wasn’t in the least the gillies’ blame. I wanted some exercise, and I had my fun with them. One o
f the young ones has a very pretty turn of speed. But I oughtn’t to have done it – I quite see that – with everybody here on edge about this John Macnab. Have I your permission to go?’
‘Indeed you have. Mr Bandicott asked me to apologise most humbly. You’re quite free unless – unless you’d like to have supper before you go.’
Mr Crossby excused himself, and did not stay upon the order of his going. He knew nothing of the fate of his colleague, and hoped that he might pick up news from Benjie in the neighbourhood of the Wood of Larrigmore.
The other garage stood retired in the lee of a clump of pines – a rude, old-fashioned place, which generally housed the station lorry. Agatha, rather than face the disappointed Angus, decided to complete the task of jail-delivery herself. She had trouble with the lock, and when the door opened she looked into a pit of darkness scarcely lightened by the outer glow of moonshine. She flashed the torch into the interior and saw, seated on a stack of petrol tins, the figure of the tramp.
Leithen, who had been wondering how he was to find a bed in that stony place, beheld the apparition with amazement. He guessed that it was one of the Miss Radens, for he knew that they were dining at Strathlarrig. As he stood sheepishly before her his wits suffered a dislocation which drove out of his head the remembrance of the part he had assumed.
‘Mr Bandicott sent me to tell you that you can go away,’ the girl said.
‘Thank you very much,’ said Leithen in his ordinary voice.
Now in the scramble up the river bank and in the rough handling of Angus his garments had become disarranged, and his watch had swung out of his pocket. In adjusting it in the garage he had put it back in its normal place, so that the chain showed on Sime’s ancient waistcoat. From it depended one of those squat little gold shields which are the badge of athletic prowess at a famous school. As he stood in the light of her torch Agatha noted this shield, and knew what it signified. Also his tone when he spoke had startled her.