My plan was to seek Mr Turnbull’s cottage, recover my garments, and especially Scudder’s note-book, and then make for the main line and get back to the south. It seemed to me that the sooner I got in touch with the Foreign Office man, Sir Walter Bullivant, the better. I didn’t see how I could get more proof than I had got already. He must just take or leave my story, and anyway, with him I would be in better hands than those devilish Germans. I had begun to feel quite kindly5 towards the British police.
It was a wonderful starry6 night, and I had not much difficulty about the road. Sir Harry8’s map had given me the lie of the land, and all I had to do was to steer9 a point or two west of south-west to come to the stream where I had met the roadman. In all these travels I never knew the names of the places, but I believe this stream was no less than the upper waters of the river Tweed. I calculated I must be about eighteen miles distant, and that meant I could not get there before morning. So I must lie up a day somewhere, for I was too outrageous10 a figure to be seen in the sunlight. I had neither coat, waistcoat, collar, nor hat, my trousers were badly torn, and my face and hands were black with the explosion. I daresay I had other beauties, for my eyes felt as if they were furiously bloodshot. Altogether I was no spectacle for God-fearing citizens to see on a highroad.
Very soon after daybreak I made an attempt to clean myself in a hill burn, and then approached a herd12’s cottage, for I was feeling the need of food. The herd was away from home, and his wife was alone, with no neighbour for five miles. She was a decent old body, and a plucky14 one, for though she got a fright when she saw me, she had an axe15 handy, and would have used it on any evil-doer. I told her that I had had a fall—I didn’t say how—and she saw by my looks that I was pretty sick. Like a true Samaritan she asked no questions, but gave me a bowl of milk with a dash of whisky in it, and let me sit for a little by her kitchen fire. She would have bathed my shoulder, but it ached so badly that I would not let her touch it.
I don’t know what she took me for—a repentant16 burglar, perhaps; for when I wanted to pay her for the milk and tendered a sovereign which was the smallest coin I had, she shook her head and said something about “giving it to them that had a right to it”. At this I protested so strongly that I think she believed me honest, for she took the money and gave me a warm new plaid for it, and an old hat of her man’s. She showed me how to wrap the plaid around my shoulders, and when I left that cottage I was the living image of the kind of Scotsman you see in the illustrations to Burns’s poems. But at any rate I was more or less clad.
It was as well, for the weather changed before midday to a thick drizzle17 of rain. I found shelter below an overhanging rock in the crook18 of a burn, where a drift of dead brackens made a tolerable bed. There I managed to sleep till nightfall, waking very cramped19 and wretched, with my shoulder gnawing20 like a toothache. I ate the oatcake and cheese the old wife had given me and set out again just before the darkening.
I pass over the miseries22 of that night among the wet hills. There were no stars to steer by, and I had to do the best I could from my memory of the map. Twice I lost my way, and I had some nasty falls into peat-bogs. I had only about ten miles to go as the crow flies, but my mistakes made it nearer twenty. The last bit was completed with set teeth and a very light and dizzy head. But I managed it, and in the early dawn I was knocking at Mr Turnbull’s door. The mist lay close and thick, and from the cottage I could not see the highroad.
Mr Turnbull himself opened to me—sober and something more than sober. He was primly24 dressed in an ancient but well-tended suit of black; he had been shaved not later than the night before; he wore a linen25 collar; and in his left hand he carried a pocket Bible. At first he did not recognize me.
“Whae are ye that comes stravaigin’ here on the Sabbath mornin’?” he asked.
I had lost all count of the days. So the Sabbath was the reason for this strange decorum.
My head was swimming so wildly that I could not frame a coherent answer. But he recognized me, and he saw that I was ill.
“Hae ye got my specs?” he asked.
I fetched them out of my trouser pocket and gave him them.
“Ye’ll hae come for your jaicket and westcoat,” he said. “Come in-bye. Losh, man, ye’re terrible dune26 i’ the legs. Haud up till I get ye to a chair.”
I perceived I was in for a bout7 of malaria27. I had a good deal of fever in my bones, and the wet night had brought it out, while my shoulder and the effects of the fumes combined to make me feel pretty bad. Before I knew, Mr Turnbull was helping28 me off with my clothes, and putting me to bed in one of the two cupboards that lined the kitchen walls.
He was a true friend in need, that old roadman. His wife was dead years ago, and since his daughter’s marriage he lived alone.
For the better part of ten days he did all the rough nursing I needed. I simply wanted to be left in peace while the fever took its course, and when my skin was cool again I found that the bout had more or less cured my shoulder. But it was a baddish go, and though I was out of bed in five days, it took me some time to get my legs again.
He went out each morning, leaving me milk for the day, and locking the door behind him; and came in in the evening to sit silent in the chimney corner. Not a soul came near the place. When I was getting better, he never bothered me with a question. Several times he fetched me a two days’ old Scotsman, and I noticed that the interest in the Portland Place murder seemed to have died down. There was no mention of it, and I could find very little about anything except a thing called the General Assembly—some ecclesiastical spree, I gathered.
One day he produced my belt from a lockfast drawer. “There’s a terrible heap o’ siller in’t,” he said. “Ye’d better coont it to see it’s a’ there.”
He never even sought my name. I asked him if anybody had been around making inquiries29 subsequent to my spell at the road-making.
“Ay, there was a man in a motor-cawr. He speired whae had ta’en my place that day, and I let on I thocht him daft. But he keepit on at me, and syne30 I said he maun be thinkin’ o’ my gude-brither frae the Cleuch that whiles lent me a haun’. He was a wersh-lookin’ sowl, and I couldna understand the half o’ his English tongue.”
I was getting restless those last days, and as soon as I felt myself fit I decided31 to be off. That was not till the twelfth day of June, and as luck would have it a drover went past that morning taking some cattle to Moffat. He was a man named Hislop, a friend of Turnbull’s, and he came in to his breakfast with us and offered to take me with him.
I made Turnbull accept five pounds for my lodging32, and a hard job I had of it. There never was a more independent being. He grew positively33 rude when I pressed him, and shy and red, and took the money at last without a thank you. When I told him how much I owed him, he grunted34 something about “ae guid turn deservin’ anitherv” You would have thought from our leave-taking that we had parted in disgust.
Hislop was a cheery soul, who chattered35 all the way over the pass and down the sunny vale of Annan. I talked of Galloway markets and sheep prices, and he made up his mind I was a “pack-shepherd” from those parts—whatever that may be. My plaid and my old hat, as I have said, gave me a fine theatrical36 Scots look. But driving cattle is a mortally slow job, and we took the better part of the day to cover a dozen miles.
If I had not had such an anxious heart I would have enjoyed that time. It was shining blue weather, with a constantly changing prospect37 of brown hills and far green meadows, and a continual sound of larks38 and curlews and falling streams. But I had no mind for the summer, and little for Hislop’s conversation, for as the fateful fifteenth of June drew near I was overweighed with the hopeless difficulties of my enterprise.
I got some dinner in a humble39 Moffat public-house, and walked the two miles to the junction40 on the main line. The night express for the south was not due till near midnight, and to fill up the time I went up on the hillside and fell asleep, for the walk had tired me. I all but slept too long, and had to run to the station and catch the train with two minutes to spare. The feel of the hard third-class cushions and the smell of stale tobacco cheered me up wonderfully. At any rate, I felt now that I was getting to grips with my job.
I was decanted41 at Crewe in the small hours and had to wait till six to get a train for Birmingham. In the afternoon I got to Reading, and changed into a local train which journeyed into the deeps of Berkshire. Presently I was in a land of lush water-meadows and slow reedy streams. About eight o’clock in the evening, a weary and travel-stained being—a cross between a farm-labourer and a vet—with a checked black-and-white plaid over his arm (for I did not dare to wear it south of the Border), descended42 at the little station of Artinswell. There were several people on the platform, and I thought I had better wait to ask my way till I was clear of the place.
The road led through a wood of great beeches43 and then into a shallow valley, with the green backs of downs peeping over the distant trees. After Scotland the air smelt44 heavy and flat, but infinitely45 sweet, for the limes and chestnuts46 and lilac bushes were domes47 of blossom. Presently I came to a bridge, below which a clear slow stream flowed between snowy beds of water-buttercups. A little above it was a mill; and the lasher48 made a pleasant cool sound in the scented49 dusk. Somehow the place soothed50 me and put me at my ease. I fell to whistling as I looked into the green depths, and the tune51 which came to my lips was “Annie Laurie”.
A fisherman came up from the waterside, and as he neared me he too began to whistle. The tune was infectious, for he followed my suit. He was a huge man in untidy old flannels53 and a wide-brimmed hat, with a canvas bag slung54 on his shoulder. He nodded to me, and I thought I had never seen a shrewder or better-tempered face. He leaned his delicate ten-foot split-cane rod against the bridge, and looked with me at the water.
“Clear, isn’t it?” he said pleasantly. “I back our Kennet any day against the Test. Look at that big fellow. Four pounds if he’s an ounce. But the evening rise is over and you can’t tempt11 ’em.”
“I don’t see him,” said I.
“Look! There! A yard from the reeds just above that stickle.”
“I’ve got him now. You might swear he was a black stone.”
“So,” he said, and whistled another bar of “Annie Laurie”.
“It’s a wise conspirator57 that knows his own name,” he observed, grinning broadly at a moor-hen that emerged from the bridge’s shadow.
I stood up and looked at him, at the square, cleft58 jaw59 and broad, lined brow and the firm folds of cheek, and began to think that here at last was an ally worth having. His whimsical blue eyes seemed to go very deep.
Suddenly he frowned. “I call it disgraceful,” he said, raising his voice. “Disgraceful that an able-bodied man like you should dare to beg. You can get a meal from my kitchen, but you’ll get no money from me.”
A dog-cart was passing, driven by a young man who raised his whip to salute60 the fisherman. When he had gone, he picked up his rod.
“That’s my house,” he said, pointing to a white gate a hundred yards on. “Wait five minutes and then go round to the back door.” And with that he left me.
I did as I was bidden. I found a pretty cottage with a lawn running down to the stream, and a perfect jungle of guelder-rose and lilac flanking the path. The back door stood open, and a grave butler was awaiting me.
“Come this way, sir,” he said, and he led me along a passage and up a back staircase to a pleasant bedroom looking towards the river. There I found a complete outfit61 laid out for me—dress clothes with all the fixings, a brown flannel52 suit, shirts, collars, ties, shaving things and hair-brushes, even a pair of patent shoes. “Sir Walter thought as how Mr Reggie’s things would fit you, sir,” said the butler. “He keeps some clothes ’ere, for he comes regular on the week-ends. There’s a bathroom next door, and I’ve prepared a ’ot bath. Dinner in ’alf an hour, sir. You’ll ’ear the gong.”
The grave being withdrew, and I sat down in a chintz-covered easy-chair and gaped62. It was like a pantomime, to come suddenly out of beggardom into this orderly comfort. Obviously Sir Walter believed in me, though why he did I could not guess. I looked at myself in the mirror and saw a wild, haggard brown fellow, with a fortnight’s ragged63 beard, and dust in ears and eyes, collarless, vulgarly shirted, with shapeless old tweed clothes and boots that had not been cleaned for the better part of a month. I made a fine tramp and a fair drover; and here I was ushered64 by a prim23 butler into this temple of gracious ease. And the best of it was that they did not even know my name.
I resolved not to puzzle my head but to take the gifts the gods had provided. I shaved and bathed luxuriously65, and got into the dress clothes and clean crackling shirt, which fitted me not so badly. By the time I had finished the looking-glass showed a not unpersonable young man.
Sir Walter awaited me in a dusky dining-room where a little round table was lit with silver candles. The sight of him—so respectable and established and secure, the embodiment of law and government and all the conventions—took me aback and made me feel an interloper. He couldn’t know the truth about me, or he wouldn’t treat me like this. I simply could not accept his hospitality on false pretences66.
“I’m more obliged to you than I can say, but I’m bound to make things clear,” I said. “I’m an innocent man, but I’m wanted by the police. I’ve got to tell you this, and I won’t be surprised if you kick me out.”
He smiled. “That’s all right. Don’t let that interfere67 with your appetite. We can talk about these things after dinner.” I never ate a meal with greater relish68, for I had had nothing all day but railway sandwiches. Sir Walter did me proud, for we drank a good champagne69 and had some uncommon70 fine port afterwards. It made me almost hysterical71 to be sitting there, waited on by a footman and a sleek72 butler, and remember that I had been living for three weeks like a brigand73, with every man’s hand against me. I told Sir Walter about tiger-fish in the Zambesi that bite off your fingers if you give them a chance, and we discussed sport up and down the globe, for he had hunted a bit in his day.
We went to his study for coffee, a jolly room full of books and trophies74 and untidiness and comfort. I made up my mind that if ever I got rid of this business and had a house of my own, I would create just such a room. Then when the coffee-cups were cleared away, and we had got our cigars alight, my host swung his long legs over the side of his chair and bade me get started with my yarn75.
“I’ve obeyed Harry’s instructions,” he said, “and the bribe76 he offered me was that you would tell me something to wake me up. I’m ready, Mr Hannay.”
I noticed with a start that he called me by my proper name.
I began at the very beginning. I told of my boredom77 in London, and the night I had come back to find Scudder gibbering on my doorstep. I told him all Scudder had told me about Karolides and the Foreign Office conference, and that made him purse his lips and grin.
Then I got to the murder, and he grew solemn again. He heard all about the milkman and my time in Galloway, and my deciphering Scudder’s notes at the inn.
“You’ve got them here?” he asked sharply, and drew a long breath when I whipped the little book from my pocket.
I said nothing of the contents. Then I described my meeting with Sir Harry, and the speeches at the hall. At that he laughed uproariously.
“Harry talked dashed nonsense, did he? I quite believe it. He’s as good a chap as ever breathed, but his idiot of an uncle has stuffed his head with maggots. Go on, Mr Hannay.”
My day as roadman excited him a bit. He made me describe the two fellows in the car very closely, and seemed to be raking back in his memory. He grew merry again when he heard of the fate of that ass21 Jopley.
But the old man in the moorland house solemnized him. Again I had to describe every detail of his appearance.
“Bland and bald-headed and hooded78 his eyes like a bird.... He sounds a sinister79 wild-fowl! And you dynamited80 his hermitage, after he had saved you from the police. Spirited piece of work, that!” Presently I reached the end of my wanderings. He got up slowly, and looked down at me from the hearthrug.
“You may dismiss the police from your mind,” he said. “You’re in no danger from the law of this land.”
“Great Scot!” I cried. “Have they got the murderer?”
“No. But for the last fortnight they have dropped you from the list of possibles.”
“Principally because I received a letter from Scudder. I knew something of the man, and he did several jobs for me. He was half crank, half genius, but he was wholly honest. The trouble about him was his partiality for playing a lone13 hand. That made him pretty well useless in any Secret Service—a pity, for he had uncommon gifts. I think he was the bravest man in the world, for he was always shivering with fright, and yet nothing would choke him off. I had a letter from him on the 31st of May.”
“But he had been dead a week by then.”
“The letter was written and posted on the 23rd. He evidently did not anticipate an immediate82 decease. His communications usually took a week to reach me, for they were sent under cover to Spain and then to Newcastle. He had a mania83, you know, for concealing84 his tracks.”
“Nothing. Merely that he was in danger, but had found shelter with a good friend, and that I would hear from him before the 15th of June. He gave me no address, but said he was living near Portland Place. I think his object was to clear you if anything happened. When I got it I went to Scotland Yard, went over the details of the inquest, and concluded that you were the friend. We made inquiries about you, Mr Hannay, and found you were respectable. I thought I knew the motives86 for your disappearance—not only the police, the other one too—and when I got Harry’s scrawl87 I guessed at the rest. I have been expecting you any time this past week.”
You can imagine what a load this took off my mind. I felt a free man once more, for I was now up against my country’s enemies only, and not my country’s law.
“Now let us have the little note-book,” said Sir Walter.
It took us a good hour to work through it. I explained the cypher, and he was jolly quick at picking it up. He emended my reading of it on several points, but I had been fairly correct, on the whole. His face was very grave before he had finished, and he sat silent for a while.
“I don’t know what to make of it,” he said at last. “He is right about one thing—what is going to happen the day after tomorrow. How the devil can it have got known? That is ugly enough in itself. But all this about war and the Black Stone—it reads like some wild melodrama88. If only I had more confidence in Scudder’s judgement. The trouble about him was that he was too romantic. He had the artistic89 temperament90, and wanted a story to be better than God meant it to be. He had a lot of odd biases91, too. Jews, for example, made him see red. Jews and the high finance.
“The Black Stone,” he repeated. “Der Schwarze Stein. It’s like a penny novelette. And all this stuff about Karolides. That is the weak part of the tale, for I happen to know that the virtuous92 Karolides is likely to outlast93 us both. There is no State in Europe that wants him gone. Besides, he has just been playing up to Berlin and Vienna and giving my Chief some uneasy moments. No! Scudder has gone off the track there. Frankly94, Hannay, I don’t believe that part of his story. There’s some nasty business afoot, and he found out too much and lost his life over it. But I am ready to take my oath that it is ordinary spy work. A certain great European Power makes a hobby of her spy system, and her methods are not too particular. Since she pays by piecework her blackguards are not likely to stick at a murder or two. They want our naval95 dispositions96 for their collection at the Marineamt; but they will be pigeon-holed—nothing more.”
Just then the butler entered the room.
“There’s a trunk-call from London, Sir Walter. It’s Mr ’Eath, and he wants to speak to you personally.”
My host went off to the telephone.
He returned in five minutes with a whitish face. “I apologize to the shade of Scudder,” he said. “Karolides was shot dead this evening at a few minutes after seven.”
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discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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fumes
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| n.(强烈而刺激的)气味，气体 | |
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bruise
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| n.青肿，挫伤；伤痕；vt.打青；挫伤 | |
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swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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starry
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| adj.星光照耀的, 闪亮的 | |
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bout
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| n.侵袭，发作；一次(阵，回)；拳击等比赛 | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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steer
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| vt.驾驶，为…操舵；引导；vi.驾驶 | |
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outrageous
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| adj.无理的，令人不能容忍的 | |
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tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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plucky
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| adj.勇敢的 | |
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axe
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| n.斧子；v.用斧头砍，削减 | |
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repentant
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| adj.对…感到悔恨的 | |
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drizzle
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crook
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cramped
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gnawing
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| a.痛苦的，折磨人的 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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miseries
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prim
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| adj.拘泥形式的，一本正经的；n.循规蹈矩，整洁；adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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primly
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| adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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dune
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malaria
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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syne
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| adv.自彼时至此时，曾经 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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positively
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grunted
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的过去式和过去分词 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说 | |
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chattered
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| （人）喋喋不休( chatter的过去式 )； 唠叨； （牙齿）打战； （机器）震颤 | |
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theatrical
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prospect
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larks
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| n.百灵科鸟（尤指云雀）( lark的名词复数 )；一大早就起床；鸡鸣即起；（因太费力而不想干时说）算了v.百灵科鸟（尤指云雀）( lark的第三人称单数 )；一大早就起床；鸡鸣即起；（因太费力而不想干时说）算了 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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junction
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| n.连接，接合；交叉点，接合处，枢纽站 | |
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decanted
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| v.将（酒等）自瓶中倒入另一容器( decant的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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42
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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beeches
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| n.山毛榉( beech的名词复数 )；山毛榉木材 | |
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smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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chestnuts
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| n.栗子( chestnut的名词复数 )；栗色；栗树；栗色马 | |
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domes
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| n.圆屋顶( dome的名词复数 )；像圆屋顶一样的东西；圆顶体育场 | |
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lasher
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| n.堰，堰下的水溏，鞭打者；装石工 | |
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scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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flannels
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| 法兰绒男裤； 法兰绒( flannel的名词复数 ) | |
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slung
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| 抛( sling的过去式和过去分词 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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alias
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| n.化名；别名；adv.又名 | |
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conspirator
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| n.阴谋者，谋叛者 | |
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cleft
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| n.裂缝；adj.裂开的 | |
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jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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outfit
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| n.（为特殊用途的）全套装备，全套服装 | |
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gaped
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| v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的过去式和过去分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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luxuriously
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| adv.奢侈地，豪华地 | |
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pretences
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| n.假装( pretence的名词复数 )；作假；自命；自称 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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sleek
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| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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brigand
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| n.土匪，强盗 | |
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trophies
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| n.（为竞赛获胜者颁发的）奖品( trophy的名词复数 )；奖杯；（尤指狩猎或战争中获得的）纪念品；（用于比赛或赛跑名称）奖 | |
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yarn
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| n.纱，纱线，纺线；奇闻漫谈，旅行轶事 | |
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bribe
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| n.贿赂；v.向…行贿，买通 | |
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boredom
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| n.厌烦，厌倦，乏味，无聊 | |
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hooded
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| adj.戴头巾的；有罩盖的；颈部因肋骨运动而膨胀的 | |
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sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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dynamited
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| v.（尤指用于采矿的）甘油炸药( dynamite的过去式和过去分词 )；会引起轰动的人[事物] | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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mania
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| n.疯狂；躁狂症，狂热，癖好 | |
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concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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scrawl
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| vt.潦草地书写；n.潦草的笔记，涂写 | |
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melodrama
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| n.音乐剧；情节剧 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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91
biases
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| 偏见( bias的名词复数 )； 偏爱； 特殊能力； 斜纹 | |
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virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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outlast
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| v.较…耐久 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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naval
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| adj.海军的，军舰的，船的 | |
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dispositions
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| 安排( disposition的名词复数 )； 倾向； （财产、金钱的）处置； 气质 | |
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