Brothers & Sisters - John & Anna Buchan Edition (Collection of Their Greatest Works). Buchan John

girl considered. “No,” she said emphatically. “That is impossible. You’ve been reading too many detective stories, Bannister. It would be imbecility for a gang of crooks to take the line they have. It would be giving themselves away hopelessly… These people are all right. They represent the Evallonian Monarchist party, which may be silly but is quite respectable. Mr Barbon knows all about them. One is Count Casimir Muresco. Another is Prince Odalisque, or some name like that. And there’s a Professor Something or other, who Mr Crombie says has a European reputation for something. No doubt about it. They’re tremendous swells, and we’ve got to treat them as such. That’s one of the things I came to speak to you about. We’re not going to produce Mr Craw, which is what they want, but, till we see our way clear, we must snow them under with hospitality. If they are sportsmen, as they pretend to be, they must have the run of the Callowa, and if Knockraw is not enough for them we must put the Castle moors at their disposal. Oh, and the Blae Moss. They’re sure to want to shoot snipe. The grouse is only found in Britain, but there must be plenty of snipe in Evallonia. You know that they’re all coming to dine here to-night?”

      “So Mr Barbon informed me.”

      “Well, it must be a Belshazzar. That’s a family word of ours for a regular banquet. You must get the chef to put his best foot forward. Tell him he’s feeding Princes and Ministers and he’ll produce something surprising. I don’t suppose he knows any special Evallonian dishes, so the menu had better have a touch of Scotland. They’ll appreciate local colour. We ought to have a haggis as one of the entrées, and grouse of course, and Mackillop must dig a salmon out of the Callowa. I saw a great brute jumping in the Dirt Pot… Plenty of flowers, too. I don’t know what your cellar is like?”

      “I can vouch for it, Miss. Shall the footmen wear their gala liveries? Mr Craw made a point of their possessing them.”

      “Certainly… We have to make an impression, you see. We can’t produce Mr Craw, but we must impress them with our importance, so that they will take what we tell them as if it came from Mr Craw. Do you see what I mean? We want them to go away as soon as possible, but to go away satisfied and comfortable, so that they won’t come back again.”

      “What will be the party at dinner?”

      “The three Evallonians—the Count, and the Prince, and the Herr Professor. You can get the names right from Mr Barbon. Mr Barbon and Mr Crombie, of course, who are staying in the house. My aunt and Mr Charvill and myself. It’s overweighted with men, but we can’t help that.”

      “May I ask one question, Miss? Mr Crombie, now. He is not quite what I have been accustomed to. He is a very peremptory gentleman. He has taken it upon himself to give me orders.”

      “Obey them, Bannister, obey them on your life. Mr Crombie is one of Mr Craw’s trusted lieutenants. You may consider him the leader of our side… That brings me to the second thing I wanted to say to you. What about the journalists?”

      “We have had a visit from three already this morning.” There was the flicker of a smile on the butler’s face. “I made a point of interviewing them myself.” He drew three cards from a waistcoat pocket, and exhibited them. They bore the names of three celebrated newspapers, but the Wire was not among them. “They asked to see Mr Craw, and according to my instructions I informed them that Mr Craw had gone abroad. They appeared to accept my statement, but showed a desire to engage me in conversation. All three exhibited money, which I presume they intended as a bribe. That, of course, led to their summary dismissal.”

      “That’s all right,” the girl declared, “that’s plain sailing. But I don’t like Tibbets keeping away. Mr Crombie says that he’s by far the most dangerous. Look here, Bannister, this is your very particular job. You must see that none of these reporters get into the Castle, and that nobody from the Castle gossips with them. If they once get on the trail of the Evallonians we’re done. The lodge-keeper has orders not to admit anybody who looks like a journalist. I’ll get hold of Mackillop and tell him to clear out anybody found in the policies. He can pretend they’re poachers. I wonder what on earth Tibbets is up to at this moment?”

      Dougal could have provided part of the answer to that question. The night before, when it was settled that he should take up his quarters in the Castle, he had wired to his Glasgow lodgings to have his dress clothes sent to him by train. That morning he had been to Portaway station to collect them, in a car hired from the Westwater Arms, and in a Portaway street he had run across Tibbets. The journalist’s face did not show, as he had hoped, embarrassment and disappointment. On the contrary the light of victorious battle was in his eye.

      “I thought you were off for good,” was his greeting, to which Dougal replied with a story of the breakdown of his bicycle and his compulsory severance from his friend. “I doubt I’ll have to give up this expedition,” Dougal said. “How are you getting on yourself? I read your thing in the Wire last night.”

      “Did you see the Craw papers? They announce that Craw has gone abroad. It was Heaven’s own luck that they only got that out the same day as my story, and now it’s bloody war between us, for our credit is at stake. I wired to my chief, and I’ve just got his reply. What do you think it is? Craw never left the country. Places were booked for him in the boat train yesterday in the name of his man Barbon, but he never used them. Our information is certain. That means that Craw’s papers are lying. Lying to cover something, and what that something is I’m going to find out before I’m a day older. I’m waiting here for another telegram, and then I’ll go up the Callowa to comfort Barbon.”

      Dougal made an inconspicuous exit from the station, after satisfying himself that Tibbets was not about. He left his suit-case at the Starr inn, with word that it would be sent for later, for he did not wish to publish his connection with the Castle any sooner than was needful. He entered the park by the gate in the wall which he opened with Alison’s key, and had immediately to present his credentials—a chit signed by Barbon—to a minion of Mackillop’s, the head keeper, who was lurking in a covert. He was admitted to the house by Bannister at ten minutes to eleven, five minutes after Alison had left on her quest of Mackillop and a Callowa salmon.

      The party from Knockraw was punctual. Mr Barbon and Dougal received them in the library, a vast apartment on the first floor, lit by six narrow windows and commanding a view of the terrace and the windings of the river. The seventh Lord Rhynns had been a collector, and from the latticed shelves looked down an imposing array of eighteenth-century quartos and folios. Various pieces of classical sculpture occupied black marble pedestals, and a small, richly carved sarcophagus, of a stone which looked like old ivory, had a place of honour under the great Flemish tapestry, which adorned the only wall free of books. The gilt baroque clock on the mantelpiece had not finished chiming when Bannister ushered in the visitors.

      They bowed from their hips at the door, and they bowed again when they were within a yard of Barbon. One of the three spoke. He was a tall man with a white face, deep-set brown eyes, and short curly brown hair. Except for his nose he would have been theatrically handsome, but his nose was a pronounced snub. Yet this imperfection gave to his face a vigour and an attractiveness which more regular features might have lacked. He looked amazingly competent and vital. His companions were a slim, older man with greying hair, and a burly fellow with spectacles and a black beard. All three were ceremoniously garbed in morning coats and white linen and dark ties. Dougal wondered if they had motored from Knockraw in top hats. “Permit me to make the necessary introductions,” said the spokesman. “I am your correspondent, Count Casimir Muresco. This is Prince Odalchini, and this is the Herr Doctor Jagon of the University of Melina. We are the chosen and accredited representatives of the Nationalist Party of Evallonia.”

      Barbon had dressed himself carefully for the occasion, and his flawless grey suit made a painful contrast to Dougal’s ill-fitting knickerbockers. He looked more than ever like an actor who had just taken his cue in a romantic Victorian comedy.

      “My name is Barbon,” he said, “Frederick Barbon. As you are no doubt aware, I am Mr Craw’s principal confidential secretary.”

      “You are the second son of Lord Clonkilty, is it not so?” said the Prince. “You