The Thirty-Nine Steps (11 page)

Thank God it was a black night. The moon was well on its last quarter and would not
rise till late. My thirst was too great to allow me to tarry, so about nine o’clock,
so far as I could judge, I started to descend. It wasn’t easy, and half-way down I
heard the back door of the house open, and saw the gleam of a lantern against the
mill wall. For some agonizing minutes I hung by the ivy and prayed that whoever it
was would not come round by the dovecot. Then the light disappeared, and I dropped
as softly as I could on to the hard soil of the yard.

I crawled on my belly in the lee of a stone dyke till I reached the fringe of trees
which surrounded the house. If I had known how to do it I would have tried to put
that aeroplane out of action, but I realized that any attempt would probably be futile.
I was pretty certain that there would be some kind of defence round the house, so
I went through the wood on hands and knees, feeling carefully every inch before me.
It was as well, for presently I came on a wire about two feet from the ground. If
I had tripped over that, it would doubtless have rung some bell in the house and I
would have been captured.

A hundred yards farther on I found another wire cunningly placed on the edge of a
small stream. Beyond that lay the moor, and in five minutes I was deep in bracken
and heather. Soon I was round the shoulder of the rise, in the little glen from which
the mill-lade flowed. Ten minutes later my face was in the spring, and I was soaking
down pints of the blessed water.

But I did not stop till I had put half a dozen miles between me and that accursed
dwelling.

I sat down on a hill-top and took stock of my position. I wasn’t feeling very happy,
for my natural thankfulness at my escape was clouded by my severe bodily discomfort.
Those lentonite fumes had fairly poisoned me, and the baking hours on the dovecot
hadn’t helped matters. I had a crushing headache, and felt as sick as a cat. Also
my shoulder was in a bad way. At first I thought it was only a bruise, but it seemed
to be swelling, and I had no use of my left arm.

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 kindly towards the British police.

It was a wonderful starry night, and I had not much difficulty about the road. Sir
Harry’s map had given me the lie of the land, and all I had to do was to steer 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 outrageous 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 herd’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 plucky one, for though she got a fright when she saw me, she had an
axe 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 repentant 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 drizzle of rain.
I found shelter below an overhanging rock in the crook of a burn, where a drift of
dead brackens made a tolerable bed. There I managed to sleep till nightfall, waking
very cramped and wretched, with my shoulder gnawing 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 miseries 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 primly
dressed in an ancient but well-tended suit of black; he had been shaved not later
than the night before; he wore a linen 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 dune i’ the legs. Haud up till I get ye to a chair.’

I perceived I was in for a bout of malaria. 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 helping 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 inquiries
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 syne 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 decided
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 lodging, and a hard job I had of it. There
never was a more independent being. He grew positively 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 grunted something about ‘ae guid turn deservin’ anither’. You would
have thought from our leave-taking that we had parted in disgust.

Hislop was a cheery soul, who chattered 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 theatrical 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 prospect of brown hills and far green meadows,
and a continual sound of larks 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 humble Moffat public-house, and walked the two miles to the
junction 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 decanted 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), descended 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 beeches and then into a shallow valley, with
the green backs of downs peeping over the distant trees. After Scotland the air smelt
heavy and flat, but infinitely sweet, for the limes and chestnuts and lilac bushes
were domes 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
lasher made a pleasant cool sound in the scented dusk. Somehow the place soothed me
and put me at my ease. I fell to whistling as I looked into the green depths, and
the tune 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
flannels and a wide-brimmed hat, with a canvas bag slung 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 Kenner 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 tempt ’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’.

‘Twisdon’s the name, isn’t it?’ he said over his shoulder, his eyes still fixed on
the stream.

‘No,’ I said. ‘I mean to say, Yes.’ I had forgotten all about my alias.

‘It’s a wise conspirator 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, cleft jaw 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.