Chapter Seven. The Dry-Fly Fisherman

The Thirty-Nine Steps

by John Buchan

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.

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 salute 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 outfit laid out for me - dress clothes with
all the fixings, a brown flannel 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 gaped. 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 ragged 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 ushered by a prim 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 luxuriously, 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 pretences.

'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 interfere with
your appetite. We can talk about these things after dinner.' I never
ate a meal with greater relish, for I had had nothing all day but
railway sandwiches. Sir Walter did me proud, for we drank a good
champagne and had some uncommon fine port afterwards. it made me
almost hysterical to be sitting there, waited on by a footman and a
sleek butler, and remember that I had been living for three weeks
like a brigand, 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
trophies 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 yarn.

'I've obeyed Harry's instructions,' he said, 'and the bribe 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 boredom 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
ass 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 hooded his eyes like a bird ... He
sounds a sinister wild-fowl! And you dynamited 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 hearth-rug.

'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.'

'Why?' I asked in amazement.

'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 lone 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 immediate 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 mania, you know, for concealing his
tracks.'

'What did he say?' I stammered.

'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 motives for your disappearance - not only the police, the
other one too - and when I got Harry's scrawl 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 melodrama. If only I had more confidence in Scudder's
judgement. The trouble about him was that he was too romantic. He
had the artistic temperament, and wanted a story to be better than
God meant it to be. He had a lot of odd biases, 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 virtuous
Karolides is likely to outlast 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. Frankly, 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 naval dispositions 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.'