The Disentanglers

‘Oh my prophetic soul!’ said Merton, ‘I guessed at first that he was not dead after all! Only catalepsy.’ He went on reading: ‘His Lordship recovered consciousness in circumstances which I shall not pain you by describing. He is now doing as well as can be expected, and may have several years of useful life before him. I need not point out to you that the conditions of the negotiation are now greatly altered. On the one hand, my partners and myself may seem to occupy the position of players who work a double ruff at whist. We are open to the marquis’s offers for release, and to yours for his eternal absence from the scene of life and enjoyment. But it is by no means impossible that you may have scruples about outbidding your kinsman, especially as, if you did, you would, by the very fact, become subject to perpetual “black-mailing” at our hands. I speak plainly, as one man of the world to another. It is also a drawback to our position that you could attain your ends without blame or scandal (your ends being, of course, if the law so determines, immediate succession to the property of the marquis), by merely pushing us, with the aid of the police, to a fatal extreme. We are, therefore reluctantly obliged to conclude that we cannot put the marquis’s life up to auction between you and him, as my partners, in the first flush of triumph, had conceived. But any movement on your side against us will be met in such a way that the consequences, both to yourself and your kinsman, will prove to the last degree prejudicial. For the rest, the arrangements specified in my earlier note of this instant (dated 2.45 P. M.) remain in force.’

Merton returned the letter to Logan. Their faces were almost equally blank.

‘Let me think!’ said Merton. He turned, and walked to the window. Logan re-read the letters and waited. Presently Merton came back to the fireside. ‘You see, after all, this resolves itself into the ordinary dilemma of brigandage. We do not want to pay ransom, enormous ransom probably, if we can rescue the marquis, and destroy the gang. But the marquis himself – ’

‘Oh, he would never offer terms that they would accept,’ said Logan, with conviction. ‘But I would stick at no ransom, of course.’

‘But suppose that I see a way of defeating the scoundrels, would you let me risk it?’

‘If you neither imperil yourself nor him too much.’

‘Never mind me, I like it. And, as for him, they will be very loth to destroy their winning card.’

‘You’ll be cautious?’

‘Naturally, but, as this place and the stations are sure to be watched, as the trains are slow, local, and inconvenient, and as, thanks to the economy of the marquis, you have no horses, it will be horribly difficult for me to leave the house and get to London and to work without their spotting me. It is absolutely essential to my scheme that I should not be known to be in town, and that I should be supposed to be here. I’ll think it out. In the meantime we must do what we can to throw dust in the eyes of the enemy. Wire an identical advertisement to all the London papers; I’ll write it.’

Merton went to a table on which lay some writing materials, and wrote: —

‘BURLINGTON ARCADE. SILVER-TOPPED EBONY STICK. Any offer made by the other party will be doubled on receipt of that consignment uninjured. Will meet the lady. Traps shall be kept here till after the date you mention. CHURCH BROOK.’

‘Now,’ said Merton, ‘he will see that Church Brook is Kirkburn, and that you will be liberal. And he will understand that the detectives are not to return to London. You did not show them the letters?’

‘Of course not till you saw them, and I won’t.’

‘And, if nothing can be done before the eleventh, why you must promenade in the Burlington Arcade.’

‘You see one weak point in your offers, don’t you?’

‘Which?’

‘Why, suppose they do release the marquis, how am I to get the money to pay double his offer? He won’t stump up and recoup me.’

Merton laughed. ‘We must risk it,’ he said. ‘And, in the changed circumstances, the tin might be raised on a post-obit. But he won’t bid high; you may double safely enough.’

On considering these ideas Logan looked relieved. ‘Now,’ he asked, ‘about your plan; is it following the emu’s feather?’

Merton nodded. ‘But I must do it alone. The detectives must stay here. Now if I leave, dressed as I am, by the 10.49, I’ll be tracked all the way. Is there anybody in the country whom you can absolutely trust?’

‘Yes, there’s Bower, the gardener, the son of these two feudal survivals, and there is his son.’

‘What is young Bower?’

‘A miner in the collieries; the mine is near the house.’

‘Is he about my size? Have you seen him?’

‘I saw him last night; he was one of the watchers.’

‘Is he near my size?’

‘A trifle broader, otherwise near enough.’

‘What luck!’ said Merton, adding, ‘well, I can’t start by the 10.49. I’m ill. I’m in bed. Order my breakfast in bed, send Mrs. Bower, and come up with her yourself.’

Merton rushed up the turnpike stair; in two minutes he was undressed, and between the sheets. There he lay, reading Bradshaw, pages 670, 671.

Presently there was a knock at the door, and Logan entered, followed by Mrs. Bower with the breakfast tray.

Merton addressed her at once.

‘Mrs. Bower, we know that we can trust you absolutely.’

‘To the death, sir – me and mine.’

‘Well, I am not ill, but people must think I am ill. Is your grandson on the night shift or the day shift?’

‘Laird is on the day shift, sir.’

‘When does he leave his work?’

‘About six, sir.’

‘That is good. As soon as he appears – ’

‘I’ll wait for him at the pit’s mouth, sir.’

‘Thank you. You will take him to his house; he lives with your son?’

‘Yes, sir, with his father.’

‘Make him change his working clothes – but he need not wash his face much – and bring him here. Mr. Logan, I mean Lord Fastcastle, will want him. Now, Mrs. Bower – you see I trust you absolutely – what he is wanted for is this. I shall dress in your grandson’s clothes, I shall blacken my hands and face slightly, and I must get to Drem. Have I time to reach the station by ten minutes past seven?’

‘By fast walking, sir.’

‘Mr. Logan and your grandson – your grandson in my clothes – will walk later to your son’s house, as they find a chance, unobserved, say about eleven at night. They will stay there for some time. Then they will be joined by some of the police, who will accompany Mr. Logan home again. Your grandson will go to his work as usual in the morning. That is all. You quite understand? You have nothing to do but to bring your grandson here, dressed as I said, as soon as he leaves his work. Oh, wait a moment! Is your grandson a teetotaller?’

‘He’s like the other lads, sir.’

‘All the better. Does he smoke?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then pray bring me a pipe of his and some of his tobacco. And, ah yes, does he possess such a thing as an old greatcoat?’

‘His auld ane’s sair worn, sir.’

‘Never mind, he had better walk up in it. He has a better one?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I think that is all,’ said Merton. ‘You understand, Mrs. Bower, that I am going away dressed as your grandson, while your grandson, dressed as myself, returns to his house to-night, and to work to-morrow. But it is not to be known that I have gone away. I am to be supposed ill in bed here for a day or two. You will bring my meals into the room at the usual hours, and Logan – of course you can trust Dr. Douglas?’

‘I do.’

‘Then he had better be summoned to my sick bed here to-morrow. I may be so ill that he will have to call twice. That will keep up the belief that I am here.’

‘Good idea,’ said Logan, as the old woman left the room. ‘What had I better do now?’

‘Oh, send your telegrams – the advertisements – to the London papers. They can go by the trap you ordered for me, that I am too ill to go in. Then you will have to interview the detectives, take them into the laird’s chamber, and, if they start my theory about the secret entrance being under the fallen stones, let them work away at removing them. If they don’t start it, put them up to it; anything to keep them employed and prevent them from asking questions in the villages.’

‘But, Merton, I understand your leaving in disguise; still, why go first to Edinburgh?’

‘The trains from your station to town do not fit. You can look.’ And Merton threw Bradshaw to Logan, who caught it neatly.

When he had satisfied himself, Logan said, ‘The shops will be closed in Edinburgh, it will be after eight when you arrive. How will you manage about getting into decent clothes?’

‘I have my idea; but, as soon as you can get rid of the detectives, come back here; I want you to coach me in broad Scots words and pronunciation. I shall concoct imaginary dialogues. I say, this is great fun.’

‘Dod, man, aw ’m the lad that’ll lairn ye the pronoonciation,’ said Logan, and he was going.

‘Wait,’ said Merton, ‘sign me a paper giving me leave to treat about the ransom. And promise that, if I don’t reappear by the eleventh, you won’t negotiate at all.’

‘Not likely I will,’ said Logan.

Merton lay in bed inventing imaginary dialogues to be rendered into Scots as occasion served. Presently Logan brought him a little book named Mansie Waugh.

‘That is our lingo here,’ he said; and Merton studied the work carefully, marking some phrases with a pencil.

In about an hour Logan reported that the detectives were at work in the secret passage. The lesson in the Scots of the Lothians began, accompanied by sounds of muffled laughter. Not for two or three centuries can the turret chamber at Kirkburn have heard so much merriment.

The afternoon passed in this course of instruction. Merton was a fairly good mimic, and Logan felt at last that he could not readily be detected for an Englishman. Six o’clock had scarcely struck when Mrs. Bower’s grandson was ushered into the bedroom. The exchange of clothes took place, Merton dressing as the young Bower undressed. The detectives, who had found nothing, were being entertained by Mrs. Bower at dinner.

‘I know how the trap in the secret passage is worked,’ said Merton, ‘but you keep them hunting for it.’

Had the worthy detectives been within earshot the yells of laughter echoing in the turret as the men dressed must have suggested strange theories to their imaginations.

‘Larks!’ said Merton, as he blackened his face with coal dust.

Dismissing young Bower, who was told to wait in the hall, Merton made his final arrangements. ‘You will communicate with me under cover to Trevor,’ he said. He took a curious mediæval ring that he always wore from his ringer, and tied it to a piece of string, which he hung round his neck, tucking all under his shirt. Then he arranged his thick comforter so as to hide the back of his head and neck (he had bitten his nails and blackened them with coal).

‘Logan, I only want a bottle of whisky, the cork drawn and loose in the bottle, and a few dirty Scotch one pound notes; and, oh! has Mrs. Bower a pack of cards?’

Having been supplied with these properties, and said farewell to Logan, Merton stole downstairs, walked round the house, entered the kitchen by the back door, and said to Mrs. Bower, ‘Grannie, I maun be ganging.’

‘My grandson, gentlemen,’ said Mrs. Bower to the detectives. Then to her grandson, she remarked, ‘Hae, there’s a jeely piece for you’; and Merton, munching a round of bread covered with jam, walked down the steep avenue. He knew the house he was to enter, the gardener’s lodge, and also that he was to approach it by the back way, and go in at the back door. The inmates expected him and understood the scheme; presently he went out by the door into the village street, still munching at his round of bread.

To such lads and lassies as hailed him in the waning light he replied gruffly, explaining that he had ‘a sair hoast,’ that is, a bad cough, from which he had observed that young Bower was suffering. He was soon outside of the village, and walking at top speed towards the station. Several times he paused, in shadowy corners of the hedges, and listened. There was no sound of pursuing feet. He was not being followed, but, of course, he might be dogged at the station. The enemy would have their spies there: if they had them in the village his disguise had deceived them. He ran, whenever no passer-by was in sight; through the villages he walked, whistling ‘Wull ye no come back again!’ He reached the station with three minutes to spare, took a third-class ticket, and went on to the platform. Several people were waiting, among them four or five rough-looking miners, probably spies. He strolled towards the end of the platform, and when the train entered, leaped into a third-class carriage which was nearly full. Turning at the door, he saw the rough customers making for the same carriage. ‘Come on,’ cried Merton, with a slight touch of intoxication in his voice; ‘come on billies, a’ freens here!’ and he cast a glance of affection behind him at the other occupants of the carriage. The roughs pressed in.

‘I won’t have it,’ cried a testy old gentleman, who was economically travelling by third-class, ‘there are only three seats vacant. The rest of the train is nearly empty. Hi, guard! station-master, hi!’

‘A’ freens here,’ repeated Merton stolidly, taking his whisky bottle from his greatcoat pocket. Two of the roughs had entered, but the guard persuaded the other two that they must bestow themselves elsewhere. The old gentleman glared at Merton, who was standing up, the cork of the bottle between his teeth, as the train began to move. He staggered and fell back into his seat.

‘We are na fou, we’re no that fou,’

Merton chanted, directing his speech to the old gentleman,

‘But just a wee drap in oor ’ee!’

‘The curse of Scotland,’ muttered the old gentleman, whether with reference to alcohol or to Robert Burns, is uncertain.

‘The Curse o’ Scotland,’ said Merton, ‘that’s the nine o’ diamonds. I hae the cairts on me, maybe ye’d take a hand, sir, at Beggar ma Neebour, or Catch the Ten? Ye needna be feared, a can pay gin I lose.’ He dragged out his cards, and a handful of silver.

The rough customers between whom Merton was sitting began to laugh hoarsely. The old gentleman frowned.

‘I shall change my carriage at the next station,’ he said, ‘and I shall report you for gambling.’

‘A’ freens!’ said Merton, as if horrified by the austere reception of his cordial advances. ‘Wha’s gaumlin’? We mauna play, billies, till he’s gane. An unco pernicketty auld carl, thon ane,’ he remarked, sotto voce. ‘But there’s naething in the Company’s by-laws again refraishments,’ Merton added. He uncorked his bottle, made a pretence of sucking at it, and passed it to his neighbours, the rough customers. They imbibed with freedom.

The carriage was very dark, the lamp ‘moved like a moon in a wane,’ as Merton might have quoted in happier circumstances. The rough customers glared at him, but his cap had a peak, and he wore his comforter high.

‘Man, ye’re the kind o’ lad I like,’ said one of the rough customers.

‘A’ freens!’ said Merton, again applying himself to the bottle, and passing it. ‘Ony ither gentleman tak’ a sook?’ asked Merton, including all the passengers in his hospitable glance. ‘Nane o’ ye dry?

‘Oh! fill yer ain glass,And let the jug pass,Hoo d’ye ken but yer neighbour’s dry?’

Merton carolled.

‘Thon’s no a Scotch lilt,’ remarked one of the roughs.

‘A ken it’s Irish,’ said Merton. ‘But, billie, the whusky’s Scotch!’

The train slowed and the old gentleman got out. From the platform he stormed at Merton.

‘Ye’re no an awakened character, ma freend,’ answered Merton. ‘Gude nicht to ye! Gie ma love to the gude wife and the weans!’

The train pursued her course.

‘Aw ’m saying, billie, aw ’m saying,’ remarked one of the roughs, thrusting his dirty beard into Merton’s face.

‘Weel, be saying,’ said Merton.

‘You’re no Lairdie Bower, ye ken, ye haena the neb o’ him.’

‘And wha the deil said a was Lairdie Bower? Aw ’m a Lanerick man. Lairdie’s at hame wi’ a sair hoast,’ answered Merton.

‘But ye’re wearing Lairdie Bower’s auld big coat.’

‘And what for no? Lairdie has anither coat, a brawer yin, and he lent me the auld yin because the nichts is cauld, and I hae a hoast ma’sel! Div ye ken Lairdie Bower? I’ve been wi’ his auld faither and the lasses half the day, but speakin’s awfu’ dry work.’

Here Merton repeated the bottle trick, and showed symptoms of going to sleep, his head rolling on to the shoulder of the rough.

‘Haud up, man!’ said the rough, withdrawing the support.

‘A’ freens here,’ remarked Merton, drawing a dirty clay pipe from his pocket. ‘Hae ye a spunk?’

The rough provided him with a match, and he killed some time, while Preston Pans was passed, in filling and lighting his pipe.

‘Ye’re a Lanerick man?’ asked the inquiring rough.

‘Ay, a Hamilton frae Moss End. But I’m taking the play. Ma auld tittie has dee’d and left me some siller,’ Merton dragged a handful of dirty notes out of his trousers pocket. ‘I’ve been to see the auld Bowers, but Lairdie was on the shift.’

‘And ye’re ganging to Embro?’

‘When we cam’ into Embro ToonWe were a seemly sicht to see;Ma luve was in the —

I dinna mind what ma luve was in —

‘And I ma’sel in cramoisie,’

sang Merton, who had the greatest fear of being asked local questions about Moss End and Motherwell. ‘I dinna ken what cramoisie is, ma’sel’,’ he added. ‘Hae a drink!’

‘Man, ye’re a bonny singer,’ said the rough, who, hitherto, had taken no hand in the conversation.

‘Ma faither was a precentor,’ said Merton, and so, in fact, Mr. Merton père had, for a short time, been – of Salisbury Cathedral.

They were approaching Portobello, where Merton rushed to the window, thrust half of his body out and indulged in the raucous and meaningless yells of the festive artisan. Thus he tided over a rather prolonged wait, but, when the train moved on, the inquiring rough returned to the charge. He was suspicious, and also was drunk, and obstinate with all the brainless obstinacy of intoxication.

‘Aw ’m sayin’,’ he remarked to Merton, ‘you’re no Lairdie Bower.’

‘Hear till the man! Aw ’m Tammy Hamilton, o’ Moss End in Lanerick. Aw ’m ganging to see ma Jean.

‘For day or nightMa fancy’s flightIs ever wi’ ma Jean —Ma bonny, bonny, flat-footed Jean,’

sang Merton, gliding from the strains of Robert Burns into those of Mr. Boothby. ‘Jean’s a Lanerick wumman,’ he added, ‘she’s in service in the Pleasance. Aw ’m ganging to my Jo. Ye’ll a’ hae Jos, billies?’

‘Aw ’m sayin’,’ the intoxicated rough persisted, ‘ye’re no a Lanerick man. Ye’re the English gentleman birkie that cam’ to Kirkburn yestreen. Or else ye’re ane o’ the polis’ (police).

‘Me ane o’ the polis! Aw ’m askin’ the company, div a look like a polisman? Div a look like an English birkie, or ane o’ the gentry?’

The other passengers, decent people, thus appealed to, murmured negatives, and shook their heads. Merton certainly did not resemble a policeman, an Englishman, or a gentleman.

‘Ye see naebody lippens to ye,’ Merton went on. ‘Man, if we were na a’ freens, a wad gie ye a jaud atween yer twa een! But ye’ve been drinking. Tak anither sook!’

The rough did not reject the conciliatory offer.

‘The whiskey’s low,’ said Merton, holding up the bottle to the light, ‘but there’s mair at Embro’ station.’

They were now drawing up at the station. Merton floundered out, threw his arms round the necks of each of the roughs, yelled to their companions in the next carriage to follow, and staggered into the third-class refreshment room. Here he leaned against the counter and feebly ogled the attendant nymph.

‘Ma lonny bassie, a mean ma bonny lassie,’ he said, ‘gie’s five gills, five o’ the Auld Kirk’ (whisky).

‘Hoots man!’ he heard one of the roughs remark to another. ‘This falla’s no the English birkie. English he canna be.’

‘But aiblins he’s ane o’ oor ain polis,’ said the man of suspicions.

‘Nane o’ oor polis has the gumption; and him as fou as a fiddler.’

Merton, waving his glass, swallowed its contents at three gulps. He then fell on the floor, scrambled to his feet, tumbled out, and dashed his own whisky bottle through the window of the refreshment room.

‘Me ane o’ the polis!’ he yelled, and was staggering towards the exit, when he was collared by two policemen, attracted by the noise. He embraced one of them, murmuring ‘ma bonny Jean!’ and then doubled up, his head lolling on his shoulder. His legs and arms jerked convulsively, and he had at last to be carried off, in the manner known as ‘The Frog’s March,’ by four members of the force. The roughs followed, like chief mourners, Merton thought, at the head of the attendant crowd.

‘There’s an end o’ your clash about the English gentleman,’ Merton heard the quieter of his late companions observe to the obstinate inquirer. ‘But he’s a bonny singer. And noo, wull ye tell me hoo we’re to win back to Drem the nicht?’

‘Dod, we’ll make a nicht o’t,’ said the other, as Merton was carried into the police-station.

He permitted himself to be lifted into one of the cells, and then remarked, in the most silvery tones:

‘Very many thanks, my good men. I need not give you any more trouble, except by asking you, if possible, to get me some hot water and soap, and to invite the inspector to favour me with his company.’

The men nearly dropped Merton, but, finding his feet, he stood up and smiled blandly.

‘Pray make no apologies,’ he said. ‘It is rather I who ought to apologise.’

‘He’s no drucken, and he’s no Scotch,’ remarked one of the policemen.

‘But he’ll pass the nicht here, and maybe apologise to the Baillie in the morning,’ said another.

‘Oh, pardon me, you mistake me,’ said Merton. ‘This is not a stupid practical joke.’

‘It’s no a very gude ane,’ said the policeman.

Merton took out a handful of gold. ‘I wish to pay for the broken window at once,’ he said. ‘It was a necessary part of the mise en scène, of the stage effect, you know. To call your attention.’

‘Ye’ll settle wi’ the Baillie in the morning,’ said the policeman.

Things were looking untoward.

‘Look here,’ said Merton, ‘I quite understand your point of view, it does credit to your intelligence. You take me for an English tourist, behaving as I have done by way of a joke, or for a bet?’

‘That’s it, sir,’ said the spokesman.

‘Well, it does look like that. But which of you is the senior officer here?’

‘Me, sir,’ said the last speaker.

‘Very well, if you can be so kind as to call the officer in charge of the station, or even one of senior standing – the higher the better – I can satisfy him as to my identity, and as to my reasons for behaving as I have done. I assure you that it is a matter of the very gravest importance. If the inspector, when he has seen me, permits, I have no objections to you, or to all of you hearing what I have to say. But you will understand that this is a matter for his own discretion. If I were merely playing the fool, you must see that I have nothing to gain by giving additional annoyance and offence.’

‘Very well, sir, I will bring the officer in charge,’ said the policeman.

‘Just tell him about my arrest and so on,’ said Merton.

In a few minutes he returned with his superior.

‘Well, my man, what’s a’ this aboot?’ said that officer sternly.

‘If you can give me an interview, alone, for five minutes, I shall enlighten you,’ said Merton.

The officer was a huge and stalwart man. He threw his eye over Merton. ‘Wait in the yaird,’ he said to his minions, who retreated rather reluctantly. ‘Weel, speak up,’ said the officer.

‘It is the body snatching case at Kirkburn,’ said Merton.

‘Do ye mean that ye’re an English detective?’

‘No, merely a friend of Mr. Logan’s who left Kirkburn this evening. I have business to do for him in London in connection with the case – business that nobody can do but myself – and the house was watched. I escaped in the disguise which you see me wearing, and had to throw off a gang of ruffians that accompanied me in the train by pretending to be drunk. I could only shake them off and destroy the suspicions which they expressed by getting arrested.’