Chapter Thirteen. The Adventure of the Picardy Chateau

Mr. Standfast

by John Buchan

I looked up Eaucourt Sainte-Anne on the map, and the more I
studied its position the less I liked it. It was the knot from which
sprang all the main routes to our Picardy front. If the Boche ever
broke us, it was the place for which old Hindenburg would make. At
all hours troops and transport trains were moving through that
insignificant hamlet. Eminent generals and their staffs passed daily
within sight of the Chateau. It was a convenient halting-place for
battalions coming back to rest. Supposing, I argued, our enemies
wanted a key-spot for some assault upon the morale or the discipline
or health of the British Army, they couldn't find a better than
Eaucourt Sainte-Anne. It was the ideal centre of espionage. But
when I guardedly sounded my friends of the Intelligence they didn't
seem to be worrying about it. From them I got a chit to the local
French authorities, and, as soon as we came out of the line, towards
the end of December, I made straight for the country town of
Douvecourt. By a bit of luck our divisional quarters were almost
next door. I interviewed a tremendous swell in a black uniform and
black kid gloves, who received me affably and put his archives and
registers at my disposal. By this time I talked French fairly well,
having a natural turn for languages, but half the rapid speech of the
sous-prifet was lost on me. By and by he left me with the papers and
a clerk, and I proceeded to grub up the history of the Chateau.

It had belonged since long before Agincourt to the noble house
of the D'Eaucourts, now represented by an ancient Marquise who dwelt
at Biarritz. She had never lived in the place, which a dozen years
before had been falling to ruins, when a rich American leased it and
partially restored it. He had soon got sick of it - his daughter had
married a blackguard French cavalry officer with whom he quarrelled,
said the clerk - and since then there had been several tenants. I
wondered why a house so unattractive should have let so readily, but
the clerk explained that the cause was the partridge-shooting. It
was about the best in France, and in 1912 had shown the record
bag.

The list of the tenants was before me. There was a second
American, an Englishman called Halford, a Paris Jew-banker, and an
Egyptian prince. But the space for 1913 was blank, and I asked the
clerk about it. He told me that it had been taken by a woollen
manufacturer from Lille, but he had never shot the partridges, though
he had spent occasional nights in the house. He had a five years'
lease, and was still paying rent to the Marquise. I asked the name,
but the clerk had forgotten. 'It will be written there,' he said.

'But, no,' I said. 'Somebody must have been asleep over this
register. There's nothing after 1912.'

He examined the page and blinked his eyes. 'Someone indeed must
have slept. No doubt it was young Louis who is now with the guns in
Champagne. But the name will be on the Commissary's list. It is, as
I remember, a sort of Flemish.'

He hobbled off and returned in five minutes.

'Bommaerts,' he said, 'Jacques Bommaerts. A young man with no
wife but with money - Dieu de Dieu, what oceans of it!'

That clerk got twenty-five francs, and he was cheap at the
price. I went back to my division with a sense of awe on me. It was
a marvellous fate that had brought me by odd routes to this
out-of-the-way corner. First, the accident of Hamilton's seeing
Gresson; then the night in the Clearing Station; last the mishap of
Archie's plane getting lost in the fog. I had three grounds of
suspicion - Gresson's sudden illness, the Canadian's ghost, and that
horrid old woman in the dusk. And now I had one tremendous fact.
The place was leased by a man called Bommaerts, and that was one of
the two names I had heard whispered in that far-away cleft in the
Coolin by the stranger from the sea.

A sensible man would have gone off to the contre-espionage
people and told them his story. I couldn't do this; I felt that it
was my own private find and I was going to do the prospecting myself.
Every moment of leisure I had I was puzzling over the thing. I rode
round by the Chateau one frosty morning and examined all the
entrances. The main one was the grand avenue with the locked gates.
That led straight to the front of the house where the terrace was -
or you might call it the back, for the main door was on the other
side. Anyhow the drive came up to the edge of the terrace and then
split into two, one branch going to the stables by way of the
outbuildings where I had seen the old woman, the other circling round
the house, skirting the moat, and joining the back road just before
the bridge. If I had gone to the right instead of the left that
first evening with Archie, I should have circumnavigated the place
without any trouble.

Seen in the fresh morning light the house looked commonplace
enough. Part of it was as old as Noah, but most was newish and
jerry-built, the kind of flat-chested, thin French Chateau, all front
and no depth, and full of draughts and smoky chimneys. I might have
gone in and ransacked the place, but I knew I should find nothing.
It was borne in on me that it was only when evening fell that that
house was interesting and that I must come, like Nicodemus, by night.
Besides I had a private account to settle with my conscience. I had
funked the place in the foggy twilight, and it does not do to let a
matter like that slide. A man's courage is like a horse that refuses
a fence; you have got to take him by the head and cram him at it
again. If you don't, he will funk worse next time. I hadn't enough
courage to be able to take chances with it, though I was afraid of
many things, the thing I feared most mortally was being afraid.

I did not get a chance till Christmas Eve. The day before there
had been a fall of snow, but the frost set in and the afternoon ended
in a green sunset with the earth crisp and crackling like a shark's
skin. I dined early, and took with me Geordie Hamilton, who added to
his many accomplishments that of driving a car. He was the only man
in the B.E.F. who guessed anything of the game I was after, and I
knew that he was as discreet as a tombstone. I put on my oldest
trench cap, slacks, and a pair of scaife-soled boots, that I used to
change into in the evening. I had a useful little electric torch,
which lived in my pocket, and from which a cord led to a small bulb
of light that worked with a switch and could be hung on my belt.
That left my arms free in case of emergencies. Likewise I strapped on
my pistol.

There was little traffic in the hamlet of Eaucourt Sainte-Anne
that night. Few cars were on the road, and the M.T. detachment,
judging from the din, seemed to be busy on a private spree. It was
about nine o'clock when we turned into the side road, and at the
entrance to it I saw a solid figure in khaki mounting guard beside
two bicycles. Something in the man's gesture, as he saluted, struck
me as familiar, but I had no time to hunt for casual memories. I
left the car just short of the bridge, and took the road which would
bring me to the terraced front of the house.

Once I turned the corner of the Chateau and saw the long ghostly
facade white in the moonlight, I felt less confident. The eeriness
of the place smote me. In that still, snowy world it loomed up
immense and mysterious with its rows of shuttered windows, each with
that air which empty houses have of concealing some wild story. I
longed to have old Peter with me, for he was the man for this kind of
escapade. I had heard that he had been removed to Switzerland and I
pictured him now in some mountain village where the snow lay deep. I
would have given anything to have had Peter with a whole leg by my
side.

I stepped on the terrace and listened. There was not a sound in
the world, not even the distant rumble of a cart. The pile towered
above me like a mausoleum, and I reflected that it must take some
nerve to burgle an empty house. It would be good enough fun to break
into a bustling dwelling and pinch the plate when the folk were at
dinner, but to burgle emptiness and silence meant a fight with the
terrors in a man's soul. It was worse in my case, for I wasn't
cheered with prospects of loot. I wanted to get inside chiefly to
soothe my conscience.

I hadn't much doubt I would find a way, for three years of war
and the frequent presence of untidy headquarters' staffs have
loosened the joints of most Picardy houses. There's generally a
window that doesn't latch or a door that doesn't bar. But I tried
window after window on the terrace without result. The heavy green
sun-shutters were down over each, and when I broke the hinges of one
there was a long bar within to hold it firm. I was beginning to
think of shinning up a rain-pipe and trying the second floor, when a
shutter I had laid hold on swung back in my hand. It had been left
unfastened, and, kicking the snow from my boots, I entered a room.

A gleam of moonlight followed me and I saw I was in a big salon
with a polished wood floor and dark lumps of furniture swathed in
sheets. I clicked the bulb at my belt, and the little circle of
light showed a place which had not been dwelt in for years. At the
far end was another door, and as I tiptoed towards it something
caught my eye on the parquet. It was a piece of fresh snow like that
which clumps on the heel of a boot. I had not brought it there. Some
other visitor had passed this way, and not long before me.

Very gently I opened the door and slipped in. In front of me
was a pile of furniture which made a kind of screen, and behind that
I halted and listened. There was somebody in the room. I heard the
sound of human breathing and soft movements; the man, whoever he was,
was at the far end from me, and though there was a dim glow of Moon
through a broken shutter I could see nothing of what he was after. I
was beginning to enjoy myself now. I knew of his presence and he did
not know of mine, and that is the sport of stalking.

An unwary movement of my hand caused the screen to creak.
Instantly the movements ceased and there was utter silence. I held
my breath, and after a second or two the tiny sounds began again. I
had a feeling, though my eyes could not assure me, that the man
before me was at work, and was using a very small shaded torch. There
was just the faintest moving shimmer on the wall beyond, though that
might come from the crack of moonlight. Apparently he was reassured,
for his movements became more distinct. There was a jar as if a
table had been pushed back. Once more there was silence, and I heard
only the intake of breath. I have very quick ears, and to me it
sounded as if the man was rattled. The breathing was quick and
anxious.

Suddenly it changed and became the ghost of a whistle - the kind
of sound one makes with the lips and teeth without ever letting the
tune break out clear. We all do it when we are preoccupied with
something - shaving, or writing letters, or reading the newspaper.
But I did not think my man was preoccupied. He was whistling to
quiet fluttering nerves.

Then I caught the air. It was 'Cherry Ripe'.

In a moment, from being hugely at my ease, I became the nervous
one. I had been playing peep-bo with the unseen, and the tables were
turned. My heart beat against my ribs like a hammer. I shuffled my
feet, and again there fell the tense silence.

'Mary,' I said - and the word seemed to explode like a bomb in
the stillness -'Mary! It's me - Dick Hannay.'

There was no answer but a sob and the sound of a timid step.

I took four paces into the darkness and caught in my arms a
trembling girl ...

Often in the last months I had pictured the kind of scene which
would be the culminating point of my life. When our work was over
and war had been forgotten, somewhere - perhaps in a green Cotswold
meadow or in a room of an old manor - I would talk with Mary. By
that time we should know each other well and I would have lost my
shyness. I would try to tell her that I loved her, but whenever I
thought of what I should say my heart sank, for I knew I would make a
fool of myself. You can't live my kind of life for forty years
wholly among men and be of any use at pretty speeches to women. I
knew I should stutter and blunder, and I used despairingly to invent
impossible situations where I might make my love plain to her without
words by some piece of melodramatic sacrifice.

But the kind Fates had saved me the trouble. Without a syllable
save Christian names stammered in that eerie darkness we had come to
complete understanding. The fairies had been at work unseen, and the
thoughts of each of us had been moving towards the other, till love
had germinated like a seed in the dark. As I held her in my arms I
stroked her hair and murmured things which seemed to spring out of
some ancestral memory. Certainly my tongue had never used them
before, nor my mind imagined them ... By and by she slipped her arms
round my neck and with a half sob strained towards me. She was still
trembling.

'Dick,' she said, and to hear that name on her lips was the
sweetest thing I had ever known. 'Dick, is it really you? Tell me
I'm not dreaming.'

'It's me, sure enough, Mary dear. And now I have found you I
will never let you go again. But, my precious child, how on earth
did you get here?'

She disengaged herself and let her little electric torch wander
over my rough habiliments.

'You look a tremendous warrior, Dick. I have never seen you
like this before. I was in Doubting Castle and very much afraid of
Giant Despair, till you came.'

'I think I call it the Interpreter's House,' I said.

'It's the house of somebody we both know,' she went on. 'He
calls himself Bommaerts here. That was one of the two names, you
remember. I have seen him since in Paris. Oh, it is a long story
and you shall hear it all soon. I knew he came here sometimes, so I
came here too. I have been nursing for the last fortnight at the
Douvecourt Hospital only four miles away.'

'But what brought you alone at night?'

'Madness, I think. Vanity, too. You see I had found out a good
deal, and I wanted to find out the one vital thing which had puzzled
Mr Blenkiron. I told myself it was foolish, but I couldn't keep
away. And then my courage broke down, and before you came I would
have screamed at the sound of a mouse. If I hadn't whistled I would
have cried.'

'But why alone and at this hour?'

'I couldn't get off in the day. And it was safest to come
alone. You see he is in love with me, and when he heard I was coming
to Douvecourt forgot his caution and proposed to meet me here. He
said he was going on a long journey and wanted to say goodbye. If he
had found me alone - well, he would have said goodbye. If there had
been anyone with me, he would have suspected, and he mustn't suspect
me. Mr Blenkiron says that would be fatal to his great plan. He
believes I am like my aunts, and that I think him an apostle of peace
working by his own methods against the stupidity and wickedness of
all the Governments. He talks more bitterly about Germany than about
England. He had told me how he had to disguise himself and play many
parts on his mission, and of course I have applauded him. Oh, I have
had a difficult autumn.'

'Mary,' I cried, 'tell me you hate him.'

'No,' she said quietly. 'I do not hate him. I am keeping that
for later. I fear him desperately. Some day when we have broken him
utterly I will hate him, and drive all likeness of him out of my
memory like an unclean thing. But till then I won't waste energy on
hate. We want to hoard every atom of our strength for the work of
beating him.'

She had won back her composure, and I turned on my light to look
at her. She was in nurses' outdoor uniform, and I thought her eyes
seemed tired. The priceless gift that had suddenly come to me had
driven out all recollection of my own errand. I thought of Ivery
only as a would-be lover of Mary, and forgot the manufacturer from
Lille who had rented his house for the partridge-shooting. 'And you,
Dick,' she asked; 'is it part of a general's duties to pay visits at
night to empty houses?'

'I came to look for traces of M. Bommaerts. I, too, got on his
track from another angle, but that story must wait.'

'You observe that he has been here today?'

She pointed to some cigarette ash spilled on the table edge, and
a space on its surface cleared from dust. 'In a place like this the
dust would settle again in a few hours, and that is quite clean. I
should say he has been here just after luncheon.'

'Great Scott!' I cried, 'what a close shave! I'm in the mood at
this moment to shoot him at sight. You say you saw him in Paris and
knew his lair. Surely you had a good enough case to have him
collared.'

She shook her head. 'Mr Blenkiron - he's in Paris too -
wouldn't hear of it. He hasn't just figured the thing out yet, he
says. We've identified one of your names, but we're still in doubt
about Chelius.'

'Ah, Chelius! Yes, I see. We must get the whole business
complete before we strike. Has old Blenkiron had any luck?'

'Your guess about the "Deep-breathing" advertisement was very
clever, Dick. It was true, and it may give us Chelius. I must leave
Mr Blenkiron to tell you how. But the trouble is this. We know
something of the doings of someone who may be Chelius, but we can't
link them with Ivery. We know that Ivery is Bommaerts, and our hope
is to link Bommaerts with Chelius. That's why I came here. I was
trying to burgle this escritoire in an amateur way. It's a bad piece
of fake Empire and deserves smashing.'

I could see that Mary was eager to get my mind back to business,
and with some difficulty I clambered down from the exultant heights.
The intoxication of the thing was on me - the winter night, the
circle of light in that dreary room, the sudden coming together of
two souls from the ends of the earth, the realization of my wildest
hopes, the gilding and glorifying of all the future. But she had
always twice as much wisdom as me, and we were in the midst of a
campaign which had no use for day-dreaming. I turned my attention to
the desk.

It was a flat table with drawers, and at the back a half-circle
of more drawers with a central cupboard. I tilted it up and most of
the drawers slid out, empty of anything but dust. I forced two open
with my knife and they held empty cigar boxes. Only the cupboard
remained, and that appeared to be locked. I wedged a key from my
pocket into its keyhole, but the thing would not budge.

'It's no good,' I said. 'He wouldn't leave anything he valued
in a place like this. That sort of fellow doesn't take risks. If he
wanted to hide something there are a hundred holes in this Chateau
which would puzzle the best detective.'

'Can't you open it?' she asked. 'I've a fancy about that table.
He was sitting here this afternoon and he may be coming back.'

I solved the problem by turning up the escritoire and putting my
knee through the cupboard door. Out of it tumbled a little dark-
green attache case.

'This is getting solemn,' said Mary. 'Is it locked?'

It was, but I took my knife and cut the lock out and spilled the
contents on the table. There were some papers, a newspaper or two,
and a small bag tied with black cord. The last I opened, while Mary
looked over my shoulder. It contained a fine yellowish powder.

'Stand back,' I said harshly. 'For God's sake, stand back and
don't breathe.'

With trembling hands I tied up the bag again, rolled it in a
newspaper, and stuffed it into my pocket. For I remembered a day
near Peronne when a Boche plane had come over in the night and had
dropped little bags like this. Happily they were all collected, and
the men who found them were wise and took them off to the nearest
laboratory. They proved to be full of anthrax germs ...

I remembered how Eaucourt Sainte-Anne stood at the junction of a
dozen roads where all day long troops passed to and from the lines.
From such a vantage ground an enemy could wreck the health of an army
...

I remembered the woman I had seen in the courtyard of this house
in the foggy dusk, and I knew now why she had worn a gas-mask.

This discovery gave me a horrid shock. I was brought down with
a crash from my high sentiment to something earthly and devilish. I
was fairly well used to Boche filthiness, but this seemed too grim a
piece of the utterly damnable. I wanted to have Ivery by the throat
and force the stuff into his body, and watch him decay slowly into
the horror he had contrived for honest men.

'Let's get out of this infernal place,' I said.

But Mary was not listening. She had picked up one of the
newspapers and was gloating over it. I looked and saw that it was
open at an advertisement of Weissmann's 'Deep-breathing' system.

'Oh, look, Dick,' she cried breathlessly.

The column of type had little dots made by a red pencil below
certain words.

'It's it,' she whispered, 'it's the cipher - I'm almost sure
it's the cipher!'

'Well, he'd be likely to know it if anyone did.'

'But don't you see it's the cipher which Chelius uses - the man
in Switzerland? Oh, I can't explain now, for it's very long, but I
think - I think - I have found out what we have all been wanting.
Chelius ...'

'Whisht!' I said. 'What's that?'

There was a queer sound from the out-of-doors as if a sudden
wind had risen in the still night.

'It's only a car on the main road,' said Mary.

'How did you get in?' I asked.

'By the broken window in the next room. I cycled out here one
morning, and walked round the place and found the broken catch.'

'Perhaps it is left open on purpose. That may be the way M.
Bommaerts visits his country home ... Let's get off, Mary, for this
place has a curse on it. It deserves fire from heaven.'

I slipped the contents of the attache case into my pockets.
'I'm going to drive you back,' I said. 'I've got a car out
there.'

'Then you must take my bicycle and my servant too. He's an old
friend of yours - one Andrew Amos.'

'Now how on earth did Andrew get over here?'

'He's one of us,' said Mary, laughing at my surprise. 'A most
useful member of our party, at present disguised as an infirmier in
Lady Manorwater's Hospital at Douvecourt. He is learning French, and
...'

'Hush!' I whispered. 'There's someone in the next room.'

I swept her behind a stack of furniture, with my eyes glued on a
crack of light below the door. The handle turned and the shadows
raced before a big electric lamp of the kind they have in stables. I
could not see the bearer, but I guessed it was the old woman.

There was a man behind her. A brisk step sounded on the
parquet, and a figure brushed past her. It wore the horizon-blue of
a French officer, very smart, with those French riding-boots that
show the shape of the leg, and a handsome fur-lined pelisse. I would
have called him a young man, not more than thirty-five. The face was
brown and clean-shaven, the eyes bright and masterful ... Yet he did
not deceive me. I had not boasted idly to Sir Walter when I said
that there was one man alive who could never again be mistaken by
me.

I had my hand on my pistol, as I motioned Mary farther back into
the shadows. For a second I was about to shoot. I had a perfect
mark and could have put a bullet through his brain with utter
certitude. I think if I had been alone I might have fired. Perhaps
not. Anyhow now I could not do it. It seemed like potting at a
sitting rabbit. I was obliged, though he was my worst enemy, to give
him a chance, while all the while my sober senses kept calling me a
fool.

I stepped into the light.

'Hullo, Mr Ivery,' I said. 'This is an odd place to meet
again!'

In his amazement he fell back a step, while his hungry eyes took
in my face. There was no mistake about the recognition. I saw
something I had seen once before in him, and that was fear. Out went
the light and he sprang for the door.

I fired in the dark, but the shot must have been too high. In
the same instant I heard him slip on the smooth parquet and the
tinkle of glass as the broken window swung open. Hastily I reflected
that his car must be at the moat end of the terrace, and that
therefore to reach it he must pass outside this very room. Seizing
the damaged escritoire, I used it as a ram, and charged the window
nearest me. The panes and shutters went with a crash, for I had
driven the thing out of its rotten frame. The next second I was on
the moonlit snow.

I got a shot at him as he went over the terrace, and again I
went wide. I never was at my best with a pistol. Still I reckoned I
had got him, for the car which was waiting below must come back by
the moat to reach the highroad. But I had forgotten the great closed
park gates. Somehow or other they must have been opened, for as soon
as the car started it headed straight for the grand avenue. I tried
a couple of long-range shots after it, and one must have damaged
either Ivery or his chauffeur, for there came back a cry of pain.

I turned in deep chagrin to find Mary beside me. She was
bubbling with laughter.

'Were you ever a cinema actor, Dick? The last two minutes have
been a really high-class performance. "Featuring Mary Lamington."
How does the jargon go?'

'I could have got him when he first entered,' I said
ruefully.

'I know,' she said in a graver tone. 'Only of course you
couldn't ... Besides, Mr Blenkiron doesn't want it - yet.'

She put her hand on my arm. 'Don't worry about it. It wasn't
written it should happen that way. It would have been too easy. We
have a long road to travel yet before we clip the wings of the Wild
Birds.'

'Look,' I cried. 'The fire from heaven!'

Red tongues of flame were shooting up from the out-buildings at
the farther end, the place where I had first seen the woman. Some
agreed plan must have been acted on, and Ivery was destroying all
traces of his infamous yellow powder. Even now the concierge with
her odds and ends of belongings would be slipping out to some refuge
in the village.

In the still dry night the flames rose, for the place must have
been made ready for a rapid burning. As I hurried Mary round the
moat I could see that part of the main building had caught fire. The
hamlet was awakened, and before we reached the corner of the highroad
sleepy British soldiers were hurrying towards the scene, and the Town
Major was mustering the fire brigade. I knew that Ivery had laid his
plans well, and that they hadn't a chance - that long before dawn the
Chateau of Eaucourt Sainte-Anne would be a heap of ashes and that in
a day or two the lawyers of the aged Marquise at Biarritz would be
wrangling with the insurance company.

At the corner stood Amos beside two bicycles, solid as a graven
image. He recognized me with a gap-toothed grin.

'It's a cauld night, General, but the home fires keep burnin'.
I havena seen such a cheery lowe since Dickson's mill at Gawly.'

We packed, bicycles and all, into my car with Amos wedged in the
narrow seat beside Hamilton. Recognizing a fellow countryman, he
gave thanks for the lift in the broadest Doric. 'For,' said he, 'I'm
not what you would call a practised hand wi' a velocipede, and my
feet are dinnled wi' standin' in the snaw.'

As for me, the miles to Douvecourt passed as in a blissful
moment of time. I wrapped Mary in a fur rug, and after that we did
not speak a word. I had come suddenly into a great possession and
was dazed with the joy of it.