THE SCARECROW RIDES (21 page)

Dr. Syn passed Mipps the bottle. Mipps stroked it lovingly.

“Then I take it that this 'ere bottle's ship-shape? We can stomach
this, I hope, with a good conscience?”

“A present from the squire,” replied the vicar reassuringly.

“And I hope he knows where it come from,” said Mipps piously. “Never
do for the magistrate himself to go trafficking. And talking of the
liquor trade, is it true that Mrs. Waggetts still runs the 'Ship Inn'?
And does old man Waggetts live?”

“He is sinking rapidly,” explained the vicar.

“Funny if he was to be the first I knock up solid. I'd better
measure him up, eh?”

“That would frighten the poor fellow to death and leave Mrs.
Waggetts a widow,” replied the vicar. “She was an old sweetheart of
yours, I think you told me once?”

“I give her up to Waggetts after we left school here. She was such a
fat girl that I was cautious. I warned Waggetts that she'd get fatter
and fatter, but he had no imagination, poor fellow. Good thing I didn't
marry her. I'd have to go round now and tell her all about that Spanish
woman what took such a fancy to me.”

“As it is, she'll no doubt make a rare fuss of you,” said the vicar.
“But my advice is to keep free of the women, Mr. Mipps. Women get men
talking, you know. You remember how Delilah cut Samson's hair?”

“I'd like to see any woman cut mine,” cried Mipps indignantly.

“Be careful then,” cautioned the vicar. “And now I'll look out an
old suit of mine, which I'll get Mrs. Fowey to alter. It will want a
good deal of cutting down.”

“I'll cut it down and alter it myself,” said Mipps. “I've a handy
huswife in my chest here, and I'll take your advice about steering
clear of the women, 'specially that housekeeper of yours.”

“Very well then. Open the chest. I'd like to have that harpoon head
you spoke about. But first of all, just for the sake of old times,
which we'll remember to forget, we'll finish the bottle, eh, old
friend?”

And had Mrs. Fowey seen them thus cronying over the bottle of
brandy, she would certainly have wondered what strange link it was that
bound these two men so different in look, character and station, so
extremely ill-assorted, thus fast together.

“To our settling down, Vicar,” toasted Mipps.

“To our remembering to forget,” toasted Dr. Syn.

Dr. Syn accepted the coming of Mipps as fate, for he was struck by
the fact that Death had opened a position for the little sea-dog in
Dymchurch as it had done for him by Parson Bolden's tragedy, because
only a few days previously the old sexton had died.

The squire put no difficulty in the way of the appointment, saying:
“If you know of a likely man for the post, appoint him, my good Vicar.
Give it to whom you please, so far as I'm concerned, since you'll see
more of the fellow than I shall.”

Thus Mr. Mipps became sexton and undertaker of Dymchurch, as well as
general factotum to the vicar. On Sundays, after tolling the bell, when
the ringers had finished, he sat at the lower desk of the three-decker
pulpit and fervently cried 'Amen' to the vicar's tune.

During the first week or two of his appointment the vicar took
occasion to repeat his injunctions upon the sexton, that were
forbidding any reference whatsoever to their association abroad;
insisting that he should keep sober and respectable in the eyes of the
parish; to do nothing that would bring disrepute upon the church, and,
above all, to have no sort of dealing with the smugglers.

All these injunctions Mr. Mipps followed for a time after his own
fashion.

Naturally garrulous, he could not keep his tongue from wagging about
his own adventures abroad, but with the exception of mentioning hearing
Dr. Syn preach that one sermon at New Bedford (a sermon entirely of his
own imagination) and telling of the doctor's fame as a missioner, he
certainly kept mum about his own association with him. Finding,
however, that tales of the pirates made him very popular in the
bar-parlours, he owned to having met the notorious Clegg. But it was
not the tall, thin, elegant Clegg of reality, but the 'barrel of a man'
that he described. In this he felt that he was doing his old master a
great service, as indeed he was, for who would connect Dr. Syn with the
Clegg that he described so accurately? He found no difficulty at all
about keeping sober, for he could stand a great deal more liquor than
the most generous of his hearers could afford to 'stand' him.

The dignity of the church he also maintained, for he found that its
dignity reflected itself upon him and made him the more looked up to.

But it was the last injunction that he found the most difficult.

Although he had heard the squire and Dr. Syn denying in public that
smuggling went on in Dymchurch, he felt pretty certain that both
gentlemen knew of the vast quantities of contraband that found its way
across the Marsh, and he gathered that they could both name some of
their worthiest parishioners as aiders and abettors of the process.

Mipps quite understood why they winked at it. Smuggled goods
naturally were expensive commodities to buy in the open market, and
since it paid the smugglers to be generous, it was pleasant to find
expensive kegs and luxurious cases left on one's doorstep by a kind, if
anonymous, donor.

Naturally, it did not suit Dr. Syn to have his own sexton running
risks that might bring him within reach of the law. Mipps appreciated
that, for lawyers have a way of making people talk and raking up the
past, and both Mipps and Dr. Syn had decided to 'remember to forget'.

So for some time even this last injunction the sexton fulfilled
faithfully, and he purposely affected a blind eye to many things he
saw, a deaf ear to many things he heard, and his tongue would lead the
conversation into safer channels when he considered it becoming
dangerous. Although he realised that he was losing a lot of profitable
excitement by not being drawn into the vortex of what he soon realised
was the real if secret life of the community, he found plenty of scope
for activity outside this risky circle. In addition to making coffins,
he opened a little store where, amongst the coffin planks, you could
buy anything from fishing-nets to pickled onions.

Old Tree Cottage, the sexton's residence, which had been furnished
at the vicar's expense from the Upton's Curiosity and Antique Shop,
became as well as the coffin shop next door a rendezvous for the
villagers, old and young. He became popular. His wide experience of
foreign lands gave him a superiority over his fellows which inspired a
certain amount of awe. This he encouraged, for he liked being feared.
If he made a toy for a child, he could not resist accompanying the gift
with some fearsome tale of witches or the like. Most children and all
grown-ups have a hankering for the weird, and while the villagers
shuddered at his stories, they enjoyed their frightening quality. Mipps
became generally admired and in the process learned many things that
were so profitable that his conscience was quietened with argument. For
instance, if the squire and the vicar could accept presents of tobacco,
tea and spirits on which they must have guessed no taxation had been
paid, well then, he could lend a secret hand in the supplying of such
luxuries.

Although at first intending only to disobey the vicar for just a
little flutter now and again, the excitement got hold of him, and
before he knew where he was, he found himself a leader, and involved in
the smuggling business up to the neck. He had been caught in the toils
from his first adventuring, which was usually the way with people who
came to live on the Marsh. The old families of the district had for
generations depended upon smuggling both for sport and a means of
income. Descended from the Owlers who smuggled wool from the Marsh to
the Continent as far back as Edward I (the thirteenth century), the
game was in their blood, and they considered it their right. They saw
no disloyalty to the King in cheating his Government officials and they
enjoyed the risks of discovery. Not that there was much danger of
penalty, for the squire of Dymchurch was head magistrate of the Marsh,
and no jury at the Court House Sessions was going to condemn a local
man for bringing free luxuries to their back door. That is, all was
safe enough so long as the affair was run secretly and without
violence.

On this point Mipps was adamant. No firearms were to be carried by
his smugglers, only bats or stout poles which, in the hands of
well-mounted men, were formidable enough. Even these weapons he
discouraged, preferring to push a hateful excise-man into a dyke,
saying that whereas a cold in the head was no proof against them, a
gashed head might well become so. But with all his caution, disaster
came, and from an outside source.

A riding officer from Sandgate was brutally murdered on the hills
above the Marsh.

The news burst like a bombshell amongst the secret community of
Dymchurch, and the barbarous act not only spread indignation, but also
a haunting dread as to what the murderer might say when he was brought
to trial, for the man was brutal physically and mean-spirited, so that
the general hope was that he would not allow himself to be taken alive.
Once in court, there was no doubt but that he would do his utmost to
make many others share his fate.

His name was Grinsley and he ran a farm up at Aldington, but his
chief source of income, for many years had been derived from
'receiving' smuggled goods from the Marsh and passing them along
towards London. His callous brutality to man and beast had gained him
the worst reputation, but since his farmhouse was set in the midst of
the wild common known locally as Aldington Fright, it was a safe house
to use for the delivery of the goods, screened as it was on three sides
by a thick spinney, and with its large dark roof at the back
honeycombed with apple lofts and its spacious cellars concealed beneath
the flagged floors. In addition to these advantages, Grinsley paid cash
for what he received, which satisfied the Marsh smugglers, who had no
idea of the enormous profits Grinsley made for himself.

Apparently resenting some harsh treatment at his hands, one of his
labourers sought revenge by reporting him as a 'receiver' to the Excise
Office at Sandgate, and the riding officer on duty had been sent out
armed with a warrant to search the premises.

Grinsley, knowing that his lofts and cellars would betray him,
refused the officer admittance and threatened to blow off his head if
he tried force.

The officer rode off to get an armed guard, which threw Grinsley
into an uncontrollable rage. Rushing to his stables, he mounted his
fierce black horse and galloped after the officer, who, according to
the testimony of an eye-witness, drew rein and waited for him to come
up.

“Thought better of it, eh, Mr. Grinsley?” he asked, smiling. “Well,
it will save me the long ride to Sandgate.”

“But not the short ride to Hell,” cried Grinsley, discharging a
blunderbuss full in his face.

To the horror of the eye-witness, an old woman who was gathering
sticks and who in self-preservation had hidden from Grinsley behind a
bush, the officer fell dead from his horse, and the murderer rode off.

When the news was carried to Hythe, a troop of Dragoons was ordered
to arrest the murderer. But although they searched his farm at
Aldington, watched the high road, and beat up the adjacent woods,
Grinsley could not be found. Murderer and horse had disappeared.

It did not take long for the hue and cry to reach Dymchurch. Neither
did it take certain 'gentlemen' long to realise that Grinsley's death
was the best thing that could happen for their own safety, and in an
effort to prevent him being taken alive for trial, they seized weapons
and with a show of great indignation they hurried to the hill behind
the Marsh. They carried firearms in self-defence they said, as Grinsley
was the sort to sell his life dearly. It was a rational excuse. Dr. Syn
watched the angry mob rush off upon the trail, and thinking it to be as
well that someone in authority should be on the spot to restrain them,
he followed the hue and cry, riding up towards Aldington on his white
pony.

On the way he met Charlotte Cobtree riding towards him.

“I rode out with my father behind the Dragoons,” she said, drawing
rein. “But when I saw all the people looking so grim, I had to come
away. The man Grinsley is a scoundrel, but there are so many against
him.”

“They have not caught him?” asked the doctor.

“No, but in time they must,” she answered. “I heard them planning to
burn him out. They think they have missed him beating the Fright. But
to burn a man out—why, one wouldn't do that to a fox.”

“I'm afraid this man has little reason to earn your sympathy, my
dear Charlotte,” said Dr. Syn. “A fight is a fight, but what chance did
he give that unfortunate riding-officer, who was but fulfilling his
unpleasant duty?”

“I know, I know,” nodded Charlotte. “But he's a fugitive—and—oh, I
know it's all wrong—it must be, but I always want to shield a
fugitive.”

“That is your beautiful nature, Charlotte,” Dr. Syn smiled sadly.
“Surely, every crime committed should be traced back to its first cause
and every criminal that is condemned should be allowed credit or
discredit for his past life. In Grinsley's case, I fear it would not
help him, though. He has been a bad man. No, my dear, he has been mean
and cruel, dishonest.”

“And yet he was once a little boy—” said Charlotte. “And I should
think of him like that if I were to see him caught by all those angry
people.”