THE SCARECROW RIDES (23 page)

“Convincing enough to alter his description on the murder posters,”
replied the captain. “I'll ride over with this news to the Custom's
officer. He's on the other side of the common. Thank you, sir. Thank
you, Miss Cobtree,” and he galloped away across the rough ground behind
the beaters.

By this time one or two fires had been started, to burn down the
thickest of the scrub and at the sight of it Charlotte Cobtree cried
out in horror.

“Don't alarm yourself,” said Dr. Syn, “I would wager a good deal
that Grinsley is not above ground at all, so that these fires will not
burn him out.”

“Do you think he's dead?” asked Charlotte.

Dr. Syn shook his head. “No, but I think he is a clever scoundrel. I
put myself in his place and ask myself what I should do under the
circumstances.”

“And what would you do?” asked Charlotte with a smile.

“I should say to myself: Here is a squadron of Dragoons. Here are
some two hundred men hunting me with them. Amongst these men are very
many who want to catch me before the Dragoons lay hands on me and hand
me over to civil law. These people will kill me out of hand just as
mercilessly as I killed the riding-officer. They will kill me to
prevent my informing against them. Therefore, if I hide in one of our
many and famous 'hides' and if they search for me there—places utterly
impossible to discover unless one holds the secret, to unearth me there
is going to be as dangerous to them as though I were speaking in the
dock. I should guess that the Dragoons wished me to be taken alive, and
I should therefore conjecture, quite rightly as we have seen for
ourselves, that each posse of men should be watched by a small party of
soldiers. That is why, Charlotte, I believe Grinsley is abiding his
time to escape from one of the smugglers' 'hides' up in these hills.”

And this seemed likely enough to be the truth of the case, for after
burning scrub, and surrounding it, and then beating through it, after
closing in through the spinney near the farm, searching the woods for
some miles, the only clue as to Grinsley's activities was the bundle of
clothes discovered by Dr. Syn.

Indeed, as he and Charlotte rode back into Dymchurch they saw Mr.
Mipps reading an addition to the murder poster that was stuck to the
gibbet post by the Court House. They reined in their mounts and read
over his shoulder:

“Believed to be wearing a ragged black suit taken from a scarecrow.
Riding a black horse without saddle.”

On the same evening Dr. Syn, happening to dine at the Court House in
company with several gentlemen of influence upon the Marsh, encountered
the captain of Dragoons who had ridden down to consult the squire as to
the possibility of the murderer having taken hiding in Dymchurch. This
notion Sir Antony most vehemently pooh-poohed. Since he felt quite
assured that smuggling did not go on in Dymchurch while he was the
magistrate, he asked why should his good tenants have any truck with an
unpopular 'receiver' in the hills. If Grinsley had dealings with the
coast, he maintained it was with the Sussex gangs. Dr. Syn supported
him in agreeing that it was no use seeking for the murderer in
Dymchurch.

The Dragoon, thinking otherwise, said nothing more on the subject,
but no sooner had the ladies left the table than Sennacharib Pepper,
under the influence of the squire's good wine, reopened the discussion
by affirming that Dymchurch, for all its outward tranquility, was not
all it seemed, as on his many night visits across the Marsh to relieve
the sick, he had met suspicious processions of men, horses and pack
ponies and had recognised several Dymchurch men. “But my calling is
sacred. Like the parson I have to keep my mouth shut. I am horrified at
what I have seen naturally, but my duty in no way urges me to be an
assistant hangman.”

Dr. Syn quietly remarked that his spiritual duties also entailed a
good deal of crossing the Marsh at night in order to minister to the
dying, but he stoutly affirmed that he had never seen anything of a
suspicious nature.

“Well, I hope most sincerely that I have the spiritual doctor's
luck,” laughed the Dragoon. “I don't want to arrest your Dymchurch
parishioners. Indeed, for my own part I am quite in sympathy with poor
men getting good drink from France for nothing.”

“Not quite the sentiments for a gentleman holding His Majesty's
commission I venture to suggest, sir,” snapped Dr. Pepper.

“Damme, sir,” laughed the Dragoon, “a soldier may hold as many
erroneous sentiments as he pleases so long as they do not react against
his orders. If I were to meet a cavalcade such as you describe, I
should use my command to send them to the Assizes, but I could still
hold my private opinion of the lawyers who forward them on to the
scaffold. I have no desire to send fellow countrymen to their death.”

“You'd feel happier fighting the French, sir?” suggested Dr. Syn.

“I' faith, that's so,” nodded the Dragoon. “Or this Grinsley rascal.
You see that I have laid my pistols over yonder”—and he indicated the
ledge of the great chimney-piece. “They are both primed. I never leave
them on my saddle for fear they might be tampered with. No, sir, I obey
orders and keep 'em in sight, and I shall have no compunction in
letting that murderer have both barrels. But I should not care to shoot
down a poor Dymchurch lad because he happened to carry a keg of
contraband.”

“No need to shoot him, sir,” said Dr. Pepper. “Send him to trial. He
breaks the law and must be tried by the law. Thank God the laws of
England are fair enough. It is the only way to stop this 'happening to
carry a keg'.”

“And how about that excellent brandy you gave me the other day,
Sennacharib?” laughed the squire.

“It was a gift, sir, from a patient,” returned the physician.

“So you told me, but how did he get it, do you suppose? Leaving his
stable door open?” The squire gave the captain of Dragoons a wink.

“I did not inquire where he purchased it,” said Pepper. “It was a
gift to me. My conscience was quite clear.”

When the company broke up, Dr. Syn remained in the library as the
squire had something to say to him in private.

“The mail brought down a letter to-night from Lloyd's about the
wreck of the
City of London
,” he said. “At last they are in
touch with the cargo owners in America and ask for the ship's papers
which you had from the captain. If you will let me have them to-morrow,
I will see that they are posted by the Hythe mail. By the way, I wish
we could cure Sennacharib of riding his hobby-horse in front of
strangers. Of course smuggling goes on, but I will always shut my eyes
to the fact that any of our people are implicated. I tell you his
remarks have made that Dragoon officer suspicious. No doubt he suspects
the lot of us.”

“Well, Tony, we've heard the captain's sentiments, so I don't think
he'll be getting any of our lads into trouble, and he would hardly come
here and drink your wine if he intended to arrest you.”

“Does Mr. Mipps ever talk to you about smugglers?” asked the squire.
“If anything goes on I should say he would ferret it out.”

“I think so too, did he consider it his business,” replied Dr. Syn.
“But no, Mr. Mipps has come to anchor in a haven after his own heart.
He is a sensible fellow, and very loyal to both of us who have helped
him to his anchorage.”

“Well I'll take your word for it,” laughed the squire. “But when I
look at him I cannot help feeling that there's a mischievous devil
laughing underneath that look of injured innocence.”

“It amuses him to create such an impression, I verily believe,”
replied Dr. Syn, joining in the laughter.

On his return to the vicarage, Dr. Syn found Mipps awaiting him for
orders. A funeral had to be arranged, and as Mipps put it: “That's not
all the trouble, 'cos it's never death but it's birth, and there's a
christening.” When these matters were settled satisfactorily, Mipps
asked whether any news of Grinsley's whereabouts had been delivered at
the Court House.

Dr. Syn told him 'no', but that the Dragoon had thought him to be
hiding in Dymchurch.

“That's the sort of silly thing a Dragoon would say,” replied Mipps.
“Dymchurch? Why there ain't a Dymchurch lad who wouldn't cut his throat
for that cold-blooded murder. My opinion is that he's done himself in
and cheated the undertaker. We'll find his bones one day up in the
woods.”

“A man takes his life as a last resort, and Grinsley is not cornered
yet,” replied the doctor. “He knows the roads to London are watched,
and he has many a safe hiding-place around Aldington in which to lie
snug. He can get to his own house at night for food and drink and no
one the wiser, and in the meanwhile he'll try to get across the
Channel. The Dragoon officer now agrees with me. He has ridden back to
the hills post his men. After to-day's drive which ended so
unsatisfactorily, Grinsley may become over confident and betray
himself.”

“Then the Dragoon's gone back to the hills and given up his
Dymchurch search?” asked Mipps.

Dr. Syn nodded, and as he nodded it seemed to him that his sexton
looked relieved.

Mipps picked up his old three-cornered hat, and proceeded to light
his lantern.

“Where are you going? The 'Ship Inn' to-night, 'The City of London'
or the 'Ocean'?” asked the vicar.

“Well I thought I might have just one at each,” replied the sexton.
“I likes to see that the boys are all behaving themselves.”

“Quite right,” returned Syn, with a smile. “Well, don't forget to
behave yourself and remember to take just one.”

“Just one?” repeated Mipps, sadly depressed.

“At each. That makes three—” explained the vicar. “Before now I
have drawn a tun barrel of inspiration from three drinks.”

“Ah, but they probably
was
drinks,” argued Mipps. “There
was
drinks out there.”

“There
were
,” corrected Syn. “And they are none so bad
hereabouts, my friend. So be careful.”

“Three it shall be, Vicar,” replied the sexton.

“But you might make it more if you care to linger a little at 'The
City of London',” went on the vicar. “I have reason to believe that Mr.
Merry has broken his parole. In fact that he has taken to visiting
Meg's bar at night. Just learn from Mrs. Clouder whether this is so,
and if it is find out whether he has behaved himself. I will not have
that nice young woman plagued by that fellow.”

“Perhaps I'd better wait there a bit and see if he sneaks in eh?”
suggested Mipps. “Then he'll blame me for telling you, and not Meg
Clouder.”

Syn smiled. “You had better seek him out and send him here before he
goes to bed. I am not altogether satisfied with one or two things I
have heard about friend Merry.”

So the sexton departed in search of Merry and many drinks, since he
now had the excuse, and Dr. Syn unlocked a cabinet and took from it the
ship's papers which the squire had asked for.

In the past, Dr. Syn had had a good deal to do with ship's papers.
He had never had the truth of them called in question, although he had
often gone to the pains of re-writing them to suit his turn. But that
was in the days when he was following his enemy on the high seas, and
incidentally amassing a fortune at other ships' expense. All that was
behind him. All that must be forgotten, and yet sometimes the thrill of
those years glowed again in his veins. He thought of his ship—his
Imogene
. He once more passed the quarter-deck with the wind
whistling through the rigging, all sails unfurled in a half gale,
everything carrying on to the last rope yarn. He would draw in his
breath till his lungs were full and would laugh at a half-dozen
well-remembered typhoons now lashed in one, with the good ship racing
through it as though the devil himself were at her helm. The devil?
Yes, the devil of the seas. Captain Clegg himself, tall and elegant,
holding his wild crew by the magic of his own daring. Impossible to
forget it all the time, for he was still in his prime and hungered for
adventure.

It was perhaps this old love of the sea and ships that made him turn
to his fireplace with the brig's log-book in his hand. He filled a pipe
of tobacco, poured himself out a generous allowance of brandy and
seated in his high-backed chair, he began to read through the doings of
the ill-fated ship. As he read, the captain seemed to stand before him.
An honest fellow, that captain. Dr. Syn had taken a great respect for
the man, and he regretted his ghastly end. That the man had helped him
to save his sea-chest and had, like himself, endured that ghastly swim
and unconscious battering upon the sea-wall only to be assassinated by
that cowardly vulture, Merry, gave the vicar a loathing for that deed,
and he had vowed over and over again that the captain's death would be
well avenged by the time he had finished with the rogue.

The plain straight-forwardness of the log-book entries brought the
captain very near to him, and in affection the vicar read on till the
last entry. 'And now the after hold is blazing fiercely. We must
abandon ship, and with very little hope. My ship's company have all
done their duty, but none more so than our one passenger, Parson Syn,
who was indeed, first aloft to clear the rigging. He worked like a
sailor born and a parson. We escaped Dungeness by his knowledge of the
coast. Driving now into a bay towards a sea-wall. It is certain
disaster to the ship, and may God have mercy on our souls.”

Mechanically Dr. Syn turned over the pages—blank pages now that
might have been filled with entries of good sailing and profitable
returns. It was well that he did so, for on the last page of all was
another entry of the dead captain, and it was his Last Will and
Testament. Dr. Syn read with astonishment: