THE SCARECROW RIDES (34 page)

It was after a particularly long day of parochial work carried on
from this hut that Dr. Syn was roused from his studies by Mipps, who
insisted on swinging a lantern before his master through the dark trees
by the Court House, and realising that Dr. Syn had had a very exacting
day he was then for taking himself back to the coffin shop. However,
the doctor was equally insistent that Mipps should join him in his
study for a drink, and it was while they were sitting in the dim
candle-light that Mipps suddenly cocked his head towards the ceiling
and began to sniff like a terrier.

“What's wrong?” whispered the doctor.

“Someone upstairs,” replied Mipps. “I heard a creak. Besides, I can
smell a horsey sort of odour about the place. Noticed it when I first
come in. Been in here, now up in your bedroom.”

“Nonsense, who could be up there? Mrs. Fowey will be abed by now;
nine o'clock is her hour and up at five.”

Mipps sniffed and then sniffed again.

“It's a man, sir. Mrs. Fowey ain't a horsey flavour, and as you say
she's abed now by habit. These old houses gives away people what has no
right to be in 'em. There's a creak going on now above deck.”

“Very well then, Mipps,” whispered Syn, “we will satisfy ourselves.
Pistols and upstairs.”

They left the room quietly, Dr. Syn going first with a pistol in his
hand. Through the hall and up the stairs he went, to his bedroom door,
which he pushed open, stepping aside into the dark passage as he did
so. Mipps waited on the other side of the door, also with his pistol
ready.

“Whoever you are,” said Dr. Syn quietly, “will you be good enough to
show yourself? I may add that there are two of us here, both armed, but
purely in self-defence. We have no quarrel with anyone who is in
trouble.”

Dr. Syn saw the curtains of his four-poster stir by the open window.

“Who is with you?” demanded a voice.

“My sexton, Mr. Mipps,” replied the doctor. “He is a man you may
trust as myself. But he shoots as well as I do.”

“Very well, then there need be no shooting,” the voice answered. “I
have come to you for help. Where can we talk?”

“You will follow me downstairs to my study, and Mr. Mipps will
follow you. Please come out, and consider yourself quite safe.”

The shadow of a big man in a long overcoat crossed the window and
came out of the door.

Dr. Syn took a quick look at him and smiled. “Ah, it is my old
friend of the boxing ring, Mr. Bone. I trust you will honour us by
having some of my excellent brandy.” He put his pistol in his pocket,
and walked down into the hall, followed by the highwayman. Mr. Mipps
followed, but taking no chances, kept the stranger's back covered with
his pistol.

In the candle-lighted study, Dr. Syn poured out three glasses of
brandy. “You may remove your mask, Mr. Bone. I should like to see
whether or no your jaw is recovered.”

“And that's the devil of it, sir,” replied Mr. Bone. “There's a scar
upon it which bides well to keep me a close prisoner for some time,
unless you come forward to release me. Work's work and play's play, you
see. I work at night in a mask, but how can I pick up information by
day, when I am not able to take it off? A man can hardly walk into a
tavern and drink in this thing.” And Mr. Bone removed his black mask
and flung it down on the table in disgust.

Dr. Syn handed his guest a glass of brandy.

“You mean that certain parties are now looking for a gentleman who
carries a scar on his jaw bone?”

“Aye, you have hit it, reverend sir, as surely as you hit my jaw,”
replied the highwayman ruefully. “Mind you, there's not the poorest man
on this Marsh who'd betray me for a hundred guineas, except that rascal
who rode off for the Dragoons, and he's disappeared to Rye, they tell
me.”

“Then what is it you fear, Mr. Bone?” asked Dr. Syn. “You can surely
walk in to your taverns as before our fight.”

“No, that is what I cannot do,” replied the highwayman. “The fact
is, I have got that Preventive Officer on my track. Where he's been
sensible enough to leave me alone to my work on the road, which is no
business of his, he's now got it into his stupid head that I am the
leader of the smugglers. He's after me because he says I'm the
Scarecrow.”

“And are you?” asked Mipps, looking very interested.

Mr. Bone favoured the sexton with a withering scowl.

“Yes,
are
you?” repeated Dr. Syn, as seriously.

“No, I am
not
,” replied the highwayman, banging his fist on
the table.

“You mean this mysterious being who seems to be putting his wits
against the Customs, eh?” asked Syn.

“Aye, I do. And it's not
me
,” roared the highwayman.

“Keep your voice down, sir,” warned Mipps. “There's mice in the
panelling here, and it's no use fidgeting 'em.”

Mr. Bone scowled again at the facetious sexton and went on: “Why
should I be hounded down for something I am not doing? The smugglers
are keeping quiet at present, but it's common enough knowledge that
this new leader is making great preparations. There's whisperings in
many a tankard that goes echoing all over the Marsh, and inland, too,
up in the hills. Now, I've come here for help. Maybe I know who this
Scarecrow is, and, maybe I don't. If I do, as one adventurer salutes
another, neither wild horses nor you two gentlemen could drag that
information out of James Bone. I hope I know how to behave like a
gentleman.”

“A gentleman of the road, eh?” smiled Dr. Syn. “Well, Mr. Bone?”

“Well, Mr. Parson, it comes to this,” went on the highwayman
tersely. “I take it that there's no one who knows more about the Marsh
folk than you. Dr. Syn, vicar of Dymchurch has got the reputation of
keeping folks' business to himself.”

“My dear sir, that is merely one of the duties of a parson.”

“Exactly. They tell me so,” replied Bone. “Well now, if I can give a
guess as to who this Scarecrow is, no doubt you can give a better, and
that being so, what about getting this mysterious gentleman to free me
from taking over his responsibilities. For believe me, sir, I have
sufficient of my own. In plain words, I'm willing to be hanged as
Jimmie Bone, gentleman of the road, if they can catch me; but I'd hate
like hell to swing as the Scarecrow when I ain't entitled to that
privilege.”

“I see your point, sir,” replied Dr. Syn. “Whether I can help you or
no remains to be seen. Have you any proposition to make?”

“I have. That evening when you set this mark on my face, you also
saved my life. In so doing, you showed me a horse, a fierce black beast
that I take to belong to my brother outlaw—this Scarecrow. Well, I
likes the sound of this Scarecrow. He risked his neck to save them
smugglers and he saved 'em just as surely as you saved me. That shows
him to be a gentleman of spirit. He is the one man who could free me
from this absurd rumour that I am the Scarecrow. He would see, if it
were so pointed out, that I can hold up coaches very well in spite of
the Bow Street runners, but that I cannot do it with the Customs men on
my track as well.”

“And what could he do to free you?” asked Dr. Syn.

“Listen. I has my agents as well as the Scarecrow,” continued the
highwayman, “and some of 'em, lots of 'em, are agents to us both. We
have friends in common. Now, there's a rumour whispered that in ten
days' time, which is the night of the full moon, there's to be a 'run'.
Now, sir, I have a little job of my own upon that night, and did them
Dragoons know of it, which they won't, they'd act just the same as I
intend to act, for on that night there's a coach journeying from the
City of Westminster to this part of the coast, and it's going to be
full of golden guineas for shipment to certain agents in France. It's
bad enough to know that there's traitors in and around Whitehall who'll
smuggle British gold to our old enemies, but what about Englishmen who
are willing to arrange this matter and then turn traitors to their
other traitors and rob both England and France of the lot?”

“And how do you figure in this transaction, Mr. Bone, may I ask?”

“Why, reverend sir, they gets me to do their dirty work, which
they're afraid to do themselves. Mr. Bone, gentleman of the road, is to
hold up the coach, and then he's to hand over the bulk of the money to
these double traitors.”

“And do you intend to carry this out?” asked Dr. Syn.

“All but the last clause, reverend sir. Possession being nine points
of the outlaw's law, they can whistle for their money, just as the
waiting French lugger can whistle for a wind to get 'em clear of our
ships of war in the Channel.”

“And how does the Scarecrow come into this shuffled counter-plot?”

“Why, reverend sir, like this,” went on Mr. Bone. “I holds up the
coach. I gets 'em to unload her. I gives the coach her marching orders,
when just then up gallops the Scarecrow himself and on behalf of the
Dymchurch smugglers, he robs Mr. Bone and in sight of the others gives
Mr. Bone his marching orders. Some of the Scarecrow's men remove the
guineas to a place agreed, and we two then goes shares.”

“And the story gets around that poor Mr. Bone has been robbed by the
Scarecrow of his lawful, or rather unlawful, dues, eh? I see.” Dr. Syn
chuckled as he filled up the three glasses. He then glanced across at
Mipps and asked him what he thought.

“Well, sir,” replied Mipps, “if I weren't a respectable sexton
talking to my own respectable vicar, I should be bound to say that Mr.
Bone's story strikes me as the neatest, pleasantest, and most amusin'
little comedy I have ever heard the likes of.”

Dr. Syn rose and took a few turns up and down the room. He then
filled a churchwarden and lit it at one of the candles. As he stood
watching the two men he drew briskly at the pipe, surrounding his head
with clouds of tobacco smoke.

Mr. Bone watched him in silence. Mr. Mipps watched Mr. Bone with
much sniffing, as though he were trying to ascertain whether this
horsey-odoured gentleman of the road was to be trusted.

At length the doctor broke the silence.

“Mr. Bone, I know a good deal about you, as I know a good deal about
most of the people on Romney Marsh, ad although you are—shall we say
unruly?—you have the reputation for being a man who can be trusted by
his friends. Your double dealing with these double dealers in guineas
strikes me as a piece of poetical justice, for it is a symphony in
cheating to see the cheaters cheated. I confess that it appeals to my
sense of justice as also to my humour. I will see what can be done for
you. You will return to your 'hide' at Mother Handaway's, and there I
will communicate with you as soon as I can make the necessary
connection with this Scarecrow. You may wonder a little that I, as a
parson, consent to such an action. Well, maybe I am also caught by the
romantic dash of this same Scarecrow. I owe him something at least, for
saving the necks of my beloved flock, and I admit to a secret
admiration for the Scarecrow. I owe you a good turn, Mr. Bone. I have
set a mark upon you which I own is awkward. I admit your grievance,
too, against the Scarecrow and—”

Dr. Syn paused, put down his pipe and slowly filled his own glass to
the brim from the brandy bottle. He then raised it with the steadiest
hand, passed it backwards and forwards beneath his nose with obvious
appreciation of its aroma, and then looking first at Mipps and then at
Mr. Bone, added:

“And if so be that this Scarecrow refuses to free you from your
embarrassment—why, damme man, if I don't dress as the Scarecrow myself
and rob you of those guineas.” And he tossed off the brandy at a gulp.

“Good God,” muttered Mipps, following his vicar's example and
draining his own glass.

Mr. Bone held up his glass and said: “That is what I expected from
the gallant gentleman who knocked me about and then saved me. But you
can take this message to the Scarecrow, reverend sir. You can say that
the authorities will never get information out of Mr. James Bone
regarding any of his secrets; and you can add that should he ever be in
need of a brave lieutenant to serve under him, Mr. Bone would not be
found wanting.”

He then drained his glass. Mr. Mipps took the liberty of filling
them again—all three.

In spite of the dryness of his erudite sermons, Dr. Syn, in his
capacity of Dean of the Peculiars, which gave him the privilege of
periodically preaching in the magnificent parish church of Rye in the
adjacent county of Sussex, had gained a considerable popularity in that
town. Whenever he took the short journey across the Kentish ditch into
Sussex, he would put up at the 'Mermaid', and amidst the bustle of that
great old inn he was ever a welcome guest, taking a lively interest in
all, for the very exalted 'mine host' down to the humblest kitchen
wench. It was, therefore, not surprising that Merry, in spite of his
forbidding personality, found himself readily enough employed upon
presenting his credentials from Dr. Syn.

He made himself useful in many odd jobs about the rambling old inn,
and he kept his eye open to his own advantage, which with so many
visitors speeding this way and that by coach, was considerable.
Relieved as he was to turn his back on Dymchurch, since the Marsh men
were up in arms against him for attempting to sell Mr. Bone to the
Dragoons, he by no means gave up the idea of forcibly abducting Meg
Clouder, and to this end he saved the many gratuities given to him by
the passing guests. These people, relieved at reaching the safety of
the 'Mermaid' without misadventure on the road, were usually in
generous mood, and Merry found that, despite the smallness of his wage,
he more than made up for it in extras, and it looked as though he would
soon be in possession of sufficient money for the purpose of getting
Meg into his power.