THE SCARECROW RIDES (5 page)

Thanks to the skilful nursing of the ladies at the Court House and
the strength of her own youth, it was not long before Meg opened her
eyes and looked about her. She saw a beautifully proportioned room of
white panelling edged with gold. She saw rich hangings, not only at the
windows with their rigidly built-in seats, but also around the
four-poster bed in which she lay. The feel of the bedclothes, softer
than any material she had ever imagined, the glow of a fire in the
grate beneath a carved mantelpiece, and the thickness of the carpet
which enabled the pretty little satin shoes with sparkling buckles that
were crossing it to make no noise. These shoes peeped out timidly from
beneath a beautifully embroidered skirt. Meg's eyes slowly took in the
rest of this dainty figure, a beautiful girl dressed as she imagined
queens' ladies dressed at court.

As this exquisite being leaned over her and applied a cooling
essence to her throbbing head, and the sweet perfume of lavender
enveloped her, Meg told herself that she was dead; this was Heaven and
that an angel was ministering to her. As she attempted to collect her
impaired wits, she remembered a funeral procession in which she was
carried to the village churchyard. Somehow, she did not mind this, for
the gloom of that walk had resulted in a rest beyond her highest
dreams; but, unfortunately, the brain recovering, turned traitor and
showed her something which destroyed her heaven and made her shriek in
terror. Immediately, three other ministering angels were around her,
and one, whose hair was powdered white, asked her of what she was
afraid.

“There by the fire. Oh, keep him away. He is all wet, and he'll be
pressing my head against his coat.”

The elder woman with the powdered hair, who was none other than Lady
Cobtree, patted Meg's hand and asked: “Now, Meg dear, you know me?”

Meg shook her head. “I know him.”

The youngest Miss Cobtree turned fearfully and looked in the
direction indicated by Meg's wild eyes. Then, seizing her mother's arm,
she whispered: “It is her husband she sees. 'All wet,' she said.
Drowned people do appear, they say, to those they love.”

“Is it your husband that you see?” asked Lady Cobtree.

“I am not afraid of Abel; I am only afraid of Mr. Merry,” she said,
as she stared and trembled.

“What, that 'wretched Merry' as they call him? You need not fear
that he will come to the Court House, unless to be tried for some
roguery at the Petty Sessions. The good-for-nothing has more reason to
be afraid of the squire than you have to fear such a rogue.”

Lady Cobtree's words were perfectly true. Merry had been responsible
for many a crime which only needed evidence to hang him on the gallows
beneath the rookery, and there were many men in Dymchurch who could
have put him there, had they not feared to implicate themselves. Yet
Merry knew that there was always a risk of one of his nefarious
associates betraying him, for Sir Antony Cobtree had a devilish knack
in using King's Evidence to clear up a mystery. Consequently, Merry
held the squire in great dread, although while appearing to Meg in her
imagination, he had been confronted by one whom he was doomed to fear
more than any of his enemies, for his adventure on the sea-wall, all
but accomplished with success beyond his highest hopes, had resulted in
a situation which turned his blood to water. Merry was now in the power
of a man against whom he had no counteracting blackmail. When Merry is
spoken of as a coward, it should be noted that his cowardice was of the
earth—earthy. That is, he shrank from physical discomfort. Moral
cowardice he could he could hardly possess who had no morals. In plain
words, he shrank from Jack Ketch who could hurt his neck, but did not
give a brass button for God who could hurt his soul. As for the
devil—well, he was so akin to him and all his works that the fireball
which fell into Dymchurch Bay he welcomed as being likely to send
God-fearing citizens scuttling to their homes, and so leaving him to
gain what he could of such horrors. Merry recognised the fact that one
thunderbolt in a million possesses the chance of striking a man dead,
and the tidal wave that followed was taken by this gambler as a
convenience that would probably lay a wealthy corpse at his feet. An
iron mooring ring fixed into the wall secured his safety from drowning,
just as sure as a hot brandy would secure him later against cold.
Therefore, although soaked to the skin from salt water, it was a happy
enough villain that adventured to peer out along the base of the
sea-wall when the wave had receded.

The wicked elements favoured him, for the percussion of the
thunderbolt had shifted the heavens and the black thunder clouds were
rolling away across the Marsh to the distant heights of Lympne Hill,
and their retreat from the sea uncovered the moon, which kept dodging
in and out of fast-flying white vapours that were hard on the heels of
the storm. The light of the moon showed Merry the dark huddled body of
a man lying face downwards on the stones. The ghoulish wretch
approached the body cautiously. He intended to find out first of all
whether the man was dead. A knife wound would look suspicious if anyone
discovered the body but he would run that risk if necessary. If,
however, the man were dead, all the better, and no risk to run.

He perceived at once that the survivor was dressed as a sailor of
rank, with long sea-boots, and his fingers were clasped around an
oilskin package. Merry had some difficulty in wrenching it from him and
when he had ripped open the waterproof case, found that it was no value
to him, though of the greatest import to a conscientious captain, for
it was the log book and bills of lading. The gallant captain of the
brig had to the last preserved the good name of his ship.

A last wave of the full tide surged up and all but drew the body
back with it, but Merry clung on, and when the water cleared, he
dragged his find up the sloping stones beneath the shadow of the Wall.
He then turned it over on its back, and in so doing heard the chink of
gold. Of course, this would be the ship's money. With greedy fingers he
unbuttoned the sea-coat and found, sure enough, a waist-belt fitted
with many pouches. Fumbling for the buckle in order to transfer this to
his own waist, the corpse of the captain, to his utter astonishment,
opened his eyes and regarded him with an expression of wonder.

The captain was alive. What was more significant to Merry, the
captain looked a man of iron, broad shouldered and with hands hard and
hairy. It was no time to hesitate. His victim was recovering his
senses, for with a protective gesture his hands moved to his belt.
Better for him had he feigned death, for Merry flashed the knife out of
his pocket and drove it into the captain's heart.

This cold-blooded murder did not upset Merry in the least, for what
more likely than that the captain had been stabbed by a member of his
crew. He drew out the knife and cleaned the blade upon the dead man's
soaking clothes, and then, dragged the heavy belt from the corpse and
fastened it securely beneath his own coat.

The tide having turned, it now occurred to the murderer to throw the
corpse back into the sea, so that it would be carried out, and turning
round to prepare for this new exertion, he saw to his delight that
another body was lying a few yards away.

Leaving the captain for the moment in order to get busy with the
other before being interrupted, he approached his second victim with
every degree of caution. The body lay on its side with its face
half-buried in the sleeve of an arm crooked under it.

Merry saw at once that this was a passenger, dressed in a suit of
sober black. Despite the rough passage of the waves, this survivor had
managed to keep on his shoes, which were fastened with handsome silver
buckles. Beneath the heavy but well-cut top-coat, he saw long spindly
legs in black hose and breeches. It seemed incredible to the murderer
that this body had not only retained shoes but also a large imposing
three-cornered hat, which fitting tightly to an intellectual forehead,
had yet been tilted to a rakish angle during its journey across the
stones.

With his left hand grasping his knife in case of accidents, Merry's
right explored the corpse cautiously, raising its loose arm up and
finding that it fell back into place, heavy, stiff and lifeless. To his
great delight he found that this one had also a money belt, which by
the size of its well-filled pouches promised a greater return than the
one he had filched from the captain. He also noticed above the collar
of the coat a lanyard, the ends of which disappeared beneath the white
cravat, and wondering what valuable the man thus secured around his
neck, he tugged it out and found a large, handsome silver key. That was
no use to Merry, for it was no doubt the key of a sea-chest which would
by now have been consumed in the hold fire. He then saw that a rope was
fastened round one of the wrists. The other end was trailing in the
water. The man had most likely been lashed to a spar which had broken
loose.

On the whole, the belt interested Merry more than any other detail,
but before transferring this to his own waist, a perverted sense of
humour which this knowledgeable villain possessed, prompted him to a
course of action which would save him the exertion of returning the
bodies to the sea that brought them up. He resolved to stab this corpse
as he had stabbed the other and then to lock them arm-to-arm upon the
stones as though they had perished in a fatal fight.

He thereupon drew out his knife, and for greater caution glanced
back over his shoulder to make sure that he was not being observed.
That movement was his undoing, for as he turned his head he received
such a violent crack over the skull that for some time he knew nothing.

The first thing he discovered on coming to himself was that the
situation as he slowly remembered it, had been woefully reversed. In
other words, he was now lying on his back while his intended victim was
sitting upon his chest and grinning at his discomfort.

“So you've decided not to rid the world of yourself as well as of
the captain, eh?” asked the survivor of the wreck. “Not that you would
have journeyed together, for if ever a sea captain was sure of a berth
in heaven, he was, and from the little I have observed of you, I should
suggest that hell flames would not be hot enough. I say 'the little' I
know of you advisedly, because here's to our longer acquaintance,” and
the speaker, producing a silver flask of large proportions, tilted a
dram of good brandy down his throat. “No doubt you could do with a drop
yourself?”

Merry could, and moved one hand, which in a mysterious way drew the
other with it. He glanced at his hands and saw that his wrists were
tied very efficiently with rope. He looked at the rope and saw that one
end stretched away into the fast receding waves.

“What's the idea?” he grunted. “What did you want to hit me over the
head for?”

His captor took another pull at the flask and sighed with
satisfaction.

“You hit yourself over the head, my friend,” he replied. “Your skull
struck the stone on which you are lying. There's blood on it. Your
blood, this time. And here's to our longer acquaintance.”

Merry gazed at the queer figure above him and felt afraid. That
repeated sentence of 'longer acquaintance' frightened him. There was
something sinister about it. A man does not usually desire longer
acquaintance with one who has tried to kill him.

“You asked me what was the idea?” continued the survivor. “I will
tell you. Nothing less than a time-honoured objection held by many
against being murdered in cold blood. In fact, I will go further and
say that I would prefer to be the murderer than the murdered. Despite
the morals of the case, make me Cain Rather than Abel. I will also
confess that for some time I waited for you to recover in order to
murder you. It would have been excusable, you must allow. Self-defence,
in fact. It seemed a pity to miss such a unique opportunity. Believe it
or not, but do you know I have never stabbed a man to death, and I was
tempted to try the feel of it. In the ordinary way my instincts would
be against it. There is no elegance in inflicting such a death. Now, to
throw a knife at your man is elegant, because you are taking a
gentlemanly chance and leaving yourself unarmed. To cross swords to the
death is also gentlemanly so long as an elegance is preserved, but to
stick a knife in a helpless man as you did to that unfortunate captain
merely to steal a belt of money which is now round my waist—no, my
friend, no elegance there. So ugly and brutal that you must not think
for one moment that I would scruple to serve you the same with your own
knife. And by God, I'd have done it and will do it, too, unless you
comply with the terms of my toast: 'Here's to our longer
acquaintance.'“

“And what are the terms?” growled Merry. “To say nothing about the
money belt, I suppose.”

“My terms are first of all obedience,” replied the other. “Open your
mouth wider.”

Into his open jaws he poured a few drops of brandy on to the tongue,
then took another generous pull of it himself, repeating: “Here's to
our longer acquaintance.”

“And now,” he continued, “speak up smart and true. Your name?”

“Merry,” replied the unfortunate.

“A lie to begin with,” said the questioner.

“It's true. My name's Merry. Ask anyone.”

“Your name belies you then. Occupation?”

“I do odd jobs.”

“Very odd jobs, it seems. Where do you live?”

“Behind the old Ocean Inn.”

“Which old Ocean Inn?”