“Before we have him out,” whispered Nicholas, “it would be as well if
one of you gentlemen were to take a look in the ditch yonder. That hedge
affords good shelter, and with so many strangers in Oxford for the Fair,
it is a likely spot for a homeless tramp to crawl.”
Doctor Syn immediately hurried to the spot, took a quick look round,
and then ran back with the disquieting news that two gypsies were there,
one with his head beneath a coat and the other with closed eyes and
snoring heavily. Indeed, as they listened they could hear the noise
across the meadow.
“If they do not wake before our pistol-shots,” whispered Nicholas,
“their presence will help us, and the news will fly through Oxford that
this affair of h onour was conducted regularly. Let us quickly get the
body to the grass.”
After some difficulty they managed to get the stiffened body through
the door, and laid it face upwards in the grass. Nicholas dragged away
the cloak it had been wrapped in, folded it neatly and put it on the
ground. He then brought from the coach his uncle’s brocaded coat and
waistcoat which the dead man had divested the night before, and had also
had the foresight to add a hat to this deception.
“Now, Doctor Syn,” he went on, “take this pistol and fire into the
ground when I signal. Measure fifteen paces from the body, and then
strip to your shirt. And now, Mister Surgeon, your bottle.”
The surgeon handed a vial containing blood, which Nicholas uncorked
and poured upon the dark stain that had congealed upon his uncle’s
shirt. He then poured a little on the dead man’s lips.
“This is my own blood,” he whispered to Cobtree with a smile. “I
never thought to shed it for my uncle, but we blood is essential, and
the surgeon took it from my arm this last half-hour. Aye, that looks
convincing. Now, Mr. Cobtree, take up your position as your friend’s
second. We must be quick. It’s getting light and those rascals may
awake.”
By this time Doctor Syn had taken his fifteen paces, and had placed
his hat and clothes upon the ground.
“Have you seen to the priming of the pistols?” asked Cobtree. “We
should look foolish were they to misfire.”
- 46-
“I reloaded them myself,” replied Nicholas. “They are splendid weapons
and have never been charged more carefully.”
Then, after Cobtree had taken his position by the surgeon, and the
coachman had driven away to what would appear safe distance, Nicholas
stood above his dead uncle. Since he could still hear the snoring from
the ditch, he risked speaking aloud, addressing the corpse at his feet.
“Faith, Uncle, you are living up to your reputation, and are fighting
your last duel from the wrong side of the grave.”
He then nodded to Doctor Syn. The two pistols flashed almost
simultaneously, startling the already wakening rooks from the trees
above them, and as the frightened gypsies peered over the edge of the
ditch they saw the surgeon running with his case of instruments toward
the fallen man. They saw Doctor Syn hand his pistol to his second, and
as he leisurely put on his clothes he said:
“Ask if the wound is serious, Tony. Also whether he would wish me as
a parson to say a prayer.”
Tony approached, and the surgeon, looking up, said: “He is dead. But
I will e xtract the bullet while the body’s warm. The coroner will need
it.”
It was then that Doctor Syn perceived that they had made an error.
The pistol used by Sommers had been a clumsy weapon, and would have
fired no doubt a leaden ball of heavier caliber than dueling bullets.
He was reckoning without the thoroughness of Nicholas, for, as the
gypsies drew near, the surgeon held up in his pinchers, a silvered
bullet wet with blood.
“Lodged in the ribbone just below the heart,” he said.
“Fit it to the barrel, Mr. Cobtree,” said Nicholas. “Then we can
report to the Coroner that all was regular.”
“Aye, it fits,” replied Cobtree, marveling at this piece of
ingenuity.
“An affair of honour, eh, gentlemen?” asked one of the gypsies.
“What do you suppose it is if otherwise, you fool,” growled Nicholas,
making a fine attempt to show frayed nerves. “It is no picnic,
certainly. This gentleman is my uncle, and he is dead. Although I
acted for him, I will own that he gave the affront and forced the fight.
This gentleman who killed him is a parson from Queen’s College, and
acted throughout in all honour. The fight was fairly fought. You agree
with that of course, Mr. Cobtree?”
Tony bowed assent. “And now, you rogues,” went on Nicholas to the
gypsies, “would a guinea a piece help you to deliver a message
correctly? I see you think it would, so here it is. Now go to the Town
Hall, and tell the officer in charge that Doctor Syn of Queen’s has
killed the Squire of Iffley in a duel fought here in Magdalen Fields.
And add that the seconds and the surgeon will this morning wait upon the
Mayor and give him the circumstances.”
After making the rogues repeat this message, Nicholas gave them the
guinea. The gypsies, however, seemed in no hurry to set out, and as
they stared upon the body one of them muttered, “Didn’t he bleed?
Nicholas, who wisely did not wish to move the body beneath their eyes
lest the unnatural stiffness of the limbs should seem suspicious, rapped
out: “I think I paid you? Go at once.”
They sneaked off towards the gate, where already a few early risers
were gathered and watching from the distance.
“The story will be all over Oxford within an hour, and lose nothing
in the telling,” said Nicholas, with a smile.
He beckoned to the coachman, and directed the vehicle to draw up so
that it screened the body from the watchers at the gate. They lifted
the dead Squire, and placed him inside, drawing the window-curtains
close. The surgeon got in
- 47 -
to steady the body, and Nicholas turned to the others and said:
“I will see my uncle taken home, and then we will wait upon you
gentlemen at Queen’s. We can then, Mr. Cobtree, drive to see the Mayor
and lay our information.” This he said aloud, but as he stepped into
the coach, h e whispered with a smile: “How beautifully it worked! I can
tell Sommers not to fret, I think.”
He closed the door, and the coach rolled away and through the gates.
Syn and Cobtree followed.
“It seems that we must run the gauntlet of a pretty crowd ,” said
Tony.
“Aye,” replied Syn, “and where they have sprung from at this early
hour, heaven alone knows. The whole business distresses me, Tony. The
more so because I have to own to you that I enjoyed that fight last
night. Aye, man. I would not ha ve missed a second of the joy of it.
Should they unfrock me for this business, I shall leave the pulpit for a
more adventurous life.”
“You must think the first of Imogene,” returned Tony.
“I thought on her with every clash of steel last night,” repl ied the
parson.
When they reached the gate, the crowd, which had now so mysteriously
increased, held the ate open for them. The men doffed their hats, and
such women and girls as were there dropped curtseys. As they passed
through the gate, the people raised a cheer. Syn stopped and silenced
them:
“I would rather you should weep for the dead than rejoice for me,” he
said gravely.
“Bully Tappitt was a scoundrel, and deserved to die,” cried out one