1 Bright.
Tugging at every bell-pull in his bed-chamber to no avail, almost crying with vexation, he trotted out upon the landing in search of another. He had just viewed one at the far end of the long gallery and was in full pursuit, when, tripping over his flapping nightshirt, he slid the whole length of the highly polished floor and reached it quicker than he had anticipated. His carpet slippers and a Persian rug flying from beneath him, bobbled night-cap obscuring his vision, he clutched despairingly at the bell-pull, which, unable to stand up to the full weight of the Squire, broke with snapping wires and clattered about his head, as he came down heavily upon that part of his person most pertinent to his saddle. There he sat for a considerable time before regaining sufficient breath to enable him to give vent to as many good round oaths as he could remember, and it was from this lowly position, where he had thoroughly damned beeswax and bell-pulls, that he espied upon the top of a tallboy a hunting-horn. Hope returned upon the sight of this familiar object, with which he knew he could give tongue. Having achieved possession of this he threw restraint to the winds and all his lung power into the blowing of a long series of ‘View Holloas’. This unorthodox method of calling for attention had the desired effect. He immediately became the centre of interest. Doors flew open all along the gallery. Housemaids peeped out and jumped back, thinking the Squire had run mad, while her ladyship came out in déshabillé and high dudgeon and admonished him for drinking so early in the morning, and what would Aunt Agatha think.
As a matter of fact Aunt Agatha’s thoughts were of the pleasantest nature, for this same noise had awakened in her happy memories of the hunting-field, and having told Lisette to open the door to enable her to hear the better, Mister Pitt, attracted by this rallying call, slipped unnoted from the room, and set out on a trail of investigation. Coming from the East Wing, he followed the dictation of his nose and ears till he reached the opposite end of the Long Gallery, where his dog’s-eye view was of two curiously attired humans, the lady soundly rating the gentleman, who like a naughty boy was standing dumb before her. An inviting length of dressing-gown cord trailing on the floor behind him enticed Mister Pitt to creep nearer, and when the Squire, unable to tolerate this nagging further, put the hunting-horn to his lips and deliberately emitted one short crude noise in protest, the poodle’s curiosity knew no bounds. As in answer to the Squire, he barked a high-pitched ‘Tally-ho’ and charged, but met with the same difficulties, for with jingling paws and legs splayed out, he came skating towards the unsuspecting gentleman. Such uncontrollable velocity surprised Mister Pitt into biting the first thing that came into contact with his nose. This happened to be the Squire’s big toe, and to make matters worse was the one that had been most damnably pinched by a ‘tight huntin’-boot’. The scene that ensued was indescribable, since the Squire’s language was so strong that it sent Lady Caroline, hands over ears, scurrying back to her room, where, after slamming the door, she succumbed to a fit of the flutters, while the irate gentleman, his tone at once persuasive and abusive, with such entreaties as ‘Nice leetle doggie — let go — get away from me, you little brute,’ at last succeeded in kicking loose and, making for cover, dashing towards his bedroom; while Mister Pitt, having, like a tiger, tasted blood, kept up lightning attacks upon the succulent retreating ankles. But surprisingly enough the Squire was too quick for him, and his nose came into violent contact with something that he could not bite — a slamming door, behind which the Squire had gone to ground.
Within his room Sir Antony’s annoyance by no means abated, when he heard that the commotion outside the house had grown louder and he went straight to the window and flung it wide, intending to harangue the crowd. Having lost his dignity with Mister Pitt, he quite forgot to assume it again for the villagers, and indeed upon seeing his own lackey, Thomas, in the front row of the corpse’s audience, with his arm round a giggling housemaid, he so far forgot himself as to lean perilously far out over the sill, thus endangering not only his person, but his still precariously tilted night-cap.
Mixing hunting phrases with official language he soon succeeded in sending the villagers about their business, and the errant Thomas, crimson to the ears, was ordered to attend on his master immediately.
Having somewhat mollified his feelings, he was yet fully aware that he was certaily in for a ‘damned dull, deucedly aggravatin’ day, findin’ out the identity of this impertinent corpse and probin’ the pros and cons, to say nothing of Caroline’s tantrums ’cos of what he’d done on the trumpet, while me wife’s Aunt Agatha will be accusin’ me of ill-treatin’ that snappin’, yappin’, doormat of a dog’. Apart from these trifling but upsetting irritations, there was the sincere anxiety about his daughters: Maria, married to a Frenchman in Paris, with the Terror raging, and Cicely having disappeared without a word. Thanking God that Doctor Syn was back again from London, Sir Antony Cobtree at least promised himself a pleasant evening. So, cheered by this prospect, he determined to make sure of it, and crossing to his escritoire he sat down and penned without any further ado the following — noting as he wrote the date that thirteen never had been his lucky number.
Nov. 13 th . The Court House, Dymchurch.
My Dear Christopher,
I hear from me wife’s Aunt Agatha that you are returned from London for which Heaven be praised. I shall be infernally busy all day, at the Court House. The reason of this you will know by now, and I’ll wager it’s the Scarecrow’s work. Since morning and afternoon are like to prove irritating (and to say truth, I cannot abide them prattlin’ women no longer), I intended dining with you tonight at the Vicarage where we shall be free of ’em. I will send over by hand of Thomas as much wine as I think we can conveniently consume, for I find myself in a mood to forget my troubles in the arms of Bacchus, and I have but recently opened a very special bin which I think will be to your taste, so have the goodness my dear fellow to postpone whatever else you might have thought to do, let the parish go hang for once and forgive me for thus inviting myself but I have the necessity to see you.
Affect. Yours, Tony.
Which somewhat unscholarly letter made Doctor Syn smile, when within the hour it was handed to him with his morning chocolate. He thought affectionately of this great warm-hearted overgrown schoolboy. Dear old Tony had not altered one iota since the far-off days when they had been fellow students together at Queen’s College, Oxford. In fact Tony was unalterable, living out the same heritage as his ancestors before him. His world was bounded by London and Romney Marsh, for with typical insularity he had never asked for more, content to belong to that solid support of the country classed landed English gentry. Christopher knew himself to be entirely opposite — the type of Englishman who has to see the far, waste places of the world. And he fell to thinking what this simple old friend of his would think should he ever discover what manner of life his old College friend had lived or what he would do should he ever learn the truth.
His reverie was broken by Mr. Mipps coming in to his room for the so-called parochial orders of the day. ‘There now,’ he exclaimed upon seeing the Vicar’s untasted chocolate, ‘what did I say to Mrs. Honeyballs? “Mrs. Honeyballs,” I says, “’ush your bucket and don’t disturb the Vicar after his long tedious journey”,’ whereupon Mr. Mipps favoured the Vicar with a slow wink, whisked away the cold chocolate, moved two books from the shelf beside the bed, thus disclosing a neatly concealed bottle of brandy, remarking to the Vicar, ‘Now ’ere is something that will do you good after a tirin’ journey. What a ride it was! Oh, did you ’ave a good night? I do ’ope you weren’t disturbed with all them goings on. Village is fair buzzin’ with it all. Oh, and of course, you don’t know the latest news. There’s a nice new corpse ’angin’ on the gibbet. Scarecrow again, they says. Have to be careful, you know, sir — “preachin’” all them sermons against him. He’s gettin’ a bit above hisself. Shouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t try and get you and me next. Wouldn’t we look ernful on a broadsheet? Vicar and Sexton found dangling together.’ Which last remark sent Mr. Mipps into uncontrollable giggles resulting in a fit of the hiccups, so that Doctor Syn had to pass the brandy-bottle for his relief. Which in truth was exactly what Mipps meant him to do.