Having delivered all this without a slip, he looked up at the window for approval, but Sir Antony, having heard the first bit in which his name was prominently featured, had lost interest and gone to the powder-closet, so the Beadle, somewhat disgruntled after this especial effort, went back to the ‘Ship’. There, he had several more rounds before starting off again. This time, however, he met with greater success, for moving up the village street crying the Proclamation as he went, he became the centre of interest and hospitality. All this only served as encouragement for a visit to the ‘City of London’. This tavern, on the sea-wall, seemed to be filled with his friends, and the four-ale bar was crowded. After a considerable time spent in these congenial surroundings he, like Sir Antony, had very little interest left in the Proclamation, so thinking to settle the matter once and for all, he decided on a rendering then and there. But hoisted by his drinking companions to a position of vantage on the bar counter, he discovered that he had lost the parchment. He made, however, a valiant effort to remember Sir Antony’s phraseology, but like a poorly rehearsed actor, he was lost without his script — and being an inebriated Beadle his voice was lost in the general ribaldry. Early in the proceedings he decided not to try any more ‘Oyezes’, having been unanimously shouted down with a chorus of ‘Oh nos’. So he plunged straight in. ‘That Scrantony Frobtree — on the Level — marsquots — deeming it meet and drink — er — meet and right — oh, well, damning it right and left — out of his person — into the Privy — no-no — oh, well, anyway — sundry spirits and sulks. Desperate character — God save the King.’ And the Beadle, with a loyal gesture, overbalanced and disappeared behind the bar — where kind Mrs. Clouder left him to sleep it off.
Two hours later she woke him, and having cooled his fuddled head beneath the kitchen pump, he recollected to his horror that he had not read the Proclamation to the Vicarage, and knowing that the Squire would most certainly ask Doctor Syn if he had heard it, made up his mind that it was better late than never. The parlour cleared but for a few stragglers, the missing parchment was found on the floor, undamaged save for beer stains and sawdust. So clutching his errant muse he ran along the sea-wall, arriving outside the parson’s house somewhat out of breath. He gave himself a couple of minutes in which to recover it before embarking upon this final test.
Mr. Mipps was filling a second churchwarden for the Vicar when the Beadle’s bell sounded and the speech began. Doctor Syn went to the bow window, and pulling the curtains wide looked out over the moonlit Marsh. He stood listening to the Proclamation — Mipps followed him and handed him the full pipe.
‘Hear that, Mr. Mipps? Two thousand guineas.’
‘Our price goin’ up, eh?’ Mr. Mipps whispered.
‘Two thousand guineas would be of great benefit to our Sick and Needy Fund. I suppose you have no idea as to the whereabouts of this deplorable ruffian?’
‘Me!’ echoed the Sexton. ‘Why me? ’Aven’t you got an idea?’
At that moment there was a sharp knocking on the front door — which caused the Vicar to answer: ‘No — but I have an idea that this may give us an idea. The door, Mr. Mipps.’
Giving the Vicar a quizzical look the Sexton went to open it.
Chapter 9
The Revenue Man Pays a Social Call
A curious feature of all the front doors in Dymchurch was that they possessed spy-hole grids. This enabled the person inside to identify a visitor before allowing admittance. It was wise to take this precaution if one’s activities happened to be questionable. Who knows? It might be a Bow Street Runner or the Revenue. Mr. Mipps always took this precaution, and having done so, closed the grid, uttering in a coarse whisper, ‘You know who it is, don’t you?’
The Vicar nodded, and repeated, ‘Open the door, Mr. Mipps,’ which the Sexton did somewhat reluctantly. A tall man stepped into the room and quickly looked about him. Seeing Doctor Syn, who was standing by the fire, a look of courtly query on his face, the stranger bowed and advanced towards him, saying: ‘Doctor Syn? Your pardon, sir. Revenue Officer from Sandgate. Nicholas Hyde, at your service. I should like a few words with you, Reverend Sir — alone.’ The last word directed at Mr. Mipps, who stood resentful and alert in the background. The Vicar bowed and said he was happy to make Mr. Hyde’s acquaintance, and then requested Mr. Mipps to leave them alone, which the Sexton did, throwing back a look of disgust at the Revenue man. Doctor Syn invited his visitor to take a seat and asked him if he would care for a drink, and upon the other’s, ‘Thank you, sir,’ poured him out a generous measure of brandy.
Mr. Hyde sat down in the chair to which his host had motioned him and took the proffered glass, while Doctor Syn watched him as he lit his long churchwarden from a taper at the fire.
He saw a broad-shouldered, determined-looking man, who, dressed in the dark drab uniform of the Revenue, had about him an air of pugnacious expectancy and the questioning look of suspicion which was the stamp of his trade.
The Revenue man, feeling it was his duty to watch people and not to be watched, shifted uneasily under the Vicar’s penetrating glance. This was not at all what he had expected. His customary habit of generalizing both people and facts had failed. Here was no ordinary village parson in a humble Vicarage, but an elegant figure of fashion in a setting artistic and luxurious. So, realizing that he could not use his bludgeoning manner here, decided on different tactics, and awkwardly opened the conversation with a compliment.
‘This is an excellent brandy, Doctor Syn.’
‘I am glad you find it to your taste, sir,’ replied the Vicar, as he strolled completely at his ease to a chair at the refectory table. ‘The Squire sent over some half a dozen bottles, as he was dining with me tonight.’ Thereupon, seeing the other’s quick glance at the bottle, he continued: ‘Oh, you need have no professional qualms as to his credentials. He is our Chief Magistrate — Caesar’s wife, you know.’ Mr. Hyde, not being conversant with classical quotations, looked blank. So the Vicar added: ‘Yes, well, perhaps I am mixing my metaphors; Sir Antony hardly resembles a frivolous Roman matron, eh?’ Another blank look from the Revenue. ‘But perhaps you have not met the Squire? Your visit to Dymchurch is not connected with law-breaking? Gratifying indeed, Mr. Hyde? A personal matter? You come to ask me to publish the banns? You could not do better. Our Marsh girls are considered beauties, you know.’
Here at least was a statement that Mr. Hyde could understand and answer. ‘I am sorry to disappoint you, Parson, but I am not a lady’s man. Let me be frank with you, sir, my visit to Dymchurch is strictly in keeping with my profession.’ Placing his elbows on the table, and leaning towards Doctor Syn, he added impressively: ‘I am here to lay that rascally Scarecrow by the heels.’
The Vicar, raising an eyebrow in surprise, asked him why he had not gone to the Squire, to which the Revenue man, begging his pardon, explained that he had been informed that Sir Antony Cobtree cared more for his foxhounds and his vintage port than he did for maintaining the Law, a Leveller of Marsh Scotts. The Vicar was about to expostulate, but Mr. Hyde cut him short with: ‘And anyone wishing to do business with him after a certain hour is more like to find him under the table than in his chair of office.’