‘Why, Foulkes,’ he cried, ‘’tis the first time I have known you to hang back on a bet. Or is it that you daren’t leave Town in case I cut you out with La Belle Harriet? Should it relieve your mind suppose we all promise not to call upon her till you return victorious?’
Stung by the youngster’s banter into a quick decision, Foulkes replied hotly: ‘I have yet to meet the rival that I fear will oust me in the affections of any woman, just as I have yet to meet the man whose bet I will not take. I accept your wager, Sir Harry, and if I fail I’ll double the stakes.’ An even louder cheer greeted the acceptance.
Then Sir Harry spoke. ‘You’re a brave man, Foulkes, and ’tis a sporting thing to do, but have a care. You may not get as far as Charing Cross. Then poor Harriet will have a long wait, since we all pledge we will not visit her till your return. I take it there should be some sort of time-limit?’
‘Ten days should be all I need,’ replied the Captain. ‘And I’ll set off tomorrow on the morning Mail, so you meet me here today fortnight to settle accounts. I’ll now go and convey to Harriet the reason why her salon will be deserted, though I warrant she will not mind waiting for me. Come, drinks all round, and I’ll give you a toast.’
Glasses were filled and Captain Foulkes being once more the centre of interest became his ostentatious self. He strolled over to Cullingford and put a patronising hand on his shoulder. ‘Poor Cully,’ he said. ‘You’ve had damnable luck tonight, but I’ll take your I O U and will not call upon you till tomorrow week.’
It was while the glasses were being charged that Doctor Syn took his leave of Sheridan and Kemble and was strolling past the gaming-table on his way to the door. For the first time the Captain became aware of the parson’s presence and in his growing mood of arrogance put himself in the way. ‘Zounds,’ he cried, looking Doctor Syn up and down in an insolent fashion. ‘A parson — in Crockford’s? Are you seeking the devil in cards and dice?’
‘No, sir, I have known both cards and dice all my life and I have learned that they are innocent enough. Unfortunately the devil is sometimes in those who handle them. Your pardon, sir,’ and Doctor Syn would have passed on but the Bully did not intend to lose this chance of amusement.
‘A neatly turned phrase, sir,’ he said. ‘Come, give the parson a glass and he shall drink my toast. Are you ready, gentlemen?’ Glasses were raised in assent and the Captain proposed: ‘Damnation to the Scarecrow, and may he not escape Bully Foulkes.’
The gentlemen drank, but when Foulkes lowered his glass he perceived that that parson’s wine was still untouched. ‘You did not drink, Parson. Did you not understand the toast? Being at Crockford’s I thought you had a London living. But perhaps your parish is so remote that you have never heard of the Scarecrow.’
‘I did not drink, sir,’ replied Doctor Syn, ‘because I thought it unseemly to drink damnation to one of my own parishioners.’
The atmosphere was tense and the gentlemen present listened in delighted silence. A parson was getting the better of Bully Foulkes, who at the moment appeared to be at a loss for words. The next move came from Doctor Syn, who continued politely: ‘I could not fail to overhear your bet, sir. Drink damnation to the rascal by all means and you will be in good company, for he has been damned by Army, Navy and Revenue alike. But all the King’s horses and all the King’s men have never succeeded in catching him. A thousand guineas. Oh, I beg your pardon. Two thousand guineas, for you doubled the stakes, is a lot of money to lose, though nothing to losing one’s life. I feel ’tis my duty to warn you — knowing something of this rascal’s methods, indeed, having been one of his victims — that although he may permit you to reach the Marshes safely, it is very doubtful whether he will see fit to let your return to London alive.’ Doctor Syn glanced round with an almost apologetic air, and then handing the glass still untasted to the Captain, he added regretfully: ‘I do hope I have not depressed you, sir. Good night — Good night,’ and before the astonished company had well recovered, the parson had left the room.
None of the gentlemen dared speak, fearing that the Bully thwarted might be in an evil mood. He broke the silence himself. ‘Who in the devil’s name was that? And what does he mean by claiming to be one of the Scarecrow’s victims?’
Sir Harry Lambton supplied the information. ‘Why, did you not know? I thought Doctor Syn was as famous as the Scarecrow. He is the Vicar of Dymchurch, and his courage in preaching against this rogue is highly spoke of. Threats do not stop him, though he has had many warnings, and on one occasion he was actually lashed to the gibbet post in company with a Bow Street Runner. A learned man — well travelled — indeed, no ordinary parson.’
‘And how have you managed to glean so much information about him?’ growled the Captain.
‘Oh, my informant is a great friend of his and one whose word you must believe in unless you are seeking lodging in the Town. ’Twas none other than the Prince of Wales himself.’
‘Yes, indeed,’ said another gentleman, emboldened by Sir Harry’s attitude and the mention of the Royal name. ‘’Tis all over the Town that the handsome snuff-box Doctor Syn carries was given him by the Prinny himself, who maintains that Syn is the only parson who can make him laugh.’
‘Devil take it,’ replied the disgruntled Captain. ‘I don’t know what he finds to laugh about, for I never saw a more sombre figure in my life.’
Standing at the Captain’s side, Lord Cullingford had missed nothing and he vowed that upon reaching Dymchurch he would present himself at the Vicarage and seek assistance from such a learned gentleman.
This same learned gentleman was at the moment seeking assistance elsewhere, for having made his way to the writing room he sat penning in fine scholarly handwriting a lengthy list of instructions. An enigmatical smile changed the gravity of his face to an expression of impish humour as he wrote the address and planned how it should be delivered to:
Mr. James Bone , at the Mitre Inn , Ely Place , Holborn .
Chapter 2
Two Beaux in Search of One Topic
Mr. James Bone was in an excellent humour, in spite of the fact that he had not been to bed all night. He was warm and comfortable: sprawled at his ease in a well-padded armchair, feet on the mantel, the logs still glowing in the fireplace of one of the many back parlours of the Mitre Inn. Beside him was a tankard of ale heavily laced with spirits. On the same table as the tankard a branched candle-stick gave sufficient light for him to read once more the letter which had put him in such a pleasant frame of mind. With a final chuckle he rose, took a long draught from the tankard, and with a yawn of satisfaction, raised a well-booted leg and kicked the logs into a blaze. He then dropped the letter into the heart of the flames and watched it burn. Gentleman James left no traces, and had memorised the instructions he had received, word for word. A glance at his handsome fob watch told him that he had plenty of time before starting to carry them out. Stooping his great frame to enable him to see into the mirror that hung over the fire, he straightened his cravat and retied his hair-ribbon. The picture that he saw did not displease him. A weather-beaten face, maybe, but attractive enough, especially when he allowed an engaging smile to wrinkle the corners of his eyes, blue and merry, as many a serving-wench knew to her cost; though ’twas not only these buxom lasses in the inns on the Dover Road who fell for his attractions; many a fine lady or London beauty going visiting by coach wished to see more of Gentleman James in spite of the fact that he may have taken their diamonds. A likeable fellow, who had learned early in his career that to have ladies on one’s side was half the battle. His easy grace and polished manners had earned him the name of ‘Gentleman James’. Indeed there was not a lady between London and the Kent coast who would give information to the Bow Street Runners against so charming a rogue. But politely relieving the fashionable travellers of their valuable gewgaws was not Mr. Bone’s only occupation. He it was who superintended the vast organisation required on the road for moving the Scarecrow’s contraband to its various destinations. There was not a ‘hide’ in cottage or castle in Kent with which he was not familiar. No wonder that the Bow Street Runners were hard put to lay him by the heels. At the moment, when we first meet him he was just emerging from an enforced vacation after a rather tricky affair on the Chatham and Maidstone Road.