‘Well, Tony,’ and the Vicar shook his head, ‘I’ve heard of red snakes and pink elephants early in the morning, but French spies is perhaps the latest fashion —’
‘No — no, I’m perfectly sober — sober as a judge this morning.’
The Vicar smiled. ‘The comparison is questionable, Tony,’ he said.
‘Oh, don’t you Caroline me,’ snapped the Squire. ‘I’m too worried — I tell you, Christopher, I have six of Robespierre’s picked men, and they’re a present from the Scarecrow.’
‘Good gracious me, Tony. Being in the Vestry I am persuaded you are not pulling my leg. Yet I cannot credit it. Six? In the Court House? Present from the Scarecrow? How on earth could they have got there?’
‘Oh, don’t ask me — ask the Beadle.’ (Really, Christopher was being confoundedly stupid this morning. He had hoped for good advice, and here he was making idiotic suggestions about coloured animals. Pink elephants, indeed! He wished the Beadle had seen pink poodles — or been bitten by a white one. What with using his own stocks for a night out and then his excuses about the strength of Mrs. Waggetts’ liquor… The Squire couldn’t think of anything bad enough for him, seeing that he was perfectly sober himself that morning and had therefore no fellow-feeling for a thick head. Apart from all this the Beadle’s terror of the Scarecrow irritated him beyond bearing, since the great fat oaf should represent his own strong arm of the law instead of shaking like a jelly. Now, damme, Christopher was taking the attitude that the whole thing was a parcel of lies!)
‘But how do you know that they are French?’ asked the Vicar. ‘And how do you know that they are spies? You say the Scarecrow sent them to you?’
‘How do I know?’ repeated the Squire. ‘Because I can read,’ and taking from his pocket a number of papers, he slammed them down triumphantly on the vestry table. ‘There you are — read for yourself. They were fastened to the door of the Common Cell. Damn’ fool Beadle wouldn’t take them down. Had to do it myself. My French ain’t good, as you know, but what I can’t speak in their God-forsaken jabber I can just manage to read, and if this don’t prove them six to be as dirty a lot of scoundrels as the man who put his signature to it — that “Robespeer” — then my name ain’t Antony Cobtree. Come, man, read ’em yourself. You’re the scholar here and I want your advice. Don’t you realize, Christopher, that this is a hanging business — not down here, outside my windows, thank God — but at the Tower of London
— and it’s our Scarecrow who’s done it. Damme, I always said the fellow had some good in him. This’ll make him more popular. Lud, Christopher, I don’t know what to do.’
Doctor Syn at last appeared to understand the importance of the situation. ‘I do admit,’ he said, ‘that you are faced with a devilish tricky business. Do you think that this will gain the Scarecrow’s pardon? For much as I disapprove of him, you’re right in saying that he’s struck a blow for England. But they could hardly pardon him unless he pledged his word to cease his illegal trade.’
‘I know what I’d do here,’ cried Tony. ‘I’d use my authority and pardon him out of hand, then call him as chief witness for the Crown. But what those tom fool London judges will do is a very different matter. Now I ask you, Christopher, what in Heaven’s name is the best course for me to take?’
This was the opportunity that Doctor Syn wanted. He told the Squire that in his opinion the whole thing should be kept quiet, and that he, as Chief Magistrate of Romney Marsh, should go to Mr. Pitt and tell him everything. ‘You realize, Tony, that the Scarecrow has done you a service which will reflect much honour on you?’
This the Squire did realize, and agreeing that the matter should be handled for the moment in great secrecy, asked how he could account to the village for the six prisoners in the cells. Doctor Syn’s advice was that he should instruct the Beadle to keep silent on the true facts, and to put about the rumour that they were smugglers caught on the Marsh who were now awaiting legal proceedings. He turned to Mr. Mipps and said with a smile: ‘Although I know it is against your principles to tell untruths, yet since the Squire has been so gracious to allow you to hear this staggering news, I feel sure you will see that the village hears only what they should. You understand?’
‘Oh, yessir,’ replied the Sexton promptly. ‘I don’t like falsehoods, but I don’t mind foxications. Sussex smugglers, you says — Sussex smugglers it is, until such time as the Squire says ’tisn’t and tells ’em what they really is.’
The Squire thanked Mipps for an honest man, but failed to notice the look of complete understanding that passed between the honest gentleman in question and his master.
It was further decided that Major Faunce of the Dragoons should be taken into their confidence, and Mipps was despatched to require his presence immediately with four of his best men in the official rooms of the Court House. So within the hour under military escort and preceded by a slightly confused Beadle, the Chief Magistrate, the Vicar and the Sexton descended to the cells.
On the flagstones in the passage Mips pointed to a pile of weapons — some dozen pistols, three or four cutlasses, and one sword and sheath that that seen better days which Doctor Syn recognized as the dandy’s, lay in a pile by the Common Cell door.
Major Faunce admitted grudgingly that the Scarecrow certainly was thorough, for the prisoners had evidently been disarmed, and that it was as audacious a bit of work as ever he had seen. The sight of these weapons, and the presence of the Dragoons, lent the Beadle sufficient courage to unlock the door. He was still uncertain as to whether he would be punished for his unwitting help in the Scarecrow’s latest exploit. So in order to regain a little self-confidence, he made a deal of official pother in selecting the right key from the vast Government collection at his waist. He directed most of it to Mr. Mipps, his parochial rival, in order to make up for his lack of dignity earlier on.
The great key clanked and turned in the lock, and the heavy door swung open. This noise struck some chord in the fuddled minds of the six prostate men, and slowly six pairs of drugged eyes opened, shut, and opened again. Truth dawned on their stupefied brains. Here was no symbol of the Reign of Terror — Citizen L’Épouvantail, Champion of the Republique and friend of Robespierre, but the calm impersonal strength of English faces, and behind them what was unmistakably the scarlet of military. Standing out from this awe-inspiring group was the tall, spare, black-robed figure of a priest. To them the meaning was clear, the surprise — unpleasant. Six pairs of eyes closed desperately in the vain hope that this was but a dream.
Chapter 18
Aunt Agatha Scares the Scarecrow
She looked back down those years and found that they had not been so lonely after all. She had wanted to give herself to one person, but since this was not to be she had given of herself to many and her reward was great. She had attracted to herself interesting people from all walks of life, and she never lost the love of youth, and therefore kept alive an unfailing instinct for romance. She had sensed this intangible something a few days ago, and felt that very soon both conspirators would seek her out. She was ready for it, and she had a vast knowledge of humanity from which to draw.
Tonight, therefore, she was as excited as if it had been her own romance, and when a gentle tap upon her door broke her reverie, she cringled with anticipation.
Upon her gay invitation, Cicely swept in like a golden cloud, and both ladies regarded each other with approval, exclaiming simultaneously, ‘Lud, how pretty you look.’ At which both burst out laughing at having made the same ordinary remark.
‘For,’ said Cicely, ‘it is the wrong word — you look magnificent,’ which in truth the old lady did.
Her ruffled gown of white and silver brocade, and her high white wig turned her into a Royal figure. Cicely saw that she was wearing her Gordon sash in honour of the occasion, and very little jewellery save for her rings and the dog’s-head brooch.