Feeling in need of breakfast, he went to the door and called for the serving-girl. Her prompt appearance suggested that she also had been up all night, and her rosy face told him that she wished he had called for her earlier, through her speech belied this.
‘What a time to get a poor serving-wench out of her bed,’ she teased. ‘I vow I would not do the same for the Prince himself.’
‘Then I vow I would rather be Gentleman James than all the crowned heads in Europe,’ he said, giving her a resounding kiss. ‘You’re a good lass, Dolly, and prettier than many a fine lady I know. I only wish I could stay here longer, but in half an hour I take to the road to gain the top of Shooter’s Hill by dawn, so do you bring me some breakfast now, and make it a hearty one for the Bow Street Runners are apt to interfere with the regularity of my mealtimes.’
‘So long as it’s only the Bow Street Runners and not them Kentish Jezebels, then Dolly will do your bidding.’ She laughed and hurried off to the kitchen, adding: ‘’Tis all prepared. I have only to bring it in.’
Mr. Bone went to the further corner of the room, where carelessly flung over a chair was his great caped riding-coat, beneath which were his pistols in their holsters. These must be in perfect working order, and indeed were his pride and joy, having lifted them a few years earlier from a Colonel of Dragoons who had evidently known how to purchase fine weapons. Mr. Bone took them to the table, and, sitting down, cleaned, primed and polished. He was engaged upon this vital task and was nearly finished when Dolly came bustling back, tray piled high with pewter covers and a flagon of mulled ale.
Gentleman James set to, while Dolly hovered to anticipate his every want, for which she was rewarded with another kiss and a bracelet which Gentleman James had kept back from the receivers.
Ten minutes later Gentleman James was thundering across London Bridge and in less than an hour he saw the dawn breaking from the summit of Shooter’s Hill.
* * * * *
The weather had cleared. There was still a high wind blowing, but the direction of the blown clouds and the clarity of the morning star gave promise for a fine, crisp, autumn day. It was yet the small hours but my Lord Cullingford was already wide awake, having had a poor night, sleeping fitfully and haunted by dreams of the Scarecrow who, at Crockford’s, had seemed such an easy solution to his problems. Surrounded by laughing companions without a care in the world and exhilarated by good wine, the horror had seemed remote enough; but now alone, and in the coldly calculating hours of early morning, Lord Cullingford felt extremely frightened, rather small, and of no account. Alone in his great Town house, unable by his penury to retain his servants, he had conjured up terrifying visions of the creature he had sworn to himself to seek. In fact, to poor Lord Cullingford, the Scarecrow had assumed gigantic proportions; every shadow made him shudder and every night noise in that vast old house made him jump. In fact, Lord Cullingford, in Marsh language, had a bad attack of ‘the dawthers’.1 1 Trembles. Although he did not know it, he was not as cowardly as he thought, for many a braver man than he, trained to danger and employed by the Realm, had worse than ‘the dawthers’ when ordered to confront the Scarecrow or his gang. Cursing the fact that he had no servant to help him dress nor to bring him a cup of chocolate, at least, before setting out, he struggled by the flickering light of one solitary candle with breeches, hose and riding-boots. Another thought too was worrying him and an equally unpleasant one at that — the presence in the Captain’s pocket of his I O U for a thousand guineas. ‘The devil rot Bully Foulkes,’ he said aloud, and his voice went echoing to the lofty painted ceiling. ‘Bully Foulkes.’ ‘Had it not been for him,’ he thought, ‘I should not be in this confounded predicament. I vow, if I get out of this alive, I’ll see him in hell before I consort with him or his kind again.’
Feeling more the man as he got into his handsome riding-coat, he permitted himself one ray of hope in the dark uncertainty before him — the Vicar of Dymchurch. A kindly, learned man this Doctor Syn had seemed last night. Had Cullingford felt better he would have chuckled at the remembered scene, of the parson getting the better of the Bully. As he pondered on this, it struck him that from the moment Foulkes had been so truculent and ill-mannered towards the dignity of the Church, he had gone down in his estimation, and was no longer an idol in the eyes of his disciple. Cheered by the thought of visiting Doctor Syn, and the possibility of having his assistance, he made his way along the gallery and down the sweeping stairs.
Holding the candle before him, he was just able to see his way. Egad, the house looked miserable enough. Great dusty marks were on the wall where pictures of his ancestors should have hung, and dust-sheets covering such furniture as was left. ‘Property,’ he thought, ‘’tis but a millstone round a fellow’s neck.’ Then, filled with shame as the accusing spaces on the walls above him seemed to answer back, ‘Yes, but in our day this house was well run, well loved, and filled with beautiful people,’ he crossed the hall and went into the library.
‘If I am to carry this thing through, then I must be well armed,’ he thought. He selected a fine pair of duelling-pistols and the holsters, which he must fix to his saddle. He buckled on his sword and, feeling braver under the weight of so much metal, he made his way to the stables, thanking heaven that at least the family groom had remained faithful and that his last and favourite mount would be well groomed and ready for him. He was right. The old man was there, hissing through his teeth and rubbing his hands together in the brisk morning air, but on seeing his lordship he quickly led the mare into the yard. A beautiful animal, in fine condition. ‘She has had a good feed, milord,’ said old Peters as Cullingford mounted.
‘Which is more than I have,’ thought his young lordship, and in a fit of sad generosity he handed the faithful old groom a couple of golden guineas; and so, looking a finer figure than he felt, he rode into the London streets, joining the early cavalcade of carts as they wended their way towards Covent Garden. This annoyed him, for he wished to be quit of London before any of his acquaintances should be about and recognise him, and he did not want his slightly suspicious departure to get to the ears of his one-time patron. So, somewhat delayed, and more than a little hungry, Lord Cullingford crossed London Bridge a mile or so behind Gentleman James.
Captain Foulkes was not in a good humour when he awoke. He had a damnable headache, and his servants were late in calling him, so that he had to hasten with his breakfast and even his meticulous barber cut him most abominably. This, added to the rush and bustle in the Captain’s chambers, made his throbbing head the worse, for there is nothing more irritating to any gentleman who has wined unwisely the night before than to be precipitated into an enforced activity, and indeed the necessity to hasten. In fact, the Captain had a thick head and, in Marsh language, was in a ‘pretty dobbin’.1