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Dear Squire,

Here is the Seventh. For Rogue, Scoundrel, Rascal, aye, Sir Antony, even Smuggler I may be, but the Scarecrow has always ruled ‘Death to a Traitor’. Here was a Traitor to England whose body may be found in the mud of the Great Sluice Gates, but whose dossier signed by Robespierre might interest Mr. Pitt, Minister of War. I wished to pay you this further service because this man denounced the Comte de Longué, your daughter’s husband. Hoping that my act will gain for you much honour and not another proclamation for me,

I remain your Disobedient Servant,

THE SCARECROW.

Sir Antony was delighted. He started at once composing fresh speeches to Mr. Pitt and then, wishing to rehearse them, trotted out gaily to the gallery, oblivious to the fact that his feet were bare and he was clad in nothing but a nightshirt. He called all to him, but since everyone was asleep nobody came, and a sharp yapping reminded him of bare ankles and warned him to scurry to cover.

Thomas, returning apprehensively, found him all smiles, and was chagrined to find that his ears had already responded to disaster.

Sir Antony, bursting out of his London clothes, for he had put on several inches in the wrong direction since he had last worn them, was conscious of a pressing top breeches-button, and was equally bursting with a pressing desire to impart his good news to all and sundry. But he had a lonely breakfast because everyone was late. Indeed, Cicely was the only member of the family who eventually appeared. But he was so overjoyed at having someone to talk at that he failed to notice her grave expression when, on reading the letter to herself, she saw something which he had also failed to notice. On the back of the scrawled note was something that possibly even the sender had overlooked — a dark stain, which could mean only one thing — blood. Whose? Her heart pounded. So, kissing her father fondly, she told him to behave himself in London, and to say to Mr. Pitt whatever came into his head first. But whatever he did say she was very proud of her dear Papa. Would he please excuse her, for she had an appointment with Stardust? But once out of the house she fled across the Glebe field and by the sea-wall to the Vicarage….

After much fussin’s and fumin’s and losin’ of tempers — forgettin’ this and that, and remembering a lot of unnecessary instructions — the Squire was launched by the remainder of his long-suffering family. With delicious thoughts of freedom ahead, London and his position fully appreciated, absence of restrictions regarding port and the naggin’ that went with it, he allowed himself further mental licence — a flutter at Crockford’s and perhaps — why not? — a visit to that stunnin’ charmer — what was her name? — Harriet. He settled himself comfortably in his State Coach pulled by the best cattle in Kent — with Thomas in smart livery on the boot — and was further delighted by the loyalty of his tenants, who had come to cheer their benefactor and Squire on his departure for the Court. He was under the fond impression that the village knew nothing of the French spies and had simply come to watch his grandeur. Actually there was very little that the village did not know. So tho’ it bobbed and cheered as his equipage rolled off in style, it was in a very ferment of excitement this morning.

Cicely tapped on the Vicarage door and got no reply, so she went round the windows and peered in, only to be met by teasing shutters. But the library window was unshuttered and unlatched — in fact, it had an enticing chink. She had therefore hitched her dress high up round her waist in a most unladylike fashion, showing not a little pretty lace and frills, and was in the act of balancing one foot upon the water-butt and t’other upon the sill, when a voice behind her startled her into a sitting position on the flower-bed beneath:

‘Now then. This is a ’oly residence — no place for showin’ yer dicky-cum-bobs. There now,’ it went on, ‘now you’ve gone and hurt them on them bulbs — ’urt them bulbs too — ’urt yourself?’ She turned and saw the Sexton watching her critically with cocked head.

‘Oh, Mr. Mipps,’ she laughed. ‘How you did surprise me. If it hadn’t been for these confounded petticoats I should have been through the window before you could bark.’ She got up and brushed herself, then became more serious. ‘Mr. Mipps,’ she said, ‘is Doctor Syn all right? I have a strange feeling that he may not be very well this morning.’ Immediately Mipps was on the defensive.

‘Now whatever put that into your ’ead, miss — he’s never ill, he ain’t.’ Then, seeing her glance up to the Vicar’s still curtained window, found excuses. ‘Oh yes, miss, it is late for him, I knows, but he was out visiting Mrs.… Mrs.…’

‘Mrs. Wooley, Mr. Mipps?’ put in Cicely, with raised eyebrow.

‘Er — yes, miss — thank you, miss — poor Mrs. Wooley, miss.’ Mipps might have gone on enlarging upon that same old body’s complaint, but again she cut him short.

‘I just wondered, Mr. Mipps.’ She looked straight at him and he wriggled. ‘For I could not sleep last night, and from my window early this morning I saw strange lights in the direction of the Sluice Gates — surely that is not the direction you would take to visit her? But there, I would not pry — so if you promise me that the Vicar is quite well, why then I will not break into the holy residence.’

Mr. Mipps assured her that indeed Doctor Syn was quite well, but that the poor old gentleman was having a nice long rest after his dancings and goings-on. Then, sticking firmly to his guns, though with a suspicion of his famous wink, added, ‘And it’s a long ride to Mrs. Wooley’s….’

Cicely smiled at him and loved him for the stubborn little watchdog that he was. So, telling him to inform the Vicar that if he cared to begin his riding lessons that afternoon she would bring round Stardust and another mount, though perhaps he was not quite ready for the broad dyke jump, and she would bring the quietest in the stable. Then she was gone, sauntering across the bridge. But she turned half-way and called to the still waiting, staring Mipps:

‘Pray tell the Vicar that should he not feel well enough for his riding lesson, why then I shall visit him this evening with words of cheer — for I have my duties too as Spinster of the Parish….’