Mr. Hyde prowled round the house investigating. He then returned to the hall and looked round for a place to conceal himself, and having marked one, called for Mipps to bring him some drink. The hammering continued rhythmically, so he shouted louder — still no reply, but monotonous knocking, and he strode in bad temper whence it came. Seeing Mipps’s foxication working gaily infuriated him and he smashed it quiet — returning to the hall where he saw a bottle of brandy on a table by the fire. He took a generous pull, extinguished the lights save one, then slipped behind the heavy curtains into the bow of the window, where he had a good view of both inside and out.
He had not long to wait for he heard a door open and stealthy footsteps coming towards his hiding-place. His pistol at full cock, he was tense, ready. Suddenly the curtains were pulled aside, and what he saw made him utter an oath of satisfaction.
‘I have you covered,’ he said quickly. ‘The Scarecrow, by all that’s fortunate!’
The answer came back from behind that hideous mask. ‘The Revenue, by all that’s damnable.’
Mr. Hyde was in luck. ‘So this is your headquarters,’ he sneered. ‘My patience has been rewarded, Mr. Scarecrow. Only the Revenue Officer from Sandgate, he won’t give us much trouble, you thought. Just another dull-witted Preventive man to be hoodwinked. But now we’ll see who looks the fool. A local trial at Dymchurch you’ll be thinking — the jury packed with sympathizers you have bribed. Judges frightened or in favour — headed by that muddlehead the Squire, if Squire he be or muddlehead.’ He laughed unpleasantly. ‘Nothing so comfortable, Mr. Scarecrow, sir. I’m not taking any chances. A thousand guineas is a thousand guineas either way, alive or dead, so I’m going to shoot you out of hand.’ He forced the Scarecrow away from the window at the point of his gun and the black figure backed to the far corner of the refectory table.
‘Quite understandable, Mr. Hyde,’ the weird form croaked, ‘but you are wrong. This is much more comfortable than a crowded Court House. What more could one wish for in one’s last few moments — a pleasant fire, a bottle of wine, a good friend — so you will be living up to Holy Writ. Do unto others as ye would they should do unto you.’
‘Holy Writ, the parson — I suspected as much when I saw you riding better than the Squire.’ The Revenue Man was intoxicated with his cleverness, but one thing puzzled him. ‘How did you escape from your game of dice?’ The Scarecrow chuckled. ‘Well, no matter — you’ll not escape me. Sit down, Doctor Scarecrow. This is indeed a pleasant surprise. Take off your mask, Doctor Syn.’
The Scarecrow raised a long slim arm and swept off the mask with an elegant gesture — and the Revenue Man stared open-mouthed in dumb surprise.
Before him, dressed in those fantastic rags, high-booted, black-gloved — her lovely, laughing face with auburn hair tumbling about it, was Cicely Cobtree. She bowed mockingly: ‘At your service, Mr. Hyde,’ she said.
He exploded. ‘Great God, is this a jest?’
She laughed at his vehemence. ‘A very good one, Mr. Hyde, since it never entered your dull wits that the Scarecrow might be a woman.’
‘No, it hadn’t,’ he thought, ‘so that was it; well, she’ll get no change from me.’ ‘“The Parish Spinster”, eh?’ he sneered. ‘Devoting your life entirely to good works. God! what fools we’ve been.’
‘The cap and bells, Mr. Hyde?’ she suggested calmly.
He was now all white, cold anger at her studied flippancy.
‘You’ll jest with me no longer, Mistress Scarecrow — and do not think that being a woman will soften Nicholas Hyde. Do unto others, eh? I’ll tell you what I’m going to do with you. I’ll save you hanging with a bullet — then put back your mask and say “shot on sight” as any loyal citizen may do. Two minutes for a prayer, that’s all you’ll get from me. Unless you have a last request —”
Through the window behind him she saw the tiny flashing light from distant Double Dyke.
Involuntarily she shivered, not from fear of death but of failing him. She was numb now, trying to think what Syn would do in such a situation, but to excuse her shudder, not wishing him to think she was afraid — she told him she was cold and would like a drink.
His reply was typical. ‘Beggin’ for courage, eh? I thought you’d change your tune — you’ll have no help from me; get to your prayer.’ His whole manner gloated at her powerless femininity.
Over the Marsh, coming nearer and nearer until they seemed to be in the very room, came the long-drawn mournful warnings of the owl, as from Double Dyke the flashing became more urgent.
But now she had no need of drink nor prayer, for her own unspoken prayer had been answered, and she knew as clearly as if Syn had told her exactly what she had to do. Nonchalantly tilting back her chair, she threw up
her head in superb defiance. ‘I never begged from man — and I will not beg of God —’
Outraged at her cool insolence, when he had expected womanly pleading, he shouted almost in desperation: ‘Woman — go decently; sit up.’
‘I stand.’ Her voice rang out as her chair shot forward, and the tablecloth gripped between her feet slid along the polished table-top, bringing his pistol and the bottle with it to her hand. In an instant she was on her feet, covering him with his own weapon, while in the other she grasped the bottle and gave him a toast: ‘The Scarecrow’s health.’ Then throwing him the bottle she laughed: ‘Do unto others, eh, Mr. Hyde? Here’s courage, sir, until next time —’
Backing towards the door, eyes fierce in spite of her smile, she mocked. ‘That Parish Spinster rides to Aldington to light the Beacon for the run.’ Then out on to the bridge she dashed, calling wildly, ‘Gehenna! Gehenna!’ and flinging herself over the parapet almost before she heard the horse’s hooves, she found herself in the saddle, and spurred him up the rise on to the sea-wall road.
The Revenue Man remembered his other pistol in its holster round his waist and cursed his fingers for their fumbling. He wrenched it free and flinging to the window, broke a pane, and thrusting the muzzle through, he levelled it at the flying figure on the great black beast, silhouetted now against the rising moon. He fired: and fired again. His only answer was a mocking curlew cry; but as he watched his speeding target he saw just one spasmodic jerk which broke the rhythm of its flowing strides. Then, as though the Marsh had watched aghast this calculated deed, it took the heroic object out of sight in close embrace, to leave no trace but thudding fleeting sound. Silence. Then a strange, unearthly cry.
Chapter 23
The Shadow of Doctor Syn
The dice-box rattled. Doctor Syn lost again. The Dragoons, hilarious with drink and the sight of so many guineas piled before them, urged him to throw again. The guard-room was filled with smoke. Another all-butempty brandy-bottle stood on the table while from outside came the monotonous tread of the sentry, and from time to time his faint shadow passed the barred unshuttered window. The evening had been a pleasant one for the soldiers in their new billet, though when told but an hour ago that they were to guard a parson, they had cursed, thinking his presence would put a damper on proceedings; but here he was, a jovial companion who gave them drinks and had a dice-box of his own, and, though he did not seem to know very much about the game, paid up cheerfully in good spade guineas.
‘Come, Parson,’ cried the young officer, who was the worst of all in drink. ‘Your luck is bound to change. Try one more throw. Fill the glasses again, and we’ll drink to your success.’
‘That’s very civil of you, sir,’ said Doctor Syn. ‘’Tis good drink and warming. But I am distressed about that poor young man outside. He must be very cold. Could he not be permitted to come in and have a drink?’
The young officer, eager to seem important, by asserting his authority, gave permission, and the delighted sentry was hailed in. Glasses were filled, and the parson’s health was drunk. Then, as all were quite ready to relieve their prisoner of his remaining guineas, they pressed for the resuming of the game and the Vicar’s throw.