Captain Faunce was piqued. The fact that he had failed to arrest the highwayman was annoying, especially when he became convinced that the notorious Bone was also the mysterious Scarecrow by whose daring his prisoners had escaped from his guards.
Amongst others who believed in it was the Preventative Officer. For some time past he had had his suspicions that he could put his hand upon the highwayman, but he did not think it his duty to arrest him, since a gentleman of the road had nothing to do with the Customs. Moreover, he was not the man to earn a hundred guineas on a man's head. The man had a popular reputation amongst the poor, and were Jimmie Bone to be arrested on information received, it would be short shrift for the informer.
This knowledge frightened Merry, and he told as much to Dr. Syn, who took such a serious view of it that he persuaded Merry to slip over into Sussex till Romney Marsh became safer. This plan suited Dr. Syn, for as he mentioned to Mipps: “There is enough to do regarding a certain business without that rascal hanging about the vicarage with his eyes open.” So Merry departed for Rye, and through a kindly recommendation from the vicar of Dymchurch, he was given odd jobs in the Mermaid Tavern.
It was after a particularly long day of parochial work that Dr. Syn insisted that Mipps should join him in his study for a drink, and it was while they were sitting in the dim candlelight that Mipps suddenly cocked his head towards the ceiling and began to sniff like a terrier.
“What's wrong?” whispered the doctor.
“Someone upstairs,” replied Mipps. “I can smell a horsey sort of odour about the place. There's a creak going on now above deck.”
“Very well, then, Mipps,” whispered Syn, “we will satisfy ourselves. Pistols and upstairs.” They left the room quietly, Dr. Syn going first with a pistol in his hand.
Through the hall and up the stairs he went, to his bedroom door, which he pushed open, stepping aside into the dark passage as he did so. Mipps waited on the other side of the door, also with his pistol ready.
“Whoever you are,” said Dr. Syn quietly, “will you be good enough to show yourself? I may add that there are two of us here, both armed, but purely in selfdefence. We have no quarrel with anyone who is in trouble.” Dr. Syn saw the curtains of his four-poster stir by the open window.
“Who is with you?” demanded a voice.
“My sexton, Mr. Mipps,” replied the doctor. “He's a man you may trust as myself. But he shoots as well as I do.”
“Very well, then, there need be no shooting,” the voice answered. “I have come to you for help. Where can we talk?”
“You will follow me downstairs to my study, and Mr. Mipps will follow you. Please come out, and consider yourself quite safe.” The shadow of a big man in a long overcoat crossed the window and came out of the door.
Dr. Syn took a quick look at him and smiled. “Ah, it is my old friend of the boxing ring, Mr. Bone. I trust you will honour us by having some of my excellent brandy.” He put his pistol in his pocket, and walked down into the hall, followed by the highwayman. Mr. Mipps followed, but taking no chances, kept the stranger's back covered with his pistol.
In the candle-lighted study, Dr. Syn poured out three glasses of brandy.
“You may remove your mask, Mr. Bone. I should like to see whether or no your jaw is recovered.”
“And that's the devil of it, sir,” replied Mr. Bone. “There's a scar upon it which bides well to keep me a close prisoner for some time, unless you come forward to release me. Work's work and play's play, you see. I work at night in a mask, but how can I pick up information by day, when I am not able to take it off? A man can hardly walk into a tavern and drink in this thing.” And Mr. Bone removed his black mask and flung it down on the table in disgust.
Dr. Syn handed his guest a glass of brandy.
“You mean that certain parties are now looking for a gentleman who carries a scar on his jaw bone?”
“Aye, you have hit it, reverend sir, as surely as you hit my jaw,” replied the highwayman ruefully. “Mind you, there's not the poorest man on this Marsh who'd betray me for a hundred guineas, except that rascal who rode off for the Dragoons, and he's disappeared to Rye, they tell me.”
“Then what is it you fear, Mr. Bone?” asked Dr. Syn.
“The fact is, I have got that Preventive Officer on my track. He's after me because he says I'm the Scarecrow.”
“And are you?” asked Mipps, looking very interested.
Mr. Bone favoured the sexton with a withering scowl.
“Yes, are you?” repeated Dr. Syn, as seriously.
“No, I am not,” replied the highwayman, banging his fist on the table.
“Keep your voice down, sir,” warned Mipps. “There's mice in the panelling here, and it's no use fidgeting 'em.” Mr. Bone scowled again at the facetious sexton and went on: “Why should I be hounded down for something I am not doing? The smugglers are keeping quiet at present., but it's common enough knowledge that this new leader is making great preparations. There's whisperings in many a tankard that goes echoing all over the Marsh, and inland, too, up in the hills. Now I've come here for help. Maybe I know who this Scarecrow is, and, maybe I don't. If I do, as one adventurer salutes another, neither wild horses nor you two gentlemen could drag that information out of James Bone. I hope I know how to behave like a gentleman.”
“A gentleman of the road, eh?” smiled Dr. Syn. “Well, Mr. Bone?”
“Well, Mr. Parson, it comes to this,” went on the highwayman tersely. “I take it that there's no one who knows more about the Marsh folk than you.
Doctor Syn, vicar of Dymchurch, has got the reputation of keeping folks' business to himself.”
“My dear sir, that is merely one of the duties of a parson.”
“Exactly. They tell me so,” replied Bone. “Well now, if I can give a guess as to who this Scarecrow is, no doubt you can give a better, and that being so, what about getting this mysterious gentleman to free me from taking over his responsibilities?”
“I see your point, sir,” replied Dr. Syn. “Whether I can help you or no remains to be seen. Have you any proposition to make?”
“I have. That evening when you set this mark on my face, you also saved my life. In so doing, you showed me a horse, a fierce black beast that I take to belong to my brother outlaw—this Scarecrow. Well, I likes the sound of this Scarecrow. He risked his neck to save them smugglers and he saved 'em just as surely as you saved me. That shows him to be a gentleman of spirit. He is the one man who could free me from this absurd rumour that I am the Scarecrow.”
“And what could he do to free you?” asked Dr. Syn.
“Listen,” continued the highwayman, “there's a rumour whispered that in two days' time, which is the night of the full moon, there's to be a 'run'. Now, sir, I have a little job of my own upon that night. There's a coach journeying from the City of Westminster to this part of the coast, and it's going to be full of golden guineas for shipment to certain agents in France. It's bad enough to know that there's traitors in and around Whitehall who'll smuggle British gold to our old enemies, but what about Englishmen who are willing to arrange this matter and then turn traitors to their other traitors and rob both England and France of the lot?”
“And how do you figure in this transaction, Mr. Bone, may I ask?”
“Why, reverend sir, they gets me to do their dirty work, which they're afraid to do themselves. Mr. Bone, gentleman of the road, is to hold up the coach, and then he's to hand over the bulk of the money to these double traitors.”
“And do you intend to carry this out?” asked Dr. Syn.
“All but the last clause, reverend sir. Possession being nine points of the outlaw's law, they can whistle for their money, just as the waiting French lugger can whistle for a wind to get 'em clear of our ships of war in the Channel.”
“And how does the Scarecrow come into this shuffled counterplot?”
“Why, reverend sir, like this,” went on Mr. Bone. “I holds up the coach. I gets 'em to unload her. I gives the coach her marching orders, when just then up gallops the Scarecrow himself and on behalf of the Dymchurch smugglers he robs Mr. Bone and in sight of the others gives Mr. Bone his marching orders.
Some of the Scarecrow's men remove the guineas to a place agreed, and the two then goes shares.”
“And the story gets around that poor Mr. Bone has been robbed by the Scarecrow of his lawful, or rather unlawful, dues, eh? I see.” Dr. Syn chuckled as he filled up the three glasses.
He then filled a churchwarden and lit it at one of the candles. As he stood watching the two men he drew briskly at the pipe, surrounding his head with clouds of tobacco smoke.
“Mr. Bone, I will see what can be done for you. You will return to your 'hide' at Mother Handaway's, and there I will communicate with you as soon as I can make the necessary connection with this Scarecrow.” Dr. Syn paused, put down his pipe and slowly filled his own glass to the brim from the brandy bottle. He then raised it with the steadiest hand, passed it backwards and forwards beneath his nose with obvious appreciation of its aroma, and then looking first at Mipps and then at Mr. Bone, added:
“And if so be that this Scarecrow refuses to free you from your embarrassment—why, damme man, if I don't dress up as the Scarecrow myself and rob you of those guineas.” And he tossed off the brandy at a gulp.
“Good God,” muttered Mipps, following the vicar's example and draining his own glass.
Mr. Bone held up his glass and said: “That is what I expected from the gallant gentleman who knocked me about and then saved me. But you can take this message to the Scarecrow, reverend sir. You can say that the authorities will never get information out of Mr. James Bone regarding any of his secrets; and you can add that should he ever be in need of a brave lieutenant to serve under him, Mr. Bone would not be found wanting.” He then drained his glass. Mr. Mipps took the liberty of filling them again —all three.
