To the end of his life Mr. Mipps would always maintain that the three days before and after the funeral of Charlotte Cobtree were the worst of his adventurous career. To persuade Dr. Syn from the death chamber was impossible. To get him to take nourishment of any kind was likewise impossible. They gave him a comfortable, backed chair at the side of the bed, but he sat forward on it, with a straight back, one hand laid reverently on the dead clasped ones and the other gripping his sharp knee. When the coffin was brought in, he rose to make room for it, and when she lay in it, he sat once more beside her, but craning forward so as to see the marble face.
On the day of the funeral he still sat with one lean hand resting among the flowers upon the coffin lid, and when it was carried out, he dumbly followed.
After the ceremony, Dr. Syn walked briskly to the vicarage. Mipps followed, and his worst fears were realized.
As soon as they were alone, and the doors were shut, he turned on Mipps sharply. “Brandy. Don't stand staring, but stir your stumps. Brandy, I tell you.
We must have clear heads, and warm blood for what we have to do. I can depend on you, Master Carpenter. On whom else? On whom else?” Once more he gulped down the brandy, and then unhooking an old sea-cloak from a nail upon the door, he wrapped himself in its folds and lay down upon the floor, with the brandy bottle beside him. In a few seconds he was fast asleep.
Mipps raised the head and removed the wig without awaking him, and then put a cushion beneath him. He then took a generous pull of the brandy bottle himself.
While wondering whether he would get help from the Court House in order to carry his master to bed, an unusual disturbance attracted his attention outside the window. While Mipps knew that solemn crowds still filed past the open grave, he could in no way account for what sounded like the ribald cheers of school children.
As he looked through the casement, he saw that there was indeed a crowd of children at the garden gate, while in the midst of them towered the gigantic and majestic figure of a North American Indian, bedecked in full war-paint and feathers.
“Crimes! If it ain't the Blue Heron himself,” muttered Mipps. “I forgets his Injun name, but no doubt he'll remember. If this don't make me turn Red-skin and worship the sun and the four winds, I'm no Christian. What's brought him but magic, I don't know. But I'd rather see him now than a barrel of rum.” With such mutterings Mipps rushed from the house and drove away the squalling children, who were disappointed when their wild Indian was dragged by the delighted little sexton into the vicarage.
Shuhshuhgah (the Heron)—for that was the name Mipps had forgotten— had much to tell.
While trading with Captain Vicosa on behalf of his tribe, he had discovered the identity of Colonel Delacourt, as the man whom Dr. Syn had sworn to kill.
He discovered more. They were journeying to England, either to send Dr. Syn to the scaffold or to kill him themselves. Shuhshuhgah, having taken solemn blood-brotherhood with Syn, found it his duty to follow, and he sailed to Plymouth by the same ship. In England, however, he was dogged with disaster, through ignorance of the law.
Knowing that his blood-brother's enemies were bound for the town of Rye in Sussex, he saw them depart with Colonel Delacourt's wife by coach, himself following on a horse he purchased from a gipsy. Camping on the road-side as he followed the trail, he was caught in Hampshire cooking a fine deer which he had shot on a gentleman's estate. He was carried before the justices and put into prison, but at length was released and ordered out of the county.
When Mipps in his turn had explained all the circumstances that had led Dr.
Syn into his present condition, Shuhshuhgah helped him carry the unconscious man to his bed.
After a careful examination, Shuhshuhgah took from his huge leather belt a sharp pointed knife with a serrated blade.
“You ain't goin' to scalp him, I hope,” said Mipps.
The Indian shook his head. “I shall remove a fragment of the bone above the brain. Only thus will our brother get relief. Leave me.”
He bound a piece of thin cord round the handle of the knife, then with the flat of his palm pressed the point into the table by the bed. He then pulled the cord swiftly, like a boy spinning a top, the pressure causing the point to bite deep into the wood as it spun. The Indian grunted his satisfaction. The knife was sharp.
“We shall find him again, not lose him,” returned the Indian. “You may trust me. It was thus that I saved my own father for our tribe. I know. I shall not fail. Leave me.” Mipps looked at the unconscious man, and wondered what he would have to say about such an operation. He would certainly trust the Indian's skill. So he took another pull at the brandy bottle, shrugged his shoulders fatalistically and crept out of the room.
At last the door opened and the Indian beckoned him. Dr. Syn lay on the bed as though dead.
“Have you done him in?” asked the terrified sexton, looking at the white face.
“He will sleep the sun round,” replied the Indian. “I have given him a drug.
He feels no pain. He will wake with his brain restored. When he wakes, give him an egg beaten into milk and then this pellet. He will then sleep again. By that time we will have ready a stimulant to restore him. Revenge.”
“Re-wat?” asked the amazed sexton.
“Revenge,” repeated the Indian. “There is nothing so stimulating after love.
I go to get proof against the men who fired those shots and killed his lover.
Then he can help us deal with them as they deserve. I am going to this Rye to trail Colonel Delacourt.”
“Well, you can't never go trailing people in all them feathers,” criticized Mipps. “I'll have to borrow you some clothes that won't get you stared at. And what if the local doctor wants to see the sick man? He's been here once already with this tonic.” The Indian removed the cork and sniffed at the bottle. He then poured the contents out of the casement.
“I shall return upon my tracks in three days,” said the Indian. “You will guard our brother till then.” Mipps explained the way to Rye and pressed a purse of guineas upon the Red-skin.
“I shall have no need of them, however,” said Shuhshuhgah, “for I intend entering the service of Colonel Delacourt. Only as such shall I surprise his secrets.” Mipps watched him stride away, and thought that there were worse things in life than loyal Red-skins.
On the third evening Shuhshuhgah returned from Rye, and Mipps noted the grim smile of satisfaction on the warrior's face. Dr. Syn was sitting up, drinking some hot soup heavily laced with good sherry from the Court House.
He recognized the Indian immediately, though showing no sign of surprise at his presence.
“Ah, Shuhshuhgah, my blood-brother. I take this as kind of you,” he said in greeting.
With infinite patience the Red-skin dealt with the awakening brain, reminding him that all his life he had been persecuted through the evil of one man, the man who had stolen his wife. He slowly brought back to the doctor's memory all that he had learned from Mipps concerning the wreck of the City of London, his dealings with the man Merry, the birth of the Scarecrow, and finally the brave love-death of Charlotte Cobtree.
He then declared that he could put his hand upon the three murderers who had fired the fatal shots. He told him that his wife was dying at the Mermaid Inn. That Colonel Delacourt, none other than Nicholas Tappitt, was drinking, brawling and quarrelling, and threatening to cut the throat of a certain James Bone, who, he declared, had bungled as good a business as he ever had put on the market.
At this information, Dr. Syn tried to spring out of bed, but Mipps held him back.
“It's all right, Captain. He shall not escape us this time. You taught me what to do, and I've put old Gloomy, the Preventive Officer, upon his track. At the first sign of Nicholas Tappitt packing for a moonlight flit, he will be detained till we can get to him.”
“Aye,” answered the Indian. “That little man sits staring at him. He follows him wherever he goes. Only last night Colonel Delacourt threw a tankard at his head, and told him not to stare down a gentleman. But the little man still watches.”
“Aye, he thinks he's the Scarecrow, and he's after proof,” said Mipps. “I hinted as much to Gloomy.”
“Well, gentlemen,” said the vicar, “we must act quickly. Let me think. This news has given me a new cause for life. Let me think.” His thoughts were interrupted by a tapping on the front door beneath them.
“See who it is, Mipps,” said Dr. Syn, “for Mrs. Fowey will be abed. It is nearly midnight.” It was poor Meg Clouder that Mipps admitted, and she had a strange tale to tell.
She had been dragged from her bed by her husband, Captain Vic. He had taken her down to the closed bar-parlour where, to her horror, she saw Merry drinking. When she had protested against the man's presence there, Captain Vic had told her that he was tired of her and was passing her over to his friend to deal with.
“And Merry will stand no nonsense like I have,” her husband had said.
“Whether he'll tire of you as I have done, is his affair, for I must tell you I married you only to pass you on to him.” When Meg had cried out against this, Captain Vic had struck at her, but overbalancing, had fallen back against the table, and striking his head. Merry had been frightened, thinking him dead, and had run from the house.
“But he is not dead. He is drunk. And what am I to do?” Dr. Syn, who had come downstairs in a dressing-gown upon the stalwart arm of the Indian to listen to this recital, got from his chair and took the key of the tavern from Meg's clenched fingers.
“My poor child,” he said kindly. “And do you love this man still?”
Meg's face set harder as she cried out: “I hate him, sir. I never knew what hate was till now. He has hurt me to the soul. He has trampled on all I held sacred. And he has fouled my clean tavern with his drunken debaucheries. You know he had given my cellars to the slaughtermen. Well, the smell of blood has brought loathsome cockroaches. At night they swarm up into the bar-parlour.
Yes, he has fouled the home which the villagers re-built with such kindness. I can never forgive him.” Instead of reproving her vehemence, Dr. Syn looked relieved.
“We will go and visit this Captain Vic,” he said. “I do not blame your loathing of him.” The Indian repeated the name. “Captain Vic? Aye, he is the man who so nearly betrayed you to death, my brother. You remember the red-headed planter?”
Dr. Syn looked at Mipps and nodded. “I suspected it was the same. I will call Mrs. Fowey. She will prepare you a room, Meg, to sleep in, for you must not return to 'The City of London' tonight.” Half an hour later, Dr. Syn turned the key in the front door lock of the tavern, and followed by Mipps and the Indian took a look over the whole house.
Merry had gone. The only living creatures were in the bar-parlour. Captain Vic, in the light of two candles, lay on the floor upon his back, his mouth wide open, snoring disgustingly in his sleep. One or two adventurous cockroaches scuttled back to their safety hole as they entered. Dr. Syn marked the spot at the side of the fireplace where they disappeared. Then he turned his concentration upon Captain Vic.
“Poor Meg,” he muttered. “He's a handsome rascal, I'll say that for him.
Does anything illuminating about him strike you, Mipps?”
“Only that he lies like a pig and the son of a pig,” replied Mipps. “What else?”
“His beard,” went on Syn. “It is not so red as I thought it. It is the colour of cockroach wings. How he snores, the hog. Get me a pickle cork, if Meg possesses such a thing.”
“I brought her some pickled onions last Tuesday,” said Mipps. “I'll look in the cupboard here.” Mipps opened the cupboard and produced the pickle jar in question.
“And what is that bottle marked 'Poison'?” asked the vicar, looking at the shelves.
“I concocted that for her,” explained Mipps. “A little concoction I made up for her to rid the place of the damned cockroaches. We used it on ship-board, if you remember, sir. Virulent.”
“Virulent poison, eh?” repeated Syn, nodding. “That's excellent. But first we must make our enemy secure.” He went to a large easy chair beside the fireplace and turned it over. “Knife here,” he ordered.
The Indian handed him a knife from his belt. Dr. Syn cut the webbing from the bottom of the chair's seat. “Now, Mipps, we need nails.” Mipps had dived into one of his side-pockets. A hammer and a fist-full of coffin nails were laid upon the table. “Coffin nails for printin' initials on the lids,” he announced.
“Somewhat prophetic,” said Syn, with a grim smile. “I think Captain Vic might be spread-eagled a little more conveniently.” The Indian and Mipps attended to the drunkard's limbs, while Dr. Syn spread the strands of webbing over arms and legs, and fixed them securely, driving coffin nails through the webbing into the oak floor. Throughout this operation, Captain Vic slept and snored, his mouth open and his teeth gleaming white against the wild red beard.
Mipps deadened the sound of the hammer by placing his coat-tail on the head of each nail as Syn struck. Thus it was that Captain Vic did not wake.
“He is like a great tiger-moth on a boy's setting-board,” said Syn.
“Got good teeth, ain't he?” muttered Mipps, after the last nail was driven home.
“Will the bands hold him if he wakes?” asked Syn. “He is very strong.”
“So is the webbing,” replied Mipps. “Besides, nothing grips coffin nails like oak.”
“Yes, he has good teeth, as you say,” went on Syn. “But I doubt whether they'll bite through a stout pickle cork. Where is it?” Mipps levered the cork from the jar of pickled onions with his knife. “The cork,” he said as he handed it over to Dr. Syn.
Syn bent down over his victim, who most obligingly opened his mouth to lick away the dryness of drink. Syn's sensitive fingers pushed the cork down into the mouth. The sleeper made a gurgling sound in his throat as the cork was forced between his back teeth. He bit down on it, and opened his eyes.
“It is a long time since we four met, Captain Vic,” said Dr. Syn. “You will recollect that I was then the captain of the Imogene, and this man,” and he laid his hand on Mipps' shoulder, “was my master carpenter. You had me arrested for piracy while dining with you, and but for this Indian Brave, Shuhshuhgah, who fired your house and rescued me, you would not be lying like this tonight. I am now going to hand you over to an enemy. Your brutality to your wife, Meg Clouder, forbids me to soil my hands with such a pig's death. I see that poor Meg has a jar of molasses on the shelf there. Hand it to me, Mipps.”
Captain Vic tried to struggle, but could not move. His muscles swelled to no avail against the scientific pinning of the webbing. Neither could he speak by reason of the pickle cork. His eyes only moved, shining out red hate and fear.
“Your death will be carried out by your own fouling of Meg's clean tavern. I rather think that no man has ever died before, as you are going to die.” Dr. Syn took the molasses jar and with a spoon trickled a thin trail of the sticky syrup from the little hole by the hearth into which he had seen the cockroaches vanish. The trail led straight across the floor to the pinned-down monster. A fresh spoonful of the syrup was then poured across the red beard to the open mouth and then a generous allowance was dropped upon the wedged cork, from which it slid down into the swallowing throat.
Dr. Syn picked up one of the lighted candles and examined the trail. “Your bestial body, Captain Vic, will at last be put to a good use, for I have turned you into an admirable beetle trap. Your death will be regarded as the hand of God. No blame will fall to us. Your wife reported your brutality at my vicarage.
We visit you and find you dangerously drunk. To keep you safe, we nail you to the floor so that you can get sober and do no further harm. We come back tomorrow morning with the beadle, and to our horror we find that you are insect-ridden. The physician will examine you. He will say that these roaches were contaminated with a beetle poison prepared for your wife by Mr. Mipps.
They have carried the poison into the body of the dead man. We shall, of course, put in the poison when the hungry roaches have gorged upon the sweet syrup in your throat. Maybe you will die of their tickling horror before we administer the virulent bottle of poison.
“Gentlemen, we will now sit upon the table and keep very quiet. Give me the dark lantern, Mipps. Presently, we will open its shutter to observe the effect of our living trap. We will sit upon the table back to back and wait in the dark.
“Good-bye, Captain Vic, and may God have mercy on your soul.”
The Indian and Mipps clambered on to the kitchen table with their legs drawn under them. Dr. Syn blew out the candles and quietly took his place beside them.
The only noise was the ticking of the handsome Dutch clock upon the wall, and the noise of sticky bubbles bursting from the victim's throat.
But ere long they heard another ticking. It was the tiny sound of innumerable little legs, as the hungry cockroaches fought along the trail, groping with greedy antennæ for a further share of the sweetness.
Presently a strangled gurgle broke into the darkness, but for a long time Dr.
Syn refrained from opening the shutter of the lantern. Twice did the big gilt hand go round the clock before he did so, and then without warning the shutter opened silently.
For a full minute the three watchers gazed in horror at their work of vengeance. The red beard was alive. Strong legs and waving feelers stirred and struggled in the hairs. Red-brown bodies crawled upon the grinning teeth, only to fall into the cavity of the mouth.
As they gazed, the Indian grunted with horror. Dr. Syn drew in his breath sharply with a hissing sound of disgust. Only the callous Mipps appeared unmoved.
“Takin' it to wonderful, ain't they?” he chuckled. “Look at that big bloke on his nose. Go on, 'Orace, tumble in, and then take the first turnin' to the right and keep straight on.”
“Silence,” reproved Dr. Syn. “Look at his eyes. He is mad. He has had enough. We must end it.” Keeping the light of the opened shutter upon his victim's face, Dr. Syn told Mipps to get the poison bottle.
Mipps slid from the table and did as he was ordered, uncorking the bottle as he handed it to his master.
“Kill a sperm whale,” replied Mipps.
“Then pour half the bottle down his throat and sprinkle the rest upon the floor.” The task was very congenial to the grinning sexton. He placed the neck of the bottle between the mad man's teeth. Then he paused to flick the large cockroach into the mouth, saying: “'Ere, 'Orace, you get in and warn your friends that poison's a-comin'!” Then he tilted up the bottle.
Captain Vic shuddered. The great body strained against the webbing thongs, and then the mad eyes glazed. Mipps took the lids and closed them. Then, producing two penny pieces from his pocket, he laid them one on each eye.
“Take them off, you fool,” ordered Dr. Syn. “And open his eyes. Don't you see that we are supposed to be at the vicarage? The sooner we are there the better.”
He relighted the candles, so that they could burn themselves down to the sockets, and then poured some of the poison around the hole in the hearth.
Already many of the foul insects lay dead.
“There are yet two more to die—Merry and friend Nicholas. What does he call himself—Colonel Delacourt? Ah—that is the death I want to see.”
