Thus Mr. Mipps became sexton and undertaker of Dymchurch, as well as general factotum to the vicar.
In addition to making coffins, he opened a little store, where, amongst the coffin planks, you could buy anything from fishing nets to pickled onions.
Mipps became generally admired, and in the process learned many things that were so profitable that his conscience was quietened.
Although at first intending only to disobey the vicar for just a little flutter now and then, the excitement got hold of him, and before he knew where he was, he found himself a leader, and involved in the smuggling business up to the neck, which was usually the way with people who came to live on the Marsh.
On one point Mipps was adamant. No firearms were to be carried by his smugglers, only bats or stout poles which, in the hands of well-mounted men, were formidable enough. But with all his caution, disaster came, and from an outside source.
A riding officer from Sandgate was brutally murdered on the hills above the Marsh.
The news burst like a bombshell amongst the secret community of Dymchurch, and the barbarous act not only spread indignation, but also a haunting dread as to what the murderer might say when he was brought to trial, for the man was brutal physically and mean-spirited, so that the general hope was that he would not allow himself to be taken alive. Once in court, there was no doubt but that he would do his utmost to make many others share his fate.
His name was Grinsley and he ran a farm up at Aldington, but his chief source of income for many years had been derived from 'receiving' smuggled goods from the Marsh and passing them along towards London.
Apparently resenting some harsh treatment at his hands one of his labourers sought revenge by reporting him as a 'receiver' to the Excise Office at Sandgate, and the riding-officer on duty had been sent out armed with a warrant to search the premises.
Grinsley, knowing that his lofts and cellars would betray him, refused the officer admittance and threatened to blow off his head if he tried force.
The officer rode off to get an armed guard, which threw Grinsley into an uncontrollable rage. Rushing to his stables, he mounted his fierce black horse and galloped after the officer, who, according to the testimony of an eye- witness, drew rein and waited for him to come up. “Thought better of it, eh, Mr. Grinsley?” he asked, smiling. “Well, it will save me the long ride to Sandgate.”
“But not the short ride to hell,” cried Grinsley, discharging a blunderbuss full in his face.
To the horror of the eye-witness, an old woman, who was gathering sticks and who in self-preservation had hidden from Grinsley behind a bush, the officer fell dead from his horse, and the murderer rode off.
When the news was carried to Hythe, a troop of Dragoons was ordered to arrest the murderer. But although they searched his farm at Aldington, watched the high road, and beat up the adjacent woods, Grinsley could not be found.
Murderer and horse had disappeared.
It did not take long for the hue and cry to reach Dymchurch. Neither did it take for certain 'gentlemen' long to realize that Grinsley's death was the best thing that could happen for their own safety, and in an effort to prevent him being taken alive for trial, they seized weapons, and with a show of great indignation hurried to the hill behind the Marsh. They carried firearms, in selfdefence they said, as Grinsley was the sort to sell his life dearly. It was a rational excuse. Dr. Syn watched the angry mob rush off upon the trail, and thinking it to be as well that someone in authority should be on the spot to restrain them, he followed the hue and cry, riding up towards Aldington on his white pony.
On the way he met Charlotte Cobtree riding towards him.
“I rode with my father behind the Dragoons,” she said, drawing rein. “But when I saw all the people looking so grim, I had to come away. The man Grinsley is a scoundrel, but there are so many against him.”
“They have not caught him?” asked the doctor.
“No, but in time they must,” she answered. “I heard them planning to burn him out—why, one wouldn't do that to a fox.”
“I'm afraid this man has little reason to earn your sympathy, my dear Charlotte,” said Dr. Syn. “A fight is a fight, but what chance did he give that unfortunate riding-officer, who was but fulfilling his unpleasant duty?”
“I know, I know,” nodded Charlotte. “But he's a fugitive—and—oh, I know it's all wrong—it must be, but I always want to shield a fugitive.”
“That is your beautiful nature, Charlotte.” Dr. Syn smiled sadly. “I sometimes believe that whatever I had done or were to do, that you would still treat me with the same sweet kindness.”
“Will you remember that you have said that, please?” she asked.
“Why do you say that?” asked the doctor.
“Because I want you to remember it, of course, just as I shall. Do you know that when I think of that Mr. Bone, the highwayman, who is sometimes as hard- pressed as this Grinsley, I rather envy the many women and girls who take a hand in watching over his safety. Can't you take the high road to please me, Doctor?”
“If I did,” chuckled the doctor, “I verily believe I should lead the authorities a dance.”
“I am quite sure you would,” she laughed. “Well, you may lead me a dance now. I will ride with you to the hills. I think your presence there will make all different.” So they rode together.
As they talked they had allowed their horses to walk gently on, but this conversation was interrupted by the captain of the Dragoons, who trotted away from his troop to meet them.
“So you have not yet unearthed the fox,” said Dr. Syn, as the captain drew rein and saluted.
“Not yet, sir,” replied the officer.
“But are you sure he has run to earth?” asked the doctor.
“We are sure of nothing at all, sir,” answered the captain. “The rascal may be heading for London Town this minute.” Dr. Syn shook his head. “Now, I should first read the signs along that hedge.
You see, it runs from Grinsley's farm right down to the high road.” Mechanically, he touched up his pony and trotted off towards the hedge.
Mechanically, Charlotte and the captain followed.
“Our good parson has found something,” said the Dragoon, checking his charger. Charlotte drew rein beside him. “He's dismounting.” Dr. Syn, with the rein over his arm, peered down at the roots of the thickgrown hedge. He then dropped the rein and walked on slowly, looking up and down the hedge. The pony, left to his own resources nibbled at the grass and stepped into the circle of the hanging reins, which after a little became a dangerous entanglement. Charlotte slipped from her horse, handed the reins to the captain, and ran towards the pony. She soothed the fat little white beast, and lifted his forelegs in turn. Dr. Syn turned and looked at her as she freed the pony.
“Thank you, my dear,” he said. “It was careless of me to leave the reins dangling. But I have found what I was looking for.”
“And what is that?” asked the Dragoon who had ridden slowly towards them, leading Charlotte's horse.
“Just a bundle of clothes—that's all,” replied the doctor.
“The clothes that Grinsley was wearing when he committed the crime!” ejaculated the Dragoon.
“Exactly,” replied the doctor.
“But why did you expect to find them hidden in the hedge?” asked the captain.
“I thought it most probable that Grinsley would get rid of such tell-tale garments, when I read your pointed description,” said Dr. Syn. “But I did not expect to find them here till I rode along this hedge and looked into Grinsley's turnip patch. You can see over the hedge yourself, Captain, from your exalted position. Take a look, and you'll own that I should have been dense indeed had I not picked up the clue.” The Dragoon rose in his stirrups and looked across the turnip field in question, but instead of showing any enlightenment from what he saw, he merely shook his head.
“Well, then, sir, unless your clue has moved away, I confess to my denseness,” he said.
“It certainly could not have moved away,” replied the vicar, “and it is certainly conspicuous enough. But what would be denseness in me, is not so with you, for you are not of these parts, and therefore the landmarks are not so familiar.”
“Let me see if I can guess it,” said Charlotte, going to her horse to mount.
Dr. Syn helped her to the saddle and she looked across the turnip field.
“Why someone has taken the scarecrow's clothes,” she said. “Look, Captain, those sticks in the centre of the field with the black gloves hanging.”
“Exactly,” laughed Dr. Syn. “There was an old, long black coat and waistcoat and a black three-cornered hat. That was all Grinsley required. He hides his conspicuous clothes in the nearest spot, which is obviously the hedge, and puts on the scarecrow's over his own riding breeches and boots. Isn't that convincing, Captain?”
“Convincing enough to alter his description on the murder posters,” replied the captain. “I'll ride over with this news to the Custom's officer. He's on the other side of the common. Thank you, sir. Thank you, Miss Cobtree,” and he galloped away across the rough ground behind the beaters.
