It wanted but a week to Christmas when Mrs. Waggetts, the widowed landlady of the Ship Inn at Dymchurch, sent a message to the Coffin Shop that there was a stranger in her bar, that she did not altogether like the look of him, and would Mr. Mipps be so obliging as to step along and cast his eye on him. Now any man not born and bred upon Romney Marsh was looked on as a foreigner and distrusted accordingly.
Obeying the summons, Mipps trotted into the bar and called for a noggin of rum against the cold. Casting his eye over the stranger, and thinking the weather was the most convenient tool with which to force open a conversation, he added: “And there's more snow to come, stranger. The old Frost Fiend ain't 'alf out to kill us this Yule. Dykes is all a-frozen, every man jack of 'em.” The stranger looked at Mipps and gruffly replied, “Is that so?”
“It is,” said the sexton, offended at such curtness. “I'm telling you, see? And my word's good enough on the Marsh, whatever yours is. Every man-jack dyke froze as had as your face. And since I'm a freeborn Marshman, and so has the right to the demand Who might you be? Lord Chief Justice? A Bow Street runner, or a French spy?—come now, speak sharp or you may find yourself in the Court House.”
“I deny your right to question me,” returned the stranger. “But since I am about to question you, I will go so far as to answer that my business in Dymchurch is of a legal quality.”
The quizzical little sexton made a comical contrast to the tall stranger, who was powerfully built. His mahogany-tanned face and an anchor tattooed upon the back of his right hand showed Mipps that his antagonist was, or had been, a sailor.
“And you've followed the sea, eh? Same as myself. Royal Navy, me, though.” This was true enough so far as it went, for although Mipps had spent the best years of his life as master carpenter aboard a pirate ship, he had signed on for a voyage home on a man-o'-war.
“Same here,” replied the stranger. “But I don't follow the sea now. Always had a taste for the Law, I did.”
“Sea lawyers I could never stomach,” sneered Mipps.
“No sea lawyer about me,” retorted the stranger. “Though it's true I'm down here on legal business, and if so be you could tell me where to find Hugh Brazlett, I'll be obliged.
“But first, since we've both served in the Navy—for I take it you're retired same as myself—why, then we'll drink together if you'll call for what you wish.”
“Noggin of rum,” said Mipps promptly. “Hugh Brazlett lives Burmarsh way.
It's a tricky farm to find, though, for a foreigner, but since I'm bound for Brazlett's myself, I'll pilot you there.” With a curt nod of thanks the stranger drained his glass and buttoned his coat up to the chin. “Ready?” he asked. Mipps led the way.
“And what manner of man might this Brazlett be?” asked the stranger, as they ploughed along the Marsh roads, thick with snow.
“Prosperous farmer,” lied Mipps, for although he had no great liking for Brazlett, he ranged himself upon the side of a fellow Marshman.
“Prosperous, eh?” repeated the stranger. “I should have thought otherwise.” Mipps knew that the stranger thought right, for it was common gossip that Brazlett's farm had not done well of late years.
“Very pattern man, too,” he went on. “Sings in the choir. A bit squeaky, but he makes a noise, and Doctor Syn is always in favour of taking the hymns noisy and hearty-like. Trouble with Brazlett's singing is it's apt to make the children giggle, and that means me gettin' out of my desk and proddin' 'em on the backs.”
“What are you then? Parish work?”
“Aye,” returned Mipps. “Likewise sexton and undertaker. And what might your name be, mate?”
“I have not asked you for yours,” was the short reply.
“But you see, everyone knows me, and no one knows you. Fair doin's now.”
“It is not necessary to give my name.” And so in silence they came to Brazlett's farm, and saw the owner crossing the yard to his office door.
Now there was little to denote the farmer in Brazlett's face, which was weak and sickly. Mipps shared Doctor Syn's opinion of the man. “A worthy enough fellow. Pattern parishioner and all that, but I have no real liking for him.”
“That's Brazlett,” said Mipps, holding the gate open.
The stranger hurried forward, leaving the sexton to close it.
“Aye, and you'll be Mr. Fragg. I have been expecting you these two days.”
“There's others what has business with the London Customs besides yourself, Mr. Brazlett,” returned the stranger quietly. “We've been on the track of 'receivers' for the last few days, hence my delay with you. But the King's currency don't depreciate in a couple of days, so don't worry, for I've brought it along.” Now when Mipps had followed the sea, he had earned that rare reputation amongst sailors of being able to hear the hum of the old Quakeress's needle fifty miles out from Nantucket, which in plain terms meant that his hearing was acute. Indeed his ears were as sharp as his pointed nose, which seemed made to be poked into other people's business. What he had just overheard, moreover, seemed to him to be very much his business, and he felt it his bounden duty to get to the bottom of it, since the safety of Marshmen might hang on his quick action. Assuming, therefore, an attitude of complete innocence, and pretending not to have noticed the quick gesture of warning which Brazlett gave to Fragg, he accosted the farmer with, “Brought your friend along, you see.”
“Thankee, Mr. Mipps,” replied Brazlett awkwardly.
“And seein' as how he's come on legal business,” went on the sexton, “and Burmarsh ain't famed for its scholars, maybe you'll find it convenient to have a man like me what can write his name as a witness, eh? If so, I'll stand by if you'll not tither but be quiddy.”
“Tither? Quiddy?” repeated Mr. Fragg. “What the devil's he mean?”
“Ah, you be a foreigner,” explained Mipps. “You don't know the true English as she's still spoke on Romney Marsh.”
“Quiddy means brisk, Mr. Fragg,” put in Brazlett.
“And don't tither means don't muck about, Mr. Fragg,” added Mipps.
“Well, then, Mr. Mipps, if that's your name,” said Fragg, “since my business with Mr. Brazlett requires neither witness nor signature, my advice to you is, don't tither but be quiddy with your own business and leave me to settle mine.”
“All right,” replied Mipps. “I've no wish to offer help where it ain't wanted.
My business is choir business, Brazlett. You know old Tom blew one of his silver keys clean off of his oboe last Sunday. Well, he did. The oboe's gone into Dover to the instrument-maker and won't be back in time for Morning Prayer, Sunday. So Doctor Syn's compliments, and he'd be obliged if you'll deputize for the old oboe by singin' a bit louder than usual. Good day, Brazlett. And good day to you, Mr. Fragg, if that's your name, and may the sea air do you good.” Mipps walked away towards the gate, but stopped to stroke the farm-yard cat, watching at the same time to see Brazlett lead Fragg into his office.
Though glorying in the title “office", the little outhouse into which the two men disappeared was nothing more than a disused wash-house. A fire in the old copper kept it warm and an old Bible-box on a carpenter's bench served as desk. Since its door gave on to the farm-yard, Brazlett found it a convenient place in which to interview his farm hands.
Mipps knew the office well, and he now remembered to his advantage an unpleasant feature of it. In at one wall and out by the door there was grooved into the brick floor an open gutter, which in wet weather allowed a stream of water to run through into the yard. Useful enough when the place had been a laundry, but draughty and dank now that it was an office. Mipps had often advised Brazlett to block it up, saying, “You'll get the rats in after your papers.” Fortunately Brazlett had been too busy to take his advice, and the gutter remained.
The moment he saw that the two men were safely inside with the door shut, Mipps crept silently to the back and, lying down in the snow, carefully cleared the drain-hole. He then found, to his delight, that not only could he hear every word that was being said, but that by lying close to the wall he could get a cramped view of Brazlett as he sat at his desk. Fragg was bending over him, reading from a long paper which Brazlett held.
“And you'll go to bail to all these names?” he asked.
“The whole fifty-seven of 'em,” replied Brazlett. “I think I know more, but they might be what you call 'suspects', whereas these are in it up to the neck and all took part in the last great 'run'. The Scarecrow's a good leader, I'll allow, but he don't reckon the fact that many of his merry men will jump at the chance of saving their wretched necks by turning King's Evidence against him, and that even the Squire of Dymchurch will not be able to avoid a scandal.
Mind you, I still hold to my stipulation, not to be asked to appear in the witness-box.” Fragg snorted: “But, man, under King's protection you're safe enough.
Besides, ain't you putting this farm up to sale? You'll want all the money you can get to start life fresh and safe in London. The Scarecrow's arm may reach far on Romney Marsh, but not in His Majesty's capital. You're too good a business man to refuse the extra five hundred guineas.”
“Let's get this straight,” replied Brazlett. “If I don't appear, I will get five hundred guineas from the Customs and another five hundred from General Troubridge if by my information the Scarecrow's gang is broken up. If it leads to the Scarecrow's arrest a further five hundred guineas from the same source.”
“Remembering always,” put in Fragg, “that it is the General's private money and in no way official. To think that a man is rich enough in this rotten world to lay out a thousand guineas to gratify a revenge!” Brazlett nodded. “And who pays the extra five hundred if I appear as Crown witness?”
“It's big money. They pay well,” hesitated Brazlett.
“They can afford to,” replied Fragg. “Think of the revenue which these rascals are cheating them of. You take it. All you can get. Make up your mind to appear, and let me know. I'll lie tonight at the Ship Inn, and tomorrow go to Dover Castle with this list. I'm glad to note that your friend Mipps is involved.”
“Involved!” echoed Brazlett. “He's the Scarecrow's lieutenant. I wish I knew who the Scarecrow was.” Fragg laughed unpleasantly. “We don't exactly live in the days of the Spanish Inquisition, it's true, but for all that there are painful ways of making a man speak, and this Mipps will be persuaded to point out the Scarecrow. No use being squeamish when dealing with a rat like him.” The listening Mipps that Doctor Syn would not be squeamish when dealing with these two conspirators.
After watching Fragg place a fat bundle of notes upon the desk, which Brazlett counted as his visitor put the incriminating list in his breast pocket, he left his hiding place and set off at top speed to inform Doctor Syn of all that he had heard and seen.
On reaching the cross-roads, however, he turned into a cottage yard and accosted a young man who was chopping wood.
“Look here, Tolling,” he whispered. “You must knock off work for today.
Scarecrow's orders. Keep your young eyes skinned along the Burmarsh road.
You'll see a tall fellow in a great blue coat coming along from Brazlett's. When he passes, follow him, and don't let him out of your sight till I relieve you at the Ship Inn. Tell Mother Waggetts that your drinks is on me, and see that you take as much as won't interfere with your dooty.”
“Aye, aye,” replied Tolling. “And who is this man in the blue coat?”
“Customs,” whispered Mipps. “And just by way of encouragement I'll tell you this. If that man gets out of Dymchurch with the list of names that he's got in his pocket, you, me, and fifty-five good men will be up at the next Assizes, see?”
