Dr. Syn accepted the coming of Mipps as fate, for he was struck by the fact that Death had opened a position for the little sea-dog in Dymchurch as it had done for him by Parson Bolden's tragedy, because only a few days previously the old sexton had died.
The squire put no difficulty in the way of the appointment, saying: “If you know of a likely man for the post, appoint him, my good Vicar. Give it to whom you please, so far as I'm concerned, since you'll see more of the fellow than I shall.”
Thus Mr. Mipps became sexton and undertaker of Dymchurch, as well as general factotum to the vicar. On Sundays, after tolling the bell, when the ringers had finished, he sat at the lower desk of the three-decker pulpit and fervently cried 'Amen' to the vicar's tune.
During the first week or two of his appointment the vicar took occasion to repeat his injunctions upon the sexton, that were forbidding any reference whatsoever to their association abroad; insisting that he should keep sober and respectable in the eyes of the parish; to do nothing that would bring disrepute upon the church, and, above all, to have no sort of dealing with the smugglers.
All these injunctions Mr. Mipps followed for a time after his own fashion.
Naturally garrulous, he could not keep his tongue from wagging about his own adventures abroad, but with the exception of mentioning hearing Dr. Syn preach that one sermon at New Bedford (a sermon entirely of his own imagination) and telling of the doctor's fame as a missioner, he certainly kept mum about his own association with him. Finding, however, that tales of the pirates made him very popular in the bar-parlours, he owned to having met the notorious Clegg. But it was not the tall, thin, elegant Clegg of reality, but the 'barrel of a man' that he described. In this he felt that he was doing his old master a great service, as indeed he was, for who would connect Dr. Syn with the Clegg that he described so accurately? He found no difficulty at all about keeping sober, for he could stand a great deal more liquor than the most generous of his hearers could afford to 'stand' him.
The dignity of the church he also maintained, for he found that its dignity reflected itself upon him and made him the more looked up to.
But it was the last injunction that he found the most difficult.
Although he had heard the squire and Dr. Syn denying in public that smuggling went on in Dymchurch, he felt pretty certain that both gentlemen knew of the vast quantities of contraband that found its way across the Marsh, and he gathered that they could both name some of their worthiest parishioners as aiders and abettors of the process.
Mipps quite understood why they winked at it. Smuggled goods naturally were expensive commodities to buy in the open market, and since it paid the smugglers to be generous, it was pleasant to find expensive kegs and luxurious cases left on one's doorstep by a kind, if anonymous, donor.
Naturally, it did not suit Dr. Syn to have his own sexton running risks that might bring him within reach of the law. Mipps appreciated that, for lawyers have a way of making people talk and raking up the past, and both Mipps and Dr. Syn had decided to 'remember to forget'.
So for some time even this last injunction the sexton fulfilled faithfully, and he purposely affected a blind eye to many things he saw, a deaf ear to many things he heard, and his tongue would lead the conversation into safer channels when he considered it becoming dangerous. Although he realised that he was losing a lot of profitable excitement by not being drawn into the vortex of what he soon realised was the real if secret life of the community, he found plenty of scope for activity outside this risky circle. 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.
Old Tree Cottage, the sexton's residence, which had been furnished at the vicar's expense from the Upton's Curiosity and Antique Shop, became as well as the coffin shop next door a rendezvous for the villagers, old and young. He became popular. His wide experience of foreign lands gave him a superiority over his fellows which inspired a certain amount of awe. This he encouraged, for he liked being feared. If he made a toy for a child, he could not resist accompanying the gift with some fearsome tale of witches or the like. Most children and all grown-ups have a hankering for the weird, and while the villagers shuddered at his stories, they enjoyed their frightening quality. Mipps became generally admired and in the process learned many things that were so profitable that his conscience was quietened with argument. For instance, if the squire and the vicar could accept presents of tobacco, tea and spirits on which they must have guessed no taxation had been paid, well then, he could lend a secret hand in the supplying of such luxuries.
Although at first intending only to disobey the vicar for just a little flutter now and again, 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. He had been caught in the toils from his first adventuring, which was usually the way with people who came to live on the Marsh. The old families of the district had for generations depended upon smuggling both for sport and a means of income. Descended from the Owlers who smuggled wool from the Marsh to the Continent as far back as Edward I (the thirteenth century), the game was in their blood, and they considered it their right. They saw no disloyalty to the King in cheating his Government officials and they enjoyed the risks of discovery. Not that there was much danger of penalty, for the squire of Dymchurch was head magistrate of the Marsh, and no jury at the Court House Sessions was going to condemn a local man for bringing free luxuries to their back door. That is, all was safe enough so long as the affair was run secretly and without violence.
On this 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. Even these weapons he discouraged, preferring to push a hateful excise-man into a dyke, saying that whereas a cold in the head was no proof against them, a gashed head might well become so. 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. His callous brutality to man and beast had gained him the worst reputation, but since his farmhouse was set in the midst of the wild common known locally as Aldington Fright, it was a safe house to use for the delivery of the goods, screened as it was on three sides by a thick spinney, and with its large dark roof at the back honeycombed with apple lofts and its spacious cellars concealed beneath the flagged floors. In addition to these advantages, Grinsley paid cash for what he received, which satisfied the Marsh smugglers, who had no idea of the enormous profits Grinsley made for himself.
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.
