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.
From what he gathered of the character of Merry, he at first suspected that this slippery rascal had purposely led him a wild goose chase. Merry, however, stoutly denied that he had ever been in the pay of the highwayman, and described in full detail the manner of Dr. Syn's fight, which made the reverend gentleman the popular hero of the Marsh. That the vicar of Dymchurch should have stood up to and punished a well-known fighter in defence of Miss Cobtree's pearls was an heroic effort that lost nothing in the telling.
True, it somewhat damaged the glamorous reputation of the highwayman, but against this was the rumour being spread on all sides and believed in by the Dragoon captain, that Mr. Bone had at least saved the smugglers necks. Mr. Mipps, who was responsible for the rumour, saw to it that it spread, and spread well.
Amongst others who believed in it was the Preventive 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, when the man had a popular reputation amongst the poor. Mr. Bone spent his money lavishly when he was in funds, and saw to it that the poor benefited by the rich man's loss. Besides, it was widely hinted at in all the taverns of the Marsh that were Jimmie Bone to be arrested on information received, it would be short shift 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'.
There was no one more pleased at his going than Meg Clouder, for as she told Dr. Syn: “Of late he has taken to watching my windows, and to following me if I go across the Marsh. The mere fact of your forbidding him to speak to me, makes his passion for me the more frightening.”
“Well, well, you are safe enough from him, I promise you,” replied Dr. Syn. “He will trouble this village no more, for his attempt to get that highwayman arrested has put him into some danger with Mr. Bone's friends.”
Unlike Merry, however, the Preventive Officer was without fear, and no sooner was he convinced that Jimmie Bone had offended against the Customs than he set to watching for the gentleman, who sometimes spent so lavishly at one or the other of the taverns. But Mr. Bone was taking no chances until the tell-tale cuts inflicted by Dr. Syn's knuckles should have healed. Meanwhile, his friends informed him that the Preventive Officer was on the prowl.
“I can tell you one thing,” said Captain Faunce to the Customs officer, “these fellows whoever they are, have won the first round against me, and won it handsomely, I'll admit. But they'll not be so sensible as to lie low for long. There'll soon be a cargo run again, and then we will not be hoodwinked. Success goes to such rascals' heads. Keep your eyes and ears open, Mr. Customs.”
As the weeks went by, however, the Preventive man realised that the smugglers were still lying very quiet, and yet his experience told him that all the time secret preparations were going forward. So he waited and watched. Word had already been circulated through the channels known to Mipps that small runs were not worth the risk, and that as soon as their new leader, the Scarecrow, had satisfied himself that all was ready, the cargoes would be more than profitable. Promises of great wealth, with small risk, if all was done according to schedule, heartened those whose love and money was in the game.
Dr. Syn worked hard. Ostensibly at his parochial work. It was generally believed that when the flag was flying outside the little white hut on the sea-wall, that the vicar was preparing his next sermon within, so that no one would disturb him.
True, the top of the locker which served as a seat in this cabin was duly packed with ecclesiastical tomes, whose scholarly value warranted the fine old steel lock which the Upton brothers had fixed to it. But if truth were known, Dr. Syn gave little time to his sermons. Not wishing to appear brilliant, his discourses gave him no trouble, and when he was supposedly penning them, he would in reality be working out some new and ingenious method of fooling the Customs. Every vessel at the smugglers' command was drawn to scale by one of the Wraight men and given to Mipps, who undertook to pass them on to the Scarecrow. Then the plans would be returned with all sorts of contrivances added in the way of 'hides'. If the Scarecrow was really Jimmie Bone, then the highwayman astonished old Josiah Wraight with his expert knowledge of ships and boats. Besides which, the draughtsmanship was so uncommonly neat and accurate, and displayed practical knowledge of what could or could not be done at sea. Every available space was utilised on every available vessel and then most cunningly concealed. The smacks—a whole fleet of them—were provided with temporary casings capable of holding quantities of kegs and fitted two feet below the water line down to the keel. It was impossible for the Customs officers to detect this fraud while the vessels were afloat, since there was no communication between the concealments and the interior in which the Preventive man searched.
The Upton brothers were expert cabinet-makers, and there was no suspicion that everything was not just in the way of business when they were found engaged upon a particularly intricate piece of dove-tailing or lock. Mipps was able to work at many things amongst his coffin planks, and the Wraight's yards and sheds had ever been busy with hammerings and screwings. Carpenters and joiners found plenty of employment during that period when Captain Faunce thought the smugglers were lying 'uncommon quiet'.
And wherever the plans of the knowledgeable Scarecrow were faithfully reproduced from scale, then that vessel for which the trick had been designed, could confidently invite inspection from the Customs without fear of discovery.
Methods of sinking tubs through the ship's bottom, false scuttles, hollowed beams, dove-tailed to the solid ones, ropes that ran through leaden pipes concealed in false stanchions, bowsprits and stays hollowed and lead lined, winged lockers in the prow, or a spare bulkhead between the fore and aft, and a hundred other practical devices suited to the particular requirements of each vessel concerned. All these and more Dr. Syn planned and drafted in the little white hut upon the sea-wall, and when the flag flew from the pole, even Charlotte respected his need for privacy and did not disturb him.
It was after a particularly long day of parochial work carried on from this hut that Dr. Syn was roused from his studies by Mipps, who insisted on swinging a lantern before his master through the dark trees by the Court House, and realising that Dr. Syn had had a very exacting day he was then for taking himself back to the coffin shop. However, the doctor was equally insistent that Mipps should join him in his study for a drink, and it was while they were sitting in the dim candle-light 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 heard a creak. Besides, I can smell a horsey sort of odour about the place. Noticed it when I first come in. Been in here, now up in your bedroom.”
“Nonsense, who could be up there? Mrs. Fowey will be abed by now; nine o'clock is her hour and up at five.”
Mipps sniffed and then sniffed again.
“It's a man, sir. Mrs. Fowey ain't a horsey flavour, and as you say she's abed now by habit. These old houses gives away people what has no right to be in 'em. 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 self-defence. 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 is 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. “You can surely walk in to your taverns as before our fight.”
“No, that is what I cannot do,” replied the highwayman. “The fact is, I have got that Preventive Officer on my track. Where he's been sensible enough to leave me alone to my work on the road, which is no business of his, he's now got it into his stupid head that I am the leader of the smugglers. 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.
“You mean this mysterious being who seems to be putting his wits against the Customs, eh?” asked Syn.
“Aye, I do. And it's not me,” roared the highwayman.
“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. Dr. 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. For believe me, sir, I have sufficient of my own. In plain words, I'm willing to be hanged as Jimmie Bone, gentleman of the road, if they can catch me; but I'd hate like hell to swing as the Scarecrow when I ain't entitled to that privilege.”
“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. He would see, if it were so pointed out, that I can hold up coaches very well in spite of the Bow Street runners, but that I cannot do it with the Customs men on my track as well.”
“And what could he do to free you?” asked Dr. Syn.
“Listen. I has my agents as well as the Scarecrow,” continued the highwayman, “and some of 'em, lots of 'em, are agents to us both. We have friends in common. Now, there's a rumour whispered that in ten 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, and did them Dragoons know of it, which they won't, they'd act just the same as I intend to act, for on 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 counter-plot?”
“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 we 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 glanced across at Mipps and asked him what he thought.
“Well, sir,” replied Mipps, “if I weren't a respectable sexton talking to my own respectable vicar, I should be bound to say that Mr. Bone's story strikes me as the neatest, pleasantest, and most amusin' little comedy I have ever heard the likes of.”
Dr. Syn rose and took a few turns up and down the room. 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 watched him in silence. Mr. Mipps watched Mr. Bone with much sniffing, as though he were trying to ascertain whether this horsey-odoured gentleman of the road was to be trusted.
At length the doctor broke the silence.
“Mr. Bone, I know a good deal about you, as I know a good deal about most of the people on Romney Marsh, ad although you are—shall we say unruly?—you have the reputation for being a man who can be trusted by his friends. Your double dealing with these double dealers in guineas strikes me as a piece of poetical justice, for it is a symphony in cheating to see the cheaters cheated. I confess that it appeals to my sense of justice as also to my humour. 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. You may wonder a little that I, as a parson, consent to such an action. Well, maybe I am also caught by the romantic dash of this same Scarecrow. I owe him something at least, for saving the necks of my beloved flock, and I admit to a secret admiration for the Scarecrow. I owe you a good turn, Mr. Bone. I have set a mark upon you which I own is awkward. I admit your grievance, too, against the Scarecrow and—”
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 as the Scarecrow myself and rob you of those guineas.” And he tossed off the brandy at a gulp.
“Good God,” muttered Mipps, following his 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.
