‘A WARNING TO ALL TRAITORS ON THE MARSH.’ No doubt who wrote it either, for underneath so all could understand, a crude but vivid drawing of a Scarecrow.
It was fortunate for Mrs. Honeyballs that her lifelong study of every nook and cranny in the village stood her in good stead, or hampered by her apron she would most certainly have come to grief. As it was, with the instinct of a homing pigeon she was able to travel thus blindfold at an incredible speed, finally coming to rest outside the Vicarage back door, where she was able to gasp, ‘Thank goodness, here’s the back door — never thought I’d get here,’ as she took the protective covering from her head, and decorously straightened herself before entering the ‘privilege to work there’. Upon entering, however, she promptly bumped into Mr. Mipps, who was coming out, and this sent her into a paroxysm of the trembles.
‘Oh, Mr. Mipps,’ she cried, throwing her arms about him and well-nigh suffocating the bewildered little Sexton, ‘never so pleased to see you. Oh, what a fright I had. Never thought I’d get here. Comin’ round the corner, thought I’d see the usual — but hangin’ in the Court Yard — glad it didn’t chase me. Can I have a brandy?’
From the hidden regions of her capacious bosom, the muffled voice of the Sexton plaintively appealed to be ‘let go of’, and extricating himself with difficulty, gasped out in his turn, ‘Careful now, don’t be so print.
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Too early for canoodlin’. Can you ’ave a brandy? Phew! Need one myself after all that. ’Ere you are then. Take a nip and tell me why you’ve got the dawthers,’ and producing a heavy flask from an inside pocket, he handed it to the grateful housekeeper.
Mrs. Honeyballs took a generous pull, sighed loudly, and sat down. She then prepared to enjoy and freshly horrify herself with a description of what she had seen, but was disappointed when Mr. Mipps, dismissing the subject, remarked ‘Oh, thought you’d seen something ’orrid. What’s a corpse before breakfast? Undertakers ’as to live, don’t they? He’ll be buried in the parish, and them Lords of the Level allows me a god price. ’Ave to flip round there and measure him up after I’ve cleaned out the font for the christening. Funny
— I was only sayin’ yesterday that while waitin’ for old Mrs Wooley to make up her mind I could do with another corpse with brass ’andles.’ At which Mrs. Honeyballs, somewhat disgruntled, seized mop and bucket and set to work, noisily relieving her frustrated feelings, until Mr. Mipps was forced to tell her to ’ush her bucket as the poor dear Vicar, after his long journey, didn’t ought to be disturbed. Leaving her, certainly hushed though still resentful, he took himself off to the church, making mental notes while passing the cause of Mrs. Honeyballs’ discomfiture as to the length and type of coffin it might need. Thus happily engaged upon his funereal but lucrative speculation, he started to clean out the font.
His enthusiasm, however, was not shared by the Squire of Dymchurch, who, irritated by ‘a confounded babble goin’ on beneath his bedroom window so early in the mornin’, damme’ — pulled back the curtains to see the cause of it. The sight of half the village ‘gawpin’’ at a corpse he hadn’t convicted hanging from his official gibbet threw him into one of his before-breakfast rages, which, this morning, however, was perfectly justifiable.
Sir Antony Cobtree, though taking his position as Chief Magistrate and Leveller of Marsh Scotts very seriously, at heart preferred the more pleasant occupation of a country squire, to wit, his horses and his dogs; and indeed his favourite pastime was followin’ hounds. So upon recollecting that he had promised himself a day’s relaxation away from his extra duties as a family man, for ‘them prattlin’ women’ were getting on his nerves ‘in the most deuced fashion’, he was deeply chagrined that an uncalled intrudin’ corpse would necessitate his presence in that ‘stinkin’ Court Room’ to preside over an Inquiry, thereby ‘ruinin’ a good day’s sport, damme’.
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Bright.
Tugging at every bell-pull in his bed-chamber to no avail, almost crying with vexation, he trotted out upon the landing in search of another. He had just viewed one at the far end of the long gallery and was in full pursuit, when, tripping over his flapping nightshirt, he slid the whole length of the highly polished floor and reached it quicker than he had anticipated. His carpet slippers and a Persian rug flying from beneath him, bobbled night-cap obscuring his vision, he clutched despairingly at the bell-pull, which, unable to stand up to the full weight of the Squire, broke with snapping wires and clattered about his head, as he came down heavily upon that part of his person most pertinent to his saddle. There he sat for a considerable time before regaining sufficient breath to enable him to give vent to as many good round oaths as he could remember, and it was from this lowly position, where he had thoroughly damned beeswax and bell-pulls, that he espied upon the top of a tallboy a hunting-horn. Hope returned upon the sight of this familiar object, with which he knew he could give tongue. Having achieved possession of this he threw restraint to the winds and all his lung power into the blowing of a long series of ‘View Holloas’. This unorthodox method of calling for attention had the desired effect. He immediately became the centre of interest. Doors flew open all along the gallery. Housemaids peeped out and jumped back, thinking the Squire had run mad, while her ladyship came out in
brute,
Within his room Sir Antony’s annoyance by no means abated, when he heard that the commotion outside the house had grown louder and he went straight to the window and flung it wide, intending to harangue the crowd. Having lost his dignity with Mister Pitt, he quite forgot to assume it again for the villagers, and indeed upon seeing his own lackey, Thomas, in the front row of the corpse’s audience, with his arm round a giggling housemaid, he so far forgot himself as to lean perilously far out over the sill, thus endangering not only his person, but his still precariously tilted night-cap.
Mixing hunting phrases with official language he soon succeeded in sending the villagers about their business, and the errant Thomas, crimson to the ears, was ordered to attend on his master immediately.
Having somewhat mollified his feelings, he was yet fully aware that he was certaily in for a ‘damned dull, deucedly aggravatin’ day, findin’ out the identity of this impertinent corpse and probin’ the pros and cons, to say nothing of Caroline’s tantrums ’cos of what he’d done on the trumpet, while me wife’s Aunt Agatha will be accusin’ me of ill-treatin’
his
is
‘When you have recovered, Mr. Mipps, perhaps you will pass me back the bottle and discuss parochial affairs.’
‘Yes, sir — hic — parochial affairs. Real parochial affairs — or er?’
‘Yes, Mr. Mipps, we’ll discuss that too.’
‘Oh — that’s what I wanted to know. First of all — it’s them “British Grenadiers” again today followed by “The Girl I Left Behind Me”. The word is bein’ passed as usual. Coaches playin’ ’em both voyages, up and down. Next, please? Oh, Jimmie Bone — messages from him this mornin’ — says he forgot to ask you last night — if you’ll be needing him to ride as the Scarecrow for you tonight.’
‘Tell him to stand by till we know which way the cat’s goin’ to jump.’
‘Oh, don’t we know? Suppose we don’t. Oh, talking of cats. That there Revenue man. Been seen prowlin’ through Hythe. Ought to be here any minute now. Oh, talkin’ of Hythe: ’ere’s a bit o’ news. Mrs. Waggetts’ cousin twice removed has to go into Hythe on account of what she’s expectin’ grantiddlers.
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She runs into her uncle, who has with him a relation of the bootboy at the “Red Lion”.’
Doctor Syn interrupted. ‘I trust the news is not so involved as the relationships.’
Mipps replied promptly: ‘No, sir. Gets clearer. Well, I’ll tell you. That there Foulkes. Now what worried the boot-boy was that he hadn’t got no boots. Wasn’t half in a dobbin
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about it too. Rantin’ and roarin’. Foulkes I mean, not the boot-boy. Sends out for cobblers and shoemakers. “Red Lion” in a uproar. But by the time he’s measured the whole place knows what he’s come for. But here’s the best bit of news, sir. He’s passin’ the word and says he wants it passed that he’ll challenge the Scarecrow in open duel. Quite positive he’ll win, too. Says he’ll wager a thousand with anyone.’
‘That’s very interesting, Mr. Mipps,’ replied Doctor Syn. ‘He’s killed some dozen men already. I wonder what the Scarecrow will do about that?’
‘Yes — that’s just what I was wondering of, too.’
‘I shouldn’t let it worry you, Mr. Mipps. Yes, the Sluice Gates. Oh — let me see, high tide? Well, well. Now the christening; this afternoon, of course. Remember?’
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Grandchildren.
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Temper.
Mipps nodded. ‘Just cleaned out the font. Ever looked down from the top of them Sluice Gates?’
The Vicar nodded.
Mipps went on. ‘A lot of lovely mud goes swirlin’ round. Thin mud.
’Orrid mud.’
‘Yes, Mr. Mipps, I have noticed that there is mud in the Sluice Gates. And oh, by the way, Mr. Mipps, the Squire is dining with me tonight. Would you be so kind as to inform Mrs. Honeyballs to make an especial effort. I thought perhaps some few dozen oysters, that brace of pheasants, a little
souffle
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and when Mrs. Honeyballs shakes — she shakes, and you don’t want a shaky pudding. Better make it a trifle. Won’t matter then if she is heavy-handed. By the way, sir, you was talkin’ of Pedro — will he be comin’ over tonight, sir?’
Doctor Syn nodded. ‘Yes, Mr. Mipps, with the usual cargo, if all goes well. And I have instructed Pedro that all
Imogene, looking for dangers on the seas ahead. He wished they could both hoist canvas and sail the seas again. So, stifling a sigh of longing and regret, he went down to execute his master’s orders.