Страница 16 из 55
Scarecrow. I must not risk even comparison with him, for the safety of his followers depends upon the safety of the
Vicar of Dymchurch. But, Mipps, I have heard Tony preparing this meet with all his skill. The Prince is to have a
good day, and he will get it, thanks to Tony’s knowledge. He knows where every fox is earthed, and the riding will
be soft or hard according to the Prince’s whim. Do you bla me me for being envious? I must be left behind with the
children upon this dear old creature, when my whole blood calls to be behind the pack. So, Mipps, since Doctor Syn
must not show the First Gentleman of Europe what riding is, the Scarecrow shall. It is not conceit. At least not
personal conceit. It is the pride I have for our Marshland. I would have the Prince own that he has never seen such
riding as from one he met on Romney Marsh. I must have him say so for our credit. Trust me to carry this through
without endangering our friends, but the Scarecrow must ride to hounds beside the Prince of Wales.”
Mipps sighed, and kicked upon his donkey to approach the castle gate, muttering: “Well, if he must, he must and
will, and not even old Pembury can hinder him. But I might remind you, Vicar, that the night before the Meet, there
is a landing pla
“I know, my good Mipps,” whispered Syn. “And that will be the greatest help to the scheme I have in mid, and if
all goes as I mean it there will be two men who will enjoy the hunt. The Scarecrow and the Prince. The rest will I
fear be disappointed with their day. I’ll risk a hundred hangings to carry this through well.”
“But no man has a hundred necks,” replied Mipps.
“I know of two to prove the lie to that, Mipps. A cat has nine lives they say.” Then, looking back, “How many
in the devil’s name have we?”
“Oh, we’ve done pretty well,” nodded Mipps. “I’ll say no more, except to assure you that if the Scarecrow wants
to hunt, with Royalty, well so he shall if Mipps can help him to it.”
Dismounting before the great entrance Doctor Syn entered Lympne Castle, while Mipps led the pony and his own
donkey to the stables in order to gossip with the grooms while waiting for his master.
Thinking that any information he could pick up concerning the hunt might prove useful to his master, he entered
the stable where the hunters were stalled. In a loose box he saw the magnificent chestnut that had been reserved for
the Prince.
“As fast as anything we’ve got,” exclaimed the groom to Mipps. “Easily the best jumper, and there’s nothing
Colindale won’t take, and add to that no vices. Sweet on the mouth and comfortable. Anyone astride Colindale
would think they was the best horseman in the field. But it ain’t the rider: it’s the horse.”
“Very tactful of Sir Henry to put the Prince up on him,” said Mipps with a wink.
Meanwhile Doctor Syn waited in the library while a servant went in search of Sir Henry. He returned to say that
his master would be with him in a few minutes, and would the reverend Doctor take a glass of wine. The ancient
butler brought in a bottle and two glasses, followed by the same servant carrying a pile of letters, which he placed on
the oak table in the centre of the room.
“Each mail brings us in a larger collection, sir,” said the butler. “Since this business of the Prince’s visit became
known, we can hardly cope with Sir Henry’s correspondence.”
“Invitations accepted and asked for, I suppose,” laughed Doctor Syn.
“That is so, sir,” replied the butler. “Buckingham Palace wouldn’t hold the applications we have had. And
everyone expects us to accommodate his family and servants. Sir Henry is now inspecting the roof rooms, a thing
he has not done to my knowledge in the past thirty years. Most unusual and upsetting for a gentleman of his years.
Your wine, sir.”
No sooner had the butler closed the door behind him, than Doctor Syn drew a letter from his side-pocket with a
glance of appreciation at the scrawled address on one side and the seal of black wax on the other. For a second or so
he listened, then crossing quickly on tiptoe to the centre table he placed the letter beneath the top one of the pile. He
then returned to his seat and sipped his wine.
At last the door opened and Sir Henry, corpulent but dandified, entered to greet his guest. But at the sight of the
further pile of correspondence his smile changed to a scowl. “More, by gad. I trust, Doctor, that you have come to
say you will pronounce grace at the Hunt Di
all letters reminding me that I have forgotten to invite them to meet His Royal Highness. Let us see now. Pour me
out a glass of wine, Doctor, and I’ll open the top one. By the way, I trust your Squire, Sir Antony, sees reason and
will call the Meet here rather than at his Court House. We can hardly expect the Prince to ride to meet the Meet.”
Doctor Syn laughed. “My dear Sir Henry, no. the Master of the foxhounds agrees with you that the Meet must
meet the Prince. We shall bring the pack with the Marsh Field up to Lympne at whatever time convenient.”
“Good,” exclaimed Sir Henry, as he perused the first letter. His mind was at rest on one point at least, for he had
feared Sir Antony would claim the right to call the Meet at Dymchurch.. The contents of the letter, however,
brought the scowl back to his face.
“Just as I said,” he snapped. “Same thing again. Lis ten, ‘Colonel Buckshaft presents his compliments to the
Lord of Lympne and while thanking him for his kind invitation to meet the Prince of Wales, respectfully points out
that although the said invitation includes Mrs. Buckshaft, there is no mention of Mis s Buckshaft. Feeling sure that
this is but an oversight, since our little Fan has been presented for attractive young ladies, I shall be glad to receive
an emendation at your early convenience.’”
Doctor Syn laughed. No so Sir Henry. “Calls her ‘little’ when she’s six foot in her socks, and her only
resemblance to a ‘fan’ is that she has a neck like an ostrich. One glimpse of that dragoon in skirts would send His
Royal Highness post-haste back to Town. I shall write regrets that Lympne ceilings are not lofty enough to
accommodate her.”
Tossing the letter aside, he stared at the next one. “And who in thunder writes to Lympne with and up-and-down
fist like this? I seem to remember this scrawl. Now whose is it?”
“Perhaps you would know by unsealing is, Sir Henry,” laughed the Doctor.
The old gentleman turned the letter over. “Black wax,” he ejaculated. “This is hardly the time to exploit a
private mourning.”
Sir Henry’s podgy cheeks, already red with the Buckshaft irritation, suddenly turned to vivid purple. “Look!
Look! Look!” he screamed.
To Doctor Syn’s quiet query for explanation of this further rage, his host could do nothing but choke out another,
“Look!”
Doctor Syn rose and crossed behind the Squire, who was pointing to a crude device stamped upon the black wax.
A soft whistle of astonishment came from the Vicar’s lips, and then he added, “A scarecrow. The Scarecrow’s
writing, too. We should know, since this had has victimized us both. A letter of warning to me, on the day of the
Exciseman’s funeral, and”
“I know. I know,” interrupted the testy Squire. “The inscription over my head when the rascal lashed me to the
Dymchurch gibbet post. ‘A laughingstock, by order of the Scarecrow.’ What further blackmail is here, I wonder.”
The contents were worse than he imagined. The words were gasped out in a tragic duet.
Sir Henry read, “The Scarecrow salutes his old laughingstock of Lymphne.” Rage choked his voice, so Doctor