Страница 46 из 56
From the great height of the Sluice Gates Syn looked down, holding his torch far out, its flickerings reflected in a million times in the creviced liquid below. No darker shadow on the shining surface of the fermenting kiln; but where he looked giant bubbles rose and sank, as the undulating mud rolled back to place.
Then high and shrill above the whining of the wind and borne aloft on unseen wings, the curlew cried three times.
Chapter 20
A Brand New Box of Soldiers
Thomas was late. ‘Boots’, who should have called him, was late. In fact, everyone was late. But as the Squire was still asleep, nobody had as yet been blamed. Thomas, expecting his ears to turn crimson any moment now and knowing that there is always a calm before the storm, tiptoed past the somnolent bulk of the Squire in the middle of the four-poster bed and opened the shutters. He made a deal of noise and coughed discreetly. The Squire groaned and slept on. Thomas, grateful for this short respite, busied himself about his master’s room, retrieving various garments that had somehow got themselves into the most extraordinary places. At last all were accounted for except the wig and one buckled shoe, so being accustomed to this eccentricity, he looked in the most unlikely places. The wig revealed itself, perched rakishly upon the candle sconce which lit the Squire’s most unfavourite portrait of his great-aunt Tiddy. The shoe was nowhere to be seen, though it came to light later in the day at the end of the Long Gallery, whither Sir Antony had flung it at the retreating Mister Pitt. The Squire rolled over and humped upon his face. Thomas could not postpone the evil moment any longer, so with the remaining shoe still in his hand, he gave the lightest part of the hump a resounding thwack. This having the desired effect, he stood at a respectful distance, his ears flushing in anticipation. The hump subsided. The Squire rolled over and scratched his chest. It crackled, and woke him. He yawned and said: ‘Thomas, you’re late. Tell Mrs. Lovell not to put so much starch in my nightshirt.’ He scratched again, let out an oath, and sat up, sucking his finger. Thomas, haveing seen something most unusual, and fearing to be blamed for it, fled. The Squire flattened his chin and looked down his nose, and saw that pi
Dear Squire,
Here is the Seventh. For Rogue, Scoundrel, Rascal, aye, Sir Antony, even Smuggler I may be, but the Scarecrow has always ruled ‘Death to a Traitor’. Here was a Traitor to England whose body may be found in the mud of the Great Sluice Gates, but whose dossier signed by Robespierre might interest Mr. Pitt, Minister of War. I wished to pay you this further service because this man denounced the Comte de Longué, your daughter’s husband. Hoping that my act will gain for you much honour and not another proclamation for me,
I remain your Disobedient Servant,
THE SCARECROW.
Sir Antony was delighted. He started at once composing fresh speeches to Mr. Pitt and then, wishing to rehearse them, trotted out gaily to the gallery, oblivious to the fact that his feet were bare and he was clad in nothing but a nightshirt. He called all to him, but since everyone was asleep nobody came, and a sharp yapping reminded him of bare ankles and warned him to scurry to cover.
Thomas, returning apprehensively, found him all smiles, and was chagrined to find that his ears had already responded to disaster.
Sir Antony, bursting out of his London clothes, for he had put on several inches in the wrong direction since he had last worn them, was conscious of a pressing top breeches-button, and was equally bursting with a pressing desire to impart his good news to all and sundry. But he had a lonely breakfast because everyone was late. Indeed, Cicely was the only member of the family who eventually appeared. But he was so overjoyed at having someone to talk at that he failed to notice her grave expression when, on reading the letter to herself, she saw something which he had also failed to notice. On the back of the scrawled note was something that possibly even the sender had overlooked — a dark stain, which could mean only one thing — blood. Whose? Her heart pounded. So, kissing her father fondly, she told him to behave himself in London, and to say to Mr. Pitt whatever came into his head first. But whatever he did say she was very proud of her dear Papa. Would he please excuse her, for she had an appointment with Stardust? But once out of the house she fled across the Glebe field and by the sea-wall to the Vicarage….
After much fussin’s and fumin’s and losin’ of tempers — forgettin’ this and that, and remembering a lot of u
Cicely tapped on the Vicarage door and got no reply, so she went round the windows and peered in, only to be met by teasing shutters. But the library window was unshuttered and unlatched — in fact, it had an enticing chink. She had therefore hitched her dress high up round her waist in a most unladylike fashion, showing not a little pretty lace and frills, and was in the act of balancing one foot upon the water-butt and t’other upon the sill, when a voice behind her startled her into a sitting position on the flower-bed beneath:
‘Now then. This is a ’oly residence — no place for showin’ yer dicky-cum-bobs. There now,’ it went on, ‘now you’ve gone and hurt them on them bulbs — ’urt them bulbs too — ’urt yourself?’ She turned and saw the Sexton watching her critically with cocked head.
‘Oh, Mr. Mipps,’ she laughed. ‘How you did surprise me. If it hadn’t been for these confounded petticoats I should have been through the window before you could bark.’ She got up and brushed herself, then became more serious. ‘Mr. Mipps,’ she said, ‘is Doctor Syn all right? I have a strange feeling that he may not be very well this morning.’ Immediately Mipps was on the defensive.
‘Now whatever put that into your ’ead, miss — he’s never ill, he ain’t.’ Then, seeing her glance up to the Vicar’s still curtained window, found excuses. ‘Oh yes, miss, it is late for him, I knows, but he was out visiting Mrs.… Mrs.…’