And then he crossed the bridge and went his way along the Dymchurch Wall.

Mipps made no attempt to hinder him. He knew the danger there had passed, and here at hand another must be reckoned with — his master’s reason. There might be one way to save him. If he could make him see that here was no lost love: rather, a gallant ending to a member of the Brotherhood.

With his hand on his master’s shoulder he looked down and said:

‘I pays my respects to Captain Clegg’s Lieutenant. God Bless her gallant spiriti. Come, Cap’n, we must carry her home.’

But she was home already.

Chapter 24

The Shadow of Clegg

Mr. Mipps was frightened. In fact, he was desperate. He had thought that his master might lose his reason and run wild. That he could have understood and dealt with as he had in the old days with the raving Clegg, which terrifying though it had been, was not in any way comparable with this new phase; for here was a Doctor Syn whom Mipps had never met before. Since the night he had carried Cicely to the Court House, he had not uttered one word. For three days he had not been seen to eat or drink, and he certainly had not slept, for Mipps had watched him pacing the library at night and striding the Marsh by day. Mipps had shadowed him, hardly letting him out of his sight lest he should end his misery by some violence. Here was no brandy-drinking demon, but rather a cold, calculating fiend; as though the man were fighting with his soul over some vital problem. Out of all this a conviction came to Mipps that he had reached the climax; for had he not put his affairs in order as if he were going away on some long journey? Mipps instinctively knew that this journey was not to foreign parts and the life they used to know.

The Sexton was not alone in his anxiety. The whole village shared it. They had been told that Miss Cicely had met with a riding accident. But there were certain things that mystified them. The sudden departure of Mr. Hyde, who for no apparent reason had stopped prowling, Doctor Syn’s neglect of parish work (he was not even at the funeral), his wild appearance, and his eternal vigil on the Marsh, never astride the fat white pony; the Squire’s absence in London; and above all the fact that the Scarecrow had issued no orders, so that the vast organization which meant to so many a living was at a standstill.

There was, however, one person who did understand, and who in all her wisdom was biding her time. Miss Gordon, though profoundly shocked, feeling that she was in a way responsible for that night of tragedy, determined to keep her promise of maintaining friendship. It was in this frame of mind and upon the fourth day at noon that she encountered Mr. Mipps, a sad little figure upon the sea-wall, looking through his telescope. She noticed, however, that it was not trained upon the shipping in the Fairway, but having his back to the sea he was sweeping the hillside across the Marsh. He was looking through it intently and did not notice her approach. She asked him if he had it focussed upon the old Roman harbour steps at Lympne. He turned sharply and looked at her in some surprise, for indeed he had had it fixed upon that very spot. She begged him to adjust it to her eye.

There in that circle of the telescope, framed like a miniature, was what she had been expecting. She turned to the worried little Sexton and together they evolved a plan. Returning to the Vicarage, she swept Mrs. Honeyballs out of the way, and prepared with her own hands a tasty meal. Mipps saddled the white pony with panniers into which the food and wine were packed, and within a quarter of an hour a quaint little party set off. Miss Agatha rode the Vicar’s pony, followed by Mr. Mipps on Lightning, his very aged donkey, while Mister Pitt, the poodle, frisked and trotted on ahead. Inside Miss Agatha’s vast reticule swinging upon her arm was a beautiful, bound, clasped book, whose small golden key reposed in the old lady’s purse.

‘And so, Mr. Mipps,’ she had said, ‘if he can eat the meal, drink the wine and read this book, he’s cured.’

* * * * *

Two hours later Mr. Mipps was again looking through his telescope upon the sea-wall. This time he was watching for a signal. At last it came; bright flashes that caught the glass and made him blink. But Mipps did not care. On the contrary — he threw his three-cornered hat into the air and executed there and then his famous hornpipe.

* * * * *

Miss Agatha was sitting in the sunshine, her plaid spread out upon the Roman pavement. She held in her hand a very small mirror and with the help of this was arranging a naughty wind-blown curl, though for quite a long time after it was arranged satisfactorily she continued to flash her mirror in the sun, making it dance here, there, and everywhere. Indeed, once she inadvertently caught the Vicar full in the face. He looked up from his book and smiled, but returned to it again while she repacked the baskets. There was very little left.

Some life had returned to Doctor Syn’s face. The full French wine too had done him good, but the book upon his knees, as Aunt Agatha had predicted, was his real salvation.

He turned the pages and his face reflected what he read. At times gay — then sad — amused and tender. And, indeed, there were times when the tears fell unashamedly on to those carefully written pages.

He went back to the beginning of this endearing volume and re-read the title. Round childish handwriting.

‘Cicely Cobtree — her Book. Given to me by my Great Aunt Agatha upon my fifteenth birthday, November 25, 1775. I shall keep it for my journal. Very special thoughts and happenings.’

Strange that today was another 25th of November, her birthday and that the first ‘happening’ should be of him. He read: ‘My dear Papa’s best friend, Christopher Syn, has returned from the Americas. I wish he had come home before. He tells exciting stories.’ Then further on: ‘Doctor Syn is now our Vicar here. I like Church now. Though I had always imagined for myself a tall fair gentleman. I know now I was wrong. I like his eyes best. Oh yes — and his voice. I am sure Charlotte is in love with him. I wish I was her age, and had fair hair.’ Another page: ‘A lovely day. I talked to Mr. Mipps. He’s back from Sea, and he’s going to be Sexton.’ Over again: ‘Sister Maria the Silly had a nightmare about the Scarecrow. He is supposed to be a Ghost in these parts, though Papa says not to be frightened; he is only a smuggler. I think he sounds exciting — but I still like Doctor Syn best.’ More leaves turned and now the Vicar’s face was grave. ‘Dear Sister Charlotte was buried today. They say it was a hunting accident, but I know different. I have not told anyone but I think it had something to do with Doctor Syn and the Scarecrow — I dreamt that she died for the Scarecrow. I wish I could have done it — but I would rather die for Doctor Syn.’

Then further down that same page: ‘I watched him today through Mr. Mipps’s spy-glass. He looked so lonely on the Roman Steps. I know that I could comfort him. I wish I could sit there for ever by his side.’ Here the tears blurred his vision, and he turned and seemed indeed to see her by his side in the sunshine with that fiery halo round her laughing face. But she vanished and once more he sought her in the book. ‘Today Mr. Mipps told me another wonderful story about the pirate Captain Clegg. How he escaped and saved Mr. Mipps by doing a trick with a tablecloth. I practised it and broke Mama’s best Sèvres cup. She was very cross. But I don’t mind. It does work. I wish I could make up my mind which I love best — The Scarecrow, Captain Clegg or Doctor Syn. I still think Doctor Syn.’

Aunt Agatha watched him as he turned to the last entry. Now the writing was fine and mature. Then he looked up towards the Knoll with an expression of peace and yet determination, and Aunt Agatha knew what was in his mind, for she too had read those last words.