The Shadow of Dr Syn - Thorndike Russell (библиотека электронных книг txt) 📗
‘Your work can wait,’ snapped the Revenue Man.
‘Oh no, it can’t,’ contradicted Mipps, ‘not Mrs. Wooley — any time now. Makin’ her a beautiful coffin — best pine — brass plate and all the trimmings — you wouldn’t be wanting one, would you, sir?’ Here Mipps produced a foot rule and his notebook and started fussing round him, and then as though taking a great interest in Mr. Hyde’s prospective funeral asked: ‘What wood would you think’ (he was going to say ‘best’) ‘— oak?’
The infuriated Revenue Man told him to leave him alone and to go and get on with his work if it was within doors.
Mipps replied that it was within the next door and that he’d bring her in and do her in here if he was lonely, and Hyde, who in spite of his own trade was not fond of coffins, told him abruptly that he did not want for company, and to get out, but remain within earshot.
‘Earshot,’ though Mipps. ‘Ear foxication,’ and he set to work in the next room to put this plan into action. By an elaborate system of knots, weights, and the clock’s pendulum, he rigged up a swinging hammer that was guaranteed to knock the side of the coffin until he came back to stop it. This done he was out of the back door into the enveloping darkness, all within some quarter of an hour.
Mr. Hyde prowled round the house investigating. He then returned to the hall and looked round for a place to conceal himself, and having marked one, called for Mipps to bring him some drink. The hammering continued rhythmically, so he shouted louder — still no reply, but monotonous knocking, and he strode in bad temper whence it came. Seeing Mipps’s foxication working gaily infuriated him and he smashed it quiet — returning to the hall where he saw a bottle of brandy on a table by the fire. He took a generous pull, extinguished the lights save one, then slipped behind the heavy curtains into the bow of the window, where he had a good view of both inside and out.
He had not long to wait for he heard a door open and stealthy footsteps coming towards his hiding-place. His pistol at full cock, he was tense, ready. Suddenly the curtains were pulled aside, and what he saw made him utter an oath of satisfaction.
‘I have you covered,’ he said quickly. ‘The Scarecrow, by all that’s fortunate!’
The answer came back from behind that hideous mask. ‘The Revenue, by all that’s damnable.’
Mr. Hyde was in luck. ‘So this is your headquarters,’ he sneered. ‘My patience has been rewarded, Mr. Scarecrow. Only the Revenue Officer from Sandgate, he won’t give us much trouble, you thought. Just another dull-witted Preventive man to be hoodwinked. But now we’ll see who looks the fool. A local trial at Dymchurch you’ll be thinking — the jury packed with sympathizers you have bribed. Judges frightened or in favour — headed by that muddlehead the Squire, if Squire he be or muddlehead.’ He laughed unpleasantly. ‘Nothing so comfortable, Mr. Scarecrow, sir. I’m not taking any chances. A thousand guineas is a thousand guineas either way, alive or dead, so I’m going to shoot you out of hand.’ He forced the Scarecrow away from the window at the point of his gun and the black figure backed to the far corner of the refectory table.
‘Quite understandable, Mr. Hyde,’ the weird form croaked, ‘but you are wrong. This is much more comfortable than a crowded Court House. What more could one wish for in one’s last few moments — a pleasant fire, a bottle of wine, a good friend — so you will be living up to Holy Writ. Do unto others as ye would they should do unto you.’
‘Holy Writ, the parson — I suspected as much when I saw you riding better than the Squire.’ The Revenue Man was intoxicated with his cleverness, but one thing puzzled him. ‘How did you escape from your game of dice?’ The Scarecrow chuckled. ‘Well, no matter — you’ll not escape me. Sit down, Doctor Scarecrow. This is indeed a pleasant surprise. Take off your mask, Doctor Syn.’
The Scarecrow raised a long slim arm and swept off the mask with an elegant gesture — and the Revenue Man stared open-mouthed in dumb surprise.
Before him, dressed in those fantastic rags, high-booted, black-gloved — her lovely, laughing face with auburn hair tumbling about it, was Cicely Cobtree. She bowed mockingly: ‘At your service, Mr. Hyde,’ she said.
He exploded. ‘Great God, is this a jest?’
She laughed at his vehemence. ‘A very good one, Mr. Hyde, since it never entered your dull wits that the Scarecrow might be a woman.’
‘No, it hadn’t,’ he thought, ‘so that was it; well, she’ll get no change from me.’ ‘“The Parish Spinster”, eh?’ he sneered. ‘Devoting your life entirely to good works. God! what fools we’ve been.’
‘The cap and bells, Mr. Hyde?’ she suggested calmly.
He was now all white, cold anger at her studied flippancy.
‘You’ll jest with me no longer, Mistress Scarecrow — and do not think that being a woman will soften Nicholas Hyde. Do unto others, eh? I’ll tell you what I’m going to do with you. I’ll save you hanging with a bullet — then put back your mask and say “shot on sight” as any loyal citizen may do. Two minutes for a prayer, that’s all you’ll get from me. Unless you have a last request —”
Through the window behind him she saw the tiny flashing light from distant Double Dyke.
Involuntarily she shivered, not from fear of death but of failing him. She was numb now, trying to think what Syn would do in such a situation, but to excuse her shudder, not wishing him to think she was afraid — she told him she was cold and would like a drink.
His reply was typical. ‘Beggin’ for courage, eh? I thought you’d change your tune — you’ll have no help from me; get to your prayer.’ His whole manner gloated at her powerless femininity.
Over the Marsh, coming nearer and nearer until they seemed to be in the very room, came the long-drawn mournful warnings of the owl, as from Double Dyke the flashing became more urgent.
But now she had no need of drink nor prayer, for her own unspoken prayer had been answered, and she knew as clearly as if Syn had told her exactly what she had to do. Nonchalantly tilting back her chair, she threw up
her head in superb defiance. ‘I never begged from man — and I will not beg of God —’
Outraged at her cool insolence, when he had expected womanly pleading, he shouted almost in desperation: ‘Woman — go decently; sit up.’
‘I stand.’ Her voice rang out as her chair shot forward, and the tablecloth gripped between her feet slid along the polished table-top, bringing his pistol and the bottle with it to her hand. In an instant she was on her feet, covering him with his own weapon, while in the other she grasped the bottle and gave him a toast: ‘The Scarecrow’s health.’ Then throwing him the bottle she laughed: ‘Do unto others, eh, Mr. Hyde? Here’s courage, sir, until next time —’
Backing towards the door, eyes fierce in spite of her smile, she mocked. ‘That Parish Spinster rides to Aldington to light the Beacon for the run.’ Then out on to the bridge she dashed, calling wildly, ‘Gehenna! Gehenna!’ and flinging herself over the parapet almost before she heard the horse’s hooves, she found herself in the saddle, and spurred him up the rise on to the sea-wall road.
The Revenue Man remembered his other pistol in its holster round his waist and cursed his fingers for their fumbling. He wrenched it free and flinging to the window, broke a pane, and thrusting the muzzle through, he levelled it at the flying figure on the great black beast, silhouetted now against the rising moon. He fired: and fired again. His only answer was a mocking curlew cry; but as he watched his speeding target he saw just one spasmodic jerk which broke the rhythm of its flowing strides. Then, as though the Marsh had watched aghast this calculated deed, it took the heroic object out of sight in close embrace, to leave no trace but thudding fleeting sound. Silence. Then a strange, unearthly cry.
