‘Then I vow, madame, you are no stranger to me, for I knew your niece, Lady Cobtree, before she married Tony, and your name has ever been a household word in the family. Indeed, on more occasions than I can remember I have heard Tony refer to “me wife’s Aunt Agatha”.’ Here Doctor Syn gave such a graphic imitation of the Squire of Dymchurch that Miss Gordon was quite paralyzed with giggles. ‘’Tis Tony to the life. You have caught his excellent pomposity. But he’s a good boy. I have ever been fond of him, though I think he regards “me wife’s Aunt Agatha” as a most eccentric old body, and what he will think of me now I hardly dare think, since it is many a year since I have visited them. Indeed, sir, the last time I was in Dymchurch was when you must have been away in the Americas. They often spoke of you. I was deeply distressed to learn of my favourite niece’s death. Poor Charlotte. She was so young.’ Engrossed in her family reminiscences, she failed to note the look of pain that for a moment clouded the Doctor’s face on her mentioning the name of Charlotte. ‘But tell me,’ she went on, ‘what of Cicely? I hear she is a fine girl. Good rider too. That’s to my liking. Indeed, she is my god-child. And thank heaven for that, since I never could abide her elder sister Maria. ’Twas a great blow to Caroline and Tony, as you must well know, when Maria went off and married that French nincompoop, though naturally now they are in a great state about her, and no wonder. To have a daughter of Maria’s disposition in the midst of these Paris horrors must be more than worrying. Indeed, I had a long letter from Cicely upon that subject before I left Kildrummy. It seems that the poor girl is worrying herself to a fiddle-string about her sister, though goodness knows Maria never cared a fig for anyone except herself. But tell me, Doctor Syn,’ she continued, ‘is not the position serious? — especially as we are now at war with France. Tony, with his English insularity, is often apt to deceive himself. I can almost hear him saying, “Damme, they’d never dare to touch a Cobtree. She may have married a Frenchman, but she’s still my daughter, sir.”’ Which rendering was as perfect an imitation of the Squire as Doctor Syn’s had been, which amused them both considerably, but returning almost at once to the seriousness of the situation, she added: ‘But I have a notion that that French husband of hers is not worth his salt and would be far too concerned for his own safety than to worry over Maria’s. For I am not sharing Tony’s convictions, and am quite certain after what they have done to their own Royal Family, one Cobtree more or less wouldn’t worry ’em.’
And so the conversation rolled on from one topic to another. Doctor Syn had by this time politely insisted upon Lisette taking his more comfortable seat, which though it infuriated the Captain, placed him in a better position for conversing with the old lady.
By the time the coach had reached Canterbury, their talk had brought them to the most popular topic of the day — occasioned by Doctor Syn remarking the little grotesque black patch upon Miss Gordon’s cheek — the topic which was inevitable at any fashionable gathering — namely, the Scarecrow, whose exploits amused the old lady vastly, though Lisette, frightened out of her well-trained servility, showed signs of apprehension at every mention of the name, till the old lady rated her for being a superstitious fool, and told her not to listen.
The Captain, on the other hand, appeared to come to life for the first time on the journey and listened to every word with avid attention, though neither he nor the old lady noticed the gleam of amusement that lurked behind the parson’s spectacles, as he spoke to the Captain.
‘I trust, sir, you will forgive a comparative stranger for addressing you, but you will understand from our conversation that our Marshes are not considered healthy at the moment. Indeed, Dymchurch-under-the-Wall is not as fashionable as Brighton.’ Then with an admirable piece of play-acting he pretended to recognise the Captain for the first time, exclaiming: ‘Dear me — your face is familiar. Have we not met before?’
To which the Captain was forced to reply: ‘Yes, sir. Last night — in Crockford’s.’
‘Yes, indeed, of course — the wager. Had you but spoken sooner, I would have recognised your voice. Pray forgive me. My eyesight, you know. At Crockford’s, yes. Foolish of me to think you were coming to Dymchurch for your health.’
Although to the ladies the words conveyed precisely what they meant, the Captain had that same uncomfortable feeling at the pit of his stomach that he had experienced earlier in the day.
Doctor Syn, turning to Miss Gordon, added: ‘May I present, ma’am, a very famous English gentleman, and indeed a brave one, for he has wagered two thousand guineas that he will catch our Scarecrow within the week. Captain Foulkes — Miss Gordon.’
Miss Gordon gave the Captain a curt nod and did not seem very impressed, though Lisette was obviously gratified that she was riding in the same coach with a fine gentleman who was about to destroy the chief cause of her worries.
And so, on through the busy narrow streets of Canterbury, with the coach-horn playing a merry tune which caused Miss Gordon to exclaim: ‘Sakes alive, is that the only tune he can blow? Have you noticed he has played nothing else the whole journey?’
To which Doctor Syn replied with a smile: ‘You have a musical ear, madame. ’Tis the “British Grenadiers” is it not? In honour, no doubt, of our noble Captain here.’
‘Oh, I know the tune,’ replied Miss Gordon. But what she did not know was that the honour was due to the Scarecrow, who by this ingenious method told his followers throughout the countryside of his activities, each tune played meaning a different order. Had the guard been of a communicative disposition he could have told the occupants that in Scarecrow’s music, the ‘British Grenadiers’ meant ‘A false run tonight to lead the Revenue astray.’
Pulling up at the ‘George and Dragon’ for a final change of horses and half an hour’s rest, they started off again to the strains of the same enlightening tune, past the Cathedral and shops and on into Stone Street with its long stretch of straightforward road, lying open and innocent save for the lurking farm-house, and the coppice which had served its purpose earlier that morning. A good run until the southern end — the dread of every driver — Quarry Hill. Here the coach had to be stopped for skids, and then slowly down the winding gorge, which was overhung so heavily with giant foliage that even in the strongest sunlight it was like passing through an endless tunnel.
So went our coach — the horses straining back, the coachman leading them and the occupants forced to cling to their straps, as the vehicle lurched on its tortuous way down the hill.
‘Might be in the Highlands,’ exclaimed Miss Gordon.
‘Yes indeed,’ replied Doctor Syn. ‘’Tis precipitous as the stretch which we have just left is straight. You must blame the Romans if there is any blame for such a lasting road. The hill takes its name from the quarry which they used to work, transporting the stone for the building of Canterbury. Though we may not like to admit having been conquered, we must yet thank the Romans for much. Indeed there cannot be a man o’ Kent on our coast who does not sing their praises for the ingenious construction of Dymchurch seawall — a magnificent piece of engineering. Otherwise the seas would still be lapping against the hills behind the Marsh.’
‘There, Lisette, what did I tell you?’ cried the delighted old lady. ‘Though the sea is higher than the land, you will not get your feet wet.’ The maid, at last understanding the significance of the wall at Marsh, was loud in her praise of those ancient builders. And so on down the hill, their voices echoing against the steep wooded sides of the gorge, the Captain uncomfortably tilted back, and being exceedingly bored at this archaeological lecture, cried, ‘Confound the Romans, say I. I would they had made this road straighter, and I fail to see why we should overpraise them. For my part, I have no wish to render unto Caesar praise or anything else…’