‘Riding lessons,’ snorted Mipps. ‘Serve you right if you falls off. Jumpin’ lessons. You. From a petticoat. Talkin’ of petticoats, I met that French bettermy¹ one. She gave me these,’ and he took from his pocket the two large envelopes Lisette had entrusted him with. ‘This for the Rev. — that’s you. And this for a Mr. Bone — don’t know who he is. There’s somethin’ in it, too.’

‘Ah,’ nodded Syn, not without amusement. ‘Our Jimmie has made a conquest indeed. I rather think she has returned his compliment. Perhaps this will explain,’ and he opened his own letter, noting with pleasure the large firm hand so full of flourishes and character, and smiling as he read the contents.

November 14th, 1793. The Court House,

¹ Marsh word meaning ‘superior’.

Dymchurch.

My Dear Friend,

As I have every intention of becoming eighty upon the 19th of this month, I wish to celebrate it, and have commandeered the Court House for a party, which would not be complete without you. Indeed I shall be desolated if you fail, for I fear my only other beau will not be able to attend (I’d give my wig to see our Tony’s face if he did). I have writ him an invitation and returned his compliment with a token, so would be mightily glad if you, with your knowledge of black sheep, would see to its delivery. Cicely seemed so chagrined at the loss of her glove that although she carries it with her all the time, I had to give her some diamonds to make up for it. I shall insist that she wears them at my rout at the risk of losing my last remaining beau, so pray do not disappoint us.

Yours affectionately,

AGATHA GORDON.

P.S. — On second thought I have also writ an invitation to the Scarecrow, which I hope you will also be good enough to see comes to his hand, i.e. black sheep. For knowing that poor Caroline’s choice of gentlemen leaves much to be desired, and that I shall have an especial bunch of ‘party’ cronies for my amusement if I am not careful, so am leaving nothing to chance. I am going to be eighty but I am equally determined to enjoy myself.

A.G.

Doctor Syn appreciated the letter, knowing what the old lady meant by her innuendoes. He smiled when he thought that the old lady had noticed what the Squire and Lady Caroline had missed and would never dream could happen. So, telling Mr. Mipps to see that Jimmie Bone’s letter was delivered safe at Slippery Sam’s, with some added instructions that made the little Sexton howl with delight, he went to his desk and penned a grateful acceptance to Miss Gordon, saying that although he was going away for a few days on a decanal tour, not even the Archbishop of Canterbury would keep him from her party.

He left Cicely’s letter to the last, although it was the shortest, reading thus:

Cicely,

I am going on a visit with my younger brother. Pray do not worry, for I shall be back in time to compare your eyes with Miss Agatha’s diamonds. It may interest you to know that I am not jealous of my brother — I have an idea that I am younger than he is.

CHRISTOPHER.

P.S. — Pray inform your father that I am gone across the Kent Ditch. ’This his fault. He should never have made me the Dean of Peculiars.

Mr. Nicholas Hyde had spent the morning in the town of Rye, mixing business with pleasure in its many taverns. He had learnt, after some expense laid profitably out in strong ale, that the shepherds and cowmen were in league with the smugglers and were used for passing messages swiftly. This special code, invented by the Scarecrow himself, evolved a complicated manipulation of livestock — the position in a certain field of a particular animal meaning some keyword. Some three hours later Mr. Hyde, in his capacity of Revenue Officer, put this valuable information to the test.

Standing on the bridge across the Kent Ditch, which commanded a good view of both counties — Kent and Sussex — it certainly seemed that something was afoot; for what he saw was not the ordinary shepherding of flocks.

In a field close at hand he noticed that seven sheep were separated and put into the next field — a little further on a white horse was moved from one side of a field to another — while two black cows and a goat in kid were put into that same field. Turning, he saw the same thing happening about a quarter of a mile away. Then on again, and on, and so the message flew, till on the Harbour Quay at Rye the captain of the Two Brothers gave orders that his crew and vessel must be ready to sail on the next full tide.

So that in the language of the smuggler shepherds:

At seven sheep punctually a white horse stepped aboard the Two Black Cows, which sailed at the next goat-in-kid.

Chapter 16

Citizen L’Épouvantail not at your Service

Paris — and dusk already falling on another day of bloody entertainment for the mob. This was the Reign of Terror, reaching its peak but a month before, when the head of the beautiful Queen, the hated Autrichienne, had rolled into the basket. That was a feast indeed, and appetite whetted by the blood of royalty became voracious for any food that bore the faintest resemblance to the once powerful class they loathed and used to fear. And so the knife fell day after day, filling the baskets beneath that ghastly symbol of their age. Still their hunger was not satisfied, though the supply grew with the demand, for as the number of highly born showed signs of dwindling, these human vampires fastened themselves on any who bore traces of gentility, denouncing friends and enemies alike. A powdered wig, a jewelled snuff-box or dainty heel beneath a silken gown, any of these enough excuse for Madame Guillotine.

‘A bas les aristos! A la lampe! Vive le Republique! A bas la tyrannie!’ Yet enflaming the populace still further and committing more atrocious crimes of treachery himself was, strangely enough, a man of outward refinement. In the sadistic release of their pent-up fury, the newly founded citizens did not realize that these pale, proud, foolish aristos who, smiling, disdained the knife, had never been so tyrannous as this one man — Maximilien Marie Isidore Robespierre. All-powerful, Robespierre alone could still affect the powdered hair and exquisite clothes he condemned and was abolishing. This ruthless tiger preserved the dress and demeanour of respectability. Reckless, yet devoid of passion, greedy of blood, yet his private morals irreproachable. Politically courageous, though physically an arrant coward. Such was the tyrant of the day. He stood, this evening, at a window overlooking the Place de la Revolution as the final tumbrils jolted quickly to unload their offerings to Madame Guillotine before the dark. Rumbling and creaking they crossed the Pont au Change, along the Rue St. Honoré into the Square before him. A dripping November fog hung over the Seine, but could not damp the enthusiasm of the crowd, as from windows, parapets, roofs and leafless trees they watched this free amusement. As in turn each well-dressed actor made his first appearance on this grisly stage, the hush of anticipation changed to wild applause when he took his final curtain in the grim comedy of La Guillotine, the most popular actress in Paris.

Suddenly there was a disturbance from the back of the crowd: a latecomer elbowing his way through the screaming red-capped women who shouted greetings and tried to detain him. ‘Vive L’Épouvantail!’ they cried, but he pressed on, reaching the other side of the Place, from whose houses hung the tricolour banners of new France.

He passed beneath the window from which Robespierre looked, dived down a side street and knocked at the postern door.

He was admitted immediately, for he was expected, and conducted to an upper room, where a man stood waiting for him. Robespierre turned from the window, greeting him with, ‘Welcome, Citizen L’Épouvantail,’ then, with a wave of his hand towards the window asked, ‘And how does this organization compare with yours? I see your popularity here almost rivals mine, which sets me wondering what my reception will be in England when our system of Liberté and Egalité spreads to your country. But of that later.’ Motioning his visitor to seat himself, they went to the long table upon which stood wine and glass amongst a mass of papers, documents and maps.