“They cows be driv’ in by the new boy, and Missis she says there be but
fowerteen in cow’us.”
“Fowerteen? Where be t’ other then?”
“Missus say it be oad Molly.”
“
Where
be’t, joulterhead?”
“She maake count it strayed down on to marshes. Boy went and found gate
oppen.”
“An’ why den’t he go an’ find her?” Abel demanded with rising wrath.
“‘Tis dark, an’ he be feared.”
“Feared! Feared o’ what? Why den’t ye go yerself, ‘stead o’ comin’ jahin’
here? Yow ben’t feared, too, be yow?”
“Yow be mindful of the White Lady down by the castle, Jarge,” put in Dan
Fisk, with a malicious squint. “Ay, and the Black Man, too, and the witches
that do live thereby.”
“‘Haps oad Molly won’t take no ill a warm night, master,” Jarge hinted
uneasily, fidgeting with the door-knob, “an’ ‘tis hard to find a beast in the
dark.”
“Take no ill! Why she’ll go a-eatin’ that oad cowbane arl night an’ pizen
herself! They squelchy places be full of it. Doan’t ‘ee be a fool, Jarge
Crick. Take yow a lantern, an’ go arter her, quick an’ sharp. Go on!”
Jarge Crick, with no extravagant signs of enthusiasm, slowly withdrew, and
pulled the door behind him.
“It do beat me,” commented Abel Pennyfather, when he was gone, “to see the
timmersome fancies o’ folk hereabout. Ghosts, an’ witches, an’ White Ladies,
an’ Black Men, an’ what not, an’ everybody feared to go nigh the castle arter
dark, an’ Cunnin’ Murr’ll there makin’ his livin’ of it.”
Banham shuffled uneasily, and Prentice said, “Cunnin’ Murr’ll’s a
knowledgeable man, howsomedever.”
“An’ I do seem to remember,” remarked Dan Fisk abstractedly, “I do seem to
remember somebody carlin’ in Cunnin’ Murr’ll to a sick cow—though
whether ‘twere oad Molly or one o’ the oathers I dunno.”
“Cow doctorin’s one thing,” retorted Abel, reddening and puffing his
cheeks, “an’ ghosts an’ goblins is anoather. I doan’t deny as Murr’ll be a
scholard, an’ I’ve had him to cure cows an’ pigs, an’ I’d hev him agin; an’
I’d hev him for a human ague or what not. But ghosts an’ witches—bah! I
doan’t give that for arl of ‘em!” And he snapped his fingers.
“Murr’ll be a wonnerful man with warts,” said Prentice. “Looks at ‘em an’
they be gone in the mornin’. Sometimes doan’t even look at ‘em.”
“Ah!” said another, “an’ things stole! ‘Tis known how gifted he be with
they. Remember Dicky Wicks, as went to sleep in the tap-room at the Crown an’
got his puss stole? Well there were twelve shillin’ in the puss, an’ he went
to Murr’ll, an’ Murr’ll he took it down ‘zact, when he went in an’ when he
woke up, an’ who were there, and what the puss were like, an’ what not. So,
sez Murr’ll, ‘If I get it back for yow ‘ool yow promise not to
persecute—’”
“Prosecute,” Prentice hinted.
“So I said—persecute. ‘If I get it back for yow,’ sez Murr’ll, ”ool
yow promise not to persecute, supposin’ yow larn who be the thief?’ So Dicky
Wicks promised, an’ sez Murr’ll,’ Putt a pot or a mug on your doorstep
overnight, an’ look in it in the mornin.” So Dicky Wicks putts out the mug,
an’ in the mornin’ he comes an’ looks at it, an’ there be nothen
there—”
“Ha! ha!” roared Abel Pennyfather. “Might ha’ ‘spected as much. Nothen
there!”
“Nothen there the
fust
mornin’, as I said. But sez Murr’ll, ‘Putt
it out agin,’ an’ he did; an’ nex’ mornin’ there be the puss in the mug
complete, just as ‘twere lost, with the twelve shillin’ in it, the very same
coins as were there when he lost it—leas’ ways he coon’t swear to ‘em,
but he thote most on ‘em were.”
“Ay, ‘tis wonderful doin’s, sarten to say,” Banham said musingly, with a
slow shake of the head. “An’ him with such a mort o’ trades, too. Readin’ arl
sort o’ things—the stars, an’ Greek, an’ moles an’ what not, an’ herbs
and cures, an’ surveyin’.”
“Ah, an’ wonnerful visions o’ prophecy in a pail, they do say. Why, that
Mrs Mead as is now, when her fust husban’ went away an’ weren’t heard of ever
agin, she den’t know whether she might marry agin lawful or not, till she
went to Cunnin’ Murr’ll an’ looked in the pail o’ watter an’ there see a
funeral a-goin’ into a chu’chyard. Den’t know what to do, not till then, she
den’t.”
“‘Tis no denyin’ he be a man o’ great powers,” said Prentice, with
judicial calm.
“An’ how he go about at night! He’ve been seen at sputs miles apart at the
same time, often. He go out most o’ dark nights, when oather folk be
timmersome, an’ he go anywhere—white ladies or sparrits give
him
no fear.”
Abel Pennyfather snorted. “Give
him
no fear!” he repeated
scornfully. “An’ who do fear ‘em, eh? Who do fear ‘em?”
“Some do, sarten to say,” Banham replied mildly. “‘Tis not given to arl
folk to meet such with galliant defiance like yourn, Master Pennyfather.”
“Pooh, pooh!” said Abel Pennyfather.
There was a gallop and a bounce outside, and something struck the door
with a clatter. Once more it opened, and Jarge Crick, his face red no longer,
but dirty white, like putty, stood and gasped for breath, an extinguished
horn lantern hanging from one finger and smelling horribly.
“Why, Jarge!” cried Dan Fisk. “Been a-ghost seein’? What ha’ yow done with
oad Molly?”
“Marshes—castle—ghostes—I see
‘em—witches—arl on ‘em—G’Lor!” Jarge Crick laid hold of a
chair-back and panted afresh, his eyes rolling wildly.
“What ha’ ye seen, ye great fool?” Pennyfather demanded angrily. “Get your
breath an’ tell plain. Sit down, then. Where’s the cow?”
Jarge Crick fell into the chair he had been leaning on, staring and
panting still, for he had run half a mile up hill at his hardest.
“Where’s the cow?” asked Abel Pennyfather again, with increasing
wrath.
Jarge shook his head, and glanced nervously over his shoulder.
“Han’t—sin her,” he said, “Arl marshes—an’ Castle
Hill—devil-rid an’ harnted!”
“Harnted be gormed! What’s gastered ye?”
“I see the Black Man, an’ witches, an’ ghostes, an’ bosses like the Book
o’ Revelations!”
Banham, whose eyes and mouth had remained steadily open since Jarge came
in, here murmured: “Yow doan’t say’t! Ghostes an’ hosses like
Revelations!”
“When I’d a-got down jist over the marsh,” Jarge Crick went on, growing
less breathless and more coherent, “I went by the cliff-side a-sayin’ over
prayers to meself, as is fit for times o’ great per’l, an’ I see frightful
shadders movin’ on Castle Hill.”
“‘Tis cloudy an’ moonlight by turns,” said Pennyfather testily, “an’
shadders be nat’ral.”
“An’ the nearer I kim the more I beared sighs an’ moans an’ dolourin’
noises ‘pon the hillside.”
“‘Tis a steady wind from the sea, an’ yow hear it in the trees an’
copses.”
“But I hearted up strong, for I see a beast on the hill as the moon kim
out, an’ even a cow be comp’ny to a man in sich deadly places; an’ I went
forrard in prayer an’ tremblin’. But the moon went in agin, an’ no beast
could I see, though I were a-nigh where it ote to be. An’ then there kim a
mortal loud bang, an’ I drops down to hidin’ in a bush.”
Abel Pennyfather offered no explanation of the bang, and the rest only
gaped and listened.
“Scace was one bang but there kim anoather, an’ I dussen’t look up. But
when no oather bang den’t come I hearted an’ peeped, an’ cuther! There goed a
ghostly pale hoss, an’ there goed a black hoss an’ more down the hill, arl
shadder an’ sparrit an’ breathin’ fire and brimstone, an’ black shadders o’
creeping ghostes at their halters. I coon’t stand nor run—not nohow.
An’ I looked up the hill, an’ there I see the Black Man, true as print. A
gashly great black tarl man, with eyes o’ flamin’ fire, stannin’ by the
tower, an’ gazin’ terr’ble down on the shadders an’ sparrits, till I a’mos’
swounded. An’ when I looked agin he were gone—gone like smoke. I
crarled round behin’ the bushes till I kim near by the lane end, an’ then
there were v’ices—v’ices with words I coon’t unnerstand, nor no
Christen man either, up on the hill. So I looks agen an’ ‘twere two women
right atop—stretching out their hands over the gashly place an’ sayin’
their words; an’ I’ll swear it solemn, ‘pon Bible oath, for once I see ‘em
clear, ‘twere Mrs Mart’n, the witch, an’ the gal her niece!”
Wide eyes and wide mouths moved not, but from the latter there was an
escape of breath like wind from a noisy bellows, and Banham gurgled hoarsely:
“Witches’ meet’n’, sarten!”
“An’ with that I gets my senses back, an’ being at the lane end I ‘oon’t
look no moer, but let go arl an’ runned.”
“Pity yow don’t get your senses back ‘fore yow started out,” sneered Abel
Pennyfather. “Yow go out arter my cow, an’ yow come back with a silly
mawther’s yarn like that, an’ leave the cow to pizen herself an’ get lost! Go
yow back, Jarge Crick, an’ find my cow. Go on!”
“Go back!” ejaculated Jarge, his returning colour checking at the thought.
“Not me!”
“I tell yow to ‘bey my orders!” pursued his master, with an angry thump on
the table. “Go an’ bring in that cow, an’ let’s hear no more o’ yar gammick,
else find anoather place!”
Jarge rose to his feet, but shook his head steadily. “Not me, master,” he
said. “I’ve sin it an’ yow han’t. I’d sooner a-lose me place fowerty times.
Yow go an’ fetch her yourself, Master Pennyfaa’, if yow ben’t afeared. I am.”
And Jarge Crick, sidling and shaking his head, carried his tale and his
lantern out into the tap-room.
For a few minutes there was silence, save for certain grunts and snorts of
disgust from Abel Pennyfather, and then Dan Fisk said, with his odd squint:
“Hedn’ yow better see about oad Molly ‘fore she gets strayed too fur?”
“Dang the cow, no. She woan’t take no harm.”
“But there be a mort o’ cowbane in the squelchy places, Master
Pennyfather.”
“Cowbane be danged. If she’ll take it I count she’s took it by this time,
an’ anyhow yow can’t see a cow on a marsh on a night like this, an’—but
there—none of ye be drinkin’! Doan’t sit with empty pots, neighbours!
What’ll ye arl take?”
WHEN Mr Cloyse’s stolid face told a tale of alarm to the
scarce more wooden door that shut out Cunning Murrell, there was good reason.
For in truth he realised that this inconvenient meddler had surprised an
important business secret. Suddenly confronted with the fact at the
interview, he had no choice but to defend himself, for the time at least, by
the mask of total ignorance, indifference, and denial that so well became
him. But useful as this defence was, and effectual as it had proved in
staving off Murrell’s interference for the moment, it had its faults. For
one, he could make no fishing inquiries without marring its effect. So that
Murrell had gone off without betraying in any way the extent of his real
knowledge save in one particular, and that misleading. For Cloyse judged from
the answer to the one question he ventured, that his “partner” must be gone
back to Sheppy, as he had already supposed; and this was a mistake.
Now the facts stood thus. Mr Simon Cloyse, ever alert to add another
hundred pounds, or even a hundred pence, to the hoard of his lifetime of
astute and various traffic, had seen the opportunity for such a stroke of
business as had suggested itself to Prentice, and had seen it long before the
notion had occurred to that easy-going oldster himself; and when, after the
adventure of the blue light on Southchurch cliffs, Dove and Prentice had
exchanged winks and hints as to his finger being in the affair, they made the
shrewdest guess of their lives. Albeit they kept their surmise to themselves,
and not a soul in Leigh suspected, for the very natural reason that
comparison of notes had made it certain that not a man along the coast, from
Bemfleet to Shoebury, had been “out” that night; and goods could not be run
without a crew. But as a matter of fact Sim Cloyse had taken the added
precaution to employ a Kentish crew; or, rather, Golden Adams had employed
the Kentish crew on Cloyse’s stipulation. There was every advantage in the
arrangement; for Golden Adams was an old hand, and though he was now living
in Sheppy, the Essex coast was familiar to him foot by foot. And both he and
his crew coming from Kent there would be no suspicious fore-moves on the
Essex side to set the coastguard alert, nor any after-gossip in the
neighbourhood to betray the operation.
Golden Adams was not only the most likely man for the job, but there was a
certain matter of ancient debt between them, and Sim Cloyse, with native
sagacity, had little doubt that by observing a wise reticence as to this
matter until the stroke of business was successfully completed, and then
bringing it into the final balancing of accounts, he would be able to keep
the profits of the venture where he preferred them to be—in his own
pocket.
With these views he settled his partnership with Golden Adams in this
wise: Cloyse was to supply capital and pay expenses; Adams was to find the
crew and do the work; and the resulting profits were to be divided equally.
Nothing could seem fairer on the face of it, as is the fashion of half-profit
agreements of many sorts; but in this, as in some of the others, the
capitalist was aware of certain private expedients whereby his own share
might be augmented without notice to the other side, and this wholly
independent of the debt aforementioned. For the selling would be in his hands
and the selling would be a transaction of secrecy; and the expenses, after
the landing of the cargo, could be put at anything he pleased.
The run was to be an uncommon one in another respect. It was neither to be
a direct run, in which the cargo would be taken on shore and carried
instantly inland, nor were the goods to be sunk off shore, there to await a
timely opportunity of removal. They were to be landed and carried just so far
as a convenient hiding-place, and no farther; and there they were to lie for
a week or two, till the affair—if there had been rumour—had blown
over, and then Cloyse would provide means for carrying them inland. Cloyse
and his son prepared the hiding-place with much secrecy, by the easy process
of loosening a number of stones that blocked the fore part of one of the
cellar-chambers of Hadleigh Castle. The place was perfect for its purpose.
The cargo could be carried there direct from an easy landing-place without
traversing a yard of public road or passing any habitation; the entrance to
the cell once reblocked, the “stuff” might remain for any length of time
undisturbed; and the spot was close by the end of the quiet narrow lane
leading up to Hadleigh, by which way the final removal would be made.