Master Nathaniel felt a lump in his throat. But Master Ambrose was inexorable: “Yes, of course I would!” he blustered; “I’d cut the strings of every fiddle in Lud. And I will, too, unless you tell us what we want to know. Come, Mother Tibbs, speak out—I’m a man of my word.”
She gazed at him beseechingly, and then a look of innocent cunning crept into her candid eyes and she placed a finger on her lips, then nodded her head several times and said in a mysterious whisper, “If you’ll promise not to cut the fiddle strings I’ll show you the prettiest sight in the world—the sturdy dead lads in the Fields of Grammary hoisting their own coffins on their shoulders, and tripping it over the daisies. Come!” and she darted to the side of the wall, drew aside the tapestry and revealed to them another secret door. She pressed some spring, it flew open disclosing another dark tunnel.
“Follow me, pretty masters,” she cried.
“There’s nothing to be done,” whispered Master Nathaniel, “but to humour her. She may have something of real value to show us.”
Master Ambrose muttered something about a couple of lunatics and not having left his fireside to waste the night in indulging their fantasies; but all the same he followed Master Nathaniel, and the second secret door shut behind them with a sharp click.
“Phew!” said Master Nathaniel: “Phew!” puffed Master Ambrose, as they pounded laboriously along the passage behind their light-footed guide.
Then they began to ascend a flight of stairs, which seemed interminable, and finally fell forward with a lurch on to their knees, and again there was a click of something shutting behind them.
They groaned and cursed and rubbed their knees and demanded angrily to what unholy place she had been pleased to lead them.
But she clapped her hands gleefully, “Don’t you know, pretty masters? Why, you’re where the dead cocks roost! You’ve come back to your own snug cottage, Master Josiah Chanticleer. Take your lantern and look round you.”
This Master Nathaniel proceeded to do, and slowly it dawned on him where they were.
“By the Golden Apples of the West, Ambrose!” he exclaimed, “if we’re not in my own chapel!”
And, sure enough, the rays of the lantern revealed the shelves lined with porphyry coffins, the richly wrought marble ceiling, and the mosaic floor of the home of the dead Chanticleers.
“Toasted Cheese!” muttered Master Ambrose in amazement.
“It must have two doors, though I never knew it,” said Master Nathaniel. “A secret door opening on to that hidden flight of steps. There are evidently people who know more about my chapel than I do myself,” and suddenly he remembered how the other day he had found its door ajar.
Mother Tibbs laughed gleefully at their surprise, and then, placing one finger on her lips, she beckoned them to follow her; and they tiptoed after her out into the moonlit Fields of Grammary, where she signed to them to hide themselves from view behind the big trunk of a sycamore.
The dew, like lunar daisies, lay thickly on the grassy graves. The marble statues of the departed seemed to flicker into smiles under the rays of the full moon; and, not far from the sycamore, two men were digging up a newly-made grave. One of them was a brawny fellow with the gold rings in his ears worn by sailors, the other was—Endymion Leer.
Master Nathaniel shot a look of triumph at Master Ambrose, and whispered, “A cask of flower-in-amber, Brosie!”
For some time the two men dug on in silence, and then they pulled out three large coffins and laid them on the grass.
“We’d better have a peep, Sebastian,” said Endymion Leer, “to see that the goods have been delivered all right. We’re dealing with tricky customers.”
The young man, addressed as Sebastian, grinned, and taking a clasp knife from his belt, began to prise open one of the coffins.
As he inserted the blade into the lid, our two friends behind the sycamore could not help shuddering; nor was their horror lessened by the demeanor of Mother Tibbs, for she half closed her eyes, and drew the air in sharply through her nostrils, as if in expectation of some delicious perfume.
But when the lid was finally opened and the contents of the coffin exposed to view, they proved not to be cere cloths and hideousness, but—closely packed fairy fruit.
“Toasted Cheese!” muttered Master Ambrose; “Busty Bridget!” muttered Master Nathaniel.
“Yes, that’s the goods all right,” said Endymion Leer, “and we’ll take the other two on trust. Shut it up again, and help to hoist it on to my shoulder, and do you follow with the other two—we’ll take them right away to the tapestry-room. We’re having a council there at midnight, and it’s getting on for that now.”
Choosing a moment when the backs of the two smugglers were turned, Mother Tibbs darted out from behind the sycamore, and shot back into the chapel, evidently afraid of not being found at her post. And she was shortly followed by Endymion Leer and his companion.
At first, the sensations of Master Nathaniel and Master Ambrose were too complicated to be expressed in words, and they merely stared at each other, with round eyes. Then a slow smile broke over Master Nathaniel’s face, “No Moongrass cheese for you this time, Brosie,” he said. “Who was right, you or me?”
“By the Milky Way, it was you, Nat!” cried Master Ambrose, for once, in a voice of real excitement. “The rascal! The unmitigated rogue! So it’s him, is it, we parents have to thank for what has happened! But he’ll hang for it, he’ll hang for it—though we have to change the whole constitution of Dorimare! The blackguard!”
“Into the town probably as a hearse,” Master Nathaniel was saying thoughtfully, “then buried here, then down through my chapel into the secret room in the Guildhall, whence, I suppose, they distribute it by degrees. It’s quite clear now how the stuff gets into Lud. All that remains to clear up
