"021 (B044) - The Sea Magician (1934-11) - Lester Dent" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robeson Kenneth)

"Very interesting," said Johnny.
"King John's ghost said as 'ow 'e killed people 'e met in 'is nightly wanderings, just on the chance 'e'd get the bloke who done the poisoning," the other went on. "Said 'e wasn't quite sure who did poison 'im, and that's why 'e did so much killin'."
"I see," said Johnny. "Was there anything else?"
"Only that Hi'd better stay away from The Wash," the other man muttered. "King John's ghost said as 'ow 'e might kill me next time we met. Said 'e was liable to kill anybody 'e met. I think that's 'ow poor Joseph Shires got 'is."
"Is this ghost usually seen in the same vicinity?" Johnny questioned.
"Mostly, yes, gov'nor," declared the other. "'E 'angs out near the mouth of the Wellstream."
Johnny retired to the quiet of the village street to consider what he had learned. King John, so history said, had been poisoned in this vicinity, and as a result of which, had died. King John had been a violent and intemperate ruler, Johnny recalled having read. It was King John who had signed the Magna Charta which formed the charter of English liberties and the inspiration of the "personal rights" portion of the United States constitution.
King John had a very violent temper, history said, and after being forced to sign the Magna Charta, had rolled on the floor, bit the oak legs of a table, and butted his head against a stone wall. Then he had raised an army and gone out to rob the barons who had forced him to sign. It was on this foray that he had died, either from overeating peaches and drinking new cider—or from poisoning.
Johnny fumbled out his monocle and twirled it idly, a habit he had when puzzled. He did not believe in ghosts abroad with armor and broadswords, but at the same time, the story of the apparition was a bit too prevalent to be dismissed.
"I'll be superamalgamated!" he murmured. "I think I shall investigate more comprehensively."
THE NIGHT was not much further along when Johnny turned up alone in the region of the junction of the river Wellstream and The Wash. Since it was night and the region one without population, the eminent archaeologist shed shoes, socks and trousers and moved about clad only in underwear shorts, vest, coat and shirt. His bony shanks presented a grotesque appearance.
Frequent stretches of water and bog holes made the dishabille necessary. There were also patches of quicksand, very treacherous, which could best be detected with bare feet.
At first, Johnny attempted to reach the beach and follow that, but he surrendered this idea upon discovering that there was actually no beach, but only salt water grass and mud flats. It was a grim and dreary region which presented an aspect similar to nothing so much as a storm-swept wheat field of vast expanse, spotted here and there with pools and stretches of slime.
He had been prowling the vicinity for perhaps an hour when he had a narrow escape. The tide came in. It was not like the advance of ordinary tide, this one, but it came in swiftly, rolling over the salt marsh a good deal faster than it was possible for a man to run. Johnny was soaked to the belt line before he reached higher ground.
He stood on a knoll, among gnarled bushes, and eyed the marshes surrounding The Wash with new respect. The moon was out, and the tidal waters creeping through the marsh grass caused the latter to undulate as if it were fur on the back of some fabulous monster.
Johnny jumped a full foot in the air when a hollowly ominous voice spoke behind him.
"Turnest thou around, that thine face may be seen!" commanded the sepulchral tones.
Johnny whirled, his first inclination being to laugh. The words were so foreign to the English of the present day that they were comical. But the bony geologist forgot to be mirthful as he looked at the figure before him.
Chapter II. KING JOHN'S CAPTIVE
THE INDIVIDUAL who had spoken might have stepped from the pages of some historical tome, for his garb was that of a fighting man of the thirteenth century. Chain mail of fine workmanship shod him from head to foot, and over that was worn a short gown affair of white silk which was gathered in by a belt that supported a dagger and a short sword, both in scabbards.
The features of the apparitional being were concealed behind a fierce bush of black beard. The eyes were dark, piercing, the nose a hooked beak.
Tilted back over a shoulder, rifle fashion, the figure carried one of the biggest broadswords Johnny had ever seen in a museum or outside of one.
"For the love of mud!" Johnny gulped, forgetting his big words for once.
"Ah," breathed the apparition. "Me thinks thou art the rascal who touched my wine goblet with poison."
The absurdity of the picture the other presented again seized Johnny, who was an extremely modern gentleman who did not believe in ghosts in any form. He burst into a snort of laughter.
"Listen, my friend," he chuckled. "Why the masquerading in that rig?"
The ghostly figure advanced two paces, the chain mail clinking and grinding softly, the moonlight shimmering on the metallic links.
"Fool, dost thou not know to whom thou speakest?" demanded the cavernous voice.
"To King John, I suppose," Johnny said dryly.
Then Johnny's facetiousness suddenly evaporated, for he caught sight of brownish stains upon the broadsword which certainly looked like remnants of dried blood.
"Down to thy knees!" rumbled the figure. "Dost thou not know how to come before royalty?"
Johnny stood his ground warily. He was now convinced that he faced a madman, some poor fellow who had gone insane and imagined himself to be the long-dead English ruler. The fellow was probably violent, and there was no telling what he would do.
"What are you doing here, King John?" Johnny queried.
"Somewhere in these fens dwells the person who didst cause me to die," boomed the one in mail. "I hunt him. Methinks thou art he."
Johnny was carrying his shoes, socks and trousers under an arm. They made a compact bundle which he shifted uncertainly.
"I thought you found the poisoner last night," he said.
"What meanest thou?"
"Didn't you chop a fellow up with that broadsword last night?" Johnny elaborated. "He was a farmer named Joseph Shires."
The black-bearded head shook slowly. "King John dost not trouble to remember the events which art in the past."
A hopeless lunatic, Johnny decided firmly. If the fellow was permitted to continue running loose, no telling how many persons he would slay or injure. It would be a service to the English countryside if he were seized and confined in an institution where he belonged.
Johnny knew insane persons could often be persuaded to do things, if one sympathized with them.
"I am not the man who poisoned you," he told the other solemnly. "But I know where he can be found, perhaps."
"Whence?" questioned the figure.
"In the village of Swineshead," Johnny said promptly. "Come with me and I will show you the way."
If Johnny could get the individual who claimed to be King John to the village, he could be seized easily. He could be seized here, too, if care was used, but there might be difficulty in getting him out of the marsh. If he could be persuaded to come out under his own power, so much the better.
But King John's ghost balked. "Nay, vassal. I knowest the one who poisoned me can be found here. I think thou art he!"
Lunging suddenly, the mailed figure slashed furiously at Johnny's head with his broadsword.
JOHNNY ducked. Simultaneously, he hurled the bundle composed of his shoes, socks and trousers. The lump of clothing hit the other in the face just as the broadsword missed Johnny's head.
The bony geologist leaped forward, feet-first. He landed squarely on the other's midriff. Air tore through the black beard with a swishing moan and the fellow went over backward.
Johnny pounced on the wide handle of the broadsword. It was intended for two-fisted operation anyway, and there was room enough for him to get a grip. He wrenched and wrestled, got the weapon, then threw it away.