rarity that they are valuable trophies, and any that are known to exist are rapidly targeted by unscrupulous poachers.
So if, in the mossy depths of our ancient woodlands, you spy a ghostly, antlered form, enjoy the privilege of an ethereal moment, but take care only to tell those who will also revere…’
“May I join you?” The priest was already pulling out a chair at Fergus’s table. “It would be strange for two people to drink alone in the same room.”
Fergus looked up, glad of some company but feeling an Englishman’s reserve towards the priesthood. The dog collar was both a licence to talk and a barrier to conversation.
“John Webster, Vicar of St. Michael’s over the road.” The handshake was almost as firm as Jake Herne’s, but Webster’s smile reached to his eyes and crinkled them into fans of laughter lines. A touch of the same confidence, perhaps, but less ego. Webster had wiry, greying hair above an open, friendly face, and the physique of a retired rugby player. His fist made the half pint mug look like a toy. “I came to have a drink with the choir, after their practice.”
“They’re good, aren’t they?” As Fergus spoke, a sweet harmony from beyond the doors was interrupted by a friendly tirade about diphthongs. Fergus furrowed his brow in puzzlement until the priest explained that it was something to do with pronunciation.
“They’re worth an army of evangelists,” Webster finished with a sigh of appreciation.
“You’ll have to explain that.”
“Ah. Our congregation has doubled since Tony Foulkes – he’s the one doing the shouting – took over the choir. I give them theology, he gives them joy,” he said with a modest smile, his eyes glistening. “People come to hear the music, and sometimes a little faith rubs off along the way.”
“I would have placed his accent more in the Welsh valleys than Southern England.”
“Tony married a local girl and they settled back here when he took early retirement a few years ago. So what brings you to Allingley?”
Fergus told him, in as few words as possible.
“I remember that day, only too well. A woman died, didn’t she?” John Webster’s demeanour was more alert, shifting from conversational to pastoral.
“That’s right. Kate. She was a friend of mine.”
“I’m sorry. I remember you were badly hurt. Are you recovering?”
“Getting there.” Fergus felt himself retreat, sitting back in his chair and pulling his beer towards him. He’d already embarrassed himself enough at Ash Farm, so for heaven’s sake let’s talk about music or local legends. But the way Webster looked at him gave Fergus a glimpse of a great compassion hovering behind the half pint of beer and crinkling eyes, in the way a candle will throw a larger shadow than the physical object. After a long pause the priest spoke again, more softly now.
“If you ever want to talk, let me know.”
Fergus swigged his beer and said “thanks”, but put his mug down on the table with a click as crisp as a closing door. For a moment he stared at the booklet on the table by his hand.
“Actually there’s something that’s, well, a bit unsettling.” He spun the booklet so the priest could read it. “This bit about white stags being harbingers of death…”
“Oh, that old wives’ tale!”
“My crash… We left the road trying to avoid a stag.”
Webster looked up from the article, his expression guarded.
“And was it a white stag?”
“Not really. Its mane and muzzle were fairly grey, but that looked like age. I think it was just a red deer that had been around long enough to go grey.”
Webster looked down at the article again. “And had you ‘broken some fundamental law’, either of you?”
“Quite a few speed limits.” Fergus grinned as the mood lifted.
“Well, there you are, then.” The answering smile looked relieved.
“It’s strange, though, that the first guy on the scene afterwards should have a tattoo of a stag on his
So if, in the mossy depths of our ancient woodlands, you spy a ghostly, antlered form, enjoy the privilege of an ethereal moment, but take care only to tell those who will also revere…’
“May I join you?” The priest was already pulling out a chair at Fergus’s table. “It would be strange for two people to drink alone in the same room.”
Fergus looked up, glad of some company but feeling an Englishman’s reserve towards the priesthood. The dog collar was both a licence to talk and a barrier to conversation.
“John Webster, Vicar of St. Michael’s over the road.” The handshake was almost as firm as Jake Herne’s, but Webster’s smile reached to his eyes and crinkled them into fans of laughter lines. A touch of the same confidence, perhaps, but less ego. Webster had wiry, greying hair above an open, friendly face, and the physique of a retired rugby player. His fist made the half pint mug look like a toy. “I came to have a drink with the choir, after their practice.”
“They’re good, aren’t they?” As Fergus spoke, a sweet harmony from beyond the doors was interrupted by a friendly tirade about diphthongs. Fergus furrowed his brow in puzzlement until the priest explained that it was something to do with pronunciation.
“They’re worth an army of evangelists,” Webster finished with a sigh of appreciation.
“You’ll have to explain that.”
“Ah. Our congregation has doubled since Tony Foulkes – he’s the one doing the shouting – took over the choir. I give them theology, he gives them joy,” he said with a modest smile, his eyes glistening. “People come to hear the music, and sometimes a little faith rubs off along the way.”
“I would have placed his accent more in the Welsh valleys than Southern England.”
“Tony married a local girl and they settled back here when he took early retirement a few years ago. So what brings you to Allingley?”
Fergus told him, in as few words as possible.
“I remember that day, only too well. A woman died, didn’t she?” John Webster’s demeanour was more alert, shifting from conversational to pastoral.
“That’s right. Kate. She was a friend of mine.”
“I’m sorry. I remember you were badly hurt. Are you recovering?”
“Getting there.” Fergus felt himself retreat, sitting back in his chair and pulling his beer towards him. He’d already embarrassed himself enough at Ash Farm, so for heaven’s sake let’s talk about music or local legends. But the way Webster looked at him gave Fergus a glimpse of a great compassion hovering behind the half pint of beer and crinkling eyes, in the way a candle will throw a larger shadow than the physical object. After a long pause the priest spoke again, more softly now.
“If you ever want to talk, let me know.”
Fergus swigged his beer and said “thanks”, but put his mug down on the table with a click as crisp as a closing door. For a moment he stared at the booklet on the table by his hand.
“Actually there’s something that’s, well, a bit unsettling.” He spun the booklet so the priest could read it. “This bit about white stags being harbingers of death…”
“Oh, that old wives’ tale!”
“My crash… We left the road trying to avoid a stag.”
Webster looked up from the article, his expression guarded.
“And was it a white stag?”
“Not really. Its mane and muzzle were fairly grey, but that looked like age. I think it was just a red deer that had been around long enough to go grey.”
Webster looked down at the article again. “And had you ‘broken some fundamental law’, either of you?”
“Quite a few speed limits.” Fergus grinned as the mood lifted.
“Well, there you are, then.” The answering smile looked relieved.
“It’s strange, though, that the first guy on the scene afterwards should have a tattoo of a stag on his
Similar Books
