Read Online Saxon's Bane by Geoffrey Gudgion - Free Book Online

thought had died out in the Middle Ages. Cynthia Lawrence’s son – Cynthia is the soprano you can hear now – was nearly drowned when local boys tried to re-enact the Saxon’s death by holding him down in the stream. There were even stories of the Saxon’s ghost being seen in the village.”
    “Ah.”
    “Quite. Some of the sightings you can dismiss as being part of the hysteria, but others… Well let’s just say they are sensible people. Members of my congregation. Christian teaching speaks of evil as a real, tangible force, but this is the first time I have felt the truth of that doctrine so powerfully.”
    Next door, the choir launched into an anthem, and as the harmonies of faith soared, the strain on Webster’s face eased until he sat back in his chair, closing eyes that were starting to moisten in appreciation. A trace of a smile started to play around his lips.
    “Don’t tell anyone. Please.” He sat upright in midverse, and looked directly at Fergus to emphasise his request. “They’ll finish now. Please don’t tell them about the man with the tattoo.”
    “Of course not, but why…?”
    “I’d hoped that things were getting back to normal. There have been no sightings for several weeks, but some of the choir still won’t go out at night on their own.” In the background the music was building into a fortissimo ‘Amen’, the choral parts diverging from bass to soprano in a final, exquisite chord, and Webster waved towards the sound. “Let them keep this joy. Please.”
    “Some people already know. Eadlin Stodman, who found me…”
    “And?”
    “Jake Herne.”
    Webster’s shoulders slumped and an expression of pain crossed his face. Behind him the function room doors opened, spilling a flow of chattering people into the bar. Webster stood, forcing a smile as they clustered around him, calling their greetings. On the far side of the room a large, florid man of perhaps sixty led the way to the bar and slapped the counter with his palm, demanding drinks for thirsty choristers. Fergus recognised the tones of the choirmaster, Tony Foulkes.
    “Can you sing, young man?” Foulkes boomed at Fergus as Webster introduced them. Foulkes projected sound as if a performance was still in progress, with a rumble in his voice like the edge of laughter. Fergus suspected that the only time that Foulkes would be quiet was when he was looking at a piece of music where the tenor line was marked pianissimo .
    Fergus shook his head. “People only ask me once.”
    “Well never mind, an inability to sing has never bothered this lot.” The words were called without malice, as a broadcast tease that drew derisory responses from his choir. “Grab your drink and join us, if you want. The hard core musicians are about to have some fun.”
    John Webster’s introduction had included a brief explanation for Fergus’s visit, and the choir welcomed him into their midst as if the community of Allingley needed to make amends for his misfortune. Foulkes’ wife led Fergus towards the function room, ensuring his inclusion. Julia Foulkes was a petite, fine-boned woman, elegantly groomed and still slender in middle age, with a porcelain delicacy that suggested chintz curtains and a heritage of Empire. She planted a gin-and-tonic on top of Bach and spread music across the piano, asking Fergus his preferences. Did he like Gershwin? Hoagy Carmichael, perhaps? So much more fun than Handel, don’t you think?
    “Are you joining us, John?” Foulkes laid his hand on Webster’s shoulder, helping the priest to extract himself from conversation with Cynthia the Soprano. Cynthia proved to be a large, overdressed woman who was waving a port-and-lemon and enthusing about a holiday in Spain where she had become, apparently, “quite good at flamingo dancing.”
    “Thank you, Tony, no. I’ll walk Mary home.” A round, homely woman looked up from a pile of music, relief lighting her face, and smiled her thanks. She had the sort of arms