In the back bar the lights were still on, the conversation washed back and forth across the battered brown tables. The landlord leaned professionally, his face caressed by a soft smile, the gleeful face of a public house proprietor who watches the premium malts undergo vigorous attack by well tweeded customers.
And well tweeded customers they were indeed. None less than the Usual Suspects Syndicate; in persons.
The Generous Host was in the position he automatically adopted in any public house – viz: toasting his posterior by the fire whilst telling a story. In fact, it was yet again the one about the Pakistani Ambassador and the affair of his missing motor car. The audience had heard it many times before but still roared at the approach of the familiar punch line.
With his back to the bar was B, finding the polished caress of the ancient wood helpful in counteracting the increasing influence of the Glenmacfeckly, with a glass to his left, and due to a moment of forgetfulness, another to his right.
Old Mr Weobly had long departed, but his nephew Wayne Weobly was maintaining the family reputation for never missing an opportunity for useful financial information, malicious gossip, or a free drink.
Naturally, The Keeper was amongst those present. A shoot keeper’s duties are many and varied and this was one The Keeper took seriously indeed. No shoot day was complete until each guest had finally retired to bed or under the table. The Keeper could out drink any man that ever shot here; and still be up at 6am to begin the walking in of the birds for the next day.
Indeed it was a most majestic group of shootists, and most majestic of all was the familiar figure of Stuffer; presently settled back on the settle but eyes sparkling with mischief – or was it just from the flames catching the oak logs? We will settle for mischief; and we will be right.
The chuckles at the thought of the Pakistani Ambassador and the occupant of the back seat of his car slowly subsided. The landlord had been pondering for some time a matter which was perplexing him and finally gave the thoughts form. B being the closest possible confidante, he leaned in that gentleman’s direction and confided. B gave him a beady look and pointed out that the landlords remarking of the coincident looks of Stuffer and The Keeper was indeed well founded. “Not really surprising, as they are brothers”.
The landlord let out a deep “Ahh” as though therein hid some deep scandal.
“That’s how we got to be here” continued B “But we had to pay cash, of course”.
“Aaah-ha” said the landlord.
The glances in his direction had not been missed by Stuffer, who, suddenly reminded of something, nodded at his brother, rose from the settle and slipped out of the back door.
The Keeper glanced briefly at the Generous Host and cleared his throat.
“Tomorrow gentlemen we are at De’Ath Court. We’re going to meet at 9am at the back door of the house. Not the front, if you please, gentlemen, there is an ancient tradition that the front door be not used”
“To avoid the bailiffs?”
“Very witty Mr Weobly. But no; it is because of an ancient legend that brings doom to the head of the family there. It is a strange lonely place up on that wold; long long winters. The family have always been great fox hunters and there are lots of wily foxes living in those broken down woods, even in the ruins of the chapel they say; devil foxes they must be, but there never was a fox that a De’ath of De’ath Court would not pursue”
His voice dropped and he fixed his audience with a penetrating gaze. B felt a shudder run down his spine and sought to sooth it by emptying the right hand glass. Just at that point Stuffer re-entered and joined the silent group.
“They do say” The Keeper continued “that when the head of the family is about to die that the foxes of De’Ath Wold gather in a great circle around the front door of the house.”
The Generous Host giggled nervously.
“You may laugh gentlemen, you may laugh, but in 1976, to my own knowledge, they were there for the death of Major De’Ath; he opened the front door at midnight and found his certain fate gathered, all silent and waiting for him”
The rattle of a collapsing log in the grate startled B, who coughed and staggered for the back door, muttering something about the gents. The rest of the group stirred uneasily and reached for their mugs and glasses.
B fumbled with the back door and went out, slamming the door behind him. Then, in the silence, the group heard a strange muffled shriek and a frantic scrabbling at the door.
Weobly was the nearest and opened it, to admit what appeared to be the ghost of B, a visage changed from fire-engine red to lime wash white.
“Crikey old man, what’s happened?”
The Generous Host pushed past and into the yard. He jumped to see a ring of cock pheasants surrounding the door. But the Glenmacfeckly had not worked quite so hard on him as on B, and he noticed also the canes under them; and that the magnificent specimen in the centre seemed to be perched on a wooden base. He sniggered and went back inside to where B was on the settle by the fire, being given a restorative by Stuffer.
The Generous Host caught Stuffers eye and sat down next to B. “What’s the matter, old boy, look as though you’ve seen a ghost?”
B pointed at the door “Out there…”
“There’s nothing out there old man, I just had a look, all quiet, just the wind, and a lot of dead leaves”
“I’m giving up shooting” croaked B “maybe too late, but I promise I will never shoot another pheasant”
“There, there, old man, you’re delirious, you’ve been mixing the malts, they’ll be the death of you….”
B spluttered and began a coughing fit. A fit so intense that he did not notice Stuffer and his keeper brother quietly going back in to yard to put the pheasants back in the Keepers truck, and the magnificent stuffed specimen for Old Mr Weobly back into Stuffer’s Landy.
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