by Chrys Cymri
A beige envelope was placed into my hand. I carried back to the kitchen, curious as to the contents but also very aware that I’d left Clyde alone with a wooden table. But he was still chewing on a piece of cheese as I used a kitchen knife to slice the envelope open.
The letter inside was on a high quality paper. The logo of Wiseman Agricultural was emblazoned on the top, and ‘by hand’ had been printed below my address. I took a seat to have a read.
Dear Penny (if I may be so bold?)
All of us at Wiseman Agricultural are so very grateful that you managed to find our lost associate, Susie Merchant. I would like to extend my own thanks in person here at my offices.
Would you be free this coming Wednesday? I would arrange for my own driver to collect you at 2pm, which should bring you here by 3pm. My company has arranged a small presentation in appreciation for your recent assistance.
Please contact my secretary on the phone number above to confirm that you would be available. I am aware that this is a busy time of year for you, so if this Wednesday is not convenient, please suggest an alternative date to fit in with your diary.
With my thanks again,
Fred Wiseman
PS--If you could confirm with my secretary which is your favourite Doctor Who, I would be most grateful.
I took Clyde back to the study and then called up the stairs. ‘Morey! I need to show you something!’
The gryphon dropped down to my offered arm, and read the letter from my shoulder. ‘You’re not going, are you?’
‘Wednesday is quiet,’ I replied. ‘Things don't kick off until Thursday. There’s no reason not to go.’
‘Except I don’t trust him.’
‘On the basis of one phone call and a letter?’ I pointed at the postscript. ‘He’s just being friendly. Look at his last question.’
‘And he got that wrong, didn’t he? If he truly watched Doctor Who, he would have referred to him as “The Doctor”, not “Doctor Who”.’ Morey flicked his ears at my startled glance. ‘Even I know that.’
‘Peter Capaldi himself sometimes refers to the character as “Doctor Who”,’ I pointed out. ‘I’ll let our favourite policeman know what’s happening, so he can send in an assault squad if I’m kidnapped or something.’
‘No need.’ Morey fluffed out fur and feathers, making himself look nearly twice his normal size. ‘I’m coming with you.’
‘Fine.’ I reached out for my phone. ‘Just don’t bite Wiseman on the nose.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Morey said. ‘If he annoys me, I’ll be aiming much lower.’
Chapter Sixteen
Our rural dean, determined to ‘build up relationships among our twenty-five parish community,’ had encouraged all of the clergy to promote the Deanery Advent Service to be held in Berrydale Church. I had dutifully mentioned the event to my congregation, put up the posters (Mulled wine and mince pies! the largest print on the sheet), and collared church members whose voices could be an asset to the combined choir. But, as I had expected, those who actually came through the doors on a cold December evening into an even colder church were the usual suspects. About sixty bodies were scattered around the dark pews, most sitting at the back. The thirty strong choir guided us through the tricky Advent hymns and, as ever, I winced at the verses of ‘Lo he comes with clouds descending.’ The cheerfulness of the tune seemed to be at odds with the grim chorus assuring us that people would be ‘deeply wailing, deeply wailing, deeply wailing’ when they saw Jesus return.
I would have liked to drown my distaste in mulled wine, but I kept to a half glass, aware of the drive back to my house. Margaret came up as I was biting into a mince pie. ‘How many of your people came?’ she asked me.
Chewing and swallowing gave me a few seconds to come up with a tactful response to the rural dean’s question. ‘About four, which is around a sixth of my congregation.’
‘A better proportion than from Berrydale.’
‘But your choir came out in force,’ I pointed out. ‘It’s good to see them working together like that.’
Margaret sighed. ‘Really? You know what choirs are like. A group of grey-haired ladies who don’t really like each other but pretend to for the sake of Jesus.’
I studied her for a moment. ‘Having a bad week?’
‘Too many services and not enough hours in the day.’ She grimaced. ‘Ignore me. I’ll be better once we’ve got Christmas out of the way.’
‘And then we can start our preparations for Lent and Easter.’ I grinned. ‘Did I tell you what a child said to me just before Holy Week? “We just had Jesus born. Why are we killing him off so soon?”’
‘At least we don't have to be jolly all the time in Lent.’ Then the organist was pulling at her arm, and Margaret put on a large smile as she turned to thank him.
I finished my mince pie, zipped up my jacket, and headed out of the church. At our next deanery chapter meeting, I decided, I’d try again to point out that yet another evening service during the week before Christmas was not a good idea. I was certain more people would come if we held the Advent Service near the beginning of December.
The town streetlights cast bright white light across the pavements. For the moment, at least, it wasn't raining, and even the wind had died down. I made my way to the main car park, dodging past late shoppers and early revellers. The local council had strung up Christmas lights, and I passed under Christmas trees, reindeer, and a flashing Santa Claus. No sign of anything religious, of course. I sometimes wondered if the Church should abandon December 25 to the secular world and celebrate Jesus’ birthday at a different time of year. Scholars were pretty certain that he’d been born in the autumn, after all. I favoured the 23rd of September, personally, but there was a possibility that I was biased. That was my own date of birth, although I’d be willing to share it with the saviour of the world.
A whiff of smoke made my steps slow. I glanced around, and found no one near. ‘Raven?’
The dragon emerged from an alleyway. His spines and ears were erect, a sign that he was very pleased with himself. ‘The intrepid Penny White. Yule tide greetings.’
I peered closely at the ring of green resting against his chest. ‘Is that a holly wreath?’
‘Of course. We all wear the wheel of the sun to celebrate Yule.’ He arched his neck, shaking loose several of the red berries. ‘Life continues, even in the darkest days of winter.’
‘Can’t think it’s that dark where you live.’
‘True,’ he acknowledged. ‘But the customs remain, even for those of us who no longer live in longhouses. I’ve come with your midwinter gift.’
A box was gripped in his right forefoot. He carefully lowered it onto my palms. I shifted it to one side, gripping the thin wooden side between left arm and stomach so I could lift the lid with my right hand.
Straw lined the dark interior. I poked through, and my fingers hit a hard object. I drew it out into the light. The carving, out of obsidian, was about the length of my forefinger. The figure held a sheep, and that and the thin crook told me that this must be a shepherd. I dug around inside the box, finding a kneeling woman and man, a baby, and a manger. More hard lumps told me that no doubt a full set of kings and perhaps even a camel or two were nestling in the straw.
‘A nativity set,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’
‘I carved them myself,’ Raven said proudly. ‘All of your Christian pieces should be there. Including the Odin.’
‘Odin?’
‘He’s carved from red obsidian. The beard was particularly challenging.’
‘Oh.’ I cleared my throat. ‘You mean Santa Claus.’
‘I mean Odin,’ he replied. ‘Don’t your children leave straw for his horse, Slepnir? And Odin leaves gifts in return?’
‘Santa Claus visits children. And he has a sleigh pulled by eight reindeer.’
‘And Slepnir has eight legs.’ Raven snorted. ‘Doesn’t the lead reindeer have a red nose? Slepnir’s muzzle is often red from fea
sting on the entrails of Odin’s enemies. You humans have confused things, as usual.’
“‘When, what to my wandering eyes should appear,’” I quoted, “‘But Odin and his blood stained horse, Slepnir.’ Nope, can’t see that being very popular at Christmas.’
‘I didn't have time to finish the horse,’ Raven admitted. ‘Slepnir will be a later gift.’
I remembered my manners. ‘Thank you for this, Raven. I’ll put it on my mantelpiece when I get home. And, I’m sorry, but I don’t have a present for you.’
The dragon stretched out his head. I held still as he drew a deep breath in through his nostrils. ‘That is gift enough. The scent of you, Penny, is enough to give lift to any dragon’s wings.’
Which, from Raven, was a very romantic statement. I felt myself blush. But before I could say anything, he had ducked back into the alleyway. I carried the box carefully to my car. And hoped that Morey wouldn’t ask any questions when he saw the nativity set on display.
<><><><><><>
Wednesday afternoon. I had finished both my Midnight Mass and Christmas Day sermons, and felt very pleased with myself. After lunch I had spent some time deliberating what I should wear to meet Fred Wiseman. In the end, I had gone for black. Black trousers, black clerical shirt with dog collar, and black jacket.
‘So, you’re expecting trouble,’ Morey greeted me as I made one last trip into the study.
I smoothed my hair, wishing I’d found time for a trim. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘That jacket is your equivalent of a knight’s armour,’ he reminded me. ‘Are you expecting a battle?’
‘Just trying not to look like a poor priest.’
‘Your reward is in heaven.’
‘I certainly hope so. It certainly isn’t here on Earth.’ The month’s heating bill was resting on my desk, and the amount due had made me swallow hard. Morey required higher temperatures than my budget could easily afford.
The doorbell chimed. I picked up my coat, and Morey flew to my left shoulder. His weight was a warm reassurance as I walked to the door.
My little Ford was cowering beside a large limousine. The Bentley was a wonder of gleaming blue curves and silver trim, and despite the wet December day I couldn’t see a speck of mud, even on the tyres. A man dressed in a dark grey suit held a large umbrella in one hand and an elaborate wooden box in the other. ‘Reverend White,’ he said gravely, ‘may I escort you to your transport?’
‘Certainly,’ I said, accepting the box. The umbrella shielded me from the rain as the man opened the rear door. I slid onto the leather seat. Morey hopped onto the wooden console opposite, his claws carefully sheathed.
The man leaned forward. ‘That’s the button to press if you need to speak to me.’
I glanced at the dimmed glass rising above the console. ‘You can’t hear me otherwise?’
‘No, ma’am. This is Mr Wiseman’s personal car, and he often uses it for private conversations.’
The door was shut. I buckled on my seat belt as the driver took his own place. The engine hummed into life. I glanced once more at my own ancient car, wishing she were as willing when I turned the key.
The box was still in my hands. My name was written on a tag which hung from an ornate ribbon. I lifted the lid, and stared at the bottle inside. Talisker, with the date 1985 proudly printed on the label. A handwritten note nestled beside the bottle informed me, Please save this for consumption at home. There are more bottles in the car to make the journey more pleasant. Enjoy! FW.
Morey pointed his beak at the glasses nestling in the counter. ‘Go on. Let’s see what it’s like.’
‘You don’t trust him, but you’ll drink his whisky?’
‘I’ve drunk with harpies,’ he reminded me. ‘Can’t accuse me of being picky.’
I picked out the nearest bottle, poured us each a measure, added a little spring water, and then we spent time exploring the built in entertainment console. As the world flicked past the windows, and the whisky warmed my stomach, I found myself humming the Abba tune, ‘Money, money, money.’
‘It’s a rich man’s world,’ Morey said ponderously.
‘Money is the root of all evil,’ I reminded him.
‘The love of money,’ Morey corrected me. He finished his drink and sighed. ‘That’s all for now. Best keep our wits about us.’
I nodded. ‘But maybe a bit more on the way back?’
‘Oh, definitely.’ Morey poked his head further into the cabinet. ‘There’s a forty year old Macallan back here. And I think the Ardbeg is even older.’
We had left Northamptonshire behind, and were well on our way through the outskirts of Coventry. Wiseman Agricultural, my internet searches had informed me, possessed offices in London, Edinburgh, and Birmingham. We were obviously headed towards the latter. I stared at the alcohol cabinet, wishing that we were going to London instead.
Just when I wondered whether I could withstand the siren call of The Macallan any longer, we were passing low brick walls adorned with the triple leaves of the Wiseman Agricultural logo. The tall office building gleamed ahead of us, all shining glass and muted pastel blues and greens. I found a loose thread on my jacket and desperately wished that I’d brought a pair of scissors.
The driver parked the Bentley just outside the main entrance. He opened the door, and I crept out under the cover of his umbrella. There wasn’t enough room for Morey, so he had to fly on ahead and then sneak through the main doors behind us. He landed on a potted plant and shook water from his feathers.
My coat was removed by a smiling receptionist, and I was permitted a moment to visit the loo. As I left, I tugged down my jacket. A young man was waiting for me in the lobby. Morey, heading for my shoulder, had to veer to one side and land on a lamp as the man marched up to shake my hand. He introduced himself as ‘Sam, assistant to Mr Wiseman’s P.A.’ As he ushered me to the lift, Morey only just had enough time to fly through the closing doors and land on the floor by my feet.
‘Wiseman has an assistant for his assistant,’ Morey muttered as we travelled upwards. ‘But he still finds time to meet with a village priest.’
As I didn’t dare answer Morey directly, I asked Sam, ‘How many employees does Wiseman Agricultural have?’
‘We have three thousand operatives spread across fifteen countries,’ came the prompt reply. ‘Wiseman Agricultural specialises in offering expertise to the Global South. Our aim is to help nations help themselves, by enabling their farmers to increase crop yields and compete on the international market.’
‘The poor boy’s swallowed a sales brochure,’ Morey said. ‘Quick, give him the Heimlich manoeuver.’
‘And feed their local population?’ I prompted Sam.
‘By operating with a global perspective,’ Sam replied, ‘the funds generated drive local economic growth.’
‘So that’s a no, then,’ Morey noted.
Then the lift halted. We emerged into a lobby only slightly smaller than the one at the building’s entrance. I didn’t recognise the artists of the many paintings hanging on the cream walls, but they had simplicity which marked them out as modern and expensive. Sam took us to the receptionist’s desk, gave her a nod, and took us towards the dark door on the left.
The door swung open before the young man could even touch the doorknob. A man who looked to be in his fifties stepped out. His carefully groomed grey hair and dark, precisely cut suit told me who he was even before he spoke. ‘Reverend White, so pleased you could make the time to see me. Particularly at this busy time of year. Fred Wiseman.’
I accepted his hand, and followed him into the large office. The floor to ceiling windows looked out to parkland, where leafless trees hunched under dark rain. There were scattered picnic tables which, I assumed, were used by the employees for those sunny days occasionally granted to England.
Susie rose from a leather sofa at our entrance. She looked much better than when I’d last seen her. Colour had returned to her face, and she wore a
smart dark blue suit. ‘Penny. Thank you for coming.’
Fred waved at the seating area. I dropped down onto the white sofa opposite Susie and Fred. A tall coffee pot and a shorter tea pot rested on a tray, along with mugs and a pile of cookies. ‘We just wanted to express our thanks in person,’ Fred said as I nodded at the tea pot. To my surprise, he poured out the tea himself. ‘It was bad enough to tell two families that their loved ones had passed away. At least you brought Susie safely back to us.’
Morey had managed to fly and hop his way through the lobby and into the office. Now he landed onto a side table, where he watched proceedings with interest. I warmed my hands on the mug and tried to ignore the tempting jammy dodgers. ‘It was just sheer luck, you know.’ Peter had told me of the story which he had crafted and imposed upon Susie. ‘The police were nearly in the right area, but sometimes I have hunches. And there she was, in those woods.’
‘Thank God for hunches.’ Fred laughed. ‘In this case, literally. We found these for you. Please accept them, as a token of our thanks.’
Susie handed over a small box. I lifted the lid. The purple and yellow cover of the paperback made me blink. Then the title. Lungbarrow. The final Seventh Doctor story in the Virgin Books’ New Adventures range, long out of print, which had made buying a copy far outside my budget. I caressed the cover. ‘It looks new.’
‘Mint condition,’ Fred assured me. ‘And I hope you also like the other book we found for you.’
I carefully lifted up the precious novel to look underneath. My breath caught in my throat. Time’s Champion was the title in turquoise blue on the cover, along with images of the Sixth Doctor, Mel, and the Valeyard. ‘Where did you find this? It was a charity publication.’
‘We have our sources.’ Fred gave me a wink. ‘Susie, sounds like you chose well.’
She coughed. ‘I have one more small gift for you.’ She reached across the table to hand me an envelope. ‘There’s a Doctor Who convention taking place in Manchester in March. We’ve booked you tickets for the weekend, and a room in the hotel. Sylvester McCoy and Sophie Aldred will both be there.’