gns.thedruidconnection-第3章

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


of　his　expanding　stomach；　and　rarely　was　he　to　be　seen　publicly　except　on　diocesan　business。　He　liked　to　think　that　people　described　him　as　'a　big　man'。　Size　was　imposing；　authoritative；　it　dominated　lesser　men。
　　
　　Once　back　in　his　limousine；　his　chauffeur　having　been　instructed　to　return　to　the　palace；　Boyce　pulled　a　cigar　out　of　his　leather　case；　expertly　bit　off　the　end　and　spat　it　through　the　partly　open　window　with　no　small　degree　of　accuracy。　He　drew　the　rich　havana　smoke　down　into　his　lungs　and　expelled　it　slowly。　He　wouldn't　throw　up　now。　Owen　was　dispensable；　as　was　any　mediocre　curate。　Young　men　were　queuing　up　to　join　the　Church；　professing　to　having　received　a　'calling'　because　jobs　were　scarce。　So　they　kidded　the　Church　to　let　them　kid　the　people。　Bloody　fools；　it　was　a　career　just　like　industry　or　banking。　If　you　were　clever　enough　you　got　to　the　top　and　then　other　opportunities　opened　up　to　you　。　。　。　like　that　tract　of　Sand　adjoining　St　Monica's　churchyard。　That　fool　Owen　might　have　had　the　courtesy　to　get　himself　burned　up　somewhere　else。　The　last　thing　the　bishop　wanted　was　for　the　police　to　start　nosing　around　too　much　just　there。
　　
　　Back　at　the　palace　he　moved　swiftly　in　spite　of　his　bulk；　strode　down　the　long　carpeted　corridor　to　his　study　with　an　ease　reminiscent　of　his　athletic　days　at　university。　By　the　time　he　reached　his　desk；　lifted　the　telephone　receiver　off　its　cradle　and　began　to　dial；　his　body　was　damp　with　sweat　but　that　had　nothing　to　do　with　his　recent　exertions。
　　
　　The　call　was　answered　almost　immediately　at　the　other　end；　a　girl's　voice　informing　him　that　he　was　connected　to　the　offices　of　the　county　council。
　　
　　'Get　me　the　Planning　Officer'　he　barked；　and　waited　again；　drumming　his　fingers　nervously　on　the　desktop。
　　
　　'Stone　speaking。'　Clipped　tones　that　reminded　him　of　that　inspector　in　the　cemetery。　Damn　it；　the　police　were　getting　on　his　nerves。
　　
　　'Boyce　here。'　Impatient；　chewing　on　the　soggy　butt　of　that　cigar　which　had　gone　out　on　the　journey　back　here。
　　
　　'Bishop；　why　。　。　。　'
　　
　　'Look；　I'll　have　to　be…brief。　We've　run　into　a　bit　of　bother　and　at　the　moment　I　don't　know　what　it's　all　about；　but　suffice　to　say　that　the　police　are　swarming　all　over　our　patch　of　land。'
　　
　　'Oh；　my　God！'
　　
　　'Don't　panic。　They　can't　possibly　suspect　that　we　set　up　this　deal　with　Darren　Hurst　but　there's　no　knowing　how　far　they　will　pry　into　it。　Just　be　warned；　don't　have　any　documents　accessible　which　could　turn　their　attention　to　us。　Get　me？'
　　
　　'Sure；　sure。　But　why　the　hell　are　the　police　at　St　Monica's？'
　　
　　'A　curate's　somehow　got　himself　roasted　to　a　cinder。'
　　
　　'Jesus　Christ！　How？'
　　
　　'I　don't　know　but　doubtless　tomorrow's　editions　of　the　more　sensational　papers　will　e　up　with　a　few　theories。　But　we　don't　have　to　let　that　bother　us。　pletion　date　for　the　sale　is　only　seven　weeks　away。　It　looks　as　though　there　might　be　an　appeal　by　these　damned　villagers　but　I'm　looking　to　you　to　squash　that。　This　curate；　Owen；　the　one　who　got　himself　all　frizzled　up；　chaired　a　meeting　at　the　village　hall　last　night。　Mannering　should　have　gone　but　he　chickened　out。　I'm　just　wondering　if　this　is　some　crazy　way　of　getting　revenge　on　us；　some　nutcase　gunning　for　us。'
　　
　　'Jesus！'　Stone　caught　his　breath。　'Then　none　of　us　are　safe。'
　　
　　'I've　another　idea　but　I　won't　go　into　that　now；'　Boyce　finally　crushed　out　the　remains　of　his　cigar　in　the　heavy　glass　ashtray；　'but　I　just　want　you　to　play　it　carefully。　Seven　weeks　time　and　you　and　I'll　be　splitting　Hurst's　backhander。　In　hard　cash。　So　play　it　cool　and　nothing　can　go　wrong。'
　　
　　The　bishop　replaced　the　receiver　and　stared　up　at　the　ornate　ceiling；　allowed　his　gaze　to　wander　idly　round　the　walls　until　his　eyes　rested　on　a　faded　oil　painting　of　a　flabby…faced　man　with　long　silver　hair。　The　features　weren't　unlike　his　own　but　it　had　to　be　coincidence　because　there　was　no　direct　bloodline。　Just　another　bishop。　The　small　plaque　beneath　the　frame　read　'BISHOP　AVENSON　1720…42'。
　　
　　Boyce　wondered　how　many　people　had　read　the　history　of　Bishop　Avenson。　Look　closely　and　you　saw　the　portrait　of　a　man　who　was　far　from　benign　and　godly；　eyes　that　tried　to　avoid　your　gaze　even　on　the　canvas。　Thin　lips　that　bespoke　cruelty。　The　artist；　whose　indecipherable　signature　had　almost　faded　out　of　the　bottom　right…hand　corner；　had　been　honest　at　any　rate。　He　hadn't　tried　to　cover　anything　up。
　　
　　Boyce　broke　out　into　a　sweat　again；　rivulets　of　perspiration　trickling　down　his　broad　forehead。　Avenson；　too；　had　died　in　the　cemetery　of　St　Monica's　church　in　the　eighteenth　century！　The　ancient　records　spoke　of　his　charred　body　being　discovered　one　morning　amongst　'the　tombstones　where　he　is　reputeth　to　have　supped　with　the　devile。'
　　
　　There　were　conflicting　accounts　of　how　a　burned　corpse　had　been　found　in　'a　charred　place　with　no　evidence　of　fire　about'。　Like　Philip　Owen。
　　
　　The　bishop　crossed　to　his　cocktail　cabinet　and　poured　himself　a　stiff　whisky　with　a　shaking　hand。　He　did　not　like　this　business　one　little　bit。　The　police　would　not　find　out　much　about　the　curate's　death；　of　that　he　was　certain。　He　was　more　worried　that　they　might　find　motives　for　investigating　how　a　tract　of　green…belt　had　been　passed　for　building　land。　There　was　no　limit　to　their　thoroughness。
　　
　　Nevertheless；　he　could　not　risk　another　inexplicable　death；　apart　from　the　fact　that　there　was　no　way　of　knowing　who　the　unfortunate　victim　might　be　next　time。　Almost　two…and…a…half　centuries　had　lapsed　since　Bishop　Avenson's　untimely　death　and　the　evil　force　apparently　lived　on。
　　
　　Boyce's　hand　was　still　trembling　as　he　dialled　another　number。　This　was　one　job　in　which　he　would　approve　of　Vicar　Cleehopes'　intervention。　The　police　investigations　would　e　to　nothing；　of　that　he　was　certain。　The　spirit；　or　whatever　it　was；　that　lurked　in　St　Monica's　churchyard　must　be　dealt　with　as　soon　as　possible。　By　an　exorcist！
　　
　　Vicar　Cleehopes　would　certainly　not　have　been　identified　as　an　exorcist　except　by　those　who　knew　him。　Small　and　stocky；　approaching　sixty；　he　wore　a　black　homburg　hat　to　hide　his　pletely　bald　head；　stressing　that　the　headgear　was　purely　to　protect　his　shiny　cranium　from　the　elements。　Shy　and　retiring；　it　was　almost　with　an　air　of　embarrassment　that　he　shuffled　up　the　path　from　the　lychgate　to　St　Monica's　church　that　blustery　spring　evening。　He　carried　a　small　briefcase；　the　contents　of　which　seemed　to　weigh　him　down；　slowing　his　pace；　causing　him　to　pause　for　breath　every　few　yards　or　so；　his　piercing　blue　eyes　scanning　the　area　around　him。
　　
　　He　was　uneasy；　tense。　He　always　was　before　conducting　an　exorcism；　not　because　he　feared　any　spiritual　adversary　but　because　the　sheer　effort　needed　to　banish　an　evil　spirit　sapped　him　mentally　and　physically　and　at　his　age　he　feared　for　his　health。　Each　exorcism　seemed　to　require　more　and　more　effort。　In　fact；　he　had　made　up　his　mind　to　retire　from　his　calling；　leaving　it　to　a　younger　man　。　。　。　if　one　could　be　found。　Exorcists　were　like　water　diviners；　either　you　could　carry　it　out　or　you　couldn't。　A　gift　bestowed　upon　one　by　God　and　it　was　not　the　place　of　a　humble　clergyman　to　spurn　that　gift；　as　Bishop　Boyce　had　pointed　out　to　Vicar　Cleehopes。
　　
　　Cleehopes　had　travelled　down　from　the　north　of　England　that　same　day　and　had　arrived　at　St　Monica's　somewhat　travel…worn。　Perhaps　he　should　have　rested；　postponed　the　exorcism　until　the　next　evening　but　the　bishop　had　been　in　an　unusual　haste。
　　
　　'There　is　something　there；　Cleehopes；'　he　had　stressed　vehemently　over　the　phone　upon　the　ageing　vicar's　arrival　at　the　residence　of　the　late　Philip　Owen。　'Whatever　it　is；　it　is　dangerous　and　must　be　banished　as　soon　as　possible。　I　know　that　you　are　the　one　man　capable　of　doing　this　so　I　urge　you　to　go　to　the　churchyard　straight　away　and　banish　this　evil　entity　from　God's　hallowed　ground。'
　　
　　It　was　not　the　place　of　a　mere　vicar　to　refuse　a　request　by　one　so　powerful　as　Bishop　Boyce；　With　a　sigh；　Cleehopes　set　his　bag　down　on　the　weed…covered　pathway　leading　up　to　the　church　and　looked　around　him。
　　
　　The　wind　had　strengthened　during　the　last　few　minutes　and　he　jammed　his　homburg　even　more　firmly　down　on　his　bald　head。　It　was　bitterly　cold；　too；　demonstrating　the　treachery　of　the　elements　in　spring；　last　week　had　been　exceedingly　mild　and　sunny；　now　rain　threatened。　It　might　even　sleet　or　snow。
　　
　　Boyce　had　stressed　that　the　police　were　carrying　out　extensive　investigations　into　the　death　of　the　curate。　They　might　be　in　or　around　the　churchyard　but　he　had　spoken　to　Detective　Inspector　Groome　and　they　would　not　interfere　with　the　exorcist。　The　law　was　sceptical　of　evil　spirits　but　the　vicar　would　be　allowed　to　carry　out　his　banishment　of　the　evil　force　without　hindrance。　Cleehopes　shivered。　There　was　certainly　evil　in　the　air。　He　could　sense　it　in　the　way　the　biting　wind　whipped　at　him　as　though　it　was　trying　to　drive　him　back　down　to　the　lychgate　by　sheer　force。　Go　away；　old　man；　this　is　no　place　for　you。　Go　now　whilst　you　are　still　able　to　leave　unharmed！
　　
　　The　Reverend　Cleehopes　smelled　the　smoke　before　he　saw　the　fire　in　the　gathering　darkness；　a　pungent　aroma　of　burning　vegetation；　a　stinking　garden　bonfire　the　likes　of　which　residents　of　suburban　housing　estates　plained　bitterly　and　instigated　petitions　against　the　offender。
　　
　　He　coughed　and　stared　into　the　gloom。　Then　he　saw　the　smoke　billowing　up　from　the　farthest　corner　of　the　cemetery；　villainous　thick　clouds　that　the　wind　whipped　towards　the　church。
　　
　　Somebody　was　moving　over　there；　a　shape　that　came　and　went　amidst　the　swirling　smoke；　outlined　briefly　by　the　intermittent　orange　glow　from　the　dancing　tongues　of　flame。　Cleehopes　muttered　his　annoyance。　This　could　be　detrimental　to　his　plans；　filling　the　interior　of　the　church　with　vile　stifling　odours　that　would　only　serve　to　aid　whatever　evil　lurked　here。　It　wouldn't　be　the　police；　they　had　no　need　of　huge　bonfires。　A　verger；　doubtless；　engaged　upon　a　spring　tidying　up　of　the　graveyard。　Well；　he　would　be　asked　to　put　out　his　fire；　ordered　to　if　he　refused。　Dash　the　fellow！
　　
　　Leaving　his　briefcase　on　the　ground；　the　vicar　proceeded　to　shuffle　towards　the　offending　bonfire；　turning　his　head　to　escape　the　full　force　of　the　smoke　which　streamed　towards　him。　Twice　he　had　to　stop；　turn　his　back；　and　give　way　to　a　fit　of　coughing。　Finally　he　was　within　a　few　yards　of　the　villainous　heap　of　smouldering　rubbish。　He　retched；　almost　vomited。　A　stench　so　acrid　that　its　vile　fumes　permeated　his　lungs；　seared　his　intestines。　What　the　deuce　was　the　fellow　burning？
　　
　　Seconds　later　he　saw　the　man；　a　figure　that　seemed　to　materialise　out　of　the　eddying　smoke；　a　shape　that　had　him　stepping　back　in　alarm；　his　heart　seeming　to　flip；　miss　a　beat；　then　accelerate　so　that　his　pulses　pounded。
　　
　　'You　be　a…lookin'　for　me；　sur？'
　　
　　A　harsh　nasal　accent；　a　hint　of　arrogance　in　the　deep　tones。
　　
　　Cleehopes　stared　through　streaming；　smarting　eyes。　A　verger；　definitely。　An　old　man　clinging　resolutely　to　the　traditions　of　a　past　generation。