"Mcauley, Paul J - Inheritance" - читать интересную книгу автора (Mcauley Paul J)

to lift from his chest, the wind dropping around the church, a mumbling
moan that seemed at the edge of words. Danger, danger. And as he read, it
seemed that he was no longer alone in the church, that a dark shadow
occupied the middle of the front pew. He dared not lift his eyes from the
page lest he stumble in his recitation, yet the shadow tugged at the
corner of his vision, undefined, insubstantial, but definitely there.
And then, his throat dry, Tolley came to the end of the lesson, and
realised that he would have to read the last part at the grave. He
hesitated, and the wind rose again, the candle flame flickered. There was
nothing for it: the forms had to be gone through.
The shadow melted from the pew as, holding the candle before him, Tolley
walked down the aisle and fumbled with the door's heavy bolt. It slid
back, and he turned the handle.
Wind blew in his face.
The candle flame winnowed flat but did not quite go out.
There was nothing outside but gray-edged darkness.
As he walked amongst the ranked gravestones towards the isolated pair
beneath the yew, Tolley felt a kind of pressure at his back, but steeled
himself not to look around. He faced the grave of the unknown man and by
the light of the candle began to read the final part of the service.
"Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God of His great mercy to take unto
Himself the soul of Orlando Richards, here departed, we therefore commit
his body to the ground. . . ."
As he read, the words became more than words: every one a weight that had
to be lifted and laid, each a single stone in the solemn edifice he was
constructing. He came to the final prayer and, despite his aching throat,
read it loudly, almost triumphantly. After the final amen, he heard, far
off in the winter dawn -- for it was dawn now, although still so dark that
he could distinguish no colours -- a cock crowing, the traditional end to
a night of magic. Tolley blew out the candle and, with the blunt edge of
his car key, inscribed the name Orlando Richards on the headstone. Done.

Every step was light on the frosty ground as he walked away from the
church. It was over, he thought, his hands trembling lightly with relief.
Over. I've done my duty, atoned for what my great-grandfather did. As he
skirted the trees and the ruined chimney of the manor house, the dog came
bounding towards him, barking frantically, dancing around and running back
towards the ruins, turning and barking. Tolley followed it.
"What is it, boy? Quiet now. Where's your master? Where -- "
And then he saw Gerald Beaumont.
The man's body was slumped in a tangle of briers at the base of the great
chimney stack. The face was entirely gone, a mess of blood and bone, but
Tolley recognised the Norfolk jacket, the checkered cap that lay a little
way off.
He turned aside and vomited, though there was little to come. As he
straightened, wind blew around him out of nowhere, shaking the bare
branches of the surrounding trees. Tolley began to run, the dog at his
heels. Wind bent the frosty tufts of grass, whirled leaves into the shape
of a human figure before collapsing and blowing on, always in front of
Tolley, who was now only stumbling as best he could, his terror leached by