"Guy N. Smith - Sabat 4 - The Druid Connection" - читать интересную книгу автора (Smith Guy N)

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 come 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!