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

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 completely 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!