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

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 complained
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. A frayed
bowler hat was jammed firmly down on the oval, elongated head. A frock coat,
torn and tattered, unbuttoned and flapping in the wind. Scratched knee-length
leather gaiters terminating in scuffed working boots. Then the face;
compelling, forcing you to look at it again and keep on looking. Flesh that
was aged yet stretched too tightly over forehead and cheekbones to allow it to
crinkle. A bushy moustache that drooped untrimmed and hid the mouth beneath it
so that you didn't see the lips move. But the eyes were the most awful part of
the whole scarecrow appearance; orbs that glowed redly as they reflected the
dancing firelight.

'You want me, sur?' Impatience escalating into anger, a verger who resented
this trespasser in his domain.

'Yes . . . yes, I do,' Cleehopes stammered, his weak trembling tones seeming
to be whipped away by the wind as though the elements resented his intrusion