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

invested a moderate sum of money for the stone to be cleaned and maintained
regularly but nobody had touched it for the past five years. Why? Vicar
Mannering had been reticent when Philip had introduced the subject a few weeks
back; murmured some excuse about the cost of labour these days. The curate had
been going to ask about the church roof too, but his courage had failed him.
Sir Henry had set up a trust for that too, so why had Vicar Mannering launched
a restoration fund to try and save its sagging timbers?

Oh, the reason was obvious. One didn't really have to ask. The Henry Grayne
Trust money had been used to support Mannering's own church, St Peter's, the
'mother' church. The trustees were as much to blame as the vicar but there was
no doubt that the money had all gone. The Reverend Mannering would supply an
explanation if anybody had the courage to ask outright: 'The Church of God is
all one and the funds were needed to support the mother church because without
a mother church St Monica's would have to be closed down.' Bishop Boyce would
back him up and, in the end, lesser mortals would be shouted down.

Owen felt the blood coursing through his veins, anger that started his temples
throbbing and an ache to begin behind his eyes. Perhaps he wasn't well after
all. But the clerical leeches weren't satisfied with just the misappropriation
of Grayne's grave and roof money, Now they saw an opportunity to grab the lot.
What use was that land to anybody? A pittance from the grazing rights and they
weren't yet ready to consecrate it. So why not sell it while there was a boom
in building land?

Owen clenched his hands until his fingernails gouged his palms. There had to
be some corruption somewhere otherwise Bishop Boyce would never have obtained
outline planning permission for a hundred houses on that tract. It wasn't
until they were ready to put the land up for sale to the highest bidder that
the villagers became aware of what was going on.

The young curate gulped, felt his stomach muscles contracting. Suddenly he was
the meat in the sandwich, the buffer between Boyce, Mannering and the
residents of the village. The villagers had rallied in their united protest,
directed their venom at Owen, and he couldn't come up with the answers. At one
stage he thought they were going to physically attack him as their fury
reached its pitch. He wanted to blame the bishop and the vicar but his own
courage had failed him and his stammerings had been drowned by their abuse,
their threats.

Now he was back here in the darkness, almost relishing the task of preparing
for communion because he wanted to be alone with . . . Oh God, no, he didn't
want to be alone here any longer!

So dark, so cold; the whispering of the breeze through the tall yew trees a
venomous hiss; clammy fingers seeming to reach out of the blackness and touch
his sweating flesh. He cowered, flung up his hands to cover his eyes and
prayed that when he took them away he would see the spring sunlight, feel the
gentle warmth of an April evening and find that it had all been a fevered
hallucination.