"Smith, Guy N - Sabat 04 - The Druid Connection" - читать интересную книгу автора (Smith Guy N)

'A thunderbolt then.'

'Or the Hammer of Thor,' the policeman said sarcastically as he turned away. 'These boys will come up with the answer in due course, Bishop. In the meantime I've got work to do. I'll be in touch with you.'

Bishop Boyce stood there in the lychgate and waited for his composure to return. He was badly shaken but he hoped the others had not noticed it. Certainly Mannering hadn't. If there had been foul play then it was beyond his own ken. And that was what really worried him.

Bishop Boyce stood six feet, four-and-a-half inches in his stockinged feet. He'd gained a Blue at Oxford for rugby and had boxed well in those far off days when his huge body had been rippling muscle. Now, at fifty, that muscle had turned to fat, and the small eyes which were almost buried in the fleshy sockets demanded that glasses be worn; rimless ones that gave him a sort of owlish appearance. His dark hair had silvered and was thinning outwards from the crown. During his appearances at cathedral services his capacious robes hid the full extent of his expanding stomach, and rarely was he to be seen publicly except on diocesan business. He liked to think that people described him as 'a big man'. Size was imposing, authoritative; it dominated lesser men.

Once back in his limousine, his chauffeur having been instructed to return to the palace, Boyce pulled a cigar out of his leather case, expertly bit off the end and spat it through the partly open window with no small degree of accuracy. He drew the rich havana smoke down into his lungs and expelled it slowly. He wouldn't throw up now. Owen was dispensable, as was any mediocre curate. Young men were queuing up to join the Church, professing to having received a 'calling' because jobs were scarce. So they kidded the Church to let them kid the people. Bloody fools, it was a career just like industry or banking. If you were clever enough you got to the top and then other opportunities opened up to you . . . like that tract of Sand adjoining St Monica's churchyard. That fool Owen might have had the courtesy to get himself burned up somewhere else. The last thing the bishop wanted was for the police to start nosing around too much just there.

Back at the palace he moved swiftly in spite of his bulk, strode down the long carpeted corridor to his study with an ease reminiscent of his athletic days at university. By the time he reached his desk, lifted the telephone receiver off its cradle and began to dial, his body was damp with sweat but that had nothing to do with his recent exertions.

The call was answered almost immediately at the other end, a girl's voice informing him that he was connected to the offices of the county council.

'Get me the Planning Officer' he barked, and waited again, drumming his fingers nervously on the desktop.

'Stone speaking.' Clipped tones that reminded him of that inspector in the cemetery. Damn it, the police were getting on his nerves.

'Boyce here.' Impatient, chewing on the soggy butt of that cigar which had gone out on the journey back here.

'Bishop, why . . . '

'Look, I'll have to be-brief. We've run into a bit of bother and at the moment I don't know what it's all about, but suffice to say that the police are swarming all over our patch of land.'

'Oh, my God!'

'Don't panic. They can't possibly suspect that we set up this deal with Darren Hurst but there's no knowing how far they will pry into it. Just be warned, don't have any documents accessible which could turn their attention to us. Get me?'

'Sure, sure. But why the hell are the police at St Monica's?'

'A curate's somehow got himself roasted to a cinder.'

'Jesus Christ! How?'

'I don't know but doubtless tomorrow's editions of the more sensational papers will come up with a few theories. But we don't have to let that bother us. Completion date for the sale is only seven weeks away. It looks as though there might be an appeal by these damned villagers but I'm looking to you to squash that. This curate, Owen, the one who got himself all frizzled up, chaired a meeting at the village hall last night. Mannering should have gone but he chickened out. I'm just wondering if this is some crazy way of getting 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.