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

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!

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!

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 also.

'And what for? Cannot you see what I be doin'?'

'You're making a foul, stinking bonfire,' the vicar did his utmost to protest angrily, with an authority that seemed to be fast slipping away from him. 'The smoke is filling the church.'

'And be that a bad thing, sur? Is anybody complaining?'

'Yes. Yes, they are. I am. I am about to conduct a service in there.'

'No, sur,' the other shook his head slowly, emphatically, 'you cannot hold a service in the church.'

'And why not?'