gns.thedruidconnection-第15节

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　　The　journalist　crept　up　the　flight　of　narrow　winding　stairs；　winced　every　time　a　board　creaked。　God；　his　head　ached；　a　stabbing　pain　as　if　somebody　was　boring　into　his　skull　with　a　skewer。　A　wave　of　dizziness　had　him　swaying　on　the　landing；　clutching　the　carved　oak　rail　in　case　he　should　fall。　A　few　seconds　and　the　sensation　passed　and　with　a　sigh　of　relief　he　made　it　into　his　room。
　　
　　The　sight　of　that　single　bed　made　him　aware　just　how　exhausted　he　was；　less　than　an　hour's　sleep　in　the　last　twenty…four　and　that　brief　rest　was　only　due　to　an　uppercut　by　Sabat；　goddamn　the　fellow！
　　
　　Kent　pushed　the　bolt　home　on　the　door　and　flung　himself；　still　fully　dressed；　on　to　the　bed。　Right　now　he　didn't　give　a　damn　for　Sabat；　nor　Sheenah；　nor　anybody　else。　He　wasn't　budging　from　this　bed　for　any　of　them。　They　could　all　go　to　hell　as　far　as　he　was　concerned。
　　
　　The　room　was　dark　when　Kent　awoke；　a　slow　process；　gathering　his　thoughts　gradually；　trying　to　piece　the　events　of　the　past　day　together。　Disorientated；　glancing　at　the　luminous　dial　of　his　wristwatch；　seeing　that　it　was　nine　o'clock　and　trying　to　decide　whether　it　was　a。m。　or　p。m。
　　
　　His　headache　was　gone；　he　felt　refreshed。　It　had　to　be　nighttime。　That　meant　he　had　slept　for　about　fifteen　hours；　a　deep　sleep　interspersed　with　nightmarish　dreams。　It　was　difficult　to　determine　the　borderline　between　dreams　and　reality　after　the　night　before；　sanity　or　madness。
　　
　　Kent　swung　his　feet　off　the　bed　and　switched　on　a　table　lamp。　Methodically　he　began　to　plan　what　he　was　going　to　do。　For　a　start；　Sabat　and　that　girl　were　crazy　and　no　way　was　the　Fleet　Street　man　going　to　get　involved　in　any　more　of　that　hocus…pocus。　It　was　all　some　kind　of　trickery；　he　decided；　both　sides　trying　to　deceive　the　other　by　creating　optical　illusions；　together　with　some　kind　of　sleight　of　hand；　like　conjurers　did。　The　real　story　he　was　seeking　didn't　lie　there。　Beneath　it　all　lay　the　big　scoop；　corruption　involving　bishops　and　vicars　and　trustees　and　crooked　builders。　That　was　the　feature　article　he　needed；　not　a　lot　of　mumbo…jumbo　that　half　his　paper's　readership　would　just　skim　through　and　forget　all　about　ten　minutes　later。　Something　sensational　that　would　rock　the　nation；　scandal　that　would　shock　church　coffee　mornings　to　the　core。
　　
　　To　hell　with　Sabat；　this　was　where　their　trails　parted。　Kent　let　himself　out　of　his　room　and　went　downstairs。
　　
　　The　lounge　bar　was　packed　to　capacity；　a　hubbub　of　conversation　all　around　him　as　he。　pushed　his　way　to　the　bar。　Kent　leaned　against　an　upright　beam；　sensed　a　wave　of　dizziness；　then　steadied。　Kent　seemed　to　feel　heady；　experienced　a　kind　of　unreality　as　though　he　was　a　spectator　to　his　own　actions。　During　those　brief　seconds　of　mental　aberration　he　had　presumably　functioned　quite　normally；　found　himself　with　a　glass　of　whisky　in　his　hand；　its　sharp　flavour　on　his　palate；　and　apparently　engaged　in　conversation　with　a　tall；　silver…haired　man。
　　
　　'　。。。　this　bishop　fellow's　an　out…and…out　rogue；'　the　other　had　a　soft　lilting　voice；　yet　manding　so　that　Kent　found　himself　listening。　'He's　getting　a　fat　pay…off　from　this　builder；　Hurst；　for　the　sale　of　the　land。　And　nobody　can　damned　well　prove　a　thing。　Stone；　the　planning　officer；　is　in　it　too；　another　pay…out　to　get　the　green…belt　clause　made　null　and　void。'
　　
　　Kent　stared；　wondered　who　the　hell　this　guy　was；　telling　him　all　this　and　risking　a　slander　action。　Of　course；　everybody　in　the　village　was　saying　exactly　the　same　thing　so　he　probably　considered　himself　to　be　on　safe　ground。　The　man　had　an　air　of　affluence　about　him；　more　in　his　manner　than　his　mode　of　dress：　a　well…worn　tweed　sports　jacket　and　flannels；　long　out　of　fashion；　the　kind　you　found　elderly　gentlemen　on　bowling　greens　wearing；　topped　off　with　a　wide…brimmed　panama　hat　liberally　sprinkled　with　gnat　repellant。
　　
　　But　this　fellow　couldn't　be　more　than　fifty。　There　was　definitely　something　odd　about　him；　his　movements　jerky；　his　thin　lips　moving　mechanically　like　those　of　a　puppet；　lisping　as　though　he　had　some　slight　impediment　of　speech。
　　
　　'Vicar　Mannering's　a　crook；　too；'　the　stranger　went　on。　'I'll　give　you　an　instance。　It　was　always　the　custom　for　the　curate　to　have　the　Easter　Sunday　offering　and　the　vicar　of　the　mother　church　to　have　the　Whit　Sunday　one。　Oh　yes；　it'd　been　a　custom　for　years；　but　Mannering　suddenly　realised　that　the　Easter　congregation　was　almost　double　the　Whit　one。　So　the　greedy　blighter　got　the　bishop　to　swap　the　offertories　over　so　that　the　vicar　got　the　golden　egg。　That's　what　we're　up　against　in　the　Church　today；　believe　me；　sir。'
　　
　　Kent　found　himself　nodding。　The　buzz　of　conversation　around　him　seemed　to　have　receded　so　that　this　man　was　the　focal　point；　the　principal　actor　in　an　amateur　theatrical　production。　But　nobody　was　looking　at　them；　they　might　have　been　the　only　two　people　in　that　room　against　a　background　of　taped　sound　effects。
　　
　　'We've　had　another　meeting　tonight。　I　guess　if　these　villagers　had　their　way　they'd　make　a　huge　bonfire　and　burn　the　bishop；　Hurst；　and　Stone　on　it。　Probably　chuck　Vicar　Mannering　on　as　well　for　good　measure。　Incinerate　the　damned　lot　of　them　and　start　again　from　scratch。'　That　stilted　mouth　moved；　stretched　into　a　laugh；　a　sound　that　had　shivers　running　up　and　down　Kent's　spine。
　　
　　'You're　a　stranger　here；　sir；'　eyes　that　seemed　to　bore　into　Kent。　'But　you　can't　divorce　yourself　from　this　situation　because　the　cancer　within　the　Church　is　spreading　so　that　eventually　it'll　rot　us　all　like　some　right…wing　dictatorship　that　has　got　a　stranglehold　on　the　nation。　They've　misappropriated　funds　and　trusts　to　suit　themselves。　e；　sir；　let　me　show　you　the　state　of　the　church　roof。　There's　enough　moonlight　to　see　it　by。　It'll　collapse　before　long；　the　roof　I　mean；'　another　forced　laugh。　Td　like　you　to　see　for　yourself　so　that　you　can　go　back　to　wherever　you've　e　from　and　tell　your　friends　what's　happening　in　the　Church　today。　〃Spread　the　word〃；　eh！'
　　
　　Kent　didn't　want　to　go。　The　last　thing　he　wanted　to　do　was　to　go　back　to　that　cemetery　and　its　adjacent　ground。　He　even　tried　to　think　of　a　good　excuse　why　he　should　not　acpany　this　volatile　eccentric　on　a　moonlit　tour　of　consecrated　ground　but　he　failed　to　e　up　with　one。　Gulping　down　the　remainder　of　his　whisky　he　found　himself　nodding　his　agreement；　a　schoolboy　unwilling　to　concede　to　a　forceful　master's　whims。
　　
　　The　tall　man　smiled；　put　his　glass　back　on　the　bar。　Kent　saw　that　it　was　still　full；　some　kind　of　wine。　He　wondered　why　the　other　didn't　drink　it　up；　perhaps　they　would　be　returning　here　after　their　short　excursion　into　the　night。
　　
　　A　full　moon　cast　its　light　across　the　countryside；　illuminated　St　Monica's　Church　with　its　sagging　roof。　Somewhere　a　night　bird　was　calling　vehemently；　almost　as　though　it　was　screeching　some　kind　of　warning。　Kent　found　himself　hurrying；　almost　breaking　into　a　run　to　keep　up　with　his　panion's　gangling　gait。　What　the　hell　was　the　hurry？
　　
　　'Look　at　that；　it's　a　disgrace！'　the　tall　man's　voice　escalated　to　a　shriek　of　rage；　frustration；　a　long　arm　pointing　up　to　the　church　roof。　'They　had　the　money　to　repair　it　but　they've　squandered　it　so　now　they're　scrounging　off　the　parishioners。'
　　
　　God；　it　was　cold。　Kent　wished　he　had　gone　back　up　to　his　room　to　get　a　coat。　But　he　could　not　even　voice　a　protest；　just　as　though　his　brain　had　been　stupefied　by　some　kind　of　drug；　forced　to　follow　in　the　steps　of　the　other；　nod　his　agreement　to　every　statement。　Maybe　he　was　ill；　he　hadn't　left　his　room　at　all　and　was　dreaming　all　this；　the　beginnings　of　a　nightmarish　fever；　shivering　in　his　bed。　Soon　he'd　start　to　sweat。
　　
　　Somewhere　in　the　distance　thunder　was　rumbling。　At　least　the　noise　sounded　vaguely　reminiscent　of　an　electric　storm；　but　that　was　impossible　because　the　night　was　still　and　clear　with　a　spring　frost　in　the　air。　Like　a　series　of　explosions　that　went　on　and　on；　some　louder　than　others。　Vivid　flashes　lit　up　the　sky　against　a　spreading　glow　as　though　there　was　a　huge　fire　burning　a　few　miles　away。
　　

　　Kent　tensed。　That　noise；　a　buzz　that　was　growing　louder　and　louder；　a　vibration　ing　closer　all　the　time；　had　him　clutching　his　hands　to　his　ears　in　a　futile　attempt　to　shut　it　out。　He　wanted　to　scream　his　terror　aloud。
　　
　　'What　the　hells　happening？'　The　journalist　did　not　know　whether　he　managed　to　get　the　words　out　or　whether　he　just　heard　them　in　his　own　brain。
　　
　　Shapes　filled　the　moonlit　sky；　huge；　lumbering　bird…like　objects　flying　in　formation。　Planes！　Antiquated　bombers　that　he　recognised　from　illustrations　in　picture　books；　aircraft　that　were　outdated　long　before　the　advent　of　the　jet。　And　there　was　not　a　light　to　be　seen　amongst　the　entire　squadron　that　stretched　as　far　as　the　eye　could　see！
　　
　　'You　mean　you　don't　know'　incredulity　on　that　pallid　face；　the　silver　hair　glinting　in　the　moonlight。　'Those　are　the　Jerries；　the　Luftwaffe！　They've　bombed　Coventry　tonight；　razed　it　to　the　ground。　The　cathedral；　too。　That'll　teach　those　church　hypocrites　a　thing　or　two！'
　　
　　You're　mad；　Kent　decided；　his　brain　ree