gns.thedruidconnection-第4节

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　　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。
　　
　　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　e　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　pletely　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　plained　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；　pelling；　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　plaining？'
　　
　　'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？'
　　
　　'Because　it　is　past　Evensong　time；　sur。　Also；　you　are　not　the　vicar　here。'
　　
　　'I　have　been　instructed　by　the　bishop　personally　to　carry　out　a　service　in　this　church；'　Cleehopes　snapped；　'and　I　am　ordering　you　to　douse　that　fire　this　minute。　Otherwise　。　。　。　otherwise　I'll　have　you　sacked；　my　man！'
　　
　　'You'll　'ave　me　sacked；　sur；　will　you？'　the　other　laughed；　a　mirthless　sound　that　sent　a　chill　down　Cleehopes'　spine。　'Nobody　can　sack　me；　sur。　Not　even　the　bishop。'
　　
　　The　vicar　opened　his　mouth　to　reply　but　some　instinct　made　him　check　the　angry　retort；　a　sensation　of　awe　mingling　with　fear；　the　feeling　that　he　always　had　on　those　infrequent　occasions　when　he　came　face　to　face　with　Bishop　Boyce。　Only　this　time　the　feeling　escalated　beyond　the　barriers　of　awe　into　a　much　more　frightening　realm。　Terror！
　　
　　'And　what　is　this　service　you　were　goin'　to　conduct　in　the　church；　sur？'
　　
　　Cleehopes　swallowed　and　found　himself　looking　into　those　eyes　again。　They　were　glowing　redly　with　an　anger　that　was　fast　being　fanned　into　unbelievable　wrath；　a　fire　about　to　blaze　into　a　raging　inferno　like　that　bonfire　a　few　yards　away。　God；　the　stench　was　awful！

　　
　　'I　was　going　to　。　。　。　to　。　。　。　'　the　vicar　swallowed；　'conduct　a　service　of。。。　of　exorcism。'　Guilt　and　embarrassment　flooded　over　him　as　he　got　the　words　out。
　　
　　'A　service　of　exorcism；　sur！'　Those　eyes　seemed　to　suffuse　with　red　like　glowing　coals；　move　closer　together。　There　was　no　mistaking　the　an