gns.thegraveyardvultures-第7节

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　　The　original　village　was　much　the　same　as　it　had　always　been；　doors　and　windows　opening　directly　on　to　pavements；　a　small　general　store　valiantly　trying　to　pete　with　the　large　supermarket　in　the　new　part。　A　blacksmith's　shop；　horseriding　was　very　much　a　status　symbol　with　the　nouveaux　riche。　Then　the　church；　a　crumbling　fortress　which　had　been　overrun　by　the　godless　invaders　and　condemned　to　dereliction。　He　made　out　the　cemetery　adjoining　but　the　hedges　and　undergrowth　were　too　wild　and　struggling　to　afford　him　much　detail。
　　
　　The　'Dun　Cow'　（there　were　several　in　the　county　named　after　the　legendary　monster）　stood　at　the　far　end　of　the　street　beyond　the　rambling　vicarage。　While　the　main　edifice　still　retained　much　of　its　originality；　an　extension　twice　the　size　of　the　old　pub　had　been　built　on　at　the　rear；　cunningly　screened　from　the　road　by　architects　who　had　fought　for　and　finally　won　planning　permission。　A　disco　to　lure　the　teenagers　every　Saturday　night。
　　
　　Sabat　eased　his　car　into　the　spacious　car…park；　noted　the　deep　pot…holes　and　some　broken　bottles　which　had　not　been　picked　up。　The　'Dun　Cow'　was　making　its　profit；　it　had　no　time　to　consider　the　safety　and　convenience　of　its　clients。
　　
　　The　sign　over　the　door　stated　that　Herbert　Walley　was　licensed　to　sell　beer；　wines　and　spirits；　and　the　gentleman　himself　behind　the　lounge　bar　was　doing　exactly　that；　pouring　cloudy　pints　of　ale　while　dressed　in　a　collarless　striped　shirt　with　sleeves　rolled　up　above　the　elbow。　Once　a　powerful　man　his　muscles　were　running　to　fat　in　middle…age　and　his　expanding　waistline　was　a　fair　sign　that　he　drank　large　quantities　of　his　own　beer。
　　
　　'Yes；　sir'　Walley　looked　round　and　Sabat　was　quick　to　notice　an　unmistakable　southern　accent。　Another　stranger。
　　
　　'I'm　looking　for　acmodation　for　a　few　nights。'　Sabat　pulled　a　yellowing　meerschaum　pipe　from　his　pocket　and　began　stuffing　long…stranded　tobacco　into　the　bowl。　An　intermittent　smoker　he　preferred　a　pipe；　especially　on　those　occasions　when　he　indulged　in　cannabis；　for　so　much　of　the　expensive　substance　could　be　wasted　in　the　rolling　of　a　cigarette。
　　
　　'I　think　we　can　arrange　that；　sir；'　forced　jocularity；　'dinner；　bed　and　breakfast。　The　food's　excellent；　it　has　to　be　…　my　wife's　the　cook。'
　　
　　Sabat　nodded；　his　face　hidden　behind　a　cloud　of　blue　smoke。
　　
　　'If　you'd　like　a　drink　I'll　go　and　check　that　we've　a　room　vacant。　Bar　meals　at　lunchtime；　and　they're　good！'
　　
　　Sabat　winced　at　the　sales　talk　and　thought　again　about　those　wicked　slivers　of　glass　in　the　car…park。　Evil　came　in　varying　degrees。　Sipping　a　whisky　and　pep　he　glanced　casually　around　the　large　room；　noting　its　occupants　and　how　far　removed　they　were　from　traditional　villagers。　Some　were　obviously　reps　passing　through；　others　businessmen　who　had　probably　driven　in　from　the　factories　they　ran　on　the　nearby　trading　estate。　Alcohol　flowed　freely　and　it　was　difficult　to　believe　that　the　country　was　in　the　grip　of　an　economic　recession。
　　
　　Then　his　gaze　stopped　and　centred　on　a　red…haired　girl　by　the　bar。　She　was　seated　on　a　high　stool　and　Sabat　got　the　feeling　that　her　skirt　had　not　ridden　up　accidentally　so　that　it　showed　ample　shapely　thighs　and　just　a　glimpse　of　suspenders。　Not　bad　looking；　he　thought；　and　guessed　that　the　men　on　either　side　of　her　were　able　to　see　well　down　her　low…cut　blouse。　A　mole　on　her　left　cheek　added　to　her　sensuality　and　he　guessed　that　she　was　in　her　mid…to…late　twenties。　It　seemed　that　she　was　a　regular　customer　here；　and　his　sensitive　hearing　picked　out　her　name　across　the　hub…bub　of　the　bar。　Randa；　the　man　standing　directly　behind　her　was　calling　her；　his　hand　edging　further　and　further　around　her　waist。　That　would　be　short　for　Miranda；　Sabat　concluded；　and　wished　that　he　didn't　get　erections　so　frequently。
　　
　　He　glanced　at　the　girl　again；　felt　that　maybe　he'd　seen　her　somewhere　before；　or　it　could　be　that　she　was　just　a　type　…　a　type　that　turned　him　on。　Then　Herbert　Walley　was　breaking　into　his　reverie；　smilingly　advising　him　that　there　was　a　vacant　single　room　to　let；　Sabat　drained　his　drink；　nodded；　and　followed　the　landlord　through　an　interior　door。　A　clock　on　the　wall　showed　that　it　was　1。30pm。　This　afternoon　Mark　Sabat　would　begin　his　investigations。
　　
　　Tm…pleased　to　meet　you；　Mr　Sabat；'　the　ageing　Reverend　Maurice　Storton　dribbled　down　a　long…stemmed　pipe　and　made　sucking　noises　in　time　with　the　bobbing　of　his　oversized　bald　head。　Last　week　had　seen　his　seventy…fourth　birthday　as　well　as　the　ninth　anniversary　of　his　ordination　in　holy　orders。　He　reflected　that　the　Church　was　as　good　a　part…time　retirement　job　as　most；　a　steady　routine　until　somebody　began　digging　up　the　graves　in　the　cemetery。　That　was　when　life　really　became　difficult。
　　
　　I'd　like　to　examine　the　church　archives　back　as　far　as　they　go。'　Sabat　did　not　feel　his　usual　animosity　towards　the　Cloth　in　Storton's　case；　rather　pity；　plus　anger　towards　the　Church　hierarchy　for　the　way　in　which　they　were　exploiting　this　elderly　man；　giving　him　the　same　responsibility　that　a　full…time　curate　had　shouldered　in　the　past。　But　instead　of　a　salary；　all　Storton　received　was　rent…free　acmodation　in　this　tumbledown　vicarage。
　　
　　'The　police　have　taken　them　away；'　Storton　bubbled　an　apology　into　the　gooey　bowl　of　his　pipe；　then　removed　the　stem　from　his　mouth；　still　adhered　to　his　lips　by　a　string　of　spittle。
　　
　　'I　don't　know　when　they'll　bring　them　back　but　there's　nothing　much　they'll　learn　from　them；　just　dull　records；　like　a　register　of　churchwardens　and　authorised　lay　preachers。　You　could　always　contact　Detective　Inspector　Plowden；　I　suppose；　but　he's　very　officious　and　rather　rude；　too。'
　　
　　'I　don't　intend　to　work　with　the　police　unless　I　get　really　stuck。'　Sabat　decided　to　join　the　clergyman　in　a　pipe　of　tobacco　and　pulled　his　meerschaum　out　of　his　pocket。　'All　the　same；　it's　a　pity　he's　got　those　records。'
　　
　　'But　I　didn't　give　him　the　Domesday　Book。'　Storton　closed　an　eye　and　contorted　his　features　in　what　was　supposed　to　be　a　wink。　'Because　he　didn't　ask　for　it；　and　after　the　way　he　spoke　to　me　I　wasn't　going　to　offer　any　information。　I　don't　suppose　he　even　knows　it　exists。　I　expect　the　vicar's　forgotten　all　about　it；　too。'
　　
　　'The　Domesday　Book？'
　　
　　'Yes；　quite　an　interesting　record　of　parish　life；　piled　by　parishioners　in　the　last　half　of　the　last　century。　You　know；　snippets　from　newspapers　concerning　the　village；　and　a　few　handwritten　articles。　I　suppose　it　gave　them　something　to　do　on　long　winter　evenings　when　there　was　no　television　or　cinema。'
　　
　　'And　you've　actually　gol　this　book？'　Sabat　leaned　forward　intently；　his　pipe　forgotten。
　　
　　'Oh；　yes；'　Storton　beamed。　'It　lay　gathering　dust　in　the　vestry　for　years　and　one　day　I　decided　to　bring　it　home　and　have　a　read　at　it。　It's　upstairs　in　my　bedroom。'
　　
　　'May　I　see　it？'
　　
　　'But　of　course。　I'll　go　and　fetch　it　for　you。'
　　
　　Sabat　tensed；　his　whole　body　suddenly　a　car　with　the　choke　fully　extended。　He　paced　the　old…fashioned　drawing　room　listening　to　the　clergyman's　shuffling　footsteps　going　upstairs　and　across　the　floor　of　the　room　directly　above。　It　seemed　an　eternity　before　Maurice　Storton　returned；　carrying　a　large；　stained　and　faded　leather…bound　exercise　book。
　　
　　Sabat　took　it　from　him；　his　fingers　trembling　as　he　turned　the　pages；　hope　that　flared　and　died　and　flared　again。　The　pages　were　a　crazy　jumble　of　unrelated　subjects；　some　pasted　newspaper　cuttings　that　had　yellowed　with　age；　articles　in　copper…plate　handwriting　that　needed　to　be　deciphered　slowly　and　carefully。
　　
　　'It'll　take　me　hours　to　go　through　this；'　he　muttered　at　length。
　　
　　'Then　take　it　with　you。'　The　other　was　struggling　to　get　his　pipe　going　again。　'Quite　frankly；　I　haven't　had　much　success　with　it^　my　eyesight　isn't　what　it　used　to　be。　But　I'd　be　glad　if　you'd　let　me　have　it　back　because　it's　church　property　and　just　suppose　the　vicar　suddenly　remembered　its　existence。'
　　
　　'Of　course。'　Sabat　rose　to　his　feet。　'If　I　can　get　an　uninterrupted　few　hours　alone　in　my　hotel　room　I　should　be　finished　with　it　tomorrow　and　I'll　drop　it　back　to　you。'
　　
　　'A　terrible　business。'　Storton　shuffled　to　the　door　to　see　his　visitor　out。　'Let　us　hope　that　now　the　police　are　here　these　vile　people　will　leave　our　churchyard　alone。'
　　
　　'Perhaps；'　Sabat　smiled　and　hoped　that　the　coven　would　return　to　St　Adrian's　churchyard；　it　was　his　one　chance　of　getting　to　grips　with　them。　But　for　the　moment　they　seemed　to　have　vanished　into　thin　air。
　　
　　Perusing　the　Domesday　Book　proved　to　be　a　far　bigger　and　more　irksome　task　than　even　Sabat　had　anticipated。　Dozens　of　cuttings　and　entries　featured　church　fetes；　the　appointment　of　church　wardens；　vergers　and　vicars。　He　resorted　to　his　pipe　again；　wondering　if　he　was　wasting　his　time。　Then　he　saw　the　faded　handwritten　entry　in　purple　ink；　every　letter　carefully　fashioned　by　the　writer；　and　headed　Heresy　Trial。
　　
　　A　date　had　been　inked　in　the　margin　…　1871。
　　
　　Sabat's　spine　tingled　and　a　tiny　shiver　ran　up　and　down　it　when　he　picked　out　the　name　W