gns.thedruidconnection-第5部分

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　sweating　now；　grunting　with　the　sheer　physical　effort　of　prodding　that　smouldering　pyre；　ventilating　it　so　that　the　dead　vegetation　burst　into　orange　tongues　of　flame　that　licked　greedily　at　the　now　virtually　unrecognisable　form　that　lay　on　top　of　it。　Every　so　often　the　small　corpse　shifted；　settled；　as　though　it；　too；　was　readily　co…operating　on　the　first　stage　of　its　journey　into　the　unknown。
　　
　　The　fumes　were　no　longer　acrid　and　putrefying　to　the　sweating　bald…headed　stoker。　Indeed；　he　inhaled　them　as　he　might　have　done　the　aroma　from　a　roasting　joint　of　Sunday　sirloin。　A　state　of　timelessness　prevailed　yet　he　worked　with　a　zest；　for　this　innocent　babe's　passage　into　the　beyond　must　not　be　delayed。
　　
　　Finally　the　dawn　came；　a　grey　cold　light　that　crept　almost　apologetically　across　the　churchyard　of　St　Monica's　and　revealed　a　weary　old　man　dressed　in　torn　and　smoke…grimed　clerical　attire　scraping　the　remaining　embers　of　his　bonfire　into　a　small　heap；　inhaling　the　last　wisps　of　smoke　with　relish。
　　
　　And　when　the　fire　was　finally　burned　out　the　Reverend　Cleehopes　stuck　his　fork　into　the　soft　ground　and　laughed　aloud　his　satisfaction　at　a　job　well　done。　There　was　no　sign　of　the　man　in　the　bowler　hat　but　doubtless　he　would　be　back　to　inspect；　to　see　that　his　orders　had　been　carried　out…　He　would　be　well　pleased。
　　
　　The　vicar　wandered　away　…　that　slow　shuffle　again　…　on　an　aimless　circular　tour　of　the　tombstones；　seeing　a　briefcase　standing　in　the　middle　of　the　path　leading　to　the　church　steps　but　not　recognising　it。　It　was　none　of　his　business。
　　
　　The　sun　was　rising　now；　its　rays　bringing　a　faint　spring　warmth　to　the　countryside；　playing　on　that　shiny　bald　head。
　　
　　Cleehopes　was　unaware　of　the　stranger's　approach　until　a　hand　rested　on　his　shoulder　and　halted　his　ramblings。　He　spun　round；　thought　for　one　moment　that　it　was　his　panion　of　the　nocturnal　hours　returned；　but　instead　gazed　into　unfamiliar　features；　steely　grey　eyes　and　a　neat　pencil　moustache。
　　
　　'Are　you　all　right；　Vicar？'　the　eyebrows　raised　slightly。
　　
　　'But　of　course；'　the　clergyman　chuckled；　then　burst　into　a　torrent　of　laughter。　'I　have　just　pleted　a　cremation；　sir。　Would　you　care　to　e　and　see　for　yourself？'
　　
　　Detective　Inspector　Groome's　spine　tingled　and　he　nodded。
　　
　　'OK；　Vicar；　lead　on。　I'd　be　interested　to　see　what　you've　been　up　to　all　night。　The　bishop　was　getting　very　worried　when　he　realised　you　hadn't　returned。　。　。　'
　　
　　
　　　CHAPTER　THREE
　　　
　　'THAT　is　all　I　can　tell　you；　Sabat。'　Bishop　Boyce　fingered　the　wart　on　his　lower　lip　nervously　and　decided　he　didn't　like　the　man　seated　opposite　him　one　little　bit。　Self…confident　to　the　point　of　arrogance　and　no　vestige　of　respect。　He　hadn't　requested　permission　to　light　that　rank…smelling　Meerschaum　pipe；　either。　The　fact　that　the　bishop　was　smoking　a　cigar　was　no　excuse　for　visitors　to　this　study　to　partake　of　the　pleasures　of　tobacco。　Nevertheless；　this　man's　presence　was　a　necessity　now　that　Vicar　Cleehopes　had　failed　in　his　exorcism　and　was　at　this　moment　babbling　incoherently　about　the　importance　of　cremation　in　a　mental　hospital。
　　
　　Sabat　didn't　like　clergy；　his　obvious　contempt　ranged　from　bishops　down　to　curates。　Nevertheless　there　were　times　when　he　was　forced　to　co…operate　with　them　in　order　to　fight　against　his　enemy；　the　principle　of　evil　made　flesh。
　　
　　Had　he　not　satisfactorily　concluded　that　business　of　those　who　sought　to　resurrect　the　bones　of　one　who　ranked　as　the　devil's　henchmen　in　the　years　when　he　walked　in　human　form？'　Now　yet　another　form　of　evil　was　abroad；　one　which　consumed　corpses　in　unholy　cremation　and　rendered　a　petent　exorcist　to　a　mindless　being。　And　Sabat　had　known　Cleehopes　during　his　own　days　in　the　ministry　before　Mark　Sabat　had　cast　off　his　holy　orders　and　joined　the　ranks　of　the　SAS。
　　
　　'Certainly　I'll　look　into　this　business；　Bishop；'　Sabat　permitted　himself　a　rare　smile　that　seemed　to　accentuate　the　three…inch　scar　down　his　left　cheek；　a　white　blaze　in　a　sallow　plexion。　'I'll　need　to　work　unhindered；　though；　and　in　my　own　way。　Perhaps　you　would　be　good　enough　to　inform　this　Detective　Inspector　Groome　accordingly。'
　　
　　Bishop　Boyce　nodded；　drew　heavily　on　his　cigar；　and　studied　the　other　with　reluctant　admiration。　This　man　was　as　hard　as　they　came；　one　hundred　and　eighty　pounds　of　sheer　solid　muscle。　Aquiline　features　made　all　the　more　fierce　by　that　vivid　cheek　scar　and　sallow　plexion。　His　height　was　deceptive　when　he　was　seated　but　when　standing　he　was　well　over　six　feet。　Black　hair　falling　to　the　collar　of　his　dark　corduroy　suit。　It　wasn't　a　suit　if　you　looked　more　closely；　the　jacket　was　a　shade　or　two　lighter　than　the　trousers。　In　some　ways　he　reminded　Boyce　of　a　western　gunfighter；　only　a　thousand　times　more　dangerous。　By　repute　Sabat　was　not　a　man　to　be　trifled　with；　when　you　met　him　you　realised　that　the　stories　you'd　heard　weren't　just　wild　rumours。
　　
　　Sabat　had　once　been　in　the　priesthood；　the　very　thought　had　Bishop　Boyce　biting　hard　on　his　cigar。　There　was　nothing　Christian　about　this　guy。　Rumour；　again；　had　it　that　Sabat　had　undergone　a　youthful　homosexual　experience　which　had　driven　him　to　the　Church　to　seek　repentance。　Instead　he'd　found　a　burning　hatred　and　had　cast　off　the　cloth　in　favour　of　an　SAS　uniform；　a　potential　killer　seeking　a　means　by　which　to　mit　legalised　murder。
　　
　　There'll　be　a　fee；'　Sabat's　eyes　hardened　like　chips　of　dark　granite。　An　oblique　jibe　that　he　savoured。
　　
　　'I　rather　thought　there　would　be；'　the　bishop　regarded　him　coldly。　'I've　never　had　to　pay　an　exorcist　before。'
　　
　　'It　might　not　be　a　straightforward　exorcism。'
　　
　　'What　d'you　mean？'
　　
　　'You　haven't　told　me　about　Bishop　Avenson；'　Sabat　inclined　his　head　towards　the　oil…painting　which　hung　to　his　left。　'Whatever's　going　on　it　goes　back　as　far　as　1742；　maybe　a　lot　further。　Avenson　was　found　all　burned　up；　just　like　Owen。　And　your　last　exorcist　was　discovered　with　an　obsession　for　bonfires。　We're　not　up　against　just　an　ordinary　spirit。　Whatever　it　is；　it's　dangerous　and　I　don't　risk　my　life；　maybe　worse；　for　nothing。'
　　
　　Boyce　started　visibly。　Damn　this　Sabat　fellow；　he'd　been　researching　the　history　of　St　Monica's。　The　prying　type。
　　
　　'I　didn't　think　Avenson's　fate　could　possibly　have　anything　to　do　with　what　happened　in　1982；　nearly　two　hundred　and　fifty　years　later。'
　　
　　'Nothing　can　be　overlooked。　I'd　say　there's　a　direct　link。　Tell　me；　Bishop；　this　guy　Cleehopes；　what　had　he　been　burning　on　the　bonfire？'
　　
　　'Just　grass　and　weeds。　We　had　a　mowing　contractor　in　to　tidy　up　the　churchyard　about　a　fortnight　ago　and　he'd　left　a　pile　of　cuttings。　Cleehopes　apparently　set　fire　to　them。'
　　
　　'Nothing　else？'
　　
　　'Not　as　far　as　I　know。　The　police　sifted　through　the　ashes　but　they　never　told　me　they'd　found　anything。'
　　
　　'Well；　I'll　check　with　Groome　anyway。　Now；　the　fee；　Bishop。　I　work　for　five　hundred　a　week　plus　expenses。'
　　
　　'Daylight　robbery；'　Boyce's　thick　lips　tightened；　the　end　of　his　cigar　glowing　red。
　　
　　'Not　when　you　take　the　risks　I　take。　However；　if　you　think　I'm　too　expensive　。　。　。
　　
　　The　bishop　pulled　a　drawer　open；　took　out　the　diocesan　expenses　cheque　book。　His　orders　had　e　from　a　higher　authority；　from　Westminster　itself　where　he　had　been　informed　that　Sabat　had　worked　for　the　Church　before。　It　was　neither　Bishop　Boyce's　own　money　nor　his　place　to　argue。　Hastily　he　scribbled　out　a　cheque；　tore　the　perforation　and　slid　the　oblong　of　yellow　paper　across　the　desk。　T　just　hope　you　get　it　all　settled　up　in　a　week；　Sabat。'
　　
　　'So　do　I；'　Sabat　smiled　humourlessly　beneath　his　heavy　moustache。　'I'll　need　acmodation；　too。'
　　
　　'You　can　have　the　use　of　the　curate's　house；'　the　bishop's　eyes　hooded。　'And　I'll　be　glad　if　you'll　be　as　unobtrusive　as　possible。　The　newspapers　have　gone　to　town　on　this　business　and　this　kind　of　publicity　doesn't　do　the　Church　any　good。'
　　
　　'You　won't　even　know　I'm　around；'　Sabat　smiled　again　and　turned　on　his　heel。
　　
　　After　the　door　had　closed　behind　his　visitor；　Bishop　Boyce　drew　heavily　on　his　cigar。　Sabat　made　him　uneasy；　the　tall　dark　man　wasn't　like　other　men；　more　like　a　hunting　beast　of　prey　and　you　just　hoped　it　wasn't　you　he　was　after。　Because　if　he　was　he'd　run　you　down　for　sure。
　　
　　There　was　a　frown　on　Sabat's　face　as　he　made　his　way　through　the　palace　to　where　his　silver　Daimler　stood　sedately。　He　didn't　like　Boyce　and　that　wasn't　just　because　the　man　was　a　。hypocritical　bishop。　He　had　the　kind　of　intuition　that　Sabat　had　learned　not　to　ignore　in　the　past；　inbuilt　alarm　systems　in　his　own　body　sounding　a　warning。　He　would　not　ignore　them。
　　
　　It　was　that　painting　hanging　in　Boyce's　study　that　he　could　not　get　off　his　mind。　Bishop　Avenson　…　a　portrait　of　evil。　God；　the　likeness　was　uncanny；　enough　to　have　every　nerve　in　Mark　Sabat's　body　tensing　like　steel　cables　at　full　stretch。　The　features；　the　expression；　so　reminiscent　of　his　own　brother　Quentin；　the　most　evil　man　this　century！
　　
　　Sabat　slid　behind　the　wheel　of　the　Daimler　and　sat　there　staring　across　the　palace　gardens；　unseeing　except　in　his　own　mind。　Even　now　he　thought　he　could　hear　Quentin's　voice　somewhere　in　the　recesses　of　his　own　brain。　'I'm　not　dead；　Mark　Sabat。　Still　I　live　on；　for　I　am　you！'
　　
　　Mark　Sabat　felt　the　clamminess　of　cold　sweat；　his　shirt　clinging　to　his　body；　and　in　his　mind　he　saw　a　wooded　mountainside；　a　wide　clearing　which　even　the　birds　and　beasts　of　the　wild　shunned。　For　it　was　here　that　his　own　brother　Quentin　had　chosen　his　final　refuge；　a　bastion　of　evil　in　the　mountains。　He　had　been　known　throughout　the　continents　of　the　world　as　'Satan's　henchman'；　pursued　by　the　bined　forces　of　the　law　who　secretly　hoped　that　they　would　not　catch　up　with　him；　relentlessly　hunted　by　Mark　Sabat。　And　it　was　in　this　very　clearing　that　the　final　confrontation　had　taken　place。
　　
　　Sabat　shuddered；　recalled　how　his　own　extraordinary　powers　of　exorcism　had　been　overshadowed　by　those　of　the　most　evil　man　known　to　mankind。　Exhumed　corpses　lay　beside　the　three　open　graves；　further　p