gns.thedruidconnection-第3部分

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　　'Yea；　though　I　walk　through　the　valley　of　the　shadow　of　death；　I　will　fear　no　evil　。。。　*　He　wondered　if　he　spoke　aloud　but　it　was　impossible　to　tell　because　that　chanting　outside　had　risen　to　a　deafening　crescendo。　A　shout；　a　word　or　a　name　that　was　recognisable：　'Edda　。　。　。　Edda　。　。　。　Edda
　　
　　Now　he　was　clinging　to　a　frail　thread　of　life；　fighting　to　stay　conscious　even　though　he　yearned　for　the　peace　of　death。　Screaming　because　his　feet　were　beginning　to　smoulder；　smelling　his　own　roasting　flesh　and　being　unable　to　vomit。
　　
　　Then　leaping　flames　and　indescribable　agony；　the　smoky　orange　blackness　enveloping　him　as　his　cassock　caught　fire　and　inferno　roared　its　wrath　like　an　enraged　dragon。
　　
　　And　somewhere；　far　away；　the　Oke　Priests　were　still　chanting。
　　
　　'Edda　。　。　。　Edda　。　。　。　Edda　；　。　；　'
　　
　　
　　　CHAPTER　TWO
　　　
　　BISHOP　BOYCE　wanted　to　vomit　at　the　first　opportunity。　Vicar　Mannering　had　done　so　openly　in　St　Monica's　churchyard　and　the　gathering　of　police　officers　had　not　even　seemed　to　notice。　Yet；　Boyce　told　himself；　it　might　be　all　right　for　a　mere　vicar　to　spew　in　public；　his　plexion　a　greenish　hue；　but　it　was　not　being　for　a　bishop；　the　head　of　the　diocese。　He　gulped；　tasted　the　sharp　acrid　tang　of　bile　in　his　throat；　and　determined　not　to　look　again　at　that　charred；　virtually　unrecognisable　thing　that　lay　in　an　area　of　scorched　grass　between　two　tombstones。　The　one　on　the　right；　that　once…impressive　monument　to　Sir　Henry　Grayne；　looked　as　though　somebody　had　attempted　to　remove　the　lush　growth　of　moss　from　the　marble　with　a　blowtorch。　They　had　only　succeeded　in　rendering　it　to　a　blackened　stump　like　a　giant　decayed　tooth。
　　
　　'You're　sure　this　is　。　。　。　'　the　Detective　Inspector　almost　said；　'〃was〃　。。。　the　Reverend　Owen？'
　　
　　'It's　the　curate；　all　right/　Boyce　turned　away；　took　a　deep　breath　and　hoped　that　he　wouldn't　throw　up。　'I　recognise　the　skull　formation　。　。　。　also　that　ring　he's　wearing。'　The　former　was　a　lie；　no；　more　of　a　guess。　The　latter　was　true。　At　least；　Owen　always　wore　a　signet　ring。
　　
　　'Well；　we'll　have　to　leave　the　CID　chaps　to　scour　this　churchyard。'　The　police　officer　stroked　a　neat　pencil　moustache　and　was　only　too　willing　to　retire　to　the　local　station　and　mence　his　written　report。　Anything　to　get　away　from　that！
　　
　　'I　suppose　。　。　。　*　Boyce　drew　a　deep　breath　and　was　well　aware　how　his　heart　was　pounding　inside　his　fleshy　chest；　'I　suppose　you've　no　idea　。　。　。　I　mean；　how　could　a　body　just　bee　incinerated　like　that？'
　　
　　'I've　no　idea；'　Detective　Inspector　Groome　spoke　abruptly。　'There　does　not　appear　to　have　been　any　fire　except　that　which　consumed　the　body。　Although　the　undergrowth　and　that　adjoining　tomb　are　scorched；　they　aren't　burned。^
　　
　　'Perhaps　he　was　struck　by　lightning；'　Boyce　offered；　habitually　extending　his　tongue　and　licking　a　small　wart　which　grew　on　his　thick　lower　lip。
　　
　　'There　was　no　storm　last　night。'
　　
　　'A　thunderbolt　then。'
　　
　　'Or　the　Hammer　of　Thor；'　the　policeman　said　sarcastically　as　he　turned　away。　'These　boys　will　e　up　with　the　answer　in　due　course；　Bishop。　In　the　meantime　I've　got　work　to　do。　I'll　be　in　touch　with　you。'
　　
　　Bishop　Boyce　stood　there　in　the　lychgate　and　waited　for　his　posure　to　return。　He　was　badly　shaken　but　he　hoped　the　others　had　not　noticed　it。　Certainly　Mannering　hadn't。　If　there　had　been　foul　play　then　it　was　beyond　his　own　ken。　And　that　was　what　really　worried　him。
　　
　　Bishop　Boyce　stood　six　feet；　four…and…a…half　inches　in　his　stockinged　feet。　He'd　gained　a　Blue　at　Oxford　for　rugby　and　had　boxed　well　in　those　far　off　days　when　his　huge　body　had　been　rippling　muscle。　Now；　at　fifty；　that　muscle　had　turned　to　fat；　and　the　small　eyes　which　were　almost　buried　in　the　fleshy　sockets　demanded　that　glasses　be　worn；　rimless　ones　that　gave　him　a　sort　of　owlish　appearance。　His　dark　hair　had　silvered　and　was　thinning　outwards　from　the　crown。　During　his　appearances　at　cathedral　services　his　capacious　robes　hid　the　full　extent　of　his　expanding　stomach；　and　rarely　was　he　to　be　seen　publicly　except　on　diocesan　business。　He　liked　to　think　that　people　described　him　as　'a　big　man'。　Size　was　imposing；　authoritative；　it　dominated　lesser　men。
　　
　　Once　back　in　his　limousine；　his　chauffeur　having　been　instructed　to　return　to　the　palace；　Boyce　pulled　a　cigar　out　of　his　leather　case；　expertly　bit　off　the　end　and　spat　it　through　the　partly　open　window　with　no　small　degree　of　accuracy。　He　drew　the　rich　havana　smoke　down　into　his　lungs　and　expelled　it　slowly。　He　wouldn't　throw　up　now。　Owen　was　dispensable；　as　was　any　mediocre　curate。　Young　men　were　queuing　up　to　join　the　Church；　professing　to　having　received　a　'calling'　because　jobs　were　scarce。　So　they　kidded　the　Church　to　let　them　kid　the　people。　Bloody　fools；　it　was　a　career　just　like　industry　or　banking。　If　you　were　clever　enough　you　got　to　the　top　and　then　other　opportunities　opened　up　to　you　。　。　。　like　that　tract　of　Sand　adjoining　St　Monica's　churchyard。　That　fool　Owen　might　have　had　the　courtesy　to　get　himself　burned　up　somewhere　else。　The　last　thing　the　bishop　wanted　was　for　the　police　to　start　nosing　around　too　much　just　there。
　　
　　Back　at　the　palace　he　moved　swiftly　in　spite　of　his　bulk；　strode　down　the　long　carpeted　corridor　to　his　study　with　an　ease　reminiscent　of　his　athletic　days　at　university。　By　the　time　he　reached　his　desk；　lifted　the　telephone　receiver　off　its　cradle　and　began　to　dial；　his　body　was　damp　with　sweat　but　that　had　nothing　to　do　with　his　recent　exertions。
　　
　　The　call　was　answered　almost　immediately　at　the　other　end；　a　girl's　voice　informing　him　that　he　was　connected　to　the　offices　of　the　county　council。
　　
　　'Get　me　the　Planning　Officer'　he　barked；　and　waited　again；　drumming　his　fingers　nervously　on　the　desktop。
　　
　　'Stone　speaking。'　Clipped　tones　that　reminded　him　of　that　inspector　in　the　cemetery。　Damn　it；　the　police　were　getting　on　his　nerves。
　　
　　'Boyce　here。'　Impatient；　chewing　on　the　soggy　butt　of　that　cigar　which　had　gone　out　on　the　journey　back　here。
　　
　　'Bishop；　why　。　。　。　'
　　
　　'Look；　I'll　have　to　be…brief。　We've　run　into　a　bit　of　bother　and　at　the　moment　I　don't　know　what　it's　all　about；　but　suffice　to　say　that　the　police　are　swarming　all　over　our　patch　of　land。'
　　
　　'Oh；　my　God！'
　　
　　'Don't　panic。　They　can't　possibly　suspect　that　we　set　up　this　deal　with　Darren　Hurst　but　there's　no　knowing　how　far　they　will　pry　into　it。　Just　be　warned；　don't　have　any　documents　accessible　which　could　turn　their　attention　to　us。　Get　me？'
　　
　　'Sure；　sure。　But　why　the　hell　are　the　police　at　St　Monica's？'
　　
　　'A　curate's　somehow　got　himself　roasted　to　a　cinder。'
　　
　　'Jesus　Christ！　How？'
　　
　　'I　don't　know　but　doubtless　tomorrow's　editions　of　the　more　sensational　papers　will　e　up　with　a　few　theories。　But　we　don't　have　to　let　that　bother　us。　pletion　date　for　the　sale　is　only　seven　weeks　away。　It　looks　as　though　there　might　be　an　appeal　by　these　damned　villagers　but　I'm　looking　to　you　to　squash　that。　This　curate；　Owen；　the　one　who　got　himself　all　frizzled　up；　chaired　a　meeting　at　the　village　hall　last　night。　Mannering　should　have　gone　but　he　chickened　out。　I'm　just　wondering　if　this　is　some　crazy　way　of　getting　revenge　on　us；　some　nutcase　gunning　for　us。'
　　
　　'Jesus！'　Stone　caught　his　breath。　'Then　none　of　us　are　safe。'
　　
　　'I've　another　idea　but　I　won't　go　into　that　now；'　Boyce　finally　crushed　out　the　remains　of　his　cigar　in　the　heavy　glass　ashtray；　'but　I　just　want　you　to　play　it　carefully。　Seven　weeks　time　and　you　and　I'll　be　splitting　Hurst's　backhander。　In　hard　cash。　So　play　it　cool　and　nothing　can　go　wrong。'
　　
　　The　bishop　replaced　the　receiver　and　stared　up　at　the　ornate　ceiling；　allowed　his　gaze　to　wander　idly　round　the　walls　until　his　eyes　rested　on　a　faded　oil　painting　of　a　flabby…faced　man　with　long　silver　hair。　The　features　weren't　unlike　his　own　but　it　had　to　be　coincidence　because　there　was　no　direct　bloodline。　Just　another　bishop。　The　small　plaque　beneath　the　frame　read　'BISHOP　AVENSON　1720…42'。
　　
　　Boyce　wondered　how　many　people　had　read　the　history　of　Bishop　Avenson。　Look　closely　and　you　saw　the　portrait　of　a　man　who　was　far　from　benign　and　godly；　eyes　that　tried　to　avoid　your　gaze　even　on　the　canvas。　Thin　lips　that　bespoke　cruelty。　The　artist；　whose　indecipherable　signature　had　almost　faded　out　of　the　bottom　right…hand　corner；　had　been　honest　at　any　rate。　He　hadn't　tried　to　cover　anything　up。
　　
　　Boyce　broke　out　into　a　sweat　again；　rivulets　of　perspiration　trickling　down　his　broad　forehead。　Avenson；　too；　had　died　in　the　cemetery　of　St　Monica's　church　in　the　eighteenth　century！　The　ancient　records　spoke　of　his　charred　body　being　discovered　one　morning　amongst　'the　tombstones　where　he　is　reputeth　to　have　supped　with　the　devile。'
　　
　　There　were　conflicting　accounts　of　how　a　burned　corpse　had　been　found　in　'a　charred　place　with　no　evidence　of　fire　about'。　Like　Philip　Owen。
　　
　　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　w