Guy N. Smith Sabat 1 The Graveyard Vultures

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him and on his return to the village had brought death with him, albeit
seemingly from natural causes, a kind of harbinger of doom. 'You'd no business
coming back here obstructing police investigations.'
'One moment.' Sabat held up a hand, permitted himself a faint mirthless smile.
'First, I have in no way obstructed your enquiries. I have merely carried out
an exorcism in St. Adrian's Church and its grounds in accordance with a
request made by Bishop Wentnor. This is a free country, I can travel and stay
anywhere I like. I would have returned to the 'Dun Cow' except that fire
destroyed the residential quarters
'While you were staying there!' An innuendo that was only too obvious.
'You'll be accusing me of arson next, Inspector.' Sabat laughed. 'As I was
saying, the Reverend Storton, with whom I had struck up a friendship before my
untimely accident, offered to put me up for a few days while I completed the
task which I came here for.'
'And you have completed it?' An uneasiness in the policeman's tone, neck
craning forward in his eagerness to hear the answer to his question. A prayer
to whatever deity he worshipped that Sabat would be leaving promptly.
'I think so. I have completed the exorcisms but, of course, I shall have to
speak with Bishop Wentnor before I finally take my leave.'
Plowden caught his breath, his fists clenched so that his fingernails bit deep
into the palms of both hands.
'You're like a bloody vulture,' he rasped. 'Death wherever you go. Well, with
any luck we'll be making an arrest for the Dowson killing before long and I
guess that will lead us to this vile cult!
You're bluffing, Sabat thought. You're no nearer a solution now than you were
three weeks ago. 'I wish you luck.' He stood up. 'Now, if you've nothing more
to question me about 1 '11 go and see the Bishop.'
'We'll know where to find you if we want you.' Plowden's eyes narrowed. 'And
we may just do that.'
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Sabat glanced at his watch as he stepped outside the local police headquarters
into the dazzling sunshine of a late August day. Midday. There was much to do
before nightfall and time was running against him.
'There's your cheque.' There was an air of offhand reluctance in the way
Bishop Wentnor slid the oblong piece of pink paper across the desk. 'The
Church Commissioners, like myself, thought it was extortionate but thankfully
the whole business has progressed beyond and away from St Adrian's.'
An attitude of selfishness that was not lost on Sabat as he checked the
amount, folded the cheque carefully and placed it in an inside pocket, aware
of the slim comforting bulk of his .38 as he did so.
'Yes, I'm afraid it's a more far-reaching business than even I imagined when I
took the case. It has its evil roots farther a field.'
'But as far as you are concerned the case is closed,' Wentnor's chin jutted
stubbornly. 'With hindsight I
think even the Archbishop regrets your own involvement. And the police have
protested most strongly about your interference. However, I must make it quite
plain, Sabat, that the Church has now terminated
its agreement with you. We will not condone any further meddling in this
affair on your part.'
Words that echoed those spoken by Detective Inspector Plowden. Possibly even
the Commissioner of
Scotland Yard had been persuaded to contact the Archbishop. Sabat smiled to
himself as he left the
Bishop's Palace. From now on, he had to play a lone hand, every man against
him, and no cheque to reward his efforts. His sole motive now was one of
revenge; a score to be settled against those who had tried to cremate him
alive and were even now still bent on his annihilation. It was the kind of
fight he enjoyed best.
Sabat hoped that he had picked the right mortuary, a semi-rural place with its
chapel of rest set amid a grove of towering pine trees, the kind of place
where a deceased curate would be taken while funeral arrangements were
pending. He had to take a chance on it. To have made enquiries might have led
the shrewd and vindictive Plowden to charging Sabat for what he was about to
do; neither did he dare to go on to the astral in search of the corpse.
He crouched beyond the outer fringe of trees waiting for dusk to turn to full [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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