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The journalist crept up the flight of narrow winding stairs； winced every time a board creaked。 God； his head ached； a stabbing pain as if somebody was boring into his skull with a skewer。 A wave of dizziness had him swaying on the landing； clutching the carved oak rail in case he should fall。 A few seconds and the sensation passed and with a sigh of relief he made it into his room。
The sight of that single bed made him aware just how exhausted he was； less than an hour's sleep in the last twenty…four and that brief rest was only due to an uppercut by Sabat； goddamn the fellow！
Kent pushed the bolt home on the door and flung himself； still fully dressed； on to the bed。 Right now he didn't give a damn for Sabat； nor Sheenah； nor anybody else。 He wasn't budging from this bed for any of them。 They could all go to hell as far as he was concerned。
The room was dark when Kent awoke； a slow process； gathering his thoughts gradually； trying to piece the events of the past day together。 Disorientated； glancing at the luminous dial of his wristwatch； seeing that it was nine o'clock and trying to decide whether it was a。m。 or p。m。
His headache was gone； he felt refreshed。 It had to be nighttime。 That meant he had slept for about fifteen hours； a deep sleep interspersed with nightmarish dreams。 It was difficult to determine the borderline between dreams and reality after the night before； sanity or madness。
Kent swung his feet off the bed and switched on a table lamp。 Methodically he began to plan what he was going to do。 For a start； Sabat and that girl were crazy and no way was the Fleet Street man going to get involved in any more of that hocus…pocus。 It was all some kind of trickery； he decided； both sides trying to deceive the other by creating optical illusions； together with some kind of sleight of hand； like conjurers did。 The real story he was seeking didn't lie there。 Beneath it all lay the big scoop； corruption involving bishops and vicars and trustees and crooked builders。 That was the feature article he needed； not a lot of mumbo…jumbo that half his paper's readership would just skim through and forget all about ten minutes later。 Something sensational that would rock the nation； scandal that would shock church coffee mornings to the core。
To hell with Sabat； this was where their trails parted。 Kent let himself out of his room and went downstairs。
The lounge bar was packed to capacity； a hubbub of conversation all around him as he。 pushed his way to the bar。 Kent leaned against an upright beam； sensed a wave of dizziness； then steadied。 Kent seemed to feel heady； experienced a kind of unreality as though he was a spectator to his own actions。 During those brief seconds of mental aberration he had presumably functioned quite normally； found himself with a glass of whisky in his hand； its sharp flavour on his palate； and apparently engaged in conversation with a tall； silver…haired man。
' 。。。 this bishop fellow's an out…and…out rogue；' the other had a soft lilting voice； yet manding so that Kent found himself listening。 'He's getting a fat pay…off from this builder； Hurst； for the sale of the land。 And nobody can damned well prove a thing。 Stone； the planning officer； is in it too； another pay…out to get the green…belt clause made null and void。'
Kent stared； wondered who the hell this guy was； telling him all this and risking a slander action。 Of course； everybody in the village was saying exactly the same thing so he probably considered himself to be on safe ground。 The man had an air of affluence about him； more in his manner than his mode of dress： a well…worn tweed sports jacket and flannels； long out of fashion； the kind you found elderly gentlemen on bowling greens wearing； topped off with a wide…brimmed panama hat liberally sprinkled with gnat repellant。
But this fellow couldn't be more than fifty。 There was definitely something odd about him； his movements jerky； his thin lips moving mechanically like those of a puppet； lisping as though he had some slight impediment of speech。
'Vicar Mannering's a crook； too；' the stranger went on。 'I'll give you an instance。 It was always the custom for the curate to have the Easter Sunday offering and the vicar of the mother church to have the Whit Sunday one。 Oh yes； it'd been a custom for years； but Mannering suddenly realised that the Easter congregation was almost double the Whit one。 So the greedy blighter got the bishop to swap the offertories over so that the vicar got the golden egg。 That's what we're up against in the Church today； believe me； sir。'
Kent found himself nodding。 The buzz of conversation around him seemed to have receded so that this man was the focal point； the principal actor in an amateur theatrical production。 But nobody was looking at them； they might have been the only two people in that room against a background of taped sound effects。
'We've had another meeting tonight。 I guess if these villagers had their way they'd make a huge bonfire and burn the bishop； Hurst； and Stone on it。 Probably chuck Vicar Mannering on as well for good measure。 Incinerate the damned lot of them and start again from scratch。' That stilted mouth moved； stretched into a laugh； a sound that had shivers running up and down Kent's spine。
'You're a stranger here； sir；' eyes that seemed to bore into Kent。 'But you can't divorce yourself from this situation because the cancer within the Church is spreading so that eventually it'll rot us all like some right…wing dictatorship that has got a stranglehold on the nation。 They've misappropriated funds and trusts to suit themselves。 e； sir； let me show you the state of the church roof。 There's enough moonlight to see it by。 It'll collapse before long； the roof I mean；' another forced laugh。 Td like you to see for yourself so that you can go back to wherever you've e from and tell your friends what's happening in the Church today。 〃Spread the word〃； eh！'
Kent didn't want to go。 The last thing he wanted to do was to go back to that cemetery and its adjacent ground。 He even tried to think of a good excuse why he should not acpany this volatile eccentric on a moonlit tour of consecrated ground but he failed to e up with one。 Gulping down the remainder of his whisky he found himself nodding his agreement； a schoolboy unwilling to concede to a forceful master's whims。
The tall man smiled； put his glass back on the bar。 Kent saw that it was still full； some kind of wine。 He wondered why the other didn't drink it up； perhaps they would be returning here after their short excursion into the night。
A full moon cast its light across the countryside； illuminated St Monica's Church with its sagging roof。 Somewhere a night bird was calling vehemently； almost as though it was screeching some kind of warning。 Kent found himself hurrying； almost breaking into a run to keep up with his panion's gangling gait。 What the hell was the hurry？
'Look at that； it's a disgrace！' the tall man's voice escalated to a shriek of rage； frustration； a long arm pointing up to the church roof。 'They had the money to repair it but they've squandered it so now they're scrounging off the parishioners。'
God； it was cold。 Kent wished he had gone back up to his room to get a coat。 But he could not even voice a protest； just as though his brain had been stupefied by some kind of drug； forced to follow in the steps of the other； nod his agreement to every statement。 Maybe he was ill； he hadn't left his room at all and was dreaming all this； the beginnings of a nightmarish fever； shivering in his bed。 Soon he'd start to sweat。
Somewhere in the distance thunder was rumbling。 At least the noise sounded vaguely reminiscent of an electric storm； but that was impossible because the night was still and clear with a spring frost in the air。 Like a series of explosions that went on and on； some louder than others。 Vivid flashes lit up the sky against a spreading glow as though there was a huge fire burning a few miles away。
Kent tensed。 That noise； a buzz that was growing louder and louder； a vibration ing closer all the time； had him clutching his hands to his ears in a futile attempt to shut it out。 He wanted to scream his terror aloud。
'What the hells happening？' The journalist did not know whether he managed to get the words out or whether he just heard them in his own brain。
Shapes filled the moonlit sky； huge； lumbering bird…like objects flying in formation。 Planes！ Antiquated bombers that he recognised from illustrations in picture books； aircraft that were outdated long before the advent of the jet。 And there was not a light to be seen amongst the entire squadron that stretched as far as the eye could see！
'You mean you don't know' incredulity on that pallid face； the silver hair glinting in the moonlight。 'Those are the Jerries； the Luftwaffe！ They've bombed Coventry tonight； razed it to the ground。 The cathedral； too。 That'll teach those church hypocrites a thing or two！'
You're mad； Kent decided； his brain ree