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ere was no mistaking the anger； the contempt。 And behind the man the bonfire suddenly burst into flames and died down again to a steady smoulder。
'Have you no respect for the dead； sur？'
'Of 。。。 of course I have。' The vicar shivered。 It had suddenly bee very much colder even though he was standing in close proximity to the fire。
'Then instead of annoyin' the dead； sur； why don't you help me to lay them to rest？'
Cleehopes' stomach seemed to churn。 This fellow was a madman； a senile grass…cutter and grave…digger who was convinced that this churchyard was the domain over which he ruled supreme。
'You mean you want me to assist you in the digging of a grave？' The man had to be humoured； he could be dangerous。 The vicar prayed that any moment some of those CID officers who were supposed to be carrying out enquiries in this place might show up。 Surely they were keeping a nocturnal vigil。 Or had the bishop successfully lured them away so that the exorcism could continue unhindered？
'Not burials； sur？ We do not mit a corpse to the earth so that the worms and slugs can feed on its decaying flesh。'
'What then？' A sinking feeling had the clergyman's stomach contracting； bringing with it a sensation of dizziness so that everything around him seemed like a dream。 Terrible unreality like a fevered nightmare from which there was no escape。
'Why； cremation； sur。 What thinks you I have this fire burning for； to incinerate weeds and the like？ e look； sur； and witness the only true way to transport the dead into the kingdom of the old ones。'
Cleehopes didn't want to look but suddenly his actions； every movement of his limbs； seemed no longer to be controlled by his own brain。 He shuffled forward； moved alongside this ragged old man； stared fearfully at the pile of burning refuse。
The flames leaped up as though obeying some sudden mand and in that instant the Reverend Cleehopes saw the splayed thing at which they licked hungrily； the limp spread eagled form at the top of the pile； blackened yet still recognisable as the charred flesh smouldered； fat running in small yellow rivulets and hissing in the fire。 This awful self…styled guardian of the dead was in the process of cremating the tiny body of a dead child！
Cleehopes vomited； at least his stomach seemed to throw up and everything before him swam。 He thought he was going to faint but cruelly he was spared oblivion。 The infant seemed to move； a shifting of the funeral pyre； doubtless； because no life could possibly remain in that inert form。 The vicar opened his mouth； tried to protest； but the words would not e； just an unintelligible babbling。 And behind him the man was laughing softly。
'You see what I mean； sur？ It is more important that you help the dead pass over into the realms of the old gods than disturb those that are already there。'
The vicar was aware of his head nodding； bobbing up and down so that his black homburg became loosened and was whipped away by the wind。 He did not even notice the cold now； staring fixedly at the half…cremated object； wondering how long it would take this fire to consume it； render it to an indistinguishable nothingness。 Ashes to ashes。 。 。 。
'I have other duties to see to； sur； and I am grateful to them for sending you to help me。 Now； perhaps you would kindly look after this fire； keep it burning until it is all gone； if you understand me。 。 。 。 '
Cleehopes understood and suddenly no longer experienced revulsion。 The man was quite right； cremation was a true and proper method of disposing of a corpse with dignity。 He felt something pushed into his hands； took it and saw that it was a large…pronged garden fork。
'Now you keep this fire goin'； sur； and don't let it die down。 I'll maybe see you again； who knows？'
And the Reverend Cleehopes was aware that he was alone。 No longer was he afraid； he couldn't understand why he had been frightened in the first place。 He was 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 ha