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Sabat should have been able to relax but for some reason he could not。 Every nerve in his body was tense； a tautness that gave him that feeling of foreboding again。 But that was probably a reaction to his failure to find Miranda in time for there was no doubt in his mind that she was dead by now； having suffered horribly at the end。
One or two people were astir in the sleepy village street； an elderly woman pausing on the steps of a grocery shop to stare at the Daimler； squinting as she tried to identify the driver。 Strangers here； Sabat decided； were not an everyday occurrence。
He slowed by the church； could just make out the gabled outline of the black and white timbered vicarage which stood in the adjoining grounds； an austere building partly screened from the road by tall shrubberies。 He saw the entrance gates were open； eased the aristocratic nose of the Daimler into the drive。
Sabat swung the car round on the semi…circular forecourt in front of the house； switched off the engine and surveyed his surroundings。 A typical churchman's abode； he smiled wryly； a gardener paid a pittance out of the offertory money； a facade to mask a hypocritical religion。 Nevertheless； Sabat had to pander to the whims of the Reverend Spode。 He left the car； mounted a flight of wide steps and rung the bell。 Somewhere in the recesses of the vicarage he heard it clanging faintly； echoing。
It was fully five minutes before Sabat heard approaching footsteps； a light tread that was definitely female。 He conjured up in his imagination an apron…clad； rosy cheeked middle…aged spinster or widow； a typical housekeeper who would usher him into a drab Victorian drawing room； a wait maybe of quarter…of…an…hour because it was 'the thing' where visitors were concerned； a die…hard tradition amongst this latter generation of clergy。
'Good morning。 Can I help you？'
Sabat stared； for a few seconds his brain refused to relate the girl who peered out of the partly open door to an ageing vicar's housekeeper。 Small and slim she could not have been more than thirty； her smooth skin very slightly darker than that of an average sun…tanned European。 Wide brown eyes that almost matched her afro hairstyle and perfect features that radiated sheer beauty； all enhanced by the ankle…length； hand…woven dress of a dozen different colours。
'Er 。 。 。 yes。' Sabat overcame his surprise； a white West Indian without a doubt。 Td like to see the Reverend Spode。'
'Perhaps you'd care to step inside。' Her smile showed two rows of flashing white teeth。 'I'm afraid the vicar's not back yet from taking early munion but he shouldn't be long。'
'Thank you。' Sabat stepped into the gloomy hall； smelled strong lavender polish。 'I hope the vicar won't be too long。'
'I'm sure he won't。' The perfect hostess in the vicar's absence； ushering him into a drawing room； a feature which at least met with his expectations of a sombre vicarage。 'Would you like a cup of coffee while you wait？'
'That would be fine。' Sabat smiled； would have accepted an invitation to partake of a massive English breakfast there and then if it had been offered。 He had not eaten for almost twenty…four hours and he was ravenous。 But food could wait。
A few minutes later the girl returned carrying a small tray on which stood a cup of delicious…smelling coffee； a small jug of milk and a bowl of sugar。 'I'm sorry to have to keep you waiting； Mr 。 。 。 ？'
'Sabat。'
'Sa 。 。 。 bat；' she repeated the name slowly as though savouring every syllable。 Til tell the Reverend Spode that you're here the moment he returns。' With a sudden turn that swirled her dress like that of a ballerina； the girl took her leave。 Sabat had one glimpse of the shapely legs beneath the home…woven material and then she was gone； her footsteps receding down the stone…flagged passage which led to the rear of this large house。
Sabat sipped his coffee； savouring its unique flavour and aroma。 It was certainly no cheap mass…produced blend of mongrel beans； rather a delicate； subtle continental taste。 At least he thought so。 He couldn't quite place its origin。
He glanced at his watch。 8。30。 He seemed to have been here hours。 Suddenly； he felt tired； too； found himself yawning； a loud vulgar sound as though his body was fighting desperately to dispel a fatigue that was building up。 His eyelids drooped and he had to keep them open with a conscious effort。 Hell； Spode was taking his time； must've had a packed church for munion。 Sabat supposed that in a small village such as this most of the population attended every service。 Because their fathers and their fathers' fathers before them had done so； a foundation upon which the Church today relied。 The present generation were free thinkers； made up their own minds whether or not they went to church。 And most of them didn't。
He consulted his watch again； having to concentrate to work out which hand was which。 8。30。 It must've stopped。
He tapped it； shook his wrist； held it up to his 〃ar。 It was ticking all right。 Probably it had stopped and started again。 Then he heard the nearby church clock chime； two resonant clangs； the half…hour。
Only then did he begin to realise that something was wrong。 He tried to get up but his limbs refused to move。 Now he could not even lift his arms。 His mouth was dry； a sharp bitter tang on his palate； even his tongue seemed leaden。
Oh； Jesus Christ what the hell was wrong with him？ He'd never felt fitter； fresher than when he'd driven into the village a short time ago。 It wasn't fatigue； more like some kind of tropical sleeping sickness where one kept on dozing off until finally one went to sleep and did not wake up anymore！ He'd have to close his eyes for a few moments； cat…nap like he'd learned to do in the SAS； and when he woke up maybe he'd feel better。
Suddenly he heard footsteps in the passage outside。 This time it was not the dainty tread of the West Indian girl but a much heavier； dragging male step。 The doorknob rattled； turned； and Sabat felt a draught on his face。 He fought to open his eyes but only managed a blurred squint； enough to make out a tall； heavily…built man framed in the doorway； a breeze from somewhere fluttering the long black robes which he wore。 This had to be the Reverend Spode； Sabat decided； and could not prevent his eyes from closing again。 He opened his mouth to speak but only succeeded in emitting another loud yawn。
'Ah； Mr Sabat；' a cultured forceful voice。 'And tired after your long journey here； I perceive。'
Something jogged Sabat's muzzy brain； a sharp recollection； recognising something but not knowing quite what； another of his inbuilt instinctive warning systems was suddenly operating at full blast； urging him to open his eyes！ That voice ； 。 。 so familiar 。 。 。
With an almost superhuman effort Sabat forced his eyes open； stared hard until that cataract…like opaqueness dissolved and he could see clearly。 And then every alarm； every nerve in his body was screaming at him！
In that terrible m