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he indulged in cannabis； for so much of the expensive substance could be wasted in the rolling of a cigarette。
'I think we can arrange that； sir；' forced jocularity； 'dinner； bed and breakfast。 The food's excellent； it has to be … my wife's the cook。'
Sabat nodded； his face hidden behind a cloud of blue smoke。
'If you'd like a drink I'll go and check that we've a room vacant。 Bar meals at lunchtime； and they're good！'
Sabat winced at the sales talk and thought again about those wicked slivers of glass in the car…park。 Evil came in varying degrees。 Sipping a whisky and pep he glanced casually around the large room； noting its occupants and how far removed they were from traditional villagers。 Some were obviously reps passing through； others businessmen who had probably driven in from the factories they ran on the nearby trading estate。 Alcohol flowed freely and it was difficult to believe that the country was in the grip of an economic recession。
Then his gaze stopped and centred on a red…haired girl by the bar。 She was seated on a high stool and Sabat got the feeling that her skirt had not ridden up accidentally so that it showed ample shapely thighs and just a glimpse of suspenders。 Not bad looking； he thought； and guessed that the men on either side of her were able to see well down her low…cut blouse。 A mole on her left cheek added to her sensuality and he guessed that she was in her mid…to…late twenties。 It seemed that she was a regular customer here； and his sensitive hearing picked out her name across the hub…bub of the bar。 Randa； the man standing directly behind her was calling her； his hand edging further and further around her waist。 That would be short for Miranda； Sabat concluded； and wished that he didn't get erections so frequently。
He glanced at the girl again； felt that maybe he'd seen her somewhere before； or it could be that she was just a type … a type that turned him on。 Then Herbert Walley was breaking into his reverie； smilingly advising him that there was a vacant single room to let； Sabat drained his drink； nodded； and followed the landlord through an interior door。 A clock on the wall showed that it was 1。30pm。 This afternoon Mark Sabat would begin his investigations。
Tm…pleased to meet you； Mr Sabat；' the ageing Reverend Maurice Storton dribbled down a long…stemmed pipe and made sucking noises in time with the bobbing of his oversized bald head。 Last week had seen his seventy…fourth birthday as well as the ninth anniversary of his ordination in holy orders。 He reflected that the Church was as good a part…time retirement job as most； a steady routine until somebody began digging up the graves in the cemetery。 That was when life really became difficult。
I'd like to examine the church archives back as far as they go。' Sabat did not feel his usual animosity towards the Cloth in Storton's case； rather pity； plus anger towards the Church hierarchy for the way in which they were exploiting this elderly man； giving him the same responsibility that a full…time curate had shouldered in the past。 But instead of a salary； all Storton received was rent…free acmodation in this tumbledown vicarage。
'The police have taken them away；' Storton bubbled an apology into the gooey bowl of his pipe； then removed the stem from his mouth； still adhered to his lips by a string of spittle。
'I don't know when they'll bring them back but there's nothing much they'll learn from them； just dull records； like a register of churchwardens and authorised lay preachers。 You could always contact Detective Inspector Plowden； I suppose； but he's very officious and rather rude； too。'
'I don't intend to work with the police unless I get really stuck。' Sabat decided to join the clergyman in a pipe of tobacco and pulled his meerschaum out of his pocket。 'All the same； it's a pity he's got those records。'
'But I didn't give him the Domesday Book。' Storton closed an eye and contorted his features in what was supposed to be a wink。 'Because he didn't ask for it； and after the way he spoke to me I wasn't going to offer any information。 I don't suppose he even knows it exists。 I expect the vicar's forgotten all about it； too。'
'The Domesday Book？'
'Yes； quite an interesting record of parish life； piled by parishioners in the last half of the last century。 You know； snippets from newspapers concerning the village； and a few handwritten articles。 I suppose it gave them something to do on long winter evenings when there was no television or cinema。'
'And you've actually gol this book？' Sabat leaned forward intently； his pipe forgotten。
'Oh； yes；' Storton beamed。 'It lay gathering dust in the vestry for years and one day I decided to bring it home and have a read at it。 It's upstairs in my bedroom。'
'May I see it？'
'But of course。 I'll go and fetch it for you。'
Sabat tensed； his whole body suddenly a car with the choke fully extended。 He paced the old…fashioned drawing room listening to the clergyman's shuffling footsteps going upstairs and across the floor of the room directly above。 It seemed an eternity before Maurice Storton returned； carrying a large； stained and faded leather…bound exercise book。
Sabat took it from him； his fingers trembling as he turned the pages； hope that flared and died and flared again。 The pages were a crazy jumble of unrelated subjects； some pasted newspaper cuttings that had yellowed with age； articles in copper…plate handwriting that needed to be deciphered slowly and carefully。
'It'll take me hours to go through this；' he muttered at length。
'Then take it with you。' The other was struggling to get his pipe going again。 'Quite frankly； I haven't had much success with it^ my eyesight isn't what it used to be。 But I'd be glad if you'd let me have it back because it's church property and just suppose the vicar suddenly remembered its existence。'
'Of course。' Sabat rose to his feet。 'If I can get an uninterrupted few hours alone in my hotel room I should be finished with it tomorrow and I'll drop it back to you。'
'A terrible business。' Storton shuffled to the door to see his visitor out。 'Let us hope that now the police are here these vile people will leave our churchyard alone。'
'Perhaps；' Sabat smiled and hoped that the coven would return to St Adrian's churchyard； it was his one chance of getting to grips with them。 But for the moment they seemed to have vanished into thin air。
Perusing the Domesday Book proved to be a far bigger and more irksome task than even Sabat had anticipated。 Dozens of cuttings and entries featured church fetes； the appointment of church wardens； vergers and vicars。 He resorted to his pipe again； wondering if he was wasting his time。 Then he saw the faded handwritten entry in purple ink； every letter carefully fashioned by the writer； and headed Heresy Trial。
A date had been inked in the margin … 1871。
Sabat's spine tingled and a tiny shiver ran up and down it when he picked out the name William Ga