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he start but Marion had ways of getting men to do what she wanted even if she was past forty。 Surprisingly； the guy had been quite good and she'd enjoyed it。 They had just been wiping themselves off with tissues when Darren had walked into the bedroom … as she knew he would； of course。 Damn it； that had spoiled it all for her。 She wished she'd seduced Stone some place where Darren didn't have to show up； didn't even have to know about it。 Then it would've been her own little secret and nobody would've got hurt。 As it was； hundreds of villagers were going to have their locality desecrated and Stone and Darren might end up going to gaol 。 。 。 herself with them！
God； she hated that bastard of a husband of hers！ She meant what she'd said earlier； he wasn't going to have her again。 Every time he lay on top of her； or did whatever took his fancy； he degraded her。 Now she was his pawn； just like the others。 If you looked at it logically； she was the focal point of all this corruption。 Without her opening her legs for Walter Stone none of this could have e about。
She helped herself to another malt whisky； her third。 Darren was going to bloody well pay for all this。 She'd shop him to the police！ No； that would involve herself； not only that； there was some legal point about a wife not being able to give evidence against her husband； she'd read about it somewhere a long time ago。 Anyway； what evidence？ She didn't have any proof。 Doubtless the others had covered their tracks well enough。 And in the end she would be made to look a fool and a liar； a woman scorned； trying to gain revenge on her husband and his mistress。
She'd leave the bugger then！ No； that would be just what he'd want； conveniently get her out of the way so that Lola could move in。 Oh； Jesus Christ she was trapped as surely as a fly caught in a spider's web！
Anger and guilt mingled with alcohol。 She contemplated killing Darren； she could poison him or even stick a knife in his guts whilst he slept。 Temporary revenge because before long they'd put her away and she'd suffer a lot longer than he had。 And the deal with the bishop would still go through； it just meant that without Darren Hurst the others would get a bigger share。 And the loser would be Marion Hurst。
She felt slightly dizzy； swayed； and had to hold on to the cocktail cabinet as she poured herself a fourth drink。 It was the folk in the village who would be the real losers。 Her eyes misted up and she pictured them going into the church； devout honest people who believed in God。 And she had betrayed them！
Somehow she had to cleanse her conscience。 Funny how things dropped into perspective when you really thought about them； how little things like people's feelings were overlooked where money was concerned。 Not just the villagers … God！ She was a female Judas。 She had sold her Maker； mitted adultery to bring about her crime。
Marion Hurst could not hold back her tears； sobs which shook her； had her lying on the Chesterfield begging for forgiveness； not bothering to put on the light when dusk turned to deep darkness。
Sometime later she heard a voice； more of a whisper on the night air； that might have been inside or outside the house； but she knew only too well that it was addressing her。
'You have sinned and now you seek repentance。 But to do so you must e and confess your sins on the sacred ground which by your own efforts will soon be sacred no longer。 Your tears must dampen the hallowed soil if your soul is to be cleansed。'
She raised her head but it was too dark to see if anybody stood outside the window。 She trembled； listened； but the voice did not e again。 Shame and fear； for her Maker knew she had sinned and he had summoned her to go on a pilgrimage of repentance。
She went through into the hall and put on her coat。 Funny； the light was out and she always left it on when Barren was out。 But she didn't need it。 She opened the door； saw the weling glow of streetlamps beyond the rhododendron shrubbery which lined the garden； made out the silhouette of her Cavalier parked in the drive。
From then onwards her actions were jerky； robot…like。 She stalled the engine； then over…revved it and sent gravel flying up on to the patio。 Braking too hard； shooting out on to the deserted road； no co…ordination with the gears； like a learner…driver。 She had only been to St Monica's once； with Darren； and she had not made a mental note of the route but somehow now it all seemed so familiar。 Two miles of dual…carriageway before taking the first junction off on to a narrow B…road。 Driving flat…out； tyres screeching on unexpected bends。 Hardly any traffic； just an occasional pair of headlights ing in the opposite direction。 Usually oning lights blinded her； had her slowing right down； but tonight she scarcely noticed them； drove flat out all the way with no thought for her own safety。
That cinder track seemed so much wider than it had earlier in the Jag。 Parking in exactly the same place as Darren had parked。 Getting out； closing the door quietly in case she disturbed 。 。 。 someone。
It was dark； the moon was not due to rise for another hour。 Marion Hurst stood there undecided； not knowing exactly what to do。 Her guilt was a thousand times worse now as though she had brooded on it during the five…mile drive down here。 She experienced an urge to shout to the elements 'I'm the one who did this to your land。 Just me； nobody else。'
And then she heard voices； a kind of low； rhythmical chant ing across from where the yew trees and that big oak were just faintly visible against the night sky。 Her feet began to move； unsteady steps across the uneven grassy surface。 On more than one occasion she caught her foot against a tuft； stumbled； but did not fall。
It was lighter now； a kind of ethereal glow； not bright enough for the moon but maybe the stars … she did not really give it much thought。 She could make out moving shapes that materialised into human forms as she got closer。
They were certainly dressed strangely； long knee…length gowns with capacious sleeves and frilly necks； girded with sashes。 Sandalled feet； and they each carried a small branch of some kind； twigs recently snapped off a living tree because the leaves were still fresh and had not wilted。 Hats of some kind； like caps made from animal skins； the tails left on when the beasts were flayed。 Foxes； probably； there were no wolves left in England。 Or were there？ She tried to make out the faces of those around her but it was impossible because their features were bathed in shadow。 They were obviously expecting her； hands reaching out for her； gripping her wrists with icy fingers； leading her forward。 She tried to put into words the questions her confused brain was asking。 Why am I here？ Who are you and what do you want of me？ But somehow her brain and vocal chords refused to co…ordinate。
These people were talking in whispers just like the voice she had heard in her own home。 She managed to make out some of the words。 'This is she。 。 。 the one we summoned 。 。 。 she has e to be judged by Alda