Doctor Who_ Daemons - Barry Letts [6]
Slowing down and jumping off with a hop-hop-hop—she really must get those brakes fixed—she arrived at her own front gate, wheeled her faithful steed into the front garden and leant it against the ivy-clad wall of her little cottage.
Resisting the temptation to escape into the cool haven behind the lilac front door, there to slake her dusty thirst with camomile tea, she walked out into the roadway again and turned firmly towards the Vicarage.
Surprised at the change in the usual pattern, Hereward sat down, his tongue lolling, as his master stopped at the edge of the village green.
'Hang on, old son,' said the Squire to himself. 'Better decide what you're going to do.' Straight across to the pub, as usual? Or was it his duty to seek out the Vicar and drop the promised word in his ear? The bar of 'The Cloven Hoof' was certainly very tempting. Ludicrous name for a public house; just cashing in on the superstitions of the locals and the the curiosity of the trippers who crowded the village in the summer.
Better see the Vicar first. Only fair to old Bates. Pandering to Elsie's nonsense of course, but still...
With the puzzled Hereward at his heel, he set off across the green, past the painted Maypole standing in the middle. Mayday tomorrow! Good Lord, seemed only yesterday since last year's shenanigans. Good thing tradition, of course, but a fearful bore, what with those interminable Morris dancers and all that tripping around the Maypole.
'Have to show my face, I suppose,' he said to himself. ' Noblesse oblige and all that tosh. Only happens once a year after all...'
Suddenly, the same cold fear gripped him once again and he stopped dead, white terror behind his eyes, as he remembered Professor Horner's words '...greatest occult festival of the year, bar Hallowe'en.'
With an effort, he pulled himself together and set off again, but now he made straight for the welcome of the bar door.
'Just one, then on to the Vicar. Medicinal purposes; that's what they say, isn't it? Can't think what's the matter with me. Must have been overdoing it...'
And in he went, trying not to notice the shaking of his hands or the cold sweat on his brow.
Hawthorne didn't notice the door of 'The Cloven Hoof' closing behind the Squire as she came out onto the green. She was too busy rehearsing to herself the best way to approach the new Vicar, whom she had yet to meet. Unfortunately, he was something of an unknown quantity. If only dear Canon Smallwood were still here... strange that he didn't say good-bye to anyone, when he left. No doubt he couldn't face it. Must have been a terrible wrench to have to retire after all those years...
As Miss Hawthorne approached the churchyard gate, past the corner by the old smithy with its too bright poster announcing the availability of teas for tourists, Police Constable Groom appeared, his beaming face shining even redder than usual in the light of the setting sun. ' 'Evening, Miss Hawthorne,' he said. 'Saw you on the telly before I the came out. Very good you were. Least, that's what I thought. Told them, didn't you?'
Miss Hawthorne's indignation was at once rekindled. 'Ha!' she exclaimed. 'They chopped me! Cut me off! But don't you worry, Constable. I'll get my chance tonight. You'll see.' And off she stalked, leaving the Constable smiling tolerantly after her.
Putting her hand on the gate, she started to push it open. Immediately, almost as if this were a signal, a sudden fierce wind sprang up; a gale; a hurricane; a typhoon—all in the space of a thirty-yard circle. An impossible wind.
Miss Hawthorne rallied at once. Leaning into the blast, her hair and her cloak blowing every which way, she raised her arms on high, and began to chant an Exorcism. 'Avaunt, all ye elementals! Avaunt, all ye powers of adversity...'
In the meantime, Police Constable Groom was behaving in