Doctor Who_ Daemons - Barry Letts [8]
'Good evening. Miss Hawthorne, isn't it? What a very real pleasure to meet at last.'
Olive Hawthorne pulled herself firmly together. This was no time for day-dreaming, nor indeed for social niceties. 'I have to see you most urgently, but this uncouth fellow of yours refuses to let me past him!' she complained.
At once the Reverend Mr. Magister was all apology. Taking her by the arm he led her out of the churchyard and up the path of the Rectory garden, talking, talking, talking, in a ceaseless flow of smooth platitude. Again and again, Miss Hawthorne tried to halt the torrent of words, only to have her interjections swept away downstream and lost in the swirls and eddies of the Vicar's expert small talk.
At length Miss Hawthorne found herself sitting uneasily on the edge of one of the worn leather armchairs in the Vicarage sitting-room, with the Vicar hovering solicitously at her elbow.
'... a cup of tea, perhaps?' he was saying, 'I always feel that a good cup of tea can go a long way to solving most of life's little problems...'
Suddenly Miss Hawthorne could stand it no longer. 'Stop it!' she cried.
'I beg your pardon?' Mr. Magister seemed genuinely taken aback.
'Stop treating me as if I were a village ignoramus! We deal in the real things you and I—life and death; Heaven and Hell—you in your way and I in mine. The forces of evil are abroad tonight. We must be up and doing; we must prepare our defences; we must gird ourselves against the Enemy...'
The Vicar sat down opposite her and leaned forward, clasping his hands together as if about to say a quick prayer. 'I can see that you are most upset. But really, Miss Hawthorne! The forces of evil? What can you mean?'
'Haven't you heard of the Curse of the Devil's End, Mr. Magister? A man assuming such a responsibility as yours, must surely be aware of...'
The Vicar held up a hand.
'One moment,' he said. 'Perhaps I should make my position clear. Of course I've heard talk of these—forgive me—foolish superstitions. How could I not? This area is plagued by them. But I consider it my responsibility, and indeed my duty, to combat the disease, not to spread it by giving credence to such irrational notions.'
Miss Hawthorne swallowed hard. She must not let herself become angry again. No matter how misguided this man might be, she needed his help and needed it badly.
'I beg you to help me, Mr. Magister,' she said intently. 'Help me to stop that foolhardy man.'
The Vicar looked bewildered. 'Er... stop whom? From doing what? I don't understand, I'm afraid.'
'Professor Horner, of course. He must not enter the tomb, tonight of all nights!'
Mr. Magister's face cleared. 'Of course, of course. Stupid of me. Your battle royal with the worthy Professor. But you know, Miss Hawthorne, I still find it difficult to understand. Even allowing for your... ah...' Mr, Magister smiled placatingly, 'your somewhat quaint—dare I say eccentric—ideas, why are you so against this very ordinary archaeological excavation?'
With a great effort Miss Hawthorne held her temper. 'I tell you, Vicar, we're all in mortal danger. Have you no concern for the souls in your care?'
'The “soul” as such, is a very dated idea' he answered. 'The modern view would tend to see the personality as...'
Miss Hawthorne could stand it no longer. Rising to her feet she looked down on the Vicar with the utmost contempt. 'The modern view! Sir, you are a blockhead! I can see that I am wasting my time here!' And she swept to the door, her cloak swirling around her.
'Miss Hawthorne! One moment!'
Even in her rage, Olive Hawthorne responded to the authority in his voice. She stopped and reluctantly turned to face him. 'Well?'
Mr. Magister moved with the smooth elegance of a cat across the threadbare carpet. He looked deep into Miss Hawthorne's troubled eyes. 'You're very distressed, I can see that. But I'm sure you're worrying yourself unduly. Everything will be all