
'I still think that those at the Hermitage are troublemakers,' Catchpole spoke up. 'Far too many strange things have happened in the area since they arrived.'
'Such as?' Ranulf asked in mock innocence, nudging Maltote, who had drunk so much wine he was beginning to fall asleep.
Catchpole was also drunk; his hard face was flushed and he beat his fist gently on the table top. 'Must I speak for everybody?' he asked. He thrust forward a raised hand, thumb up. 'We've had graves robbed, haven't we, Father Augustine?'
The priest nodded solemnly.
'What do you mean?' Corbett asked.
'Graves in our churchyard have been disturbed,' the priest said. 'Coffins buried for years have been dragged to the surface and hacked up, their contents strewn about like offal from a butcher's yard. God knows who does it! Perhaps witches, Lords of the Crossroads, Masters of the Black Sabbath or whatever they call themselves. Sir Simon and I have both organized watches, but the perpetrators have never been caught.' Father Augustine sighed deeply. 'I have warned my parishioners that, if we catch the blasphemers responsible, I will excommunicate them with bell, book and candle!'
