Chapter 5 bishop of hell
Francis Bryan was one of the most notorious men in England during his lifetime, but history has remarkably forgotten him, and the name is absent from almost all encyclopedias and textbooks today.
The nature of my work is in the publishing industry, and the main reason I came to England that winter on a strange mission was related to the nature of my work.Before the end of this long journey, I found that my life was threatened by a murder from 400 years ago...
The first sounds heard after leaving the four-engine plane at London airport came from a small portable radio streaming Gershwin's classic "Foggy Day".It was indeed a foggy day, and the plane was unable to land for a while.They told me it was very common during the winter months, I guess to appease my restless mood.
In fact, the calendar has just turned to December; but in a city like London, where the annual average temperature is only 51 degrees, it can already be considered winter once it passes mid-November.
If I were going to do some sightseeing and enjoy the city nestled on the banks of the Thames, I would certainly choose a better season than this one.But I'm here for business.The matter was initially due to my own initiative, but I had little freedom of choice as to the timing of the action.
So I'm in foggy London to meet a girl with a rather uncommon name, Ryan Richards.
The first time I saw the name was at the end of a letter that was first sent to our paper's London office and then forwarded to our New York head office.Because I'm a married man in his late forties, it never occurred to me how young, beautiful and wise this Miss Ryan Richards might be.The fact that she has exactly those qualities - but it's not nearly enough to capture her full brilliance - I marvel inwardly as she opens the thick oak doors of her suburban London house.
She was tall and slender, like a fashion model, but beneath the bright exterior, I felt something dark. "I've been waiting for you," she greeted me after introducing herself. "Please come in."
She led me through a narrow, dusty hall into a large room that might have been a study.Small pistols, revolvers and fully automatic pistols hang on three walls.I made a preliminary visual inspection, and the number of collections is close to one hundred.
"Your?" I gestured towards the wall, thinking that this is absolutely impossible.
"Yes," she replied, much to my surprise. "Shooting is my hobby."
"Interesting hobby. Now let's get down to business, Miss Richards..."
"Just call me Ryan."
"Is that really your name? I thought it was an alias when I read the letter."
"I was born during the rainy season in India," she explained to me. "My elders do have such a sense of humor."
From appearance alone, I would estimate her to be about twenty-seven, but her actual age is unknown.Maybe five years older or younger than my guess.She lit a cigarette as she spoke, and the smoke trickled from her nose. "But of course you are not interested in my name. You came here because of that letter."
"Indeed. As you say, we are indeed interested in the book mentioned in your letter. I would appreciate it if you could speak more specifically about that book."
She sank deep into her chair and began to narrate.Her voice was soft and monotonous, like a sparkling stream flowing in the room.
"Have you heard of Francis Bryan before? That's good! Few people know the name, but you are different. I first became interested in Bryan when I was a student at Columbia University in your country. One day I read Milton's work, where Francis Bryan is referred to as the Bishop of Hell, breath led me to the research work. The whole process was very difficult and long, because most contemporary historians have completely forgotten The name Bryan. I ended up getting something, though."
She paused, took a deep breath, and continued. "Bryan lived in the first half of the sixteenth century. He was a friend and adviser to Henry VIII. He was also a cousin of the ill-fated Anne Boleyn. After Anne was sentenced to death in 1536, he resolutely broke off with her. to maintain Henry VIII's favor towards him. This move led Thomas Cromwell to describe him as the 'Bishop of Hell', a notoriety he carried until his death - although some historians believe that Henry The Eighth was the first person to call him that."
"But what does this have to do with the mystery you mentioned in your letter?" I couldn't help asking.
"Let me take my time. In 1548 James Butler - an Irishman and 9th Earl of Ormond - was poisoned while visiting London. If his widow remarried to the opposing camp , will inevitably strengthen the enemy's control over the territory. Concerned about this, some high-ranking people persuaded Francis Bryan to propose to Butler's widow-for the benefit of the country, Bryan himself happened to be a widower anyway. Bryan Having completed this final duty for his country, he moved to Ireland to take over the domain. Only two years later he died mysteriously."
"So you're dealing with two mysterious deaths—James Butler and Brian."
"Yes," she said more and more seriously, and I started to like her. "My investigations have now yielded some new information that no other historian has found so far. Sometime in the seventeenth century, a hundred or so years after these deaths, a large book was published claiming to reveal the truth behind these cases. Amazing truth. The book was quickly banned by the government and all books were confiscated and destroyed."
"In this case, how could you get this book three hundred years later?"
She got up from her chair and paced the room, her long legs swinging quickly under the tight pleats of her skirt. "I received a letter two weeks ago from a sender who heard about the research I was doing. He promised to sell me a banned book for £10,000."
I relax and take a puff on the American cigarette I brought with me. "So you want to contact a publisher. How much do you want us to offer...? About thirty thousand dollars? Thirty thousand dollars, for a book that might not even exist?"
"Not exactly. I just want you to go with me to meet this man who is going to sell me books. If I don't take someone with me who can afford the money, he even refuses to receive me. In fact Actually, ten thousand pounds is nothing to a book that might have been written by Boswell."
I let out a puff of smoke and sighed. "As you said," I admitted. "No matter what, it's still necessary to talk to that person." Actually, as a foreigner who came here from across the ocean, I don't want to return empty-handed.But for now, it's better not to let Ryan Richards know this reason-at least not now.
"Excellent," she said; "then I'll give him a call."
She dialed a number in the Kensington Gardens neighborhood. "This is where he told me he lived," she explained to me as she waited for the line to connect until a man's voice came through. "Hello, is this Mr. Hugo Carrier? This is Ryan Richards. I have a friend from the United States with me, I believe you will be interested. Can I make an appointment with you tonight ? Oh... ok, can I do it tomorrow morning? Great... wait for me to write down the address... ok, see you around ten o'clock in the morning."
She hung up the phone, turned to me and asked. "He won't see us until after ten o'clock tomorrow morning; will it delay your trip?"
"It's out of my hands. I'll be right here with you around nine-thirty."
"You're so kind," she said happily, a smile lingering on her face. "By then we'll set out together..."
After saying goodbye at the door, I headed towards the hotel.As night fell, the fog thickened.After almost an hour of trekking, I finally flagged down a taxi near Waterloo Bridge and ran the rest of the way.
Back in my hotel room, I found my mind filled with images of this girl named Ryan.I took out a book and read it, but couldn't read a word.I found myself comparing her to my wife, Shirley, and then I pulled out my wallet and stared at the picture of Shirley for a while — it was three years ago when we were at the beach.
In the end, I climbed into bed with chaotic thoughts and fell into a deep sleep...
The next morning, the sun was shining brightly, and there was only a faint mist in the air, which reminded me of the thick fog of last night.It was like an early morning in New York, when the streets and alleys of Manhattan looked like river valleys filled with mist.
After the lesson last night, I already knew how far Ryan's residence was from the center of London, so I directly called a taxi and drove to my destination.She greeted me at the door, her youthful and cool expression was consistent with yesterday's impression. "Come in," she beckons me. "I'm practicing shooting down there. If you don't mind, just take a look."
I followed her to the basement, where there was an area of sandbags and targets lined the far wall, apparently her shooting range.In front of her was a rack of pistols, including American Army .45s and .25s that I recognized as small automatics, and foreign pistols that I couldn't name.
"It's my favorite," she said, picking a small pistol from the shelf. "Deringer .41. Take aim!"
She held the gun at eye level, so fast I couldn't react.With a loud noise, flames spewed out from the two gun barrels, and the bullseye of a target in the distance flew out under the huge impact of the bullets.
"You're such an amazing shooter."
"Life is forced. When I was in Burma, the Japanese invaded; they killed my family."
"terribly sorry……"
"It's okay, it's over," she said. "I'm back in the pleasant old English countryside, where everybody's decent; and the war seems a very distant memory. I think I'm lucky, because my family still has a fortune here, I ended up throwing myself into some stupid enterprise, like finding missing manuscripts."
While she was speaking, she had replaced the Delinger in her hand with a miniature Colt 25 automatic pistol, and fired five shots at the target.We went to the target together to see the results: four shots were arranged around the bull's-eye; the fifth shot was off to one side of the target.
"This hair should hit the center," she complained. "Isn't it about time, then, to see Mr. Carrier? It's almost ten o'clock."
After I agreed, she put the guns away one by one. "Come clean up later - that's the only part of the game I don't like. By the way, I'm going to take this Dellinger with me; maybe I'll need it sometime."
I was a little surprised that she slipped the gun into her purse. "Do you have a gun license?"
"The police here don't carry guns. So I've got to have some, or who knows what's going to happen."
I shrugged and followed her out the door.Hugo Carrier's small apartment is located on the other side of London, and Ryan drives a small MG sedan to the destination.It was my first time riding in a British car, but Ryan's driving skills were very good, and the journey was very smooth.
Not long after, our car was parked in a run-down apartment complex not far from Bayswater Road. "Here's the address he gave me; he lives on the second floor."
We walked up the dim stairs to the corridor on the second floor, and by the faint light of an unshaded light bulb, we could distinguish the name on the door plate. "Found it," I pointed to a door plate. "Hugo Carrier."
I knocked on the door a few times and waited for a while but no one answered.So I raised my hand again.
"It's only five past ten," Ryan said. "He should be home."
"Maybe I'm still sleeping." I tried to turn the doorknob. There was no particular reason, it was just a conditioned reflex action.The door opened, and at that moment I knew what might be happening inside.
Even so, I was caught off guard by the horrifying picture that came into view.The dead body of a man was nailed to the wall directly opposite.His hands are outstretched and his body is in the shape of a cross.Two long arrows were nailed into the wall through the palm.The third arrow passed through the chest.
Behind me, Ryan Richards let out a scream...
The room was filled with silent Scotland Yard staff, as flashlights flickered and fingerprint brushes were brandished.This is the tenth time we're repeating the story, and the officer who appears to be in charge is still checking it out.
"Have you never seen this man before, Miss Richards?"
"No," she denied, shaking her head. "We only talked on the phone."
"What do you think of this thing on the ground?" he asked, pointing to a sign on the floor, the shock of witnessing the body was too great for us to ignore some other things at the scene.It was a red pentagram on the floor in front of the deceased.Undoubtedly, it was painted with the blood of the dead...
We were taken to the police station for further interviews, but it still looked like the authorities were going nowhere.Soon we were taken to another police officer named Ashley for questioning.
When I heard the name, there was a click in my head, as if a crack had been opened in the safe of memory. "Ashley! Officer Ashley!" I yelled excitedly. "Simon Acker mentioned you to me."
Ashley had a look of alarm on his face. "You know Simon Acker?"
"We are old friends; we met in America some years ago. Then he told me a strange incident in Devon."
Ashley looked animated. "Sometimes I always feel that it is a nightmare; I even wonder if that person really existed; to meet someone who knows him, I really feel a sense of relief."
Ashley was a short, lean man with a deep, powerful voice, and I was impressed by Simon Yarker's story of the two of them adventuring in the snow in Devon.Ashley's and Simon Yaker's descriptions matched pretty well, and it also made me realize that Hugo Carlier's case could only be solved with the help of Simon Yaker's unique abilities.
"Did you know that Simon Ake is in England now?" I asked.
"No idea at all! Where is he?"
"I don't know, I just know that he left New York a month ago. If we can find him, I will definitely help the case."
Officer Ashley frowned. "But he's not a detective. And there's hardly any supernatural elements in this case..."
"Though I'm not entirely sure," I replied. "But you must have also heard that a pentagram was drawn on the floor in blood. It seems to be some ancient witchcraft and devil-worshiping totem?"
Ashley slammed his fist on the table. "I think you're right. That way we could put a story in the paper and get his attention, if he's around here."
After the questioning, we left New Scotland Yard building and walked towards Westminster Abbey in the cold December air.When passing by Whitehall, the bustling voices of people at the busiest time of the day were coming from inside.When we walked two blocks, the newsboy was hawking "Kensington Bizarre Murders."
We walked aimlessly until Ryan asked me, "Who the hell is that Simon Yaker you two know? Is he a great detective?"
"No," I tried to explain the legend to her in as understandable a way as possible. "He was probably the wisest man in the world, a man who lived as long as Jesus. For a long time, maybe many centuries, he has been looking for demons in the world and fighting them."
"This... are you kidding me? It sounds like a lunatic, is there really such a person?"
A double-decker bus whized by and we turned west onto Victoria Street.Behind him came Big Ben chiming one o'clock in the afternoon.
"Whatever he does, he's definitely not crazy," I explained to her. "In fact, the Duke of Saint-Germain claimed to have lived for more than four thousand years, which may be true. At the same time, the German psychologist Parasesus was once believed to have physically fought Satan. In this way, There is nothing absurd about Simon Acker's experience compared with theirs."
"Then who is he? Where did he come from?"
"No one knows that. My personal guess is that he was a priest in ancient Egypt from the first centuries of A.D.; but he rarely spoke of his past. Nevertheless, he once told me that he knew St. Augustine—which means he lived at least fifteen hundred years."
Hearing this, Ryan smiled, and she put her arm around mine. "I believed you were serious at first, but you were just trying to amuse me."
"Trust me, what I say is true."
"Then you have to introduce me to this person. I have to see it with my own eyes to believe it. In India, I have experienced all kinds of wonders in the world, but I would not believe a person who has lived for 1,500 years."
A gust of cool wind suddenly blew in front of him, and Ryan's body leaned even tighter. "Find a place to sit for a while, it's too cold outside."
"Now what we have to do is find the book that Kalil is selling," I analyzed. "If the book was an inducement to murder, that would obviously be a valuable lead."
As if smelling something dangerous, she seemed to be getting excited. "So you really think there's some connection between the book and the murder?"
"Quite possible. If only we'd searched for the body when we found it."
"Don't worry, the police can find the book if it's there," she replied. "The early super-large format cannot even hide behind a painting."
"The whole thing was a bit weird from the beginning. If this is really a book that was destroyed three hundred years ago, how could Kalil have one. Maybe it's a hoax."
"I was a little skeptical, too," she said. "He seemed only interested in how much money he was getting."
While talking, we arrived at Victoria Station and immediately decided to take a taxi back to Ryan's residence. As for Ryan's MG car parked at the Kensington apartment where the incident occurred, we can come back another day to pick it up.Although I took a taxi, the road conditions were not good at this time, and it was almost two o'clock when I got home.
"I'll check the mailbox first," she said. "Look what's there..." In the middle of speaking, she suddenly stopped, and at the same time tore open an envelope in her hand.The handwriting on the envelope was extremely scribbled, as if it was written in a hurry.
"Hey!" she exclaimed. "It was written by Kalil."
"Really? Show me!" I grabbed the letter from her trembling hand and read:
Ryan read the letter over my shoulder and said, "What the hell is devil worship? What does this have to do with Francis Bryan?"
"I don't know, Ryan. I don't know either. My only hope now is to contact Simon Yake as soon as possible."
"Perhaps, as you say, it's all a gigantic hoax."
I shook my head frowningly. "He seemed like a well-educated guy, and I'm not saying that a guy like that wouldn't commit fraud - but the fact that he was murdered seems to have cleared his innocence. He was, in fact, one of those I I hope to meet someone in my lifetime."
She lit a cigarette and dropped the letter on the table. "Am I that kind of person?"
I looked up at her in surprise, but she had already gone to the kitchen to get a drink.Putting the question aside, I continued, "We'd better check out the place he mentioned in his letter. With any luck, we might find the book."
She came back to me with two goblets. "I'm starting to wonder if all this running around is worthwhile. Anyway, the three arrows on the corpse seem to be stuck deep in my heart, and we need to understand this as soon as possible."
"It was a strange enough experience," I said, taking a sip from my glass. "Hey, it's delicious, what kind of drink is it?"
"Here's my little secret," she laughed, passing my question; "a little music is needed here."
"I'm married, I hope you understand," I tried to say with ease, but it didn't work.
She walked towards me, the radio in the back playing soft mantovani music, and the noise of passing cars from the road outside the window.The feeling when I saw her for the first time came back to my heart at this moment.
I tried to think of bits and pieces of Shirley, and our cottage in West Chester; but the images faded before my eyes, and I was a normal man...
After an indefinite amount of time, the sun was setting and night was falling, and we left the house for the address on Callasau Street.In the gradually darkening night, occasionally a flying object, whether it is a bat or a gull, swoops down from above.I can only judge that this is a moving creature that lives in the darkness high above, and I hope that I can live in the darkness for a while.
"It's not that far away," were the mundane words, but there was a hidden intimacy in Ryan's voice. "We can go straight along the river."
As we walked along the banks of the Thames, which meanders and empties into an endless sea, London seems to be sleeping, though it is not too late.It seemed that only the two of us were left in this city, without the crowds and the noise of the civilized world.
I stopped to light a cigarette when I saw two figures jumping towards us. "Ryan!" I yelled. "Be careful!"
She dodged quickly, but the first man's club hit her in the shoulder anyway.I slammed into the man and we both fell to the ground.I tried to find out where the second attacker was, but the guy on the ground was hanging on to me.
Finally I broke free and grabbed Ryan's hand. "Run," I yelled, dragging her down the stone steps to the river.
There was the sound of chasing footsteps behind me, and when I reached the last step, I felt cold metal against my throat.The hand that grabbed Ryan was released unconsciously, and I staggered backwards, with the sturdy figure of the attacker visible above my head.I tried to free myself from the murderous strip of metal, but then I found a hand had left my throat, revealing a gleaming dagger.
"Go to hell, bastard," the shadow made a piercing voice, and I felt that I would definitely die in the next second.But just then, there was a loud bang in my ear, and the shadow's face seemed to slowly fly away from my eyes.Before he died, his hand was still clutching my neck.Ryan held a Delinger pistol firmly in his hand, and there was still a trace of smoke from the muzzle.
"I don't want to kill him," she cried; "but there's no time to aim."
"Never mind that, where's the other guy?"
"Up there!" She pointed to the top of the stairs, against the black background, she could make out the silhouette of the second assassin.
"Get down! He has a gun!" At the same time as the gunshot sounded, I pulled Ryan to the ground.
"It's a .45," she gasped violently. "My gun is out of bullets."
I stared at the dark river a few feet away with some chills. "Can you swim?"
"It will be a little bit, but there will be no good results by going by water."
"I have no choice but to try this way. Hurry up!" We quickly moved towards the river, and the other party noticed it immediately, and then fired a second shot at us.
Strangely, after the gunshot, he suddenly seemed a little unsteady on his feet. At this time, I noticed for the first time that there was a vague figure in the darkness behind him.The pistol slipped from his hand and made a crisp sound when it fell on the concrete floor; then his whole body drew a graceful arc, fell on the edge of the river bank, and fell into the pitch-black river.
We stood there in a daze, watching the vague shadow walk down the steps step by step.At last I recognized that it was the tall and burly Simon Yake...
"Simon! How timely you are. How did you find us?"
He smiled as always, and replied: "The Shanren have their own tricks. I think you have already settled a guy!"
We look at the bloodied face of the man killed by Ryan's pistol. "Good luck," I said. "Thanks to an amazing girl like Ryan Richards and her precise marksmanship."
Simon Yake greeted her briefly, then bent down to examine the corpse. "Do you think this has anything to do with the murder of Hugo Carrier last night?" he asked us.
"I don't know," I replied, "but Ryan got a letter from Khalil at noon today. He told us about a bar with hidden objects that we were going to go to."
"Hidden bar," he repeated, muttering, as if suddenly interested. "What is it?"
"A book," I told him. "The title of the book is The Worship of Satan, and it was written in the seventeenth century, but the government banned them all and destroyed them. It is said to explain the murder of James Butler in AD 1548 and the murder of Francis Francis two years later. Brian's mysterious death."
"Francis Bryan," said Simon Acker to himself. "The Bishop of Hell..."
"You've heard of him," Ryan said, looking surprised.
"yes……"
Simon Acker was the same as he had been when I met him in America many months ago, and he said something that sometimes aroused the curiosity of the listener.At this moment, I guessed that he must have known Francis Bryan privately, perhaps in the dark and distant past.
"Your old friend Ashley is in charge of the case now," I told him.
"I saw his name in the paper; he's a nice guy. I'll call him and report what's going on here. Then we'll go on to the bar where the stuff is hidden."
"Are you going with us?" Ryan asked.
"Of course. The Worship of Satan is an extraordinary book. If there is a single copy left in this world, I would like to read it."
We climbed up the steps along the river bank, and a police car was coming towards us not far away. It was obvious that nearby residents heard the abnormal noise and called the police.
"Simon, do you really think this devil worship has anything to do with Khalil's murder?"
He stared across the river, as if looking at something far away that only he could see, and he replied.
"King William II was killed by an arrow in the New Forest in AD 1100. His death was also one of the victims of the cult of the devil worshipers. To this day, people are still worshiping and killing, much the same as before .”
His words sent chills down my spine, so I wrapped my arms around Ryan's slender shoulders.By this time the police had come to us, and Simon gave them a brief account of what had happened, in a way that somehow always led people to believe what was being said.He left a message for Officer Ashley and we got out of there.
"I think our next stop should be the bar," he said. "Do you know the way?"
Ryan nodded and led us down a dark alley, out of sight of the Thames. "With you two strong bodyguards, I feel much more at ease now," she said.
"Because I'm worried that those guys will come to make trouble again," Simon Yake comforted. "They must have learned from Hugo Carrier that he sent you a letter."
A thin layer of mist gradually shrouded the street, and I doubt that we will walk into a misty world like this. "Isn't the fog here never clearing?" I was a little dissatisfied.
"It's foggy season," said Simon Yaker. "December has always been like this in London for as long as I can remember. It's even worse in autumn."
Soon we arrived at Calascio Street. In the fog and shadow, we could vaguely distinguish the signboard of the Blue Pig, "His Majesty George V's royal pen hand-picked".The surroundings are dilapidated, maybe thirty years ago, it would have been another good time when King George had shelter.The house in front of me is in dire need of a painter, and I can't help thinking that the swinging sign would stand out even more with some vintage American neon lights.
In the bar, people who are familiar customers are sitting in front of the bar. When we opened the door and entered, many eyes turned over, as if looking forward to meeting new drinking partners tonight.Ryan was the only woman present, but none of them seemed to care.Since everyone in the room seemed to be drinking beer, we also ordered three glasses and found a table to sit down.
After sitting for a while, Simon Yake recognized a short, bald man as the owner of the store, so he got up and walked over to strike up a conversation. "I'm sorry, sir, it's my first time in your country..."
"Oh," said the short man. "Foreigners? We at the Blue Pig are delighted to have the opportunity to entertain friends from all over the world, sir. My name is George Cregan. I'm the proprietor here."
"Nice to meet you, Mr. Cregan. My name is Simon Acker and these two are my friends. We have heard that the back half of the building dates back to the seventeenth century, and we would like to find out. .”
"Happy to help," Kerry said with a dry smile. "You are right, sir, and now there is only this old house left here, which has retained its original style after a long period of time. You must also know that the terrible fire in 1666 A.D. almost destroyed the whole town. .” The fear revealed in his words was like that of a person who experienced the disaster back then.
"We also heard," Simon Ark continued unmoved, "that there is a room here for Catholic priests to avoid persecution."
"You know very well, sir—there are old stories in old places. Come with me, and I'll take you to the back."
We followed Cregan down a musty corridor to the back of the bar.He stopped at a door in the back room, which was obviously much older than the bar in front, and unlocked it before pushing it open for us. "I haven't been in for months myself," he told us. "Wait a minute, I'll get some candles."
"Is there no light?" Ryan looked a little surprised.
"Not in this house, miss; we never use it, so there is no wiring at all."
He returned with a multi-branched candlestick aloft in his hand.Under his leadership, we filed in.It was not so much a room as it was an enclosed space twenty feet square, without a single window except the door through which we entered.The air is filled with the unique musty smell due to the age. Maybe the air we breathe now is hundreds of years ago!On the walls you can see the wallpaper with attractive colors, it seems that it will not fade at all.The only furnishings in the room were a large carved stone table, about ten feet long, which stood against the wall.Newspapers were spread on the table, apparently to protect the cleanliness of the table.
Cregan gushes on and on about the history of the room, from sanctuary of the church all the way to the asylum of the royal family, which is a long time, but Simon Ark seems to be uninterested, but the picture Older tables are more likely to attract his attention.He brushed the dusty newspaper off the table, which I found to be four weeks old.A shallow drawer peeked out from the side of the desk, and Simon smiled, but the smile faded away when he realized there was nothing in the drawer.
Meanwhile, I paced up to one wall, trying to make out patterns that were blurred by fading.But the designers of these wallpapers seemed aimless when they conceived them, with eerie patterns reminiscent of seventeenth-century England.
Simon Ark was on his knees now, examining the bottom of the table; Cregan was puzzled, but he said nothing.Ryan was dragged to a corner of the room by him, continuing his brief history of England. "Listen, ma'am, George III himself visited our shop, in the last years of his reign. He was rumored to have gone mad, but I personally thought he looked very friendly. Tell me the story of the year..."
"Sorry to interrupt," Simon Yake interjected, standing up at some point. "If this room used to be a refuge for the church, there should be more than one exit. Can you tell us where the other secret passages are?"
Without saying a word, Cregan led us to a corner of the room as if he had prepared for it. "Here it is," he said, jerking a dark metal ring embedded in the floor.A trap door, carefully maintained with lubricating oil, rises from the floor, and there is endless darkness below.
"This leads to the cellar," Cregan explained. "I don't even store anything in there anymore, too many mice." He lowered the candles so we could clearly see the cellar was empty.
"Thank you very much for the introduction," Simon said. "I think we've seen everything we need to see."
老板最后一个出来，他将门锁好，我们一起回到喧闹的酒吧内。“再喝一杯吧，我请客，”他邀请道。“本店随时恭候大驾光临。”
“谢谢您，”瑞恩回答。 "There will be a period later."
很快我们就踏上了归途，穿越层层迷雾，向瑞恩家进发。离开蓝猪酒吧有一段距离的时候，我问西蒙，“你有什么想法？那本书藏在哪儿？”
“已经有不少头绪了，”他告诉我们；“我连桌上的那个奇怪污痕都有很明确的想法。”
“污痕？”我感到很意外。“我什么也没看到啊。”
西蒙·亚克模糊地哼了一声。“不管怎样，摆在我们面前的除了地狱主教之谜，还有很多其他问题。可以肯定的是，卡利尔的死和这本失踪的书有重要关联。”
回到瑞恩家的时候，雾愈发地浓了，视野范围只有五十码。我们跟着瑞恩进入温暖的室内，在她的提议下，我们煮了些咖啡，随后在壁炉边安顿下来。
我朝壁炉里扔了几根圆木，不久整个屋子就被跳动的火苗映得充满生气。西蒙·亚克靠在椅子里，闭着眼睛开始发言。
“仅仅因为在堂姐安妮·博琳最需要他的时候绝情离去，大多数史书就将独眼弗朗西斯·布莱恩称为地狱主教，不过看起来可能还有一些更深层次的原因未被提及。有一段时期，巫术崇拜和黑魔法在英格兰泛滥，怀疑布莱恩也参与其中的猜测应该不会太离谱。我想和其他原因相比，这才是他得名地狱主教的主因。”
瑞恩端来了冒着热气的咖啡给我们。“那又该如何解释1548年詹姆斯·巴特勒的谋杀案？两年后布莱恩自己的神秘死亡也是个迷。”
“有两种可能的真相。布莱恩毒死了詹姆斯·巴特勒，为了夺得他的妻子乔安。之后，她发现了这一切，便亲手处罚了当年杀害自己丈夫的凶手。”
瑞恩啜饮着咖啡，然后点了一支烟。“我猜你的另一种解答是乔安杀了她的两任丈夫。”
西蒙·亚克笑着点了点头。“被你说中了。”接下来，更像是说给自己听的，他补充道，“我只是很遗憾与地狱主教缘悭一面……”
闻言瑞恩向我投来不可思议的一瞥，但我对西蒙·亚克说的话早就习以为常了。我没有理会瑞恩，而是直接问道，“你真的认为这本叫作撒旦崇拜的书与布莱恩有关系吗？”
“很有可能，否则当时的政府不会把这本书禁掉；关于恶魔崇拜之类的书籍还是很普遍的。从书的尺寸来看，我想其中一定还有大幅的插图。”
我们继续着这个话题，但不久随着午夜降临，西蒙·亚克起身离去，他答应明早给我们电话。“最好睡一会儿，”他提醒我。“明天也许会是漫长的一天。”
"why?"
“因为明晚是满月，”完这句话，西蒙·亚克转身消失在茫茫雾海中。
我怀着疑惑的心情回到瑞恩的客厅。我看了一下日历，发现明晚确实是满月。“他说的话是什么意思？”瑞恩问我。
“不知道。不过现在不妨忘记这些费解的事情吧。”我朝瑞恩走过去，在她身边坐下。
“是不是连你在纽约的妻子也一起忘掉？”
我没有回答，而是把她的手拉过来。壁炉里的火光在墙上投下两个缠在一起的身影……
第二天上午，西蒙·亚克出现在我的旅馆房间里，让我感到惊奇的是阿什利警官和他在一起。“早上好，”我说。“什么风把你也吹来了？”
“一言难尽，西蒙告诉我很多事，”阿什利说。“昨晚上你们可没闲着啊，听说还击毙了谋杀未遂的凶手？”
“能活着真是太幸运了，”我说。“多亏西蒙昨晚及时赶到。”
“他告诉我了。根据他的意见，我们还调查了两名死者的身份，发现他们是蓝猪酒吧的常客。”
“这倒有趣，”我点了今天的第一支烟。“看来那个地方有猫腻。”
西蒙·亚克咯咯地笑了起来。“都到这地步了，你的结论还是如此保守。如果你的观察力稍微强一点，相信此刻早已对蓝猪和吧间后那个神秘小房间得出和我一致的判断了。”
“你的结论是什么？”我想他应该已经把自己的想法告诉阿什利警官了。
“我确信蓝猪酒吧后方的那个房间里正在举行一场黑色弥撒（Black Mass）和其它一些撒旦崇拜的仪式。我更加确信的是，今天晚上，那里还会举行一个组织内部会议。”
“我确实感觉那个房间有些蹊跷，可是西蒙，你说的这些是不是有点太离谱了？”
“听上去是，但西蒙已经使我信服了这些判断，”阿什利中气十足的声音还是那么令我吃惊。“或许你也该听听这整桩事件的来龙去脉。”
我叹了口气，坐回椅子。“好吧，西蒙，请告诉我到底是怎么回事。”
“雨果·卡里尔被箭刺死的案件现场更像是某种仪式，”他开始论述。“正如我之前告诉过你的，这种手法和以前的恶魔祭拜仪式颇为类似。你和瑞恩的遇袭则证明卡里尔对那本书的了解为他招来了杀身之祸，那些人生怕他已将藏书的场所告诉了你们。因此我们知道，这本书或这本书的藏匿处，抑或这二者共同构成了对那些人的威胁。”
“这些我都没有异议，”我承认道。“但你是如何将这次的事件和蓝猪联系起来的？”
“第一，暗袭者是蓝猪的常客。第二，卡里尔告诉你们的地点就在蓝猪。第三，乔治·克瑞干昨天晚上对我们撒谎了。”
“撒谎？什么谎？”
“他一方面说自己从未在地窖里储藏东西，一方面我们却看到暗门很好地用润滑油保养着。他一方面声称自己好几个月没进过那个房间，可一方面我们却看到盖着桌子的报纸是四周前的。”
“这么说他确实是说谎了。但这也不一定说明那里在举行恶魔崇拜式啊。没准只是几个朋友的一场牌局。”
西蒙·亚克再次闭上了眼睛。“桌面上的污痕是血迹，”他的语调非常平静。“恐怕那张桌子是被作为祭坛而使用的，至于祭品，可能是动物——也可能是人……”
我们三人暂时陷入沉默。对我而言，很难相信在二十世纪的现代伦敦会发生这样的事。但另一方面，和西蒙·亚克相处的这些日子使我明白，世上有太多超出常人理解范围的事情每天都在发生着。似乎一直都有一个区别于现世的异次元邪恶世界和这个地球一同运转，偶尔有一两抹恐怖的光景从中泄露出来。 “但为什么呢？”我问道。“那么多地方，为什么偏偏选在这个破旧的蓝猪酒吧？” “因为那里曾经是一个神父避难所，曾经有真实的安息日仪式在那里举行过，虽然教堂是最好的选择，但退而求其次的话，这个酒吧是个很好的选择。而且现存唯一一本撒旦崇拜也存放在那里。” “太可怕了……”阿什利警官喃喃自语。“请告诉我们你是怎么知道他们今晚的计划的。” “月圆之夜通常有很多事发生。恶魔崇拜的教徒们不一定非得在月圆之夜举行仪式，但当我注意到桌上的报纸日期时，我发现四周之前的那一天正是上个月月圆的第一天——我猜这就是他们上一次会议的日子。所以当月亮再次变圆的时候，我相信会议将再次开始。” 阿什利闻言立即起身。“我这就下达命令，我的人随时听你调遣，西蒙。从上次和你共事以来，我就深信你的判断总是正确无误的。” 我点了第二支烟，因为没吃早饭，肚子开始发出抗议。“私人住所举行的宗教集会是从什么时候开始被认为属于违法的？”我问阿什利。 他好像有些愠怒。“这可不是什么宗教；难道你忘了那个被三支箭钉在墙上的可怜家伙吗？” “也许有那么一会儿吧……”我不得不承认，同时感到有些受挫。“那么——你接下来打算怎么办？” “今晚早些时候，警官和他的人会把现场包围起来，等我发出信号就行动，”西蒙·亚克向我解释。“我本人则会潜入那道暗门下的地窖，你愿意的话可以和我一起。” “我可不想错过这个好机会，”我态度鲜明。“就算你要直接面对撒旦，我也愿意在你身边。” 阿什利叹了口气。“你们俩准是疯了，潜入那种仪式的现场可不是闹着玩的，但我明白在此和西蒙争执是徒劳的，祝你们好运。” “虽然我胸有成竹，”西蒙说，“但最好还是能弄把枪。你能从瑞恩那儿借到吗？” "no problem." “下次别在我面前说这些，”阿什利很不开心地嘟囔。“在伦敦，警察都很难获得持枪许可。” “抱歉，不过今晚你的人还是带上家伙比较好，”西蒙·亚克说。“这些人和疯子没什么两样，无一例外；要是被逼急了，什么事都干得出来。” 后来他们俩离开了，只剩下我一个人在房间里思绪万千：接下来的夜晚会发生些什么？瑞恩在干什么？我在西切斯特的家和等待我的妻子雪莉还好吗？我第一次有了“也许再也回不去了”这样的念头…… 出租车载着我穿过皮卡迪利广场，路边的霓虹灯都熄灭了，白天这里可是格登和瑞格力打得不易热乎的商战场。不久之后，我回到了瑞恩位于郊区的家。 “真高兴又看到你，”她在门口迎接我的归来。 "Did you sleep well last night?" “非常好。”我扼要地复述了西蒙·亚克的结论。“跟你借支枪，明天还你，应该没问题吧？” “当然，”她带着我来到陈列柜前。“看中哪支？” “干军警时我用点四五的。别的可能使不顺手，我还是从点四五里挑一把好了。” 她递给我一把厚重而冰冷的武器以及一盒子弹，弹夹是空的。我将子弹一一填入弹夹，一共七颗，然后塞进枪托。“谢谢了，瑞恩。明早我会完璧归赵的。” “我要和你一起去，”她突然说。“干坐在这儿会让我疯掉的。” “抱歉，那是不可能的。我和西蒙要去也费了很大功夫说服阿什利，但事情一旦搞定我可以马上打电话给你。” “这是一个承诺吗？” “是承诺。”我轻轻地吻了一下她的唇，走上外面的街道。口袋里的手枪下坠感强烈。 我抽时间给纽约办公室发了电报，表示今晚我会拿到那本书，这次旅程就将告一段落。然后我在伦敦市中心找了一间不好不坏的酒吧，在那里思绪空白地度过了后半个下午。 回到旅馆，我发现了一封航空信，是雪莉寄过来的。我径直把信丢在床上。 一瞬间，我脑海里闪过“今晚的蓝猪之行会让我的烦恼一了百了”这样的念头。 因为我发现我真的爱上了瑞恩·理查兹…… 进入蓝猪酒吧的地下室并没花太多功夫，我们轻易地找到通往地窖的门，然后躲在地上那扇暗门后面。 我掏出点四五手枪，把一颗子弹上了膛。接下来是漫长的等待…… 过了不久，腕表走到了11点30分，正当我就要失去耐心时，我们听到头顶传来一些声响。几乎与此同时，有人进入地窖。 我们藏身在一些已发霉的箱子堆后面，看着一些男人和几个女人通过暗门进入这个空间。最后，上面的屋子传来的声音显示仪式已经开始，我和西蒙又回到之前位于机关门后的位置。 西蒙·亚克把门推开一英寸左右，透过这道缝隙，我看到了一幕永生难忘的景象。那个长桌后，是乔治·卡里干身着白色长袍的身影，他双臂高举，指向天花板。桌子的两端燃烧着几十支黑色蜡烛，跳动的火焰照耀着二十几个跪在地上的男女信徒身上，他们几乎把那个小房间给塞满了。 色泽明亮的墙纸被挂在墙上的蛇怪和其他怪兽的图案遮住，卡里干身后是一尊远古神朱庇特的塑像。“耶稣死后异教徒举起的就是这个像，”西蒙·亚克小声说道。“我们正身处邪恶的漩涡中心。” “那还等什么？”我问。“冲上去把他们抓个正着。” “耐心一点。好戏才刚刚开始。” 跪在地上的信徒们，开始前后摇晃身体，仿佛受到了某种致幻剂的作用。圣歌在他们中间低声吟响。 “真恐怖，”我半是自言自语地说道。 西蒙·亚克将机关门轻轻恢复原状，压低声音说，“说真的，头顶上的邪恶仪式也许还不及你自己心中的恶魔作祟。” “什么？”我低声回答。 "I don't understand you." “谁又敢说通奸之罪轻于恶魔崇拜之罪？”他平静地说。“他们都是撒旦的杰作。” “你疯了吗，西蒙？现在给我上道义课可不合时宜！” “亲爱的朋友，只要发现恶的存在，任何时候都是合适的。我为了寻找恶魔而来，此刻我居然在一个最不可能的地方发现了它——就在你心中！” 上面圣歌的声音越来越响，混合着西蒙·亚克的控诉重重地敲打着我的鼓膜。 “不……”我发出痛苦的低喃。 "No……" “离开这个女人，回到雪莉身边去，趁现在为时未晚。” “我……”圣歌突然由吟诵转为大声地喊叫，接着是一阵骚动。我抬起机关门，看到了令人意外的一幕。“是瑞恩！他们抓住她了！” 西蒙·亚克就在我身旁，他也和我一样，看到了被两个大汉架着的瑞恩。“她准是悄悄溜进来后，被卡里干认出来了。这个小蠢货！” 卡里干拿着写满杀意的弓和箭，他右手拉弦，颤动的箭头闪着寒光，瞄准了挣扎不已的瑞恩。 我不再犹豫，左手一把推开暗门，右手的点四五已经就位。 乔治·卡里干半转身，满脸惊讶地望着眼前的不速之客，下一秒，子弹已经穿过他的肩膀。 接着，现场陷入混乱…… 幸好阿什利警官和他的弟兄们及时赶到，我从人群里挤出来的时候，袖子只剩下一半，鼻子不停地流着血。我的子弹完全击碎了卡里干的肩部，救护车抵达时，他已经失去了知觉。他的追随者们也很快地被包围起来，并被一一带走，房里只剩下四个人：西蒙和阿什利警官，还有我和瑞恩。 “那把弓箭足以证明这帮人和卡里尔的谋杀脱不了干系，”阿什利说。“我现在只希望报纸不要缠着我们的理查兹小姐，添油加醋是他们的拿手活，在他们笔下，你一定会作为祭品，被一丝不挂地牺牲在祭坛之上的！” “能活着真是谢天谢地，”瑞恩说。“我并不担心报纸上怎么评论。当那支箭对着我的胸口时，我脑海里只有卡里尔被钉在墙上的惨状。” “你欠你朋友们一个天大的人情了。”阿什利说。 “我知道。现在我只希望西蒙能告诉我们那本书藏在哪里，这样我们就能快点离开这个鬼地方了。” “对啊，西蒙，”我也开始迫不及待起来。“那本唯一幸存下来的撒旦崇拜之书在哪里？” 他一边叹气一边绕着房间走了一圈，房间里已经被一些警方的可携式聚光灯照得亮堂许多。“我的朋友们啊，它一直就放在它本来的位置；从一开始，这个事实就很明显地摆在眼前。毕竟，如果这本书能够被轻而易举地转移到一个新的地方，还有什么必要除掉卡里尔灭口呢？” “有道理，为什么不换一个地方呢？”我顺着西蒙的话问。 “因为没有办法换地方；因为它就是这个屋子的一部分，因此没有办法处理或转移。” 我们环视周围，长桌，墙上的恶魔挂图，朱庇特塑像，但什么也没发现。 “在哪里啊？”瑞恩忍不住问道。 西蒙·亚克闭上眼睛。“在十七世纪，若是一本书被政府审查禁止，不一定会采取焚毁的处理方式。如果这本书的尺寸比较大，例如早期的某些对开本，它的书页会制作为墙纸的一部分……” “墙纸！” “没错。字迹被浓墨重彩的墙纸颜色覆盖起来了。瞧，”他沿着色彩斑斓的墙壁绕行，“这就是最后一本撒旦崇拜，以及藏在书里的地狱主教的秘密……” 一切都过去了，离开现场时已经很晚了，我和瑞恩·理查兹步入伦敦清冷早晨的雾霭中…… “我会立即着手让大学实验室对这些墙纸进行分析，”她说，“不过还原本来的字迹可能需要几个月的时间。” “我了解其中的不易，”我说，“不过现在看起来，几天前还那么重要的使命，如今已经无关紧要了。布莱恩是不是凶手，又或者，他是不是那位凶手妻子手下的第二个亡魂，我们已经没有必要去关注了。对他的惩罚，已经在很久以前的某个冥冥中兑现了。” “也许吧，”她勉强同意道。“只是没想到会死这么多人，这真是太糟了。” 我们继续往前走，四下陷入短暂的寂静，我开口说道：“我说，还有我们之间的事……” “嗯，我明白……” “西蒙·亚克今晚和我谈过了，就在我们埋伏在地下室的时候。” “他是个真男人，对吗？” “是的，我觉得是。” “代我向你妻子问好。” “好，”我答应了，但我们彼此都清楚这是不可能的。 "Then, goodbye..." “再见，瑞恩……” 我望着她，望着她渐渐没入晨雾中的背影。直到什么也看不见了，终于转身离开。 回到旅馆的房间，雪莉寄来的航空信仍然静静地躺在床上；我撕开信封，挑了张椅子，开始阅读……
Notes:
我们三人暂时陷入沉默。对我而言，很难相信在二十世纪的现代伦敦会发生这样的事。但另一方面，和西蒙·亚克相处的这些日子使我明白，世上有太多超出常人理解范围的事情每天都在发生着。似乎一直都有一个区别于现世的异次元邪恶世界和这个地球一同运转，偶尔有一两抹恐怖的光景从中泄露出来。 “但为什么呢？”我问道。“那么多地方，为什么偏偏选在这个破旧的蓝猪酒吧？” “因为那里曾经是一个神父避难所，曾经有真实的安息日仪式在那里举行过，虽然教堂是最好的选择，但退而求其次的话，这个酒吧是个很好的选择。而且现存唯一一本撒旦崇拜也存放在那里。” “太可怕了……”阿什利警官喃喃自语。“请告诉我们你是怎么知道他们今晚的计划的。” “月圆之夜通常有很多事发生。恶魔崇拜的教徒们不一定非得在月圆之夜举行仪式，但当我注意到桌上的报纸日期时，我发现四周之前的那一天正是上个月月圆的第一天——我猜这就是他们上一次会议的日子。所以当月亮再次变圆的时候，我相信会议将再次开始。” 阿什利闻言立即起身。“我这就下达命令，我的人随时听你调遣，西蒙。从上次和你共事以来，我就深信你的判断总是正确无误的。” 我点了第二支烟，因为没吃早饭，肚子开始发出抗议。“私人住所举行的宗教集会是从什么时候开始被认为属于违法的？”我问阿什利。 他好像有些愠怒。“这可不是什么宗教；难道你忘了那个被三支箭钉在墙上的可怜家伙吗？” “也许有那么一会儿吧……”我不得不承认，同时感到有些受挫。“那么——你接下来打算怎么办？” “今晚早些时候，警官和他的人会把现场包围起来，等我发出信号就行动，”西蒙·亚克向我解释。“我本人则会潜入那道暗门下的地窖，你愿意的话可以和我一起。” “我可不想错过这个好机会，”我态度鲜明。“就算你要直接面对撒旦，我也愿意在你身边。” 阿什利叹了口气。“你们俩准是疯了，潜入那种仪式的现场可不是闹着玩的，但我明白在此和西蒙争执是徒劳的，祝你们好运。” “虽然我胸有成竹，”西蒙说，“但最好还是能弄把枪。你能从瑞恩那儿借到吗？” "no problem." “下次别在我面前说这些，”阿什利很不开心地嘟囔。“在伦敦，警察都很难获得持枪许可。” “抱歉，不过今晚你的人还是带上家伙比较好，”西蒙·亚克说。“这些人和疯子没什么两样，无一例外；要是被逼急了，什么事都干得出来。” 后来他们俩离开了，只剩下我一个人在房间里思绪万千：接下来的夜晚会发生些什么？瑞恩在干什么？我在西切斯特的家和等待我的妻子雪莉还好吗？我第一次有了“也许再也回不去了”这样的念头…… 出租车载着我穿过皮卡迪利广场，路边的霓虹灯都熄灭了，白天这里可是格登和瑞格力打得不易热乎的商战场。不久之后，我回到了瑞恩位于郊区的家。 “真高兴又看到你，”她在门口迎接我的归来。 "Did you sleep well last night?" “非常好。”我扼要地复述了西蒙·亚克的结论。“跟你借支枪，明天还你，应该没问题吧？” “当然，”她带着我来到陈列柜前。“看中哪支？” “干军警时我用点四五的。别的可能使不顺手，我还是从点四五里挑一把好了。” 她递给我一把厚重而冰冷的武器以及一盒子弹，弹夹是空的。我将子弹一一填入弹夹，一共七颗，然后塞进枪托。“谢谢了，瑞恩。明早我会完璧归赵的。” “我要和你一起去，”她突然说。“干坐在这儿会让我疯掉的。” “抱歉，那是不可能的。我和西蒙要去也费了很大功夫说服阿什利，但事情一旦搞定我可以马上打电话给你。” “这是一个承诺吗？” “是承诺。”我轻轻地吻了一下她的唇，走上外面的街道。口袋里的手枪下坠感强烈。 我抽时间给纽约办公室发了电报，表示今晚我会拿到那本书，这次旅程就将告一段落。然后我在伦敦市中心找了一间不好不坏的酒吧，在那里思绪空白地度过了后半个下午。 回到旅馆，我发现了一封航空信，是雪莉寄过来的。我径直把信丢在床上。 一瞬间，我脑海里闪过“今晚的蓝猪之行会让我的烦恼一了百了”这样的念头。 因为我发现我真的爱上了瑞恩·理查兹…… 进入蓝猪酒吧的地下室并没花太多功夫，我们轻易地找到通往地窖的门，然后躲在地上那扇暗门后面。 我掏出点四五手枪，把一颗子弹上了膛。接下来是漫长的等待…… 过了不久，腕表走到了11点30分，正当我就要失去耐心时，我们听到头顶传来一些声响。几乎与此同时，有人进入地窖。 我们藏身在一些已发霉的箱子堆后面，看着一些男人和几个女人通过暗门进入这个空间。最后，上面的屋子传来的声音显示仪式已经开始，我和西蒙又回到之前位于机关门后的位置。 西蒙·亚克把门推开一英寸左右，透过这道缝隙，我看到了一幕永生难忘的景象。那个长桌后，是乔治·卡里干身着白色长袍的身影，他双臂高举，指向天花板。桌子的两端燃烧着几十支黑色蜡烛，跳动的火焰照耀着二十几个跪在地上的男女信徒身上，他们几乎把那个小房间给塞满了。 色泽明亮的墙纸被挂在墙上的蛇怪和其他怪兽的图案遮住，卡里干身后是一尊远古神朱庇特的塑像。“耶稣死后异教徒举起的就是这个像，”西蒙·亚克小声说道。“我们正身处邪恶的漩涡中心。” “那还等什么？”我问。“冲上去把他们抓个正着。” “耐心一点。好戏才刚刚开始。” 跪在地上的信徒们，开始前后摇晃身体，仿佛受到了某种致幻剂的作用。圣歌在他们中间低声吟响。 “真恐怖，”我半是自言自语地说道。 西蒙·亚克将机关门轻轻恢复原状，压低声音说，“说真的，头顶上的邪恶仪式也许还不及你自己心中的恶魔作祟。” “什么？”我低声回答。 "I don't understand you." “谁又敢说通奸之罪轻于恶魔崇拜之罪？”他平静地说。“他们都是撒旦的杰作。” “你疯了吗，西蒙？现在给我上道义课可不合时宜！” “亲爱的朋友，只要发现恶的存在，任何时候都是合适的。我为了寻找恶魔而来，此刻我居然在一个最不可能的地方发现了它——就在你心中！” 上面圣歌的声音越来越响，混合着西蒙·亚克的控诉重重地敲打着我的鼓膜。 “不……”我发出痛苦的低喃。 "No……" “离开这个女人，回到雪莉身边去，趁现在为时未晚。” “我……”圣歌突然由吟诵转为大声地喊叫，接着是一阵骚动。我抬起机关门，看到了令人意外的一幕。“是瑞恩！他们抓住她了！” 西蒙·亚克就在我身旁，他也和我一样，看到了被两个大汉架着的瑞恩。“她准是悄悄溜进来后，被卡里干认出来了。这个小蠢货！” 卡里干拿着写满杀意的弓和箭，他右手拉弦，颤动的箭头闪着寒光，瞄准了挣扎不已的瑞恩。 我不再犹豫，左手一把推开暗门，右手的点四五已经就位。 乔治·卡里干半转身，满脸惊讶地望着眼前的不速之客，下一秒，子弹已经穿过他的肩膀。 接着，现场陷入混乱…… 幸好阿什利警官和他的弟兄们及时赶到，我从人群里挤出来的时候，袖子只剩下一半，鼻子不停地流着血。我的子弹完全击碎了卡里干的肩部，救护车抵达时，他已经失去了知觉。他的追随者们也很快地被包围起来，并被一一带走，房里只剩下四个人：西蒙和阿什利警官，还有我和瑞恩。 “那把弓箭足以证明这帮人和卡里尔的谋杀脱不了干系，”阿什利说。“我现在只希望报纸不要缠着我们的理查兹小姐，添油加醋是他们的拿手活，在他们笔下，你一定会作为祭品，被一丝不挂地牺牲在祭坛之上的！” “能活着真是谢天谢地，”瑞恩说。“我并不担心报纸上怎么评论。当那支箭对着我的胸口时，我脑海里只有卡里尔被钉在墙上的惨状。” “你欠你朋友们一个天大的人情了。”阿什利说。 “我知道。现在我只希望西蒙能告诉我们那本书藏在哪里，这样我们就能快点离开这个鬼地方了。” “对啊，西蒙，”我也开始迫不及待起来。“那本唯一幸存下来的撒旦崇拜之书在哪里？” 他一边叹气一边绕着房间走了一圈，房间里已经被一些警方的可携式聚光灯照得亮堂许多。“我的朋友们啊，它一直就放在它本来的位置；从一开始，这个事实就很明显地摆在眼前。毕竟，如果这本书能够被轻而易举地转移到一个新的地方，还有什么必要除掉卡里尔灭口呢？” “有道理，为什么不换一个地方呢？”我顺着西蒙的话问。 “因为没有办法换地方；因为它就是这个屋子的一部分，因此没有办法处理或转移。” 我们环视周围，长桌，墙上的恶魔挂图，朱庇特塑像，但什么也没发现。 “在哪里啊？”瑞恩忍不住问道。 西蒙·亚克闭上眼睛。“在十七世纪，若是一本书被政府审查禁止，不一定会采取焚毁的处理方式。如果这本书的尺寸比较大，例如早期的某些对开本，它的书页会制作为墙纸的一部分……” “墙纸！” “没错。字迹被浓墨重彩的墙纸颜色覆盖起来了。瞧，”他沿着色彩斑斓的墙壁绕行，“这就是最后一本撒旦崇拜，以及藏在书里的地狱主教的秘密……” 一切都过去了，离开现场时已经很晚了，我和瑞恩·理查兹步入伦敦清冷早晨的雾霭中…… “我会立即着手让大学实验室对这些墙纸进行分析，”她说，“不过还原本来的字迹可能需要几个月的时间。” “我了解其中的不易，”我说，“不过现在看起来，几天前还那么重要的使命，如今已经无关紧要了。布莱恩是不是凶手，又或者，他是不是那位凶手妻子手下的第二个亡魂，我们已经没有必要去关注了。对他的惩罚，已经在很久以前的某个冥冥中兑现了。” “也许吧，”她勉强同意道。“只是没想到会死这么多人，这真是太糟了。” 我们继续往前走，四下陷入短暂的寂静，我开口说道：“我说，还有我们之间的事……” “嗯，我明白……” “西蒙·亚克今晚和我谈过了，就在我们埋伏在地下室的时候。” “他是个真男人，对吗？” “是的，我觉得是。” “代我向你妻子问好。” “好，”我答应了，但我们彼此都清楚这是不可能的。 "Then, goodbye..." “再见，瑞恩……” 我望着她，望着她渐渐没入晨雾中的背影。直到什么也看不见了，终于转身离开。 回到旅馆的房间，雪莉寄来的航空信仍然静静地躺在床上；我撕开信封，挑了张椅子，开始阅读……
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