"Joseph Delaney - The Spook's Curse" - читать интересную книгу автора (Delaney Joseph)

and wobbly. ‘He’s been in bed with a bad fever this past week so he’s sent me in his place. I’m Tom
Ward. His apprentice.’

The rigger looked me up and down quickly, like an undertaker measuring me up for future business.
Then he raised one eyebrow so high that it disappeared under the peak of his flat cap, which was still
dripping with rain.

‘Well, Mr Ward,’ he said, an edge of sarcasm sharp in his voice, ‘we await your instructions.’

I put my left hand into my breeches pocket and pulled out the sketch that the stonemason had made.
The rigger set the lantern down on the earthen floor and then, with a world-weary shake of his head and
a glance at his mate, accepted the sketch and began to examine it.

The mason’s instructions gave the dimensions of the pit that needed to be dug, and the measurements
of the stone that would be lowered into place.

After a few moments the rigger shook his head again and knelt beside the lantern, holding the paper
very close to it. When he came to his feet, he was frowning. The pit should be nine feet deep,’ he said.
“This only says six.’

The rigger knew his job all right. The standard boggart pit is six feet deep but for a ripper, the most
dangerous boggart of all, nine feet is the norm. We were certainly facing a ripper - the priest’s screams
were proof of that - but there wasn’t time to dig nine feet.

‘It’ll have to do,’ I said. ‘It has to be done by morning or it’ll be too late and the priest will be dead.’

Until that moment they’d both been big men wearing big boots, oozing confidence from every pore.
Now, suddenly, they looked nervous. They knew the situation from the note I’d sent summoning them to
the barn. I’d used the Spook’s name to make sure they came right away.

‘Know what you’re doing, lad?’ asked the rigger. ‘Are you up to the job?’

I stared straight back into his eyes and tried hard not to blink. ‘Well, I’ve made a good start,’ I said.
‘I’ve hired the best rigger and mate in the County.’

It was the right thing to say and the rigger’s face cracked into a smile. ‘When will the stone arrive?’ he
asked.

‘Well before dawn. The mason’s bringing it himself. We have to be ready.’

The rigger nodded. ‘Then lead the way, Mr Ward. Show us where you want it dug.’

This time there was no sarcasm in his voice. His tone was business-like. He wanted the job over and
done with. We all wanted the same, and time was short so I pulled up my hood and, carrying the
Spook’s staff in my left hand, led the way out into the cold, heavy drizzle.

Their two-wheel cart was outside, the equipment covered with a waterproof sheet, the patient horse
between the shafts steaming in the rain.

We crossed the muddy field, then followed the blackthorn hedge to the place where it thinned,