The Nosferatu Scroll (12 page)

But it wasn’t until they looked in a section of the graveyard that appeared to be the most neglected that Angela thought they might have found the one referred to in the diary.

In one corner of this area she spotted a sarcophagustype tomb. Unlike most of the others they’d looked at,
which had carved stone figures surmounting them, either as part of a heavily ornamented top slab or as a separate piece of monumental stone, this grave had a fairly plain slab covering the top of the sarcophagus, and there was no immediate sign of any angelic carvings. But then she looked at the foot and saw an incised carving that depicted two angels side by side, their limbs entwined, one virtually a mirror image of the other.

“Is this it?” Bronson asked, walking over in response to her wave.

“It’s the most likely, I think. The two angels are identical, and it’s obviously a really old grave.”

Angela stepped forward and looked at the letters and numbers on the top of the slab. The stone was quite badly weathered, but most of the inscription was just about legible.

“The date of the burial was July, seventeen eighty-three,” she said. “The name is a bit more difficult to read, but I think the surname is Delaca. I can’t make out the first name at all, except that it begins with the letter ‘N.’”

Angela took a notebook out of her handbag and recorded the information she’d found on the slab.

“I’ll do a bit of research on the Web,” she said, “and maybe check one or two genealogy sites. I might be able to find out something about him or her.” She looked closely at the tomb, at the joints between the stones, and shook her head. “It doesn’t look to me as if anybody’s touched this grave for decades, maybe even centuries.
Perhaps the ‘answer’—or whatever Carmelita Paganini was referring to—isn’t actually in the grave, but visible outside it.”

“You mean there might be something in the inscriptions themselves?” Bronson asked.

Angela nodded, took out her digital camera and took pictures of the tomb from every angle, trying to ensure that the images showed the inscriptions and symbols carved into the stone as clearly as possible.

“Are we finished here?” Bronson asked finally. It was beginning to get chilly and he didn’t like the way the shadows were starting to lengthen between the graves.

“Yes. Let’s go back to the hotel,” Angela replied. “I’ll do a bit more work on the translation when I have time, and see if I can find out anything else about this ‘answer’ our diarist talks about.”

“And I suppose you can do that once we get back to England, so tomorrow we can start our holiday again?”

Angela nodded in agreement and laced her arm through his as they walked back toward the entrance to the cemetery.

They’d gone about fifty or sixty yards when Bronson suddenly stopped and looked around.

Angela looked at him inquiringly. “What is it?”

“Can you smell something?”

“Sorry?”

“It’s foul and unpleasant—and I have a horrible feeling I know what it is.”

For a second or two, Angela looked at him. “We are
standing in the middle of a graveyard,” she reminded him.

“I know. But even in a cemetery you shouldn’t be able to smell a decomposing corpse. That’s why bodies are buried in coffins—to keep everything inside.” Bronson glanced around. “I think it’s coming from over there,” he said, gesturing over to the right of the path they were following.

He stepped off the path and walked slowly through the graves. “It’s definitely stronger over here,” he called out.

“I can smell it now,” Angela confirmed, joining him.

The odor faded slightly as they passed a line of tombs, and they turned around to retrace their steps.

“That might be it,” Bronson suggested, pointing at an old grave. “You see the corner of it? A section of the slab has broken off.”

They walked over to the sarcophagus-type structure that Bronson had indicated, and with every step they took, the smell grew stronger and more offensive. Angela took a handkerchief from her bag and pressed it against her nose, but it made little difference.

The stone box that comprised the grave was about eight or nine feet long, about four feet wide and roughly the same height. The slab covering the top had obviously cracked in one corner and that section of the stone had fallen onto the ground beside the tomb. Bronson stepped closer to the opening that had been created, then retreated.

He coughed a couple of times, trying to rid his lungs of the stench of decay, then turned back to Angela.

“I left my camera back at the hotel,” he said. “Can I borrow yours?”

“You’re going to photograph a rotting body?” Angela looked shocked.

“Don’t you see? This is an old grave, so the body should have decayed into nothing years and years ago. Whatever is causing that smell is very recent. We’ve got two choices. Either we slide the slab off the top of the grave, which is something I really don’t want to do, or I point your camera into the tomb through that hole in the corner and take a picture of the interior. If it’s just a cat or some animal that’s crawled in there to die, we can forget all about it. But if it’s something else, we’ll be able to tell exactly what it is from the image, and then, if we have to, we can make a call.”

“You think there’s a fresh corpse in there, don’t you?” Angela asked, and Bronson nodded. “Right, here’s my camera.”

Bronson took it from her, walked back to the tomb, aimed the lens through the hole, and pressed the shutter release. There was a sudden explosion of light as the flash was triggered. It took the camera a couple of seconds to process the image, and then a picture of the interior of the tomb appeared in full color on the small LCD screen.

Bronson turned away from the tomb, and handed the camera back to Angela.

“Oh, my God, Chris,” she whispered, her face turning pale.

Bronson nodded grimly, took his mobile phone from his pocket and dialed 112. They needed the emergency services, fast.

“Signor Bronson, we meet again.” The carabinieri sergeant looked at Bronson appraisingly. “You seem to be making something of a habit of being at the scene of desecrated tombs.”

“It’s only happened twice,” Bronson objected.

“Apart from some simple vandalism over the past few years, there have only been two cases that I know of where graves in this cemetery have been desecrated. The first one was yesterday, just over there”—the sergeant pointed—“and when two police officers arrived on the scene, the first person they spoke to was you. And now you’ve called us to report this one as well. That’s two in two days, and the only common factor, Signor Bronson, seems to be you. That’s what I call a habit.”

Behind the sergeant, about half a dozen police officers were in attendance, as well as numerous other people wearing civilian clothes—Bronson presumed they were
crime-scene technicians, the pathologist and staff from the mortuary.

“In your call”—the sergeant referred to his notebook—“you said there was a dead girl in the tomb.”

Bronson shook his head. “No, I didn’t,” he said. “I actually told the operator there were three dead girls.”

“Three?”

Bronson nodded.

“So you looked into the grave?”

“As a matter of fact, I didn’t. I haven’t got a flashlight and I wouldn’t have been able to see anything inside the tomb without one. Instead, I used a digital camera with an automatic flash.”

Bronson reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out Angela’s camera, switched it on and found the photograph he had taken through the crack in the lid of the tomb.

The sergeant muttered something under his breath. The image was pin-sharp, and the flash had driven away the darkness inside the grave, and recorded forever the appalling scene inside it.

Clearly visible in the picture were the stone base and sides of the tomb, and the remains of a very old coffin, most of the wood disintegrated and rotten. Mixed in with the wooden fragments were a few tattered scraps of cloth and, at one end of the grave, the leg bones of a human skeleton. But it wasn’t this evidence of an ancient burial that had transfixed the sergeant. It was the three naked female bodies that were lying on top of the disintegrated coffin, one on top of another, their corpses already
bloated and discolored as the disintegration of their tissues accelerated.

The sergeant looked at the picture on the LCD screen for a few moments longer, then handed the camera back to Bronson. He turned away and addressed the men who’d arrived in response to Bronson’s call, issuing orders and instructions.

Temporarily dismissed, Bronson walked a few paces to where Angela sat on the ground, her back resting against a gravestone. He sat down beside her and took her hand. She looked pale and shaken by what she’d seen.

“Why did whoever killed those girls dump their bodies here?” she asked.

“That’s easy. Where’s the best place to hide a body?”

“In a graveyard?”

“Exactly. And that’s what happened here. If the corner of that slab hadn’t cracked and fallen off, they might never have been discovered.”

“So can we go home? Back to the hotel, I mean?” Angela asked.

Bronson shook his head. “Not yet. We’ll have to make statements, obviously, and my guess is that the investigating officers will want to speak to us before they’ll let us leave.”

He looked across at the tomb, which was now isolated behind a perimeter of tape to prevent anyone approaching it. Several tripod-mounted floodlights had been positioned around the scene, illuminating the grave in the evening darkness. A technician, wearing white coveralls
and latex gloves and with slip-on booties covering his shoes, was standing just outside the tape, carrying a powerful digital camera. As Bronson watched, he shot at least a couple of dozen pictures of the grave from various angles, moving around the perimeter to do so. Then he ducked under the tape, took several close-up shots of the tomb from all sides, then finally stepped closer still and took several more shots of the interior through the gap in the slab.

“Why don’t they just take the slab off the top?” Angela asked.

“They will, of course, but first they’ll want to gather as much information as they can about the scene. There might be footprints around the grave, though that’s a bit unlikely on this surface. They’ll want to dust the slab for fingerprints, and thoroughly examine the immediate vicinity of the tomb for any possible clues—objects the perpetrators might have dropped, fibers from their clothing, tool marks on the slab, all that kind of thing. They’ll probably just be wasting their time, in my opinion, because they’ve no idea how many other people might have passed this way since the bodies were dumped here, and of course last night was the Festival of the Dead, when the number of living on the island probably outnumbered the dead.”

“You think those poor girls were left here before the festival yesterday, then?”

“Judging by the condition of their bodies, I do. And I think if there are any clues to be found, they’ll be inside
the tomb, and probably on the corpses themselves. But until the officer who’s been appointed to lead this investigation arrives here, they certainly won’t open the grave.”

The carabinieri sergeant walked back to where Bronson and Angela were sitting, a uniformed constable following behind him.

“This officer will now take a written statement from you, Signor Bronson, and from your companion,” he said.

About ten minutes after Bronson had read and signed his own statement, and had translated into Italian Angela’s much shorter statement—which basically corroborated what he had said—and she had signed it in her turn, another half dozen men arrived at the scene, one of whom was immediately approached by the sergeant.

The two men talked together for a few minutes; then the sergeant pointed toward Bronson and Angela. The other man followed his glance, and nodded. Then he walked across to look closely at the tomb, the sergeant following. Even from where Bronson was sitting, perhaps twenty yards away from the tomb, the smell of putrefaction was unpleasantly strong, and he wasn’t surprised at the expression of distaste on the senior officer’s face as he moved forward to the hole in the slab and peered inside, a small but powerful flashlight in his hand. Then he stepped back and walked briskly away from the grave.

Bronson and Angela seemed to have been temporarily
forgotten, and although Angela wanted to get back to the hotel, Bronson was keen to stay, at least for a few minutes more, and watch the recovery of the bodies. And, as he pointed out, they hadn’t yet been told that they could leave.

The Italians were working in much the same way as English police officers would have done in the same circumstances. Once the tomb was opened, the photographer moved forward again to record the scene. He was followed by several of the investigating officers and a man Bronson thought was probably the pathologist. Only then was the first body lifted out of the grave and transferred immediately into a body bag.

Bronson used Angela’s digital camera to record the operation.

“What are you doing?” she muttered in disapproval.

“I’m making a record of what’s happening,” he replied. “Just in case.”

“Just in case what?”

“I don’t know, but this is a peculiar situation we’re involved in, and having a photographic record seems to be a good idea.”

With the first body removed, more photographs were taken, and then the operation was repeated to lift out the second corpse, and then the third. Once all three body bags had been closed, the unpleasant smell began to dissipate, and several of the Italian officers removed their face masks. Further checks were run on the tomb, and it was carefully searched for any other possible clues.

“I’ll ask the sergeant whether we can go now,” Bronson said at last.

With Angela beside him, he walked around the taped-off tomb and approached the investigating officers.

“Is there anything else you need from us?” Bronson asked in Italian.

The sergeant glanced toward the more senior carabinieri officer. “Inspector Bianchi?”

The officer glanced at Bronson and Angela, looked as if he was going to speak, and then shook his head.