The Nosferatu Scroll (39 page)

Angela was silent for a few moments, then looked up at Bronson again. “Are you sure he’s dead? That foul creature?”

Bronson nodded. “At that range, I couldn’t possibly
have missed. I fired four or five shots into him at a range of about six feet. If that didn’t kill him outright, he’d have bled to death in minutes. He’s dead—that’s for sure. Tomorrow, Bianchi will tell us he’s recovered the body, and that’ll be the end of it.”

Bronson and Angela walked into the hotel dining room the next morning only a few minutes before breakfast stopped being served. Angela had bathed and dressed the wound on his head as soon as they’d gotten back to the hotel the previous night and then they’d fallen into bed. They’d talked for a few minutes about the traumatic events of the previous few days, and especially the last frantic hours out in the lagoon; then exhaustion had overtaken them both and they’d quickly fallen asleep.

Bronson collected a coffeepot, a couple of cups and the last remaining basket of bread and croissants from the serving table and took everything over to the table by the window where Angela was sitting. She fell on the food as if she was starving.

“God, I’m famished,” she said, between mouthfuls of croissant.

“I’m not surprised.” Bronson poured her a cup of coffee, then sat back in his chair and looked at her.

“What?” she said, smiling.

“I just like looking at you; that’s all,” Bronson replied, “and for a while there I really didn’t think that was something I was ever going to be able to do again.”

Angela shuddered. “Don’t remind me,” she said. “I never thought I was going to get out alive. You know, I still can’t believe you managed to find me.”

Bronson had explained about his visit to the Isola di San Michele and the events that had followed it the previous evening.

“I don’t think I could have lived with myself if I’d lost you a second time,” he said, taking her hand. “You know, I was certain that Inspector Bianchi was one of the bad guys, but now I’m really glad I was wrong, because if he had been, my guess is we’d both be dead now.”

Angela nodded, and in a halting voice described in more detail the code-breaking she’d been forced to do.

“It was appalling stuff,” she finished. “That scroll I found in the bell tower on Poveglia—which is a severely creepy place, by the way—was neither more nor less than an authorization to go out and commit multiple rape and mass murder. But what really bothered me about it was the whole tone of the text. It was so matter-of-fact about vampires, as if they were simply another sector of society that everyone would have known about. Oh, and by implication everyone could become one if they really wanted to, and were prepared to follow the rituals.”

“I had a question about that,” Bronson said. “They had a female wolf chained up in a stable, and before the
ceremony started I saw two men go into the building and milk her. And then they forced the milk down poor Marietta’s throat. What the hell has that got to do with becoming a vampire?”

Angela’s face was pale and strained as she remembered what she’d been through. “That was something they got completely wrong. My guess is that the members of the vampire group had studied all the ancient literature. They would certainly have read about the eighteenth-century Vampire Princess of the Schwarzenbergs—Eleonora Amalia. Almost every contemporary source agreed that she was a vampire, and her body was autopsied after her death, something that was only very rarely done in those days, and almost never on a member of the aristocracy. It’s now thought that the procedure was performed not to find out why she died, but simply so her heart could legitimately be removed from her body. Because she was of royal blood, they couldn’t decapitate her or burn her corpse. Wrenching out a vampire’s heart was supposed to make sure it stayed dead.

“But one of the other odd things about Eleonora Amalia was that she drank the milk of wolves, and my guess is that the members of the group discovered that and thought it was just something else they—or rather their victims—should do. But, according to other sources, Eleonora Amalia didn’t think she was a vampire, and she drank the milk for an entirely different reason, though it was based on another old legend—Romulus and Remus. She was trying to increase her fertility.”

Angela stopped talking and looked across at Bronson. Then she voiced the unspoken question that was uppermost in both their minds.

“Last night…the leader of that group…was he really a man, do you think?”

Bronson shook his head helplessly. “I don’t know,” he muttered. “What I do know is that he was the most terrifying thing I’ve ever seen.”

“When I came round after that Taser hit me, he was carrying me, and I’ll tell you this: he was incredibly strong. For part of the time he literally held me in one arm. You’re strong, Chris, and I’m sure you could pick me up fairly easily, but I very much doubt if you could carry me very far, especially not over such rough ground.” Angela paused, and Bronson noticed her hand was shaking. “There’s something else about it that bothers me. I know it’s not definite proof either way, but there is one consistent factor that seems to crop up in all the records about—”

She broke off as the door to the dining room opened and Inspector Bianchi walked in. He crossed over to their table, pulled up a third chair and sat down.

“Good morning, Inspector,” Bronson greeted him in Italian. “Would you like a coffee?” Without waiting for an answer, he picked up an unused cup from the next table, poured coffee into it and slid it over.

“Good morning. I think we’ve wrapped up almost everything on the island,” Bianchi said, sticking to English so that Angela could understand what he was saying.
“The forensics people are still out there, and will be for a while, but I’m pretty certain we’ve got all the evidence we need, including the pistol that was used to kill my superior officer here in the city. I hope this means an end to these disappearances and murders.” He paused for a moment to taste his drink. “But I’m afraid we’ve still not found a body in the lagoon.”

Bianchi glanced at Angela, then continued. “But it’s only a matter of time. The currents in the lagoon can be fierce. We think that man’s corpse probably sank below the surface soon after he fell into the water, and simply drifted away. Trying to spot a body in the water at night is very difficult.”

“But you are
sure
he’s dead?” Angela asked.

Bianchi nodded. “We would certainly have spotted that man if he’d been swimming away from the scene. And there are bullet holes in his robe, in both the front and the back, so clearly your shots must have badly wounded him, at least. If his corpse doesn’t turn up over the next couple of days, it will probably have washed out into the Adriatic, and we’ll never find it.”

Bronson opened his mouth to object, but Bianchi held up his hand to forestall him. “No doubt you have your own views about this, Signor Bronson, but what I’ve just described seems to us to make logical sense, and will be what our final report into this matter will say. We already have his accomplices in custody, and the circumstances of their arrest mean that their trial should be almost a formality.”

Bronson nodded slowly. “Perhaps you’re right,” he said. “That’s probably the best way to handle this. Stick to the facts, produce the bodies, line up the suspects and then let justice take its course.”

“And Marietta?” Angela asked. “How is she?”

Bianchi finished the last of his coffee and smiled. “She’s fine. Well, she’s obviously still very traumatized by her experience, as I’m sure you are, too, but she’s back with her family, and her boyfriend.”

“Send her my love,” Angela said, a tremor in her voice. “She was so brave in that cellar.”

“I will.” Bianchi stood up. “Make sure you come to the police station in San Marco before you leave Venice, please,” he said. “You are both material witnesses in this case, and the prosecution may well decide that we need you here when the trial finally takes place, so it’s essential that we have your full contact details. Other than that, enjoy the rest of your holiday in Venice. And if I might make a suggestion, please try to avoid going near any other graveyards or churches while you’re here.”

Bianchi extended his hand and Bronson shook it. Then he kissed Angela on both cheeks, turned and left the room.

Bronson sat down again and looked across at Angela. “So they’ve got the killers,” he said, “and they’ll prosecute them for the multiple murders. They might need us as witnesses, but we’ll have to wait and see. That means we might just get another trip out here to Venice, all expenses paid.”

Angela looked at him for a moment. “You were going to say something to the inspector? Something about the body?”

Bronson nodded. “Two things, in fact. I know it was dark last night, but I took a quick look at that robe when I handed it to Bianchi. He was right about the bullet holes, but I didn’t see any blood. And dead bodies don’t sink—they float.”

“So what are you saying? That he’s still alive?”

“No. He can’t be. That’s simply impossible. It’s just a bit odd, the way it all happened at the end. And you were about to say something when Bianchi arrived?”

“Oh yes,” Angela remembered. “It’s only a small thing. If you look back through all the accounts of vampires, from every country that has a tradition relating to the undead, you’ll find a mass of contradictions. Some say you can only kill them by beheading them, others that they’re terrified of a crucifix, or held at bay by garlic. In some countries, sunlight kills them. As far as I know, there are only two things that seem to be consistent everywhere. First, and most obviously, vampires live on human blood.” She paused for a second, and glanced at Bronson. “And the second thing is that vampires have a very distinctive smell. They reek of decay, of decomposing flesh.”

Bronson caught his breath as he remembered his experience in the secret chamber, and what he’d smelled in those moments when the leader of the group attacked him. “I’m not sure I’m hearing you right,” he said, trying
to smile. “Is this really my precious, logical, scientific Angela? Are you saying that you think we really did meet a vampire out on that island?”

Angela shook her head slowly. “Vampires don’t exist,” she said. “Everybody knows that. But we have been in contact with a very strange person, someone I never, ever want to see again.” She got up and stretched. “We’ve got one more day left in Venice. I’m not visiting any of the islands, and definitely no churches, but do you think we’d be safe if we did some shopping? I’ve always fancied some handmade gloves.”

Bronson stood up too, and put his arms around her. “After what happened yesterday,” he said, “I’ll happily buy you ten pairs.”

Venice is a maze of narrow streets and canals, lined with old buildings. Because of the continuing problems with flooding and subsidence, many of the older properties and especially a number of the early palaces, the palazzi, have been abandoned because water damage to their lower floors has fatally weakened the entire structure. Sad, crumbling and in some cases too dangerous to enter, these ancient buildings endure mainly because they are supported by adjacent properties. Without this, most of them would have collapsed decades or even centuries ago.

Beside one small canal at the southern end of the Cannaregio district stands a tall and narrow building that dates almost as far back as the founding of the city. Last inhabited in the early nineteenth century, both its doors—the canal and the street entrances—are locked and barred and the windows shuttered, as they have been for decades. It is beyond repair, the foundations slowly crumbling
away into the waters below. Occasionally, the occupants of properties nearby can hear the rumble and splash as yet another piece of masonry falls away and tumbles down the interior of the building.

They have grown accustomed to these sounds, and rarely even remark on them. But these are not the only sounds that have recently been echoing through the old building.

Sometimes, late at night, the family who live next door can hear a faint slithering and swishing sound from one of the rooms on the very top floor of the doomed building, a room that they know has not been occupied for many years. Sometimes, the noises are loud enough to wake their children. And neither of their cats will even enter the rooms on the side of their house that abuts the deserted property.

They don’t know exactly what is making the noises, but they have their suspicions, because of the smell. Faint, but all-pervasive, the ruined house is beginning to smell distinctly of rotting flesh. Obviously something has gotten in there and died, they tell one another. And maybe the other noises are rats feeding on the remains.

Recently, the noises have started getting louder, and the smell stronger.

Vampires in History

Many people think that belief in vampires is a comparatively recent phenomenon, but in fact the myth of a bloodsucking creature of the night can trace its roots back for thousands of years, and there is one school of thought that suggests that perhaps the most famous murder of all time was the result of an attack by a vampire.

The Bible is strangely silent about the weapon used by Cain to kill his brother. In Genesis, it only says that “Cain rose up against Abel his brother, and slew him.” Over time, numerous objects were suggested as the likely murder weapons, typically rocks or lengths of wood of some kind, though another theory stated that it was the jawbone
of an animal, the teeth specially sharpened. Shakespeare made reference to this as the weapon in
Hamlet
.

But the Zohar, the group of books that provide the foundation of the Jewish Kabbalah, offers another suggestion entirely. In that work, there is no doubt whatsoever about the circumstances of Abel’s death—it states explicitly that Cain bit his brother on the throat. So it could be argued that the world’s first known vampire was actually the biblical Cain.