The Dead Travel Fast Read Free

further. Once you have seen it you will think that you don’t want to look at things differently, that you don’t want to break the code. And you won’t want to, but you will not be able to help yourself.”
    He pulled the cover from the painting. I recognised it: “The Flaying of Marysas”, smaller and not the original of course. As if he read my thoughts he said,
    “It is Titian! A genuine Titian but not one you will ever have read about. It’s been kept away from those who should not know of such things, those who do not possess that particular cultivated taste required to appreciate the ecstasy. But look closely, it’s not like the version of Marysas that you know. However this is theone you will never forget. This is the one which will change your perception.”
    I looked: he was right, it was different; the original is sufficiently disturbing but this, this was a perversion. I can’t even write about it now, the things staring from its fringes should never even have been imagined, they inverted any sense of goodness, it looked beyond morality into darkness and its vision contaminated everything.
    I turned and as I ran I heard him call, “Look to see me in the Palais Lascaris.” Outside, I threw up in the road then ran on; people out for a walk on that beautiful day scattered as I approached.
    The next day I flew home, but I knew that although I could leave Venice I couldn’t escape and so it has proved. Back home I threw myself into my work but I was never comfortable, never easy. I even wished that you and Giles were still there, but then you had gone through your breakdown, taken to drink and abused even Jan’s patience, and Giles took six months unpaid leave; it was either that or be suspended from his post.
    So, I was alone. Living for your work and living alone makes you vulnerable, not that you would ever understand that. Bit by bit the thought of the code wormed its way into my troubled mind. I knew I should leave it well alone, but it whispered to me at night as I tossed and turned, sleepless in bed. It was there as I ate my lonely meals or went for walks along the river.
    Then, out of the blue, I was called out to Skendleby. The new owner of the Hall, Carver, a vicious piece of work, had tried to build an extension for a swimming pool without planning permission. Several of the locals reported him to the council and as part of his retrospective application I was asked to assess the likelihood of damage to the historic landscape.
    A good thing too, his plan required the demolition of the medieval Davenport chapel. Carver was eager to demolish it; I sensed it frightened him. He turned quite nasty with me after understanding I couldn’t be bribed to turn a blind eye. He threatened me which increased my determination to present a strong case against him.
    That’s when I took the final wrong decision that’s led me here.Once I started to research the evidence I realised there were documents missing: deliberately lost or even destroyed. I began to consider that there might be a link with the coded document. Even from the surviving evidence, it was clear that the Davenports associated the chapel with some type of malevolent legacy as local folk lore has always maintained; but of course you know all about that, don’t you, Steve?
    I interviewed the last Davenport, Sir Nigel, a decent old boy recovering from some kind of stroke. He sent you his regards. I found that odd, I couldn’t see you and him having much in common, or is that something else you kept quiet?
    Any way I digress, it’s getting late. What I found really odd about Davenport was that he seemed relieved that the Hall was no longer his responsibility. In fact he seemed genuinely pleased he’d sold it on to Carver, and that in some way Carver deserved it and had been tricked into it like Karswell was in the M. R James ghost story The Casting Of The Runes.
    I think Davenport was right about Carver deserving it, but giving up the family