The Nosferatu Scroll Read Free Page B

November, and he and Angela were standing side by side in the stern of a crowded vaporetto that was ferrying them from the Fondamente Nuove stop on Venice itself across the lagoon to the Isola di San Michele—the island of St. Michael—to take part in the celebrations known unofficially as the Festival of the Dead.
    There was a stiff breeze blowing from the southeast, sufficiently strong to create dozens of white horses that surged all around the vessel, but the boat carved an arrow-straight wake through the choppy waters. The lights of the city were just starting to pierce the late-afternoon gloom, a gloom made more pronounced by the patches of mist that were forming over the water.Venice looked almost like a huge and improbable cruise ship, floating silently in the cool and shallow waters of the lagoon.
    “I thought you’d like it,” Angela said, taking his arm to steady herself. “I wasn’t expecting this wind, though. Is it the sirocco?”
    Bronson shook his head. “No. It’s the wrong time of year. The sirocco only blows in the spring and summer.”
    “Well, I was hoping for a warm and balmy evening—a kind of last gasp of summer, if you like—but this feels more like the onset of winter.”
    “It is November, you know.”
    Angela shivered slightly. She was wearing a pair of black trousers (she’d guessed that a skirt would be much less practical for climbing in and out of vaporettos during the evening), a white blouse and a kind of woolen tunic that Bronson had incautiously referred to as a cardigan, only to receive a loud sigh at his manifest lack of fashion sense. Over this, she was wearing a midnight blue silk coat. Bronson liked it; it brought out the color of her eyes. He could see now that it couldn’t be very warm.
    Bronson had always regarded fashion as an easy way of separating large sums of money from gullible men—and even more gullible women—who were foolish enough to believe the rubbish spouted by the self-appointed fashion “experts.” He invariably dressed for comfort and practicality, selecting a shirt by opening a drawer and picking up the one that lay on top of the others. He chose trousers, socks and underwear using the same simple and, tohim, foolproof system. His only concessions to fashion were that he normally wore dark colors, usually blues and blacks, and had never owned a pair of white socks. This evening, he had chosen a dark checked shirt, slightly faded blue jeans, and a pair of black sneakers. And his leather jacket was proof against even the strongest wind the Adriatic could produce.
    Angela buttoned her coat, and snuggled closer to Bronson. “With your love of Italy, and all things Italian,” she murmured, “I’m really surprised that you’ve never been to Venice before.”
    “I know,” Bronson replied. “For some reason, I’ve spent my time on the west side of the country. So I know Rome, Florence, Pisa and Naples really well, but this is the first time I’ve ever visited the Adriatic coast. And it really is stunning.”
    It had all been Angela’s idea. There had been an unexpected reduction in her workload at the British Museum, and for the first time since the start of her employment there she had found herself with almost nothing to do. She was a ceramics conservator, and spent most of her working day either trying to reassemble ancient pottery shards into something that resembled a recognizable vessel or writing reports and assessments for the benefit of other people who were trying to do pretty much the same thing.
    And this lull in her workload had coincided neatly with the dates of Bronson’s final week’s leave for the year. Her ex-husband had planned to do little more than sit aroundat his home in Tunbridge Wells, watch a bit of television and, if he could summon the energy and enthusiasm, tackle a handful of DIY jobs that he knew needed doing. When Angela had suggested spending the week exploring Venice instead, Bronson had thought carefully