The Nosferatu Scroll Read Online Free PDF Page B

black body bag and the third, a gray-haired, stooped man in his fifties, carried a large plastic equipment box. Quickly, they donned gloves, plastic overshoes and white coveralls. The older man—the pathologist, Bronson assumed—stepped forward and looked at the grave and the corpse from a few feet away. He gestured to one of the men who’d accompanied him to take a series of pictures, and stepped back to talk to the carabinieri who were still waiting by the grave. Then he moved forward again and examined the skeleton closely, before issuing further instructions and peeling off his protective clothing.
    The two men with him transferred the remains of the corpse from the shattered tomb to the body bag, taking particular care with the head to ensure that the brick remained in place. They also removed all the pieces of broken pottery. Finally, they used flashlights to scan the interior of the tomb to make sure they hadn’t missed any last small bones or fragments, placed the bag on the stretcher, and vanished in the direction from which they’d arrived, accompanied by both police officers.
    “Is there anything else you want to see?” Bronson asked Angela, watching as the short procession vanished into the mist.
    Angela shook her head. “No. I think I’ve got enough.Those pottery shards are interesting and unusual, and I’d like to take a proper look at them, but in a laboratory, not out here on-site. Actually, there was something much more interesting than them in that grave.” She patted her pocket, and smiled at him, her eyes shining. “And unlike the pottery, which, of course, I had to leave in situ, I’ve got it with me.”

3
    Marietta Perini stepped off the vaporetto at the Accademia stop on the southern side of the Grand Canal and walked briskly north across the Ponte dell’Accademia toward central Venice. Her route took her through the dog-leg shape of the Campo San Vidal and on into the Campo San Stefano, one of the biggest squares in Venice, second only to the Piazza San Marco. Both squares were busy with people: old men with small dogs on leashes, women with children in carriages and strollers, Venetians returning home after work, or just couples and families strolling around with one another. Church bells rang out across the Campo San Stefano, sending peals of sound across the open space, almost drowning out the buzz of conversation from the cafés and restaurants that lined the square.
    Everywhere and in all directions, people walked and talked, arms flying in extravagant gestures as they illustrated some point they were trying to make.
    Marietta paused for a few moments by the monumentin the center of the square. Known irreverently to Venetians as the
Cagalibri
or “book-shitter,” it commemorated the life of the nineteenth-century writer and ideologue Nicolò Tommaseo, his studious career represented by the large pile of books positioned just behind him, and which had given rise to the statue’s nickname. As usual, there was a pigeon sitting on his head, and the colorful organic decoration that had been applied to the statue’s head and shoulders suggested that this was a favorite perch for some of Venice’s innumerable feathered residents.
    Over to one side of the square was the reason Marietta had not continued straight across toward her destination. She had a weakness for ice cream, and just a few yards away was one of her favorite
gelaterias
. She glanced at her watch, checking she had enough time, then gave way to temptation, strolling across and choosing a large cone, into which the smiling, dark-haired waiter inserted three balls of ice cream in her choice of flavors.
    Then she walked on, taking small and delicious bites from the top of the cone, and savoring each morsel, moving it around her mouth with her tongue before finally swallowing it. She moved slowly across the square, concentrating far more on what she was eating than on where she was going or on her surroundings.
    Marietta was