Chapter 10 - Stalked

All the questions Gary had forgotten to ask Ike were rushing past his inner eye. Alone in the house, installed in his favourite wing chair, the red fabric of its upholstery worn and shiny, the seat moulded to the contours of his bum; he was content to let time tick by as another day turned into a memory. The warm glow of the floor lamp that rose like a paper pillar behind him reached only as far as his foot, propped up on a wicker stool. His hand stroked a purring Gladys, her fur sliding like silk between his fingers, soothing, easing the synapses into a slower pace.

The guests were gone, but the savoury dinner aromas kept him company. Especially the garlic.

However, the thoughts kept coming. Refused to be subdued. His heartbeat, which had slowed down, sped up its thumping once more.

LiteraTours was facing sabotage. Worse, even.

Murder.

The brakes of the coach tempered with? Unable to sit still, Gary shifted in his seat. The movement earned him a glare of disdain from the cat.

"Sorry. I hate lounging around, not being able to do anything when the ladies are under fire."

Last time at least he had been able to gather intelligence. This time, his contribution seemed to be limited to calling in Adrian and wait for him to pull strings and find out what the local cops might be up to. How pathetic.

Ike had sounded grateful, but knowing her a little better after their recent exploits, Gary was convinced she would not fold her hands in her lap or resign herself to knitting. Not even with steel wool. No, the blasted woman would gear up in bargain designer clothes and sail forth to hunt villains, wielding her most lethal weapon: an overfull handbag.

Brigitte was no better. With her beloved coach crippled she would look out for backsides to kick.

"The cops have arrested the husband," Gary said, his voice oddly muffled in the silent room. He tasted garlic on his tongue and wondered what his breath smelled like. "Why does that not make me happy, hm?"

The cat stretched out a paw covered in red and beige stripes and rearranged her furry head before settling again with a sigh.

"Exactly. Because it's way too pat. Things are never simple. To my mind, this mess is a hell of a lot more dangerous than last time. It's personal."

Was it really? The thing with the bus might have been a stupid prank gone wrong. And the death just an—admittedly lethal—coincidence.

"Trouble is, I don't believe in coincidences either. Alternatively, am I seeing white mice?"

The cat pricked her pointy ears, and Gary felt a rare smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

He scratched Gladys under the chin. "Not the type of rodent you bugger care for."

Outside, a car rolled past, the beams of its headlights travelling across the scraggly lawn that passed for a front yard, outlining the tree with its load of withered apples and last leaves clinging on for dear life. Then it was gone.

A yawn rolled through Gary's body in response and escaped from between creaking jaws. The cat growled softly and dug the tips of her claws into his jeans. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to make clear she did not approve of his fidgeting.

Brrringgg.

Gary's phone buzzed alive with a ringtone Nero Wolfe would have recognised.

Gladys, however, hissed, and vaulted from his lap, her claws meaning business, sending a sharp sting into his thighs.

"Ouch!"

"Cripes! Do you have to shout like that?" Ike's not-so-dulcet tones.

"I got mauled by my cat. Gladys is not into telecommunications."

"You have a cat? Didn't notice when we had that debriefing at your place after Germany."

"She's not into things she doesn't know either. That includes people."

"My two weren't any better."

"Yours? I thought you had adopted that dog you found in Castle Frankenstein?"

"I have. Dragged Boris all the way to Rome. The tourists love him and he loves them. The cats are with Ben. My ex. He got the house, and they're in it. Didn't want to move the poor dears. That's about the only thing I trust him with. Anyway, that wasn't why I called."

"I figured that out already."

"If you want to know about the tour, all is done and dusted, and the tourists seemed happy. I'll give you proper feedback when I have a quiet moment, but overall the programme worked well. Suggest rethinking the wine tasting in Frascati. Their plonk wouldn't warm a wino."

"Fair enough. Let's see what reviews we get. Somebody might still whack us for the near-accident. And the death."

"That would surprise me. The tourists were shocked and sad, yes, who wouldn't be? As for the coach, they never fully realised the danger they were in. They believed in Brigitte."

"I do too."

"Oh yes! The accident—it took a bit of persuasion but the consensus seemed to be the lady shouldn't have entered an area marked as being off limits. Plus, Graziano, that's the local archaeologist, told them the floor was unstable in that part and strictly no go. As rotten as it might sound, the poor woman not being a member of our group helped. I understand from Shalon, that's the guide from the other outfit, her lot are taking it badly. Great girl, Shalon. She wants to work for LiteraTours."

Some of Ike's rapid-fire enthusiasm carried on the airwaves. Suddenly, the room wasn't quite so dark anymore, Gary not quite so lonely. He had to be cautious though, stealing somebody else's employees was not exactly cricket. He settled on a compromise. "Can discuss. We'll need more guides for sure. The bookings look great. Not tonight, though. I appreciate you calling again to keep me in the picture. I got a bit worried."

"Gary, I still am. Worried I mean. You know as well as I do that the next tour starts in four days. We can't risk a repeat performance. Which is why I came here."

"And here is where?"

He heard the grin in her voice. "Catacombs."

Owed to the soft light, the face of the clock on the sideboard was a blur, but from what he made out it had to be close to midnight. And Rome was an hour ahead. "Care to explain?"

"This afternoon, Graziano spotted something in the tomb. With all the hullaballoo he didn't have the time to do anything about it, but he and Viktor wanted to go back and have another go. Brigitte and I got invited. So, we joined the two chaps."

"As one does. I might keep this in mind as an idea for future trips. Midnight trysts with the dead."

"Wouldn't recommend that. It's creepy. Also, there are still bits from the investigation hanging around."

"I'm surprised the police did not stop you."

"They've finished and gone to bed. Graziano checked."

"Isn't that place blocked off?"

"Not completely."

She sounded cagey. "What's that supposed to mean?"

A click of the tongue. "It means we got in. Ask no more. Now, do you want to hear this or not?"

"I'm all ears."

For a moment, Ike fell silent, and Gary only heard a faint electronic buzz. And something that sounded like furtive footsteps crunching on the gravel path that led towards the house.

Gary strained to listen into the nightly stillness that suddenly had become oppressive.

Only his imagination. Or the cat moving about. And the living room reeked of garlic. He needed to let air in.

Later.

A deep intake of breath breezed into his ear. "It might be unrelated to what happened."

"Meaning, you don't think so."

"No. None of us does. That's the other reason why we returned. Had a long argument on the way here. Okay, imagine a dusty hole in the ground with broken furniture, pottery, and even some intact amphorae Graziano was waxing lyrical about. Plus a skeleton. I think she must have been lying on her couch when she died."

"How can you tell whether that bag of bones is a she?"

"Long hair on the skull for example. Plus, the location. Graziano reckons we found a Vestal buried alive for breaking her vows. Nobody ever has. Had. It gets better. She wrote something on the wall before she died. Scratched it into the stones that made up her tomb. With a broken knife. It's still lying under the inscription."

"Fascinating stuff. However, just to clarify—that hole in the ground, is that where the tourist died?"

"Yes, poor Mrs Baxter crashed through the ceiling down one floor. I didn't understand what the paramedics said, but Graziano thinks she got unlucky and broke her neck. The hole isn't that deep."

"She needn't have died then."

"Exactly. If the husband engineered her death, he took a hell of a risk. Plus, he must have known the tomb was there. Well, in all fairness that information was out in the open. Graziano showed us the articles on the excavation where the digging team made it clear they expected further finds."

A brief blip of annoyance. Gary knew about the articles. They had triggered him into including the blasted catacombs on the tour. He wished he had never read about them.

"And they were right. Let's shelf that for the time being. I'm curious. What did this poor Vestal write?"

"It's in Latin."

Gary couldn't resist the temptation. "Nil desperandum."

"Eh? Don't go highbrow on me."

He laughed and drew a chuckle of response. It felt good. A bit like in the old times when he had been talking to Emma. Only, this voice was lower in pitch, less of the bell and more of a gong.

The same undertone of amusement but where Emma's had been an almost childlike glee, Ike conveyed traces of mockery.

"It means, never despair. Of course, she would write in Latin. But what did she write?"

"Viktor and Graziano are still arguing. They've taken shots of the scratches from various angles. Light's a tick dodgy. However, the gist of it seems to be that the lady—a girl really—she was only twenty-one when she died. Or so she says. Writes, I mean. Calls herself Cecilia. Hang on, where was I? Ah, she claims to have saved the Sibylline scrolls, and that's why she got killed."

###

Ike's voice had risen in pitch, and her last words still rang in Gary's ears.

The Sibylline scrolls.

He dug deep into his memory for knowledge once crammed and long since forgotten. The Sibyl of Cumae and her deal with the last king of the Romans, Tarquinius Superbus. Three times she offered her scrolls, twice he refused to buy, the third time he bit, getting one for the price of three. The manuscripts became an integral part of the Roman cult, only to go up in flames when the temple of Jupiter burned to the ground in 85 BCE.

Was it genuinely possible the scrolls would have survived? If so, would somebody kill for them? Two somebodies, actually. The first murder had happened back in antiquity.

Two people dead because of three old books.

Well, not just any books. The prophecies of the Sibyl meant the world to the Romans. Today, they would be priceless.

People get killed for a lot less.

"You still there?"

"Beg your pardon. I was trying to digest what you said."

Movement outside the French windows. A figure flitted by, then vanished.

"Hang on," Gary said. He swallowed an acid bubble of uneasiness. It smacked of garlic.

"I was about to say the same," Ike said. "Somebody just sneaked past the loo."

"Loo?" Gary's gaze focussed on the dark rectangles of the window panes, but other than the branches of the apple trees swaying in the wind, all was quiet again.

Words tumbled from the phone. "I went into the ladies to place the call. Everything's quiet, but I swear I saw a shadow in the milk-glass window of the door. The ministry has a night guard but if Graziano is to be believed that bloke never stirs from his den. Looks like he just did. Look, sorry old chap, I think my services are needed."

"Ike . . ."

"Talk to you later."

She was gone.

Do let me know if you have questions or comments on my novel. Constructive suggestions and feedback are always welcome! And thank you for reading. In doing so, you give my writing a purpose.

Picture is by Aaron Burden of Unsplash