The Nosferatu Scroll

68

The last group of men who had arrived by launch – including Inspector Bianchi – had now disappeared inside the house, and there was no sign of anyone moving about on the island. But that didn’t mean that nobody was watching, so Bronson wasn’t going to drive his boat into the inlet and moor it there. Instead, he decided that his best option was to steer a course that would take him well away from the island and allow him to approach it from the southern end, the shore opposite the jetty and furthest away from the house.

Bronson started the engine of his boat and immediately closed the throttle almost fully, muting the outboard’s exhaust note as much as he could. Then he steered away from the island, out to the west, before starting a gentle turn that would take him on a semicircular course around to the south of his objective. The boat was moving at little more than walking pace, but that suited him fine. He knew that silence and stealth were both far more important than speed.

Keeping the boat moving slowly until he estimated that he was directly behind the grey stone house on the island, he turned the wheel to point the bow of the craft towards his objective. When he estimated that he was probably about fifty yards from the shore, he cut the engine completely and let the boat drift on in silence. A lot of the water in the Venetian lagoon was very shallow, and he guessed he might well be able to wade ashore, pulling the boat behind him. He should have checked the chart before the light faded, he realized, but it was too late to try to do so now. At worst, once the boat stopped moving forwards, he might have to swim ashore and pull it.

In fact, he wouldn’t have to do either, because the shore of the island was looming up in front of him out of the murk, and the boat still had enough forward speed to reach it without any difficulty. The bow of the powerboat ran through a clump of reeds, and then grounded on something solid. Immediately Bronson stepped over the side, trying to be as quiet as he could, strode forward and tied the bow line around a projecting tree stump. With the boat secured, he crouched down to avoid being seen in silhouette, and studied the ground around him.

Over to his left was an old jetty, much smaller than the large landing stage he’d seen at the front of the house, and tied up to it was a small powerboat.

As he’d already established from his survey of the island before night fell, the land was reasonably flat, and projected only a matter of a few feet above the water level in the lagoon. There were no fences or barriers that he could see, and the most distinctive feature was the bulk of the house that stood at the northern end of the island and was blotting out the night sky directly in front of him, a massive, featureless grey monolith, its shape relieved only by the lighter grey outlines of the shuttered windows.

Between Bronson and the house were the walls of the ruined building, which he now thought might be the remains of another house, or possibly a chapel or small church. The light wasn’t good enough for him to tell for sure. And a short distance over to his left was the other structure, which looked like a wooden stable or a farm outhouse.

Bronson sniffed the air. He’d never thought he had a particularly sensitive nose, but he’d detected an unusual smell. He sniffed again. Whatever it was, it seemed to be emanating from the wooden structure.

He checked around him, then ran across to it. There was a single door on one side, and a window to the right, through which he looked cautiously. The interior was completely dark, but he had the strange sense that there was something, something large, moving around inside. He pressed his ear against the wooden wall, and quite clearly detected a rubbing, scuffing sound from the interior. The door was secured by a large new padlock and a substantial hasp, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to unlock it or force it without tools. He could probably shoot off the padlock with the Browning, but that was hardly an option.

For a few moments, he wondered if Angela might be held captive inside the building, and if he should tap on the glass or the door, to attract her attention. But something stopped him – some visceral feeling that told him whatever was imprisoned in the shed was not human. His heart thumping, he stepped backwards, away from the door.

Instead, he switched his attention to the grey stone house and the ruins behind it. Choosing his path carefully, every sense attuned to any signs of life, he walked as quietly as he could towards the stone wall that marked the end of the tumbledown building.

As he approached, he realized that his earlier guess had been correct. It was a small church. A few of the roof trusses were still in place, but the battens, tiles and joists had long since vanished. What was left were the four stone walls, a couple of windows and the original door. The windows were above his eye-line, and the door closed, so he was unable to see what was inside.

Bronson did a full circuit of the building before pausing beside the door, the only entrance to the ruined interior. He checked all around him, looking and listening, but the night was dark and silent, the only sound the distant lapping of waves against the shore. Lights twinkled all around, principally from the city of Venice itself in the north-east, and from the mainland, which extended in an arc around to the north, but none of the other islands at this end of the lagoon appeared to be inhabited.

He made a final check, then took hold of the ring that formed the handle of the old church door and very slowly turned it. There was a faint squeak as the old metal moved, and then he felt the door give slightly. He pushed gently against it, and the door swung inwards almost silently. Looking round again, he stepped through the opening into the ancient building.

Dotted here and there across the old stone floor were piles of stones and lumps of wood. Grass and other plants were starting to grow in the cracks between the paving slabs that composed the floor. There had clearly been no attempt made to restore the building. Whoever owned the island was apparently quite happy to let the place fall apart, and for nature to reclaim the site. And yet Bronson felt uneasy. Why had the entrance door opened so easily? It was almost as though the hinges were kept lubricated, and that the door itself was well used.

Then he heard a door opening and closing somewhere beyond the ruined building. Footsteps, of at least two people, sounded from outside, heading towards him, and Bronson knew that he didn’t have time to get out of the church.

He was trapped inside the building.