The Dead Travel Fast

Praise for
Skendleby

“Gripping and genuinely creepy”

New Edition

“Echoes of the ghost story master MR James”

I Like Horror

“I wish the book had been longer”

Sexy Archaeology

“The perfect read for nights by the fire”

Spectral Times

“Archaeology, psychic healers and sinister monsters in one spine-tingling tale”

3 AM Fright

“Syntagmatarchis Theodrakis, sir, sir please, the Devil is amongst us.”

Theodrakis, shaken out of his daydream, looked at the young policeman running towards him along the harbour wall. He inhaled one last draw from the cigarette before throwing the butt to the ground, saw how white faced the boy was. But what could you expect when you were so far from Athens, stuck on this island of time warped communists and peasants?

“Oh, Syntagmatarchis Theodrakis, come quick, there’s been another one, sir; another, sir, she’s in the water.”

The boy reached him and Theodrakis placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

“Get your breath first, boy, then tell me clearly.”

“They’ve found another, in the sea, messed up badly, could have been someone’s sister. The Devil is back amongst us just like the warning said. God be with us.”

God be with us indeed
, Theodrakis thought,
it’s like being transported back in time to the Dark Age stuck here.
He loosened his black silk tie, the only compromise with the heat and shabby dress of his colleagues that he allowed himself, and followed the young policeman along the waterfront to the harbour’s edge.

The walk gave him the opportunity to study the wreaths, charms and other protections against the evil eye that the locals had nailed to their front doors. Similar charms were attached to
the prows of the fishing boats next to the painted all-seeing eye, presumably to augment its powers.

Some holiday resort
, he thought,
no wonder it’s always empty
. And it was true, Aghios Spiridos was empty; never anyone in the bars and cafes lining the seafront, neither Greek nor foreigners. The economic crisis had obviously hit here just as hard as in Athens, only here people’s reaction to it was not as direct as it was in the capital. Here it was more secretive, more sullen. There was a constant sense of unease in the atmosphere he couldn’t quite put his finger on. How did the place manage to keep going and what had he ever done to deserve being posted here?

There were more than enough murders, acts of political terrorism and kidnappings to occupy his particular, if peculiar, talents in Athens where he belonged. But he knew the answer despite his dissatisfaction: there was no one on Samos with his skills, unsurprisingly, so he’d been ordered here, simple as that. He reached the harbour’s edge. A small group of men, mostly fishermen with time on their hands, were gathered staring down towards the water. As he drew level the group made way to let him through: he saw what they saw.

Below, bobbing on the water, was a small boat, and in it were two sick looking policemen staring at a large bundle covered with tarpaulin. Used as he was to the contents of such bundles he felt his heart lurch. Perhaps it was the smell of rotting fish along the harbour, maybe the effect this place had on his nerves. He pulled himself together. The policemen in the boat saw him and looked relieved; it was clear to Theodrakis they had no idea what to do next. He took control.

“Costas, whatever it is you’ve got there needs to be shifted; this isn’t meant to be a sideshow.”

Costas nervously rubbed a pudgy hand across the stubble of his lower face then began to tug the edges of his moustache.

“We found it where the message said it would be, the message was right again, Boss: he’s back amongst us, the saints protect us.”

Theodrakis was about to tell him that the next idiot who mentioned “him being back amongst us” would find himself assigned to a month of doing nights in Kokari dealing with the German drunks when Costas pulled back the tarpaulin.

A prickling of horror raised the hairs on the back of his neck: this one was young, had been beautiful, not now, bleached white, drained of blood. It was the same pattern; the usual pieces had been taken. Next to him, the young policeman noisily retched up his morning coffee and pastry into the sea.

Hotel Massena
Nice

Dear Steve,

I bet you’re surprised to read this after what you and Giles did to me; I’m as damned as you are now. You never told me what you were meddling with at Skendleby; just sent me to do your research and laughed at me behind my back. You never cared you were putting me in the same danger that ruined you. Well now I’m finished too, something’s playing with me. I don’t know if I’m haunted or mad, but you know all about that, don’t you?

Something led me to the references and documents you wanted but I think it’s finished with me now. I don’t think I’m coming back.

I found out where you are from that young witch that Giles cleared off with. But don’t think running to Greece will save you, Steve; I’ve learnt neither time nor distance means anything to these things. Read this letter carefully: excuse the mood swings: all I can say to explain them is the terror comes in waves, as I think you’ll soon discover. It won’t help you much but at least, unlike me, you will have been warned.

Ever since that last meeting in the archaeology unit at Christmas I felt I was being followed. It started in Ryland’s library when I was looking for the missing Davenport papers. All day I heard the sound of strange mutterings in the next bay but when I went
and looked there was no one there. The gothic architecture and dim lighting there can play on your nerves. When I returned to my desk there was a note on top of my papers with the address of a private collection in Venice.

Who put it there and how did they know I was going to Venice for Christmas? Giles laughed when I told him but he didn’t really find it funny, he turned pale. You broke every rule in archaeology trying to re-bury the remnants in that tomb; he lost his job and you had your breakdown.

I used to like Venice: but it’s not a good place in winter when you’re alone and unsettled. I spent a few days doing the cultural tourist bit during the day and trying to strike up conversation with strangers, without much success, in the evenings. I’m used to living alone but over there I was isolated and lonely, so I decided to follow up the contact that had been left for me in Ryland’s. It wasn’t difficult to get the phone number from my hotel reception and I called it up.

The voice at the other end didn’t seem surprised; in fact, it seemed to have been expecting me. It was a difficult voice to place, spoke good, if heavily accented English with a husky tone; could have been a man or woman. There was no hesitation in agreeing to meet and show me the papers. But strangely not at the site of the collection which apparently was being restored, like everything in Venice. Instead I was to meet him - by this time I’d established that it was a man - at eight that night in a bar over towards the north side, not far from where Titian died. When I asked for fuller directions he said it would be easy to find and put down the phone.

That night was cold and damp, fine rain hanging like a mist, muffling sound so the footsteps you heard could have been just behind or some distance away round the corner. Not far from the hotel, I realised the directions bore little relation to actual streets I was walking. By the time I crossed the Rialto Bridge and walked through San Bartolomeo Square I was lost in a warren of tunnel-like passages.

I knew I was near a canal as I could hear the wash and slap of slimy water being sucked against its banks. So I followed the sound until I came to the canal path lined by tall, dilapidated
buildings. In the murk I couldn’t tell whether they were old warehouses or palaces. Normally I’d have wanted to investigate but there was something repellent about the damp, rotting stone in that desolate place. I hurried on, lost, with little option other than follow the canal path until I reached a bridge. The bridge led to another dismal track between high blind walls; the silence was disturbed by the sloshing of water pouring out of rusted downspouts clinging to every wall.

I’d never felt so alone, except, of course, as I write this: but now, in a strange sort of way I have you, don’t I, Steve? No one’s ever loved me or wanted to listen, but you will. You must wonder why I’m writing this, wonder where it’s all leading. But you won’t be laughing this time, Steve, will you? No, not after all you’ve been through. I suppose I’m telling you all this to put off the moment when I have to stop writing because after that I don’t know what there’s left for me to do. Soon you’ll understand the dread beyond terror that I’ve reached. Still, I get ahead of myself.

Eventually the track opened into a small square with a weathered and peculiar statue in the centre and a couple of winter-dead trees dripping water. At the end of the square there was a scruffy bacaro with peeling paintwork, its interior lit by a single old fashioned bare light bulb. It fitted the description and as I came nearer I recognised the name, “The Blind Man’s Place.” I had no idea how I found it and wondered why we couldn’t have met at the “Alla Botte”, the “Alla Vedora” or one of the other better known ones.

The bar’s interior was no more appetising, and apart from a solid woman of indeterminate age behind the counter reading a magazine while spooning some slop out of a bowl into her mouth, it was empty. I ordered a glass of red wine and a plate of sardines, which was all the place offered, and went to sit on a rickety chair at a scuffed wood table to wait. The silence was of a quality that put you on edge and apart from a large and surprisingly ornate mirror, the walls were bare. From time to time I looked at my reflection in that mirror and was surprised at how timid and shabby I looked.

Then, from some deep recess in my memory, I remembered Somerset Maugham being in the Venice Accademia looking at a
Veronese painting. As he stared, the painted face of Christ turned from the canvas to look at him. Maugham was, like me, an atheist but the incident profoundly unsettled him. Once I thought of this I couldn’t make myself look at the mirror for fear of what I’d see. I decided to leave at once but noticing I hadn’t finished the wine - well, I had paid for it - I sat back down. It was the most costly drink I ever took; if I’d left when I had the chance maybe things would have been different.

As I put the empty glass on the table the door opened and a man entered, bringing the dark with him. He wore a floor length black wool coat with a broad brimmed black hat pulled down tight over his forehead, almost like a cartoon villain. In different circumstances he might have seemed funny; but not there.

He limped to my table and I saw his face covered with a thick black beard. The visible skin was pale white but disturbed by red blotches and pustules suggesting the skin itself was polluted. The contrast between the black, red and white was compelling; I couldn’t tear my eyes from that face, or from the faded and stained binding round his throat. He apologised for being late but, to my relief, made no attempt to shake hands. He passed me a packet wrapped in brown paper, refused, again to my relief, the offer of a drink and turned to go.

“I have things to attend, Doctor Thompson. Call on me at the address on that packet at eleven on Wednesday; I have something further to show you. These documents you must now consider as yours; your responsibility until they tire of you.”

That was it, an exchange of less than a minute. But it was long enough to blight my life thanks to you and Giles. If you’d let me in on what happened at Skendleby I’d never have followed those documents to Venice.

I can’t remember how I got back to my hotel and I’m pretty sure I couldn’t find that bar again; in fact I’m not even sure it existed in the first place, so strange were those days. I looked at the documents: the bulk of the package comprised a sixteenth century journal of travellers’ tales in Italian written for publication. It was of no interest except it mentioned some English knights in one of the less well-known crusades against the Lithuanians during the reign of Richard II, who, for reasons not stated, stopped off at
Venice. It was a brief passage and was only included, I imagine, as it suggested that one of the knights was the future king Henry IV, then Henry of Lancaster, who, as it happens did join the Lithuanian crusade; so far so dull.

There were three other documents; the first was a will in Medieval Latin, interesting only in that it was witnessed by one Sir Hugh Davenport. I immediately suspected this must be an ancestor of the Davenports whose grisly secret you excavated, much to your cost. The second was the copy of a death bed confession written during the same period in medieval French. It was an unsettling piece which under normal circumstances I would have dismissed as the product of morbid pathology, but which, there in Venice, disturbed me so much that when I went to bed I locked it in the safe.

The last document was just a fragment of parchment in a crude early code. I left it alone; the contents of the confession had driven away any desire to know more. Some frightful thing or person had driven the dying man to make this confession, a plea for his soul to be saved from “that which pollutes and drags it to Hell.” Although anonymous I’m certain it was written by the same man whose will I’d previously read. The description of the thing scaring him to death bore a sickening close resemblance to my acquaintance of earlier that evening.

The next day I tried to book an early flight home but it was holiday season so there was no availability. I stayed in my room drinking. Surprised? Remember, Steve, I’m not a drinker like you or Giles. Still, the day passed and nothing happened and the following day, with only twenty four hours to go until my flight, I began to recover some of my confidence. Then the phone rang.

He only spoke one sentence.

“If you come to me at the palace I will show you something every academic dreams of; one chance only, the directions are at reception.”

I waited in the room for about twenty minutes, sweating in anxiety, but I knew I’d go: what else was there for me? Like he said, the directions were waiting at reception. Outside, the weather had changed cold and bright, the frost on the cobbles sparkled in the sunlight. This time the walk was easy and I didn’t get lost.

The palace backed on to one of the major canals and the door swung open as I knocked. Inside, the furniture was under dust sheets as if the owners were away. A voice called to me to come up to the first floor and as I climbed the wide marble staircase I noticed all the shutters were closed. On the first floor corridor the only light came from an open doorway at the far end. I followed the corridor past the covered chairs pictures and mirrors towards that light. The room was large and faced onto the canal, the shutters and windows were open; it was bright but deathly cold in that room. When my eyes adjusted I saw him in the corner furthest from the light standing next to an easel bearing a shrouded painting. In daylight he looked worse than I remembered and I heard myself blurt out,

“What are you?”

He replied as if the question amused him,

“Better for you, I think, to ask what I do: my purpose, to quote one of your English phrases is ‘to keep an eye on things’ but I see you miss the irony; a pity I thought you Englishman appreciated irony. Like last time our meeting will be short. You must break the code; understand the text: it will show you a way of looking at things you would not have imagined.”

He crossed over to the shrouded painting, wincing in discomfort at the light.

“Come, I have something to show you, something rare. Something that looks at things differently. Once you have seen it I do not think we will talk 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 the
one 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.