Free Death Among the Ruins by Pamela Christie

after they left the docks, the heavens split open, and the rain poured forth like steely beads.
    “He means me no good, I am sure of it!” cried Belinda, shouting to make herself heard above the clattering racket. “The old fellow must be evil, or mad!” The rain, on a sudden, lessened. “And his eyes,” she continued, in a normal tone of voice, “could we but see them, should betray him at once. He resembles a gigantic house fly, attempting to disguise itself as a professor.”
    Her sister explained that tinted lenses were often used to correct vision problems, or sensitivity to the sun.
    “But it is raining today,” said Belinda.
    “Yes. Well, perhaps he is sensitive to any light whatsoever.”
    “Or perhaps he suffers from syphilis . . .”
    “Perhaps he does.”
    “ . . . and perhaps,” Belinda persisted, “the ravages of the disease have left him looking older than his actual age, and he is really only a young man of five and twenty!”
    They were laughing now. It was not really so amusing, but they had not got much sleep the previous night, and that, coupled with Arabella’s disappointment over Elliot’s departure, and Belinda’s terror of Bergamini, had rendered them both a trifle giddy. When their mirth subsided, they fell into a kind of reverie that resembled stupefaction.
    “Bell,” said Belinda, rousing herself at last, “shall we have to keep company with that dreadful old man all the time?”
    “Well, the poor fellow has taken the trouble to secure our comfort. He is certain to know a great deal about antiquities, and perhaps he will be able to advise me on how best to deal with the customs officers once I find my statue. But I can see him alone, if you do not wish to accompany me whilst you are here.”
    Tired though she was, Belinda caught the import behind the words.
    “No. I am the one who convinced you to undertake this journey,” she said. “It would be very bad of me to desert you now, and I won’t; I just wish that we might keep our contacts with . . . with dubious characters to a minimum.”
    Arabella smiled, and took a small edition of Boccaccio—travel-sized, for convenience—out of her necessities bag. “I expect you will get used to him, darling,” she said. “He strikes me as the sort of man who grows on one.”
    And she began, quietly, to read, while Belinda looked out of the window, and thought about tumors.
    After a time, the little caravan reached Resina, the contemporary town constructed unawares above the ancient one, and pulled up before a comfortable-looking hotel there. The landlords ran out to the new arrivals with umbrellas and hurried them indoors, where they passed through a medieval reception hall and up a grand staircase to a cozy suite of rooms. They were to have a large salon, with four bedchambers opening off it on two sides, and a private parlor at the farther end.
    “I trust you will find it comfortable here,” said the professor. “Signor and Signora Fiorello will see to your every need. There is even a doctor next door, should you require medical attention, though I sincerely hope that you will not.”
    Belinda had to admit that the old man had a wonderful voice, with the merest hint of a thrilling continental accent. And she decided that she might be able to bear his company in the days to come, so long as she did not have to actually look him in the face.
    “This is the best hotel in Resina,” he continued. “The owners are personal friends of mine. Here you can bathe, rest, and have dinner, and tomorrow I shall escort you to the scene of the murder.”
    “But what if it should still be raining?” asked Arabella.
    “It will not rain tomorrow, signorina . This is just a small storm. It will pass over quickly.”
    He bowed, and Arabella barely had time to thank him before he was gone. Then she went down to supervise Mr. Kendrick’s supervision of the fellow who was supervising the disposition of their luggage.
    “In which room should you