Free Death Among the Ruins by Pamela Christie Page B

was a novel one, yet it did not distract Arabella from her purpose. Somewhere in this place, an exceptionally well-endowed Pan statue had lain unclaimed and undiscovered for seventeen centuries. Now it was here no longer, and a man lay dead because he had tried to procure it for her. Where had the murder occurred? From where had the bronze been taken? And more importantly, where was it now?
    She walked through the silent streets as late-forming clouds returned to obscure the sun once again. There would be no sunset, now; just a gradual fading of light and color, reducing the world to a uniform gray before the darkness took over. Herculaneum was mostly gray, anyway. She shivered as shadows began to lengthen in the ancient doorways. A burst of cold air sprang up from nowhere, blowing her bonnet askew.
    The certainty of knowing oneself to be the only living soul in an empty city is one that few will ever encounter, and thankfully so. But Arabella was enjoying the sensation. To be walking and thinking in a place uninhabited for a thousand years was a memory she would cherish for the rest of her life.
    But then, she was not alone, after all.
    Awareness of this fact broke upon her in subtle stages, building up so gradually that it was more like the subtle seepage of fluid through a porous membrane than a clear moment of certainty. But the instant she detected a slight movement out of the corner of her eye, an occurrence that coincided with the audible dislodgment of a pebble, her mind reacted immediately, and she turned to confront this intruder on her solitude, only to find the street empty.
    She realized, with a jolt, that she might actually be in danger . But Arabella continued to saunter along the pavement, to all appearances unaware of the escort who stalked her just beyond that row of shops, because she was seeking the road by which she had come, and the way back to safety. There was not a soul down here excepting herself . . . and one other. Now and then, she thought she saw a partial face peeping at her from behind a date palm, or fingers emerging from a gap between the ancient bricks. In the waning light it was becoming harder to see. Where, oh, where was the exit road?
    Arabella had completely lost her bearings. She could no longer recall which streets she had walked along, or where the hotel had stood in relation to them. Now she was aware of her own heart, thumping in her breast, and she began to walk a little faster. But only a little faster, lest her fright be perceived by the “other,” and the time judged ripe for pouncing on her. Was that just the wind soughing through the umbrella pines? No. It was someone whispering.
    Dear God. There was more than one of them. Either that, or the only one there was . . . was insane. Arabella keenly felt her vulnerability now. She was alone and unprotected in a strange place, where she neither spoke the language, understood the customs, nor knew how to find her way back. John Soane had spoken truly: She had got herself embroiled in a mad scheme. Upon regaining the hotel precincts, the first thing she would do would be to get a map of this place. But . . . what if she never got back to the hotel? She must not think like that! She must not! Because then she would panic, and panic was a type of surrender, and she was not made that way.
    Now she could make out multiple human shapes in the gathering darkness. The people who had worshiped Pan were said to “panic” when they were filled with the divine presence, weren’t they? She wouldn’t, though, because she did not want the god; only his statue. She would find it soon and take it home, and relax with a cup of tea and her feet propped up on something, and she must keep on with this inner monologue, this inner, mindless chattering, so as to keep from thinking about those people following her on both sides of the road, and how more of them were appearing up ahead and coming toward her. She was being surrounded.
    Suddenly, Arabella