The three-hour flight had left her feeling tired and sticky. It had been a relief to step under a cool shower, wash away the dust, then dress in fresh clothes. The look she’d chosen was neat and unshowy, almost to the point of austerity: black linen pants, and a white blouse whose plainness didn’t disguise its expensive cut.
Businesslike, she told herself. Which was true, but only partly. The outfit might have been designed to show off her tall, slim figure, with its small, elegant breasts and neat behind. Just how much satisfaction this gave her was her own secret.
Her face told a subtly different story, the full mouth having a touch of voluptuousness that was at variance with her chic outline. Her rich, light brown hair was sometimes pulled back in severe lines, but today she’d let it fall about her face in gentle curves, emphasising the sensuality of her face.
The contrast between this and the plain way she dressed caused a lot of enjoyable confusion among her male acquaintances. And she didn’t mind that at all.
She had told nobody that she was coming, preferring to take her quarry unawares. She didn’t even know that Carlo Rinucci would be at Pompeii today, only that he was working on a project that concerned the place, investigating new theories.
She hurried downstairs. It was early afternoon, and just time enough to get out there and form the impressions that would help her when she went into action next day.
Taking a taxi to the railway station, she bought a ticket for the Circumvesuviana, the light railway that ran between Naples and Pompeii, taking about half an hour. For most of that time she sat gazing out of the window at Vesuvius, dominating the landscape, growing ever nearer.
From the station it was a short walk to the Porta Marina, the city gate to Pompeii, where she purchased a ticket and entered the ruined city.
The first thing that struck her was the comparative quiet. Tourists thronged the dead streets, yet their noise did not rise above a gentle murmur, and when she turned aside into an empty yard she found herself almost in silence.
After the bustle of her normal life the peace was delightful. Slowly she turned around, looking at the ancient stones, letting the quiet seep into her.
‘Come here! Do you hear me? Come here at once. ‘
The shriek rent the atmosphere, and the next moment she saw why. A boy of about twelve was running through the ruins, hopping nimbly over stones, hotly pursued by a middle-aged woman who was trying to run and shout at the same time.
‘Come here!’ she called in English.
The youngster made the mistake of looking back, which distracted him enough for Della to step into his path and grab him.
‘Lemme go!’ he gasped, struggling.
‘Sorry, no can do,’ she said, friendly but implacable.
‘Thank you,’ puffed the teacher, catching up. ‘Mickey, you stop that. Come back to the rest of the class.’
‘But it’s boring,’ the boy wailed. ‘I hate history.’
‘We’re on a school trip,’ the woman explained. ‘The chance of a lifetime. I’d have been thrilled to go to Italy when I was at school, but they’re all the same, these kids. Ungrateful little so-and-sos!’
‘It’s boring,’ repeated the boy sullenly.
The two women looked at each other sympathetically. Quick as a flash the lad took his chance to dart away again, and managed to get out of sight around a corner. By the time they followed he’d found another corner and vanished again.
‘Oh heavens! My class!’ wailed the teacher.
‘You go back to them while I find him,’ Della said.
It was easier said than done. The boy appeared to have vanished into the stones. Della ran from street to street without seeing him.
At last she saw two men standing by a large hole in the ground, evidently considering the contents seriously. The younger man looked as though he’d just been working in the earth. Through his sleeveless vest she could see the glisten of sweat on strong, young muscles, and he was breathing hard.
In desperation she hailed them.
‘Did a boy in a red shirt run past? He’s a pupil escaping from a school party and his teacher is frantic’
‘I didn’t see anyone,’ the older man remarked. ‘What about you, Carlo?’
Before she could react to the name the young man with his back to her turned, smiling. It was the face she’d come to see, handsome, merry, relaxed.
‘I haven’t noticed—’ he began to say, but broke off to cry, ‘There!’
The boy had appeared through an arch and started running across the street. Carlo Rinucci darted after him, dodging back and forth through archways. The boy’s scowl vanished, replaced by a smile. Carlo grinned back, and it soon became a game.
Then the other children appeared, a dozen of them, hurling themselves into the game with delight.
‘Oh, dear!’ sighed the teacher.
‘Leave them to it,’ Della advised. ‘I’m Della Hadley, by the way.’
‘Hilda Preston. I’m supposed to be in charge of that lot. What am I going to do now?’
‘I don’t think you need to do anything,’ Della said, amused. ‘He’s doing it all.’
It was true. The youngsters had crowded around the young man, and by some mysterious magic he had calmed them down, and was now leading them back to the teacher.
Like the Pied Piper, Della thought, considering him with her head on one side.
‘OK, that’s enough,’ he said, approaching. ‘Cool it, kids.’
‘Whatever do you think you’re doing?’ Hilda demanded of the youngsters. ‘You know I told you to stay close to me.’
‘But it’s boring,’ complained the boy who’d made a run for it.
‘I don’t care if it is,’ she snapped, goaded into honesty. ‘I’ve brought you here to get some culture, and that’s what you’re going to get.’
Della heard a soft choke nearby, and turned to see Carlo fighting back laughter. Since she was doing the same herself, a moment of perfect understanding flashed between them. They both put their hands over their mouths at the same moment.
Predictably, the word culture had caused the pupils to emit groans of dismay. Some howled to heaven, others clutched their stomachs. One joker even rolled on the ground.
‘Now she’s done it,’ Carlo muttered to Della. ‘The forbidden word—one that should never be spoken, save in a terrified whisper. And she said it out loud.’
‘What word is that?’
He looked wildly around, to be sure nobody was listening, before saying in a ghostly voice, ‘Culture.’
‘Oh, yes, I see.’ She nodded knowingly.
‘You’d think a modern schoolteacher would know better. Does she do that often?’
‘I don’t know—I’m not—’ she began, realising that he thought she was one of the school party.
‘Never mind,’ he said. ‘It’s time for a rescue operation.’ Raising his voice, he said, ‘You can all calm down, because this place has nothing to do with culture. This place is about people dying.’ For good measure