The Seventh Sinner - Elizabeth Peters [0]
ELIZABETH PETERS
To Theron
with thanks for all these years of help and advice, and especially for being godfather to this book
CONTENTS
1 JEAN WOULD NEVER FORGET HER FIRST ENCOUNTER…
2 THE NEXT DAY JEAN WAS SEIZED BY ONE OF THOSE …
3 THE SMALL SUNKEN COURTYARD WAS PAVED WITH…
4 JEAN WAS UNDER THE MISTAKEN IMPRESSION THAT…
5 AS IT GOES FROM THE PIAZZA BARBERINI TO THE…
6 UNEMOTIONALLY JEAN CONSIDERED THE QUESTION.
7 WHEN THE PHONE RANG NEXT MORNING, JEAN ANSWERED…
8 A CHASTENED JACQUELINE WAS LED, GENTLY BUT…
9 THE DAY OF THE PARTY DAWNED BRIGHT AND…
10 TOWARD MORNING A THUNDERSTORM MOVED IN…
THE WORLD OF ELIZABETH PETERS
PRAISE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
BOOKS BY ELIZABETH PETERS
COPYRIGHT
ABOUT THE PUBLISHER
1
JEAN WOULD NEVER FORGET HER FIRST ENCOUNTER with Jacqueline Kirby. It was years before she could think about it without blushing all over. An acquaintance which begins with assault and battery, however inadvertent, can hardly be termed auspicious.
There was some slight excuse for Jean’s behavior. All morning she had been working, or trying to work, in the Institute library. There were distractions. First and omnipresent was the siren call of the city outside the dusty library stacks. April in Paris is famous, but May in Rome has an allure that can distract the soberest student. The city of Michelangelo and the dolce vita, the capital of the papacy and the Caesars—whatever it is you may be seeking, you can find it somewhere in Rome. Jean’s prized fellowship at one of the world’s most famous institutions of art and archaeology was a poor substitute for Rome on a spring morning; and the call of duty was not as effective as Ulysses’ waxen earplugs against the siren’s song.
Michael was a second distraction, and if he was not as overwhelming as an entire city, he was closer at hand. Michael should have been working too; but his sense of duty was as neglected as his shaggy, shoulder-length brown hair. He dithered aimlessly about the stacks, peering at Jean through gaps in the shelved books and edging up to her whenever she got into a dark corner.
Emerging, breathless and disheveled, from one of these encounters, Jean had to admit she wasn’t avoiding them as wholeheartedly as she might have done. Michael would leave her in peace if she retired into her office and closed the door. The small windowless cubicles assigned to the student fellows were spartan affairs, with only a desk and chair and a couple of bookcases. The doors had glass panels on the upper halves, but they served the same purpose as the sported oak of Oxford. When the door was closed, the occupant did not wish to be disturbed. Nothing less than a fire or general insurrection justified so much as a knock.
As she stood contemplating her own office door, Michael caught up with her again. His arm went around her and Jean came back to her senses with a start to find that her undisciplined body was responding. She pulled away. All she needed was to be caught in dalliance by one of the members of the fellowship committee, two weeks before that committee met to decide on the renewal of student grants for a second year.
“All right,” she hissed irritably. “I give up…. No, damn it, I don’t mean that! I mean, let’s get out of here.”
Jean was never quite sure which of them was responsible for the disaster. The Institute’s halls were magnificent expanses of polished marble. As Jean emerged from the library she saw that the corridor was deserted—a long, snowy stretch of emptiness, shining like ice and just as slippery. She couldn’t resist. She broke into a run, with Michael in enthusiastic pursuit.
They turned the corner together. Jean had one flashing glimpse of a face, openmouthed in consternation, and then there was a melee of flailing arms and legs, a stifled shriek, and a dull thud. She and Michael, who had somehow kept their feet, stood staring down at a prostrate, motionless form.
“Holy Christ,” said Michael sincerely. “Is she dead?”
The fallen woman didn’t look very lively. Jean had seen her in the library