Illegally Dead (2 page)

‘What’s he like?’

‘Youngish, much younger than Veturina, middle thirties. Good looking. He and Veturina are very close, more like mother and son.’

‘Uh-huh. Eye for the girls?’

‘What makes you ask that?’

‘Just filling in the gaps. Besides, young and good looking were the first choices you made.’

‘Oh. I see.’ Hyperion hesitated. ‘Then...yes, he has, a little. But he’s a conscientious worker, too, by all accounts, and by no means unintelligent. Quite a likeable man all round.’

‘But he would’ve had access to the medicine bottle?’

‘Naturally he would, in theory at least. As would any of the household. I told you, it wasn’t locked away. Why would Castor want to kill his brother-in-law?’

I shrugged. ‘I’m not saying he did. How could I? But if you and Marcia are right in your assessment of Veturina then she didn’t, either. On the other hand, maybe one of them did, or both of them together, because they both had the opportunity. We’re only playing empty possibilities at this stage, pal. Which brings me to the point. What do I do now?’

Hyperion frowned. ‘But surely –’

‘Find out who did it, of course,’ Marilla said. ‘I thought that was obvious.’

‘Princess,’ I said. ‘Just think for a moment, will you? As far as everyone’s concerned, including - overtly, at least - his doctor, the man’s death was completely natural, end of story. I’ve no official standing, I can’t even ask for official standing because the minute I raise the possibility of murder with the authorities they’ll pull in his slaves. So I can’t turn up on doorsteps asking embarrassing questions because the best I could hope for would be a raised eyebrow and the bum’s rush. And unless I can do that we’re stymied. Okay?’

‘Ah,’ Hyperion said.

‘Ah is exactly right.’

‘Just a moment.’ Marcia cleared her throat. ‘I think you may perhaps be being a little overpessimistic here.’

I turned to face her. ‘Is that so, now?’ I said.

She stiffened. ‘Yes, it certainly is so,’ she said. ‘And, Marcus Valerius Corvinus, don’t you dare use that tone with me.’

Oh, shit. I glanced at Perilla. She was grinning. Marilla sniggered. ‘Uh...yeah. Well. I’m sorry, it’s just that -’

‘I’m glad to say I disagree with Hyperion on one important point. The Castrimoenian authorities are not ogres, and although I have little time normally for modern so-called morality it is sometimes superior to the variety which I was brought up with.’ I kept my lips tightly shut: Jupiter! Coming from Marcia an admission like that was up there with the flying pigs! ‘Besides, slaves are valuable commodities not to be wasted needlessly. You remember Quintus Libanius, of course?’

‘Yeah.’ Head of the Castrimoenian senate, and the only bearded town magistrate north of the Bay of Naples. ‘Yeah, I remember Libanius.’

‘He’s not an unreasonable man, and you did impress him over that unfortunate business two years ago. I’m sure that if he were properly approached and talked to in advance he might be prepared to show a little flexibility.’

‘Well, that’s great. In that case maybe I could –’

She fixed me with a freezing stare, and I clammed up.

‘I meant by me, naturally,’ she said.

I winced. He wasn’t a bad guy, Fuzz-face Libanius, as magistrates go, and I felt sorry for him in prospect: properly approached and talked to was three-line-whip standard in Aunt Marcia’s lexicon. Knowing the old girl’s powers of coercion, my bet was that by the time she’d finished with him the poor bugger would agree to anything short of selling Latium to the Parthians. Not that I was complaining, mind.

‘Ah...fair enough,’ I said.

‘Good, I’m delighted that you agree. I’ll send a slave. In the meantime’ - she rearranged a fold of her impeccably-draped mantle - ‘I for one have had quite enough of murder for one afternoon, especially just before dinner. Change the subject. How is that little brat Gaius shaping up as emperor?’

Marcia’s slave came back while we were half way through the dessert with the news that Libanius would drop by mid to late afternoon the next day.

We were in business. Maybe.

3

I was down to breakfast late next morning: at Marcia’s, if the weather’s good, as it was that day, we always have it outside on the terrace looking towards Mount Alba. Me, I’m not a breakfast person normally, unlike Perilla, who can really shift it, or the Princess, who’s been known to eat five two-egg omelettes at a sitting, but the air in the Alban hills gives you an appetite, especially when the breakfast table’s out of doors. Marilla was ensconced already, shovelling in rolls and honey like there was no tomorrow while Bathyllus hovered with the fruit juice.

‘Morning, Corvinus,’ she said. ‘Did you sleep well?’

‘Like a brick,’ I said. ‘Or whatever. Bread and honey’s fine, Bathyllus, but wheel out a cup of the Caecuban, okay?’

‘Very well, sir.’ Impeccable butlerese: when we’re at Aunt Marcia’s, the little guy is always on his best behaviour. Aunt Marcia has tone, and Bathyllus is the snob’s snob. ‘I could ask Meton to make you an omelette, if you’d prefer.’

‘No, that’s okay.’ I reached for the rolls. Meton the chef and Alexis, technically our gardener, were the other two members of the Corvinus household we always brought with us; Meton because Marcia’s own chef, like Laertes the major-domo, was well past his sell-by date and you took your life in your hands with the canapés and Alexis because he was far and away the smartest cookie on our staff and a good set of brains was never wasted. Oh, and Lysias the coachman, but since his interests extended to horses and chasing the local bits of skirt, total, we barely saw him. ‘Got any plans for today, Princess?’

‘Clarus should be over any minute. We were hoping that we might, ah –’ She stopped dead.

‘Might ah what?’

She grinned. ‘I’ve never been involved in a murder enquiry. At least, not properly. Nor has Clarus.’

‘And?’

‘So we were hoping that we might, ah, tag along. Sort of. If that’s okay.’

Hell. I set down the roll I’d taken from the basket. ‘Now listen, Marilla –’

‘Oh, good. That’s marvellous. Here’s Clarus now.’ She waved. ‘Clarus! Over here! We haven’t finished breakfast.’

‘Marilla, watch my lips,’ I said. ‘You are not going to –’

‘Good morning, sir. Did you sleep well?’

‘Morning, Clarus. I was just telling Marilla that there’s no way that -’

‘I thought before Quintus Libanius arrives we could show you where the Hostilius house is. Then we could –’

Gods! ‘Clarus, pal,’ I said. ‘Shut up. Please.’ He did. ‘Now. I was just telling this fugitive from a maenad pediment that you’re not getting involved in this. Neither of you, no way, never, nohow. Clear?’

‘But Perilla said we could,’ Marilla said.

I goggled. ‘She did what?’

‘Of course I did.’ I whipped round. The lady was coming out through the portico in her dressing-gown, which considering I’d left her flat out and dead to the world upstairs practically put her in the Bathyllus bracket for omnipresence. ‘After all, dear, it’s only fair. They started it and they’ve got a vested interest. Besides’ - she sat down and helped herself to a roll - ‘the suggestion came from Aunt Marcia. If you’ve any objections then you can take them up with her.Yes, thank you, Bathyllus, I will have a cup of fruit juice.’

I stared. Bugger! Double bugger! It was a conspiracy! ‘Now look here, lady -’

‘You look, Marcus. How old were you when you forced the empress Livia to bring my stepfather’s ashes back from Tomi?’

Shit. ‘Uh...’

‘You were twenty-one. Which is only a year more than Clarus is now, and Marilla is only thirteen months younger than him.’ She broke the roll and reached for the honey. ‘Oh, Bathyllus, ask Meton if he’d make me a cheese omelette, would you? Clarus, have you eaten?’

Clarus nodded. ‘Yes, thanks,’ he said, and turned back to me. ‘We don’t expect you to carry us with you everywhere like useless baggage, Corvinus. It wouldn’t be practical, and it wouldn’t be sensible. But my father feels responsible for Hostilius’s death, and just staying out on the sidelines doing nothing doesn’t seem right, somehow. Can you understand that?’

Hell’s teeth; yeah, I could understand it easily, and what was more Perilla had a valid point about the Ovid business. Maybe I was just getting middle-aged and crotchety. Besides, like I said, I’d a lot of time for Clarus, more time than I’d’ve had for myself at his age. He might even be a steadying influence...

Ah, well. When you’re beat, you’re beat, and with Marcia and Perilla both slugging for the opposition I didn’t have a hope in Hades anyway. All I could do was cut my losses.

‘Invitation only?’ I said.

He grinned. ‘Invitation only.’

I held out my hand and we shook. ‘In that case you’ve a deal, pal. Starting this afternoon, if and when Marcia fixes things with Libanius, and at points as and when I say thereafter. No beefing, no arguments and no comeback, especially from Penthesilea here. Agreed?’

‘Agreed.’ He gently removed the roll she’d just picked up from between Marilla’s fingers and put it back in the basket. ‘Okay, Marilla, plan B.’

‘Plan B?’ Marilla said.

‘We keep out of Corvinus’s hair pro tem. Go and fetch Corydon and we’ll ride up to Caba.’

Perilla and I watched them go off in the direction of the stables. Perilla was smiling.

‘We really will have to put our minds to a dowry,’ she said.

‘Yeah.’ I’d just been thinking that myself. I picked up a roll, tore it in two and dunked it in the honey. ‘Marcia’ll miss her when she goes, mind.’

‘Oh, I think Aunt Marcia’s thought of that already. Marilla’s always been far more hers than ours, she hasn’t any living relatives now, and this villa’s easily big enough for two households. I doubt if either Marilla or Clarus would think of moving from Castrimoenium. Besides...well, Hyperion’s had a word with me. He’s Aunt Marcia’s doctor too, remember.’ I glanced at her, but said nothing. ‘She’s eighty-four, Marcus. That’s older than anyone expects to live to. And despite appearances she isn’t well. Not well at all.’

Oh, hell. ‘Does she know?’ I said.

‘Of course she does. She isn’t a fool, and she’s never been one to settle for half-truths. It isn’t obvious yet, but it will be, soon.’

‘How long?’

‘Hyperion says six months. A year, at most, all told. So’ - she took a sip of her fruit juice - ‘we’d best get them married quickly. Aunt Marcia would like that.’

‘Yeah.’ Shit. Well, it came to us all, I supposed. And like Perilla said, the old girl had had a good innings. Still, she’d been one of life’s fixtures, and I’d miss her when she went.

‘She doesn’t mind, if that’s what you’re thinking. And she doesn’t want anyone else to, either.’ Perilla was turning the cup in her fingers. ‘Oh - Marilla doesn’t know, though. Marcia’s been very careful she shouldn’t, and she’d like to keep it that way as long as possible. So please watch what you say.’

‘Right. Right.’

‘Now.’ Perilla set the cup down. ‘That’s enough gloom and despondency for one morning. What are your plans?’

‘I thought I might go into town, drop in at Pontius’s, catch up on the local gossip. Maybe put out a few feelers in advance of meeting Libanius. That suit you, lady?’

‘Fine. I wanted to have a quiet chat with Aunt Marcia in any case, and she won’t be up and around for a few hours yet. Take your time, Marcus.’

Bathyllus reappeared with Perilla’s omelette and my cup of wine - well watered, which was fair enough since there’d be more in the offing at Pontius’s, especially if he’d got the local gang in. Like Perilla said, there was no hurry: the town was an easy half-hour’s walk away, Libanius wasn’t due until afternoon, and if Marcia wanted the time and space to soften the guy up without me breathing down her neck - which she did - then the longer I stayed away the better. Besides, the first-morning-of-the-holiday visit to Pontius’s had become a tradition at Aunt Marcia’s. Not, from what Perilla had just told me, mind, that that was going to continue much longer...

Well, there was no point in dwelling on it. Like the lady had said, eighty-four was a good age, better than I could expect to notch up, anyway, and there was no sense in grieving over something that hadn’t happened yet. I finished my honeyed roll, took the last swallow from the cup and set off towards town.

4

Pontius’s wineshop is in Castrimoenium’s main square. Normally on a day like this I’d’ve sat on the terrace outside and watched the world go by, or as much of the world as you get in a town where a dogfight’s an event, but there were no punters in evidence so I pushed the door open and went inside.

‘Hey, Corvinus!’ Gabba lifted his winecup. Life has few near-certainties, but one of them is that whatever time of the day you push open Pontius’s wineshop’s door chances are you’ll find Castrimoenium’s most dedicated bar-fly on the other side of it. ‘How’s the boy? Holidays again?’

‘Yeah, more or less.’ I nodded to Pontius behind the bar. ‘Can’t keep me away. How’s it going, Gabba?’

Pontius hefted a wine jar from the shelf. ‘Nice to see you back, Corvinus. The usual?’

‘Fine.’ I put the money on the counter while he poured a half jug of the local wine and set it down with a cup in front of me. Not Latium’s best, Castrimoenian, not by a long chalk, but it’s not bad stuff for everyday drinking on its home ground, and Pontius’s is as good as you’ll get anywhere.

‘More or less?’ Gabba pushed his cup over for Pontius to refill. ‘Not another murder, is it?’

‘Uh-uh.’ I poured and swallowed. ‘No murders.’

‘That chancer of a chef of yours trained any more sheep?’

‘Not that he’s mentioned.’

‘He wouldn’t, would he?’ Gabba sniggered and took a sip of his fresh cupful. ‘Not to you, pal. You bring him up here with you?’

‘Yeah, Meton’s here.’

‘Well, you tell him from me he did a good job and it’s stuck. Last winetasting you couldn’t get odds on Dassa for love nor money, and quite right too because she scooped the pot again hooves down. Even “Lucky” Maecilius was impressed, rest his bones, and that old bugger hadn’t a good word to say about sheep.’ Another sip. ‘Especially ones that’d just crapped on his boots.’

‘Maecilius is dead?’ I said. Not that I was surprised, mind, because the last and only time I’d seen him was two years ago, and he’d looked like a pickled mummy even then.

‘Sure. Hit by a lightning bolt just after the Winter Festival.’ Gabba took a proper swallow. ‘Right in the middle of a call of nature, too.’

‘Lightning in December?’

‘As ever was. From a clear blue sky, smack through the latrine roof. He had style, did old “Lucky”. One of nature’s true incompetents to the end.’

‘Left a tidy bit, too,’ Pontius said. ‘Fifty thousand, so they say. Plus the farm, and that’s worth four times as much again.’

‘Could be,’ Gabba said. ‘Could be, Pontius, boy. In the right quarter.’

I took another swig of the Castrimoenian and topped up my cup from the jug. ‘So what else has been happening?’

‘Not a lot, consul.’ Gabba emptied his own cup. ‘Just the usual. Carrinatia’s billygoat slipped his tether and ate his way through Titus Memmius’s cabbage patch. Paetinius’s youngest is pregnant again, father unknown - that’s her third. Oh, and of course there was that killing in the street ten days back, but you wouldn’t be interested in that.’

‘What?’

‘Tell a lie, it was twelve days. Or am I mixing it up with the day the wheel fell off Petrusius’s cart and killed the chicken?’

‘Gabba, you bastard – !’

He was grinning. ‘All in fun, just winding you up, boy. Twelve days it was.’

Gods! ‘Never mind the exact fucking date! What killing?’

‘Some mad bugger went for one of the local worthies with a knife, middle of the street, broad daylight, no reason. Could’ve saved himself the trouble, in the event, because the worthy pegged out himself not long after. No connection, natural causes.’

‘Chap by the name of Lucius Hostilius.’ Pontius was pouring a cup of wine for himself. He took a sip and put it down on the bar. ‘The worthy, I mean. Local lawyer, or was.’

My brain had gone numb. ‘You said a killing. So who was killed?’

‘The man with the knife. You mind, Corvinus?’ Gabba hooked my jug over and topped up his empty cup. ‘Hostilius was lucky, he’d his partner with him, big strong bugger able to handle himself, and he did good and proper.’ He clicked his tongue. ‘Five seconds later and it was Goodnight Alexandria fair and proper.’

‘Who was the knifeman?’

‘I never heard a name myself.’ Gabba took a long swig. ‘Pontius?’ Pontius shook his head. ‘Don’t think there was one, in the end. He wasn’t a Castrimoenian, whatever, and whoever the bastard was he hadn’t been living easy. Dressed like a tramp, stank to high heaven.’

‘Why did he do it?’

‘I told you, no reason, bugger was out of his tree. The pair of them were just crossing the street minding their own business when he runs up, draws a knife and goes for Hostilius.’

‘He wasn’t hurt? Hostilius, I mean?’

‘Nah. The blade caught in his mantle-fold. That gave his partner the chance to pile in, get the knife off of the bastard and skewer him.’

‘This partner got a name?’

‘Acceius. Quintus Acceius.’

‘Many people see this?’

Gabba’s eyes narrowed and he set his cup down. ‘Ten or a dozen, maybe,’ he said. ‘I told you, it was broad daylight in the main street. What is this, Corvinus? You sure there hasn’t been a murder?’

‘Uh-uh. Just interested.’

‘The hell with that, boy! I know interested, and that wasn’t it, not by a long chalk.’ He turned to Pontius. ‘Know what I think? I think Lucius Hostilius got the heave after all and our Corvinus’s been Sent For.’

Fuck! ‘Gabba –’

‘That true, Corvinus?’ Pontius said.

Things were slipping fast here. He might look like a cow’s backside and soak up more wine than a sponge, but Gabba could see through a brick wall with the best of them. And drop a juicy titbit like murder into the casual conversation at Pontius’s and it’d be all over town before you could say ‘oops!’.

Fuck was right.

‘Yes, indeed.’ Gabba emptied his cup again and reached for my jug. ‘My belief, Pontius old mate, for what it’s worth, is that someone slipped the legal gentleman a noxious foreign substance on the sly and someone else has rumbled the fact and called our lad down to finger the perp. What do you say yourself?’

‘Gabba -’

‘Of course I could be wrong. Put your head out the door and check for flying pigs.’

Jupiter! I tried again. ‘Gabba, watch my lips. There has not been a murder. Okay?’

‘You know your right eyebrow twitches when you lie?’

So must Sisyphus have felt when he saw his fucking rock roll back for the umpteenth-millionth time. I sighed and poured myself another shot of wine before the bastard finished the jug for me. ‘Look, just get the hell off my back, will you?’ I said. ‘We’re spending a few days with our adopted daughter and Perilla’s aunt, right? No other reason, that is it. Finish, end of story.’

Gabba shrugged. ‘Have it your own way, consul,’ he said. ‘Not that it surprises me, mind. Word is the man was asking to be stiffed.’

‘Is that so, now.’

‘Could’ve been the wife did it. Could’ve been the partner.’ He winked. ‘Could’ve been the both of them together, wouldn’t be the first time that’d happened. Convenient, that’s what I call it.’

‘Nah, I don’t believe that one. Quintus Acceius isn’t the philandering type.’ Pontius picked up my jug and shook it. ‘Looking a bit empty already, Corvinus. You want the other half?’

‘Yeah, why not?’ I said sourly. ‘I might strike really, really lucky and have some of it to myself this time.’ Shit. Well, I’d tried. And so long as I didn’t actually confirm anything there was no comeback. ‘I thought you said his partner saved this Hostilius’s life. Why should he kill him seven days later?’

‘Did we mention exactly when the gentleman died, Pontius?’ Gabba gave me a beatific smile. ‘I suppose we must’ve done.’ Bugger! ‘Never mind. Well, Corvinus, the general consensus of local gossip is that relations between the two weren’t exactly amicable. Chiefly because on separate occasions Hostilius had accused the man in public of screwing his wife and told Acceius’s own wife to her face, ditto, that she was no better than a whore. Both loudly, at length, and with full appropriate embellishment. That do you for motive?’ I said nothing. ‘Me, I wouldn’t blame either of them for getting rid of the bastard just on general principles. He was an embarrassment all round and getting worse.’

‘Come on, Gabba!’ Pontius grunted, setting down my fresh half jug. ‘Have a bit of charity. Everyone knew he couldn’t help it. Besides, the man’s dead. “Nothing but good”, remember?’

An easy-going lad, Pontius, but he was beginning to sound a little tetchy. Gabba in full flow tended to have that effect on people. Tactful and politically correct were two things the guy wasn’t.

‘Maybe so, maybe so.’ Gabba took another careful sip of his wine. ‘Of course, if Wonder Boy the great detective isn’t looking for motives to murder Lucius Hostilius then he won’t want to know about Fimus either. That right, Corvinus?’

‘For the gods’ sake!’ Pontius had been leaning on the bar. Now he straightened and turned away. ‘That’s it, Gabba, enough’s enough! You’ve had your fun, but the joke’s over.’

‘Fimus?’ I said. The word means dung.

‘Marcus Maecilius, “Lucky”’s second son.’ Gabba was grinning. Pontius still had his back to us.

‘Yeah? So if he’s got a handle already then why Fimus?’

‘Ah, well, now, I’m glad you asked that. Nothing to do with non-existent murders, of course, but of marginal interest in itself. Would you happen to have any of that wine spare?’ I sighed and slid the new half jug over. Gabba refilled his cup. ‘Fimus is your solid agricultural type, you see, close to the earth and redolent of nature at her most basic, and he’s also only got one eye.’

He waited, expectantly.

‘Uh...so?’ I said finally.

‘One eye? Fimus as in Polyphemus? It’s what we simple folk out here in the sticks call a bilingual pun, consul, combined with a recherché literary illusion.’

Oh, shit!

‘The word’s allusion, Gabba, boy,’ Pontius murmured, turning round. ‘Literary allusion.’

‘By gods, your wine must be getting better.’ Gabba took a swallow. ‘No, same old dishwater. Must’ve been just a slip of the tongue after all.’

Pontius snorted, and I grinned despite myself. ‘Gabba, just tell me straight, okay?’ I said. ‘About how this Fimus fits into things.’

‘No, I’ll tell you.’ That was Pontius. ‘Fimus and Hostilius were talking together. Then Hostilius starts shouting, he calls Fimus a thief and a liar and smacks his face. That’s all that happened, Corvinus. All there was to it.’

‘Yeah? When was this?’

‘Eight or nine days ago in the square outside.’

‘You know why?’

‘No, Fimus wouldn’t say, nor Hostilius either. Fimus just walked off and left him standing. That’s it. All there is.’

‘Come on, Pontius!’ Gabba took another swallow of wine. ‘You know damn well what it was about, or you can guess!’

Pontius moved over to stand in front of him. He was looking serious as hell now, and he’s a big lad. Their eyes locked, and Gabba edged back on his stool.

‘Maybe I can at that,’ Pontius said slowly. ‘There again, maybe I’d be wrong. But in any case, boy, it’s none of my business, and it’s not yours or Corvinus’s either. There’s been no crime committed as far as we know’ - he looked at me, and I stared back expressionlessly - ‘and I won’t hear the dead or the living slandered in my bar just for amusement. Now you’ve had your fun and it’s over. Call it a day or drink up. The same goes for you, Corvinus.’

The silence lengthened. Finally, Gabba waved his hand like he’d burned the fingers.

‘Ouch!’ He shrugged. ‘Very well, Pontius lad, point made and taken on board. You care to choose a subject for conversation?’

Pontius sucked a tooth for a few seconds, frowning. Then he grinned. ‘Rome’s always good for a laugh,’ he said.

Confrontation over; a good lad, Pontius, and he can gauge his clientele to a T. We shot the breeze about Rome, and the new emperor, and finished the other half jug.

Hmm.