Persona Non Grata (14 page)

Ruso hesitated. There was nothing of any investigative value in this account of his former wife waking up with another man, and certainly nothing he wished to hear repeated, but he had to ask. “If you were asleep, how do you know what he did when he woke up?”

She sighed. “Because I was pretending, Gaius. Sometimes he didn’t bother me if he thought I wasn’t awake.”

Ruso said, “Oh,” and felt like an intruder. Then he said, “I don’t need that much detail.”

“Then why did you ask?”

He wanted to say,
Did you ever pretend to be asleep with me?
“What did he do after that?”

“He washed himself over at the basin, put on a clean tunic, grumbled as usual.”

“About what?”

“I thought you didn’t want all these silly details? About being ill.”

How illness could be seen as a silly detail when the man had dropped dead the same day was a mystery to Ruso. Trying not to sound too eager, he said, “So he was already ill?”

“No worse than usual. Country air didn’t suit him. He said it gave him palpitations.” She sniffed. “But the headaches and the bad stomach only ever struck after a big dinner.”

“If he really had trouble with his heart—”

“If it was anything serious it would have killed him ages ago. So anyway, then he put on his house shoes, shut the door behind him, and went to his office, and I never saw him alive again.” She paused. “I wasn’t always cross with him, Gaius.”

Coming from Claudia, this was almost an expression of affection. Ruso was aware that she had honored him with a confidence and that he was supposed to respond accordingly. He coughed, urgently summoning and discarding various possible replies.
I’m sorry
was ambiguous.
I know
was untruthful.
You weren’t always cross with me, either
was irrelevant, and . . .

And it was too late. The silence was growing awkward. Ruso said, “How do you know he went to his office?”

“He always went to his office in the mornings to meet up with the steward. Not everyone is as disor ganized as you.”

“I’ll have to talk to the steward.”

“Well, good luck. Zosimus is being no help at all. It’s the house hold steward’s job to or ganize the funeral, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, it is, I’m sure. But every time I tell him to do something he says he can’t act without orders from Rome. So I said, I’m the wife of the senator’s agent and part of the family, and do you know what he said?”

This sounded like the sort of question Claudia usually answered herself, so Ruso raised his eyebrows in what he hoped looked like anticipation.

“Not anymore. Not anymore! So who am I, then?”

Ruso said, “Are there slaves mentioned in his will? People who would be freed after his death?”

“I don’t know what’s in his will,” said Claudia. “But he didn’t own any of the slaves. We’re the poor relations. Practically everything here belongs to the senator.” She paused. “Do you think he’ll pay for the funeral?”

30

Z
OSIMUS TURNED OUT to be a remarkably ill-informed steward. He was not aware of Severus having any enemies. He was not aware of anyone visiting the office yesterday morning apart from the farm manager and a slave delivering a couple of unimportant business letters that he himself had taken, read out, and answered. Nor was he aware of any reason why he should answer any more questions.

Ruso might have been convinced by the man’s claim of ignorance, had he not known that Zosimus had supported Severus’s lie about the debt payment being two hundred short. As it was, the only thing of which he could be certain was that Zosimus did not trust him. It was also evident that any power Claudia had once been able to wield had died along with her husband. Zosimus had not hurried out in response to Claudia’s repeated ringing of the bell but had eventually strolled down the garden as if he had come of his own accord. It was therefore no surprise when the steward declared that he could not allow Ruso to enter the office or question the house hold staff.

“I am the widow!” Claudia reminded him, raising her chin. “I insist!”

“And I’m in charge of the staff,” said Zosimus with the calm of a man who knows his position is invincible. “A message has been sent to Rome for instructions.”

“But the senator doesn’t know we’ve already got somebody here who can look into it, does he? The doctor knows all about murders. He’s been involved in dozens of them over in Britannia.”

Zosimus’s black eyes widened at this dubious endorsement. “Well, he’s a suspect in this one.”

“So are we all,” pointed out Claudia. “And he didn’t do it any more than I did, so the sooner it’s sorted out, the better. Whoever did it could poison somebody else. Me. You.”

“That,” said Zosimus, drawing himself up to his meager height, “is a risk I’m prepared to take.”

Claudia popped in the last fragment of cake. “He might poison Ennia. Then you’d be sorry.”

The steward glared at her. “I came to tell you,” he said, “there are guests waiting to offer their condolences.”

They made their way back along the gravel pathways, Claudia and Ruso lagging behind like a pair of reluctant schoolchildren.

“When the investigator from Rome gets here,” declared Claudia loud enough for Zosimus to hear, “I’m going to complain. If Severus were alive he wouldn’t dare treat me like that!”

Ruso stepped closer to her and murmured, “There must be a spare key to that office. How do the staff get in to clean and fill the lamps?”

“They wait for that horrible man to let them in,” said Claudia.

Evidently security was not as lax here as in the Petreius house hold.

31

A
LARGE ROOM in the west wing had been set aside for the laying out of the body. Claudia stepped under the cypress boughs hung over the door, nodded to a couple of other women whom Ruso assumed to be neighbors paying respects, and sat down with her hands folded in her lap and her eyes focused on nothing. Opposite her was a disheveled, red-faced creature barely recognizable as Ennia. Between them, propped up against the far wall, surrounded by flickering lamps and looking a great deal calmer than everyone else in the room, was Severus.

Ruso stationed himself next to Ennia. He waited until a suitable amount of wailing had taken place before crouching to repeat his condolences and murmuring, “May I speak with you?”

When she did not seem to have heard, he leaned closer and repeated the question in her ear. Her expression did not change as she said, “You are in league with her. Go away.”

He whispered, “I’m not responsible for this, Ennia.”

“Then I want to know who is!”

A hand gripped his shoulder as Zosimus breathed in his ear, “You heard the lady. Go.”

Ruso got to his feet and left.

As he passed the pond there was a faint “plop.” Leaning over, he could make out the silver flash of a fish through the ripples. A cough sounded from the direction of the house. Ruso glanced up to see the steward watching him from the top of the steps.

As if this were not encouragement enough to leave, he now recognized the purposeful stride of his former father-in-law fast approaching along the gravel walkway.

“Probus!”

The man stopped. “Who let you in here?”

Evidently Probus had not mellowed with time.

At the reply, “Claudia,” Probus’s mouth turned down as if he were refusing a loan to a potential client. “I don’t know what for,” he said. “She’s sent for the investigators, you know.”

“I came to see if I could help.”

For some reason this seemed to annoy Probus even further. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder toward the gate house. “Out!”

“On my way,” agreed Ruso, indicating the walking stick. “It’s just taking me a bit of time.”

“If you’re not gone in a minute there’ll be men here to help you.”

Ruso said, “Sorry to hear about Justinus, by the way,” but Probus was already striding toward the west wing, calling, “Claudia? It’s all right, I’ve gotten rid of him.”

Ruso paused, leaning on his stick, to watch Probus mount the steps and give Zosimus a perfunctory nod. Then he turned and picked his way along the path toward the gatehouse with a deliberate lack of haste. It was a small and not very satisfying form of rebellion.

He told himself that at least the steward’s insistence on waiting for orders would restrain Claudia’s urge to call in professional questioners. He supposed that was good news— for the staff, if not for him. As he approached the gate it occurred to him that he should have told somebody that Severus’s horse was being tended by the stable lad back at home. He would have to leave a message with the gatekeeper.

The gatekeeper’s dog was eyeing his approach with interest when he was surprised by hasty footsteps crashing through gravel and a voice he did not recognize calling, “Sir! Please, Doctor, sir!”

A lanky youth in a grease-spattered tunic appeared from behind the gatehouse, halted, tried to decide what to do with his hands, finally clamped them behind his back, and said, “I’m Flaccus, sir. I used to work in your kitchen.”

Ruso stared at him. Claudia had indeed owned a kitchen boy called Flaccus, but not one like this. Claudia’s boy was small and cheery. This one had hands and feet that were much too big for him, an anxious face made out of sharp angles, and a sprinkling of acne. Ruso leaned on his stick and decided he was getting old. “I remember you,” he said. “How are you getting on here?”

“Very well, sir, thank you.” Having gotten that out of the way, the youth took a deep breath. “Cook said I should come and talk to you, sir.”

Ruso beckoned him away from the ears of the gatekeeper and the teeth of the dog. Safely behind an ornamental hedge that more or less concealed them from the house, he said, “To do with Severus?”

Flaccus nodded.

“Speak up,” he urged, warmed by the thought that the boy still trusted him. “What do you know?”

The boy looked alarmed. “Oh no, sir. I don’t know anything. Nobody knows anything. Cook says to ask what’s going to happen to us, sir?”

Ruso looked him up and down. Flaccus the little kitchen boy, no longer cheery—and with good reason. By law, all the house hold slaves who had been under the same roof as a murdered master should be put to death for failing to save him— even if they could not possibly have helped. The emperor Nero, notorious for much else besides, had once called in troops to enforce the execution of four hundred men, women, and children whose only crime was to be owned by a man who had been done away with by one of their comrades. It was a lesson not easily forgotten.

Ruso suspected that the law might not apply when the victim was secretly poisoned off the premises— a crime against which his staff would stand little chance of protecting him—but that was a fine distinction unlikely to comfort a house hold in fear of their lives. He said, “Flaccus, I want you to think carefully about this. Do you think anyone here was involved in the death of the senator’s agent?”

“Absolutely not, sir!”

Of course not. What else could the lad say? “Did you see him on the morning he died?”

Flaccus looked uneasy.

“I need to know exactly what happened to him that morning.”

The boy stared down at feet that overhung the ends of his sandals. His shoulders shifted uneasily. “Cook didn’t say . . .” His voice trailed into silence.

“Just tell me what you know,” urged Ruso, silently cursing Nero and every long-dead member of the Senate who had agreed with him.

“But I don’t know anything, sir. I was bringing in the firewood when Master Severus came in.”

“Into the kitchen?”

Flaccus nodded. “Please don’t go asking them, sir. Cook will kill me.”

“Just tell me what he did in the kitchen, and I won’t need to.” Ruso hoped, for the boy’s sake, that this was true.

“He just came for his breakfast. Bread and cheese and an apple.” The boy looked up. “There wasn’t nothing wrong with it, sir. It was the same as what everybody had.”

“Did he usually fetch his own breakfast?”

“People are always in and out of the kitchen, sir. Cook gets fed up with it.”

“And did he look well?”

Flaccus, clearly regretting ever admitting to remembering Ruso, said, “He never looked well, sir.”

“Who was in the kitchen yesterday morning?”

“Just the staff, sir.”

“Nobody unusual?”

“No, sir.”

Not wishing to imply a suspicion of the widow, Ruso tried, “How about Claudia or Ennia?”

“Oh, no, sir!” This, apparently, would have been a memorable event. Neither of these two had ever been seen in the kitchen before midmorning.

Ruso frowned. This was not proving as helpful as he had hoped. “You’re sure he just had the same food and drink as everyone else?”

“Not the drink, sir. He always has— had his own medicine. The cook mixes him up honey and rosewater. Just that, sir. Nothing that would do no harm.”

“And nobody else drinks it?”

Flaccus shook his head. “No, sir. Well— not usually. But after Master Severus died, the steward came down to the kitchen and asked a lot of questions. And he made us all eat the food and share out the rest of the medicine. That’s how we knew Severus must have been poisoned. But nobody was ill.”

So Zosimus, the responsible steward, had been making inquiries of his own. Personally Ruso would not have risked poisoning the entire staff by sharing everything out, but presumably he had been hoping to force a confession. “Well, it looks as though he’s satisfied himself that none of you was involved.”

“Yes, sir.” Flaccus did not seem particularly cheered by this news. “But when Cook asked him what’s going to happen to us he just said we’ve got to wait for orders from Rome.”

“I’m afraid that’s true,” said Ruso. “Severus didn’t die under this roof. That may be a good thing for you, if not for me. But I’m not a lawyer. I don’t know what’s going to happen to any of us.”

Flaccus sniffed. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“What I do know is that it’s not going to be helped by listening to worrying gossip. Now go back to your duties and try to ignore anything you hear, because if none of us knows until we hear from Rome, nothing you’re told can be true, can it?”

The boy managed a wan smile. “No, sir.”

A sizeable gang of dingily attired visitors was rolling up the drive as Ruso left, presumably on the way to offer condolences to the grieving widow and sister. The gatekeeper’s face was impassive as he asserted that he couldn’t answer questions without permission from the steward, but his one eye was bright. Ruso suspected these were the most interesting couple of days he had had in a very long time.