Illegally Dead (14 page)

‘Yeah,’ I said, getting up. ‘Yeah, I’ll just do that now.’

It took me the best part of half an hour and the threat of a full-scale torture of the household slaves to drag the information out of Veturina that her ward had disappeared the morning of Hostilius’s death with what she could pack into a carpet-bag. Or so Veturina said. Veturina had no idea where the girl had gone or why she had gone at all. Or so Veturina said. Some clothing had disappeared at the same time from the slaves’ washing line, boy’s clothing that, when worn with a freedman’s cap and roughspun cloak which had also disappeared, would guarantee that no one would look twice at the wearer, let alone see a fifteen-year-old girl on the run from her upper-class family. Or so Veturina said. Not that I believed the bitch for two consecutive seconds, no more than I believed that shifty brother of hers. They were both lying through their teeth and covering like mad, I’d bet my last copper coin on that. It was only a question of why.

I was simmering nicely as I collected the mare from her mooring-ring by the horse trough; certainly in no mood to give the big red-haired guy in a slave’s tunic crossing the courtyard in the direction of the east wing more than a passing glance.

Which, as it turned out later, was one of the biggest mistakes I’d ever made.

17

I was feeling pretty sick when I got back home later that afternoon and reported to Perilla on the terrace. Sick and frustrated and very, very angry.

‘I’ve sent word to Libanius that he’s got a missing kid on his hands and that she’s been missing for ten days without a fucking dickey-bird from her guardian,’ I said. ‘That’s all we can do. Unfortunately.’ I downed a good half of the wine in my cup at a swallow. It tasted sour. ‘Me, for two pins, Roman citizen or not, if I were Libanius I’d take the bitch in and sweat her. Her and her sodding brother both.’

‘Gently, dear,’ Perilla said. ‘You don’t know the girl’s come to any harm. And if Veturina’s telling the truth then she genuinely -’

‘That woman wouldn’t know truth if it sodding jumped up and bit her. And where genuinely’s concerned –’

‘Marcus, that is enough!’ Perilla adjusted a fold in her mantle. ‘Veturina may be guilty of the sin of omission but there is no evidence that she has actually committed a crime.’

‘Gods, lady, they’re working a double act, those two! Whether Castor’s covering for her or she’s covering for him or they’re each covering for the other I don’t know, but it’s happening, and the result is that all I’m getting from both of them is a mixture of stalling, lies and half-truths. It’s like wading through fucking glue!’ I gulped down the rest of the wine and reached for the jug. ‘And if there isn’t something rotten behind it all then I’ll eat my mantle.’

‘Very well,’ Perilla said. ‘Let’s have your case. Against Veturina first, omitting her personal motives for killing her husband, which I’m perfectly willing to concede.’

‘Okay.’ I took a deep breath. ‘Three members of the household went missing either the day before Hostilius died or on the day of the death itself: Cosmus the slave, her brother and her ward. She didn’t mention any of them until - this is the point - she was faced with hard outside evidence. Cosmus, fair enough, I’ll accept that as far as not reporting him over the wall immediately is concerned she may’ve had other things on her mind. But she lied to me about when Scopas actually told her that he’d gone, and she certainly lied deliberately first to last about Castor and Paulina.’

‘Her reasons?’

‘Assuming she’s guilty as hell? Or at least knows more about Hostilius’s death than she’s saying?’

‘Yes. Go on.’

‘Cosmus because he was supposed to disappear altogether and his body turning up so soon was an embarrassment. Castor...well, we’ll leave Castor for the moment, because he’s the biggie. Paulina...’ I hesitated.

‘Paulina?’

‘Because she heard something, or knew something, or suspected something. Maybe as a result of that last scene between Veturina and Hostilius, the day before he died. Something that was too dangerous to let her pass on.’

‘Such as what?’

‘Perilla, I don’t know, right? I can’t even make a decent guess. But whatever it was she couldn’t be allowed to repeat it.’

Perilla was quiet for a moment. ‘You think she might be dead, then?’ she said.

I nodded. I felt empty. ‘Yeah. Yeah, I do. There’s a good chance of it, anyway.’

She laid aside the book resting in her lap, that she’d been reading when I arrived. ‘Marcus, this is sheer supposition, and nonsense at that! Veturina’s no murderer, you said that yourself! To kill her husband out of kindness, yes, but –’

‘Castor’s not Veturina.’

‘You think he’s capable of murder? Of killing not only the slave-boy but his own niece?’

‘Foster-niece. If that.’

‘Don’t split hairs. You know what I mean.’

I sighed. ‘Yeah, I know; valid point. Search me, Perilla, I’ve only met the guy once. He’s crooked to the core, sure, absolutely, no question; but a murderer? It’s possible; I think he might commit murder if it’d get him something he really wanted, or he was desperate enough, but I could be wrong. Where Paulina’s concerned I hope I am.’

‘All right. Let’s have Castor. Again, I’ll concede the motive, because we’ve been through that.’

‘Not quite. Oh, I know the details now of his spat with Hostilius, or at least what he told me they were, which isn’t the same thing, and that’s fine as far as it goes. But we’ve got another strand.’

‘Namely?’

‘The business of the will. The gods know what it has to do with Hostilius’s death, if anything, but I’ll bet you a gold piece to a poke in the eye that Castor knows more about it than he’s saying. That’s an avenue to chase. As far as the actual murder goes...you want the scenario with Castor as the killer?’

‘Yes.’

‘Okay. General motive as we said: Hostilius is blocking his career and treating him and his sister like dirt. Add to that, now, that he’s been nailed for unprofessional conduct, possibly criminal, and - again possibly - some underhand jiggery-pokery involving Maecilius’s will. Fair?’

‘Fair.’

‘So he decides, there and then, to kill Hostilius. Only he’s got a major problem because if he does kill him it has to be more or less straight away, to stop him blowing the whistle. Unfortunately the quarrel’s been witnessed, and if Hostilius is too obviously stiffed then he’s the prime suspect. Unless –’

‘Unless he disappears from the scene forthwith and Hostilius’s death seems due to natural causes.’ Perilla was frowning. ‘You know, dear, this is quite clever.’

‘Then he has his stroke of genius involving the medicine bottle, which gets round the obvious murder snag. The only problem now is that he can’t manage things without help, witting or unwitting, because ostensibly from now on he’s shacked up with his girlfriend in Bovillae, with whom ten gets you fifty he’s since arranged an alibi.’

‘The help being Veturina.’

‘Right. How much the lady knew or guessed about what was going on beforehand I don’t know, but let’s be charitable and say she only made the connection much later, when Libanius told her about the medicine. Anyway, Castor rides back to the villa, explains the situation - that he’s had an almighty row with Hostilius and has to leave first thing in the morning - and clears off out of the way –’

‘Hold on, Marcus. What about Scopas? Wouldn’t he have known, if Castor was in the house?’

‘Scopas could be squared, lady; after all, Veturina and Castor are family, and if push came to shove, given the circumstances, he might well support them over Hostilius. Besides, as far as he was concerned the actual murderer was Cosmus.’

‘Yes, what about Cosmus?’

‘I reckon you can play him two ways, depending on how much of a cold, calculating bastard you think Castor is. Not that it matters all that much, because it comes to the same thing in the end. Scenario one is that Cosmus’s involvement wasn’t deliberate on Castor’s part. Maybe the boy suspected something for some reason and kept his eyes open, maybe it was a total accident, but he finds out what’s going on and Castor has to take him into account. Scenario two is that Castor set him up from the start so as to have an insurance policy in case things went wrong.’

‘The first seems much more likely.’ Perilla was twisting a strand of her hair. ‘It’s the same argument we used for Veturina: recruiting Cosmus would’ve been more of a risk than a benefit.’

‘Yeah.’ I took a sip of wine. ‘Fair enough. Besides, the impression I’m getting of Castor is that he’s someone who can improvise and think on his feet. The same goes for Veturina. Remember, the subject of Cosmus didn’t come up until his body was found, and like I say I don’t think that was supposed to happen, not until all this had blown over anyway. My bet is that Castor thought that if he had to kill him - which he did, for safety - he might as well turn a profit on the deal, make him an insurance policy after all. When he did his trick with the medicine bottle, he stole the ring and so on out of the desk drawer and gave them to Cosmus. Then if things went pear-shaped in future –’

‘Marcus. Wait. Are you saying that Cosmus wasn’t in Hostilius’s room at all?’

I nodded. ‘It was Castor, the whole thing. If Veturina saw anyone at all from her room coming out through the portico - and I’d bet good money that she didn’t - it was her brother. Like I said, they’ve been covering for each other: Castor makes sure that, if a murder is suspected, there’s a ready-made murderer provided with a ready-made motive of simple theft; while Veturina conveniently remembers seeing said murderer leaving the scene of the crime. It fits. It’s perfect.’

‘Then Castor gives Cosmus the stolen articles and tells him to run off to the Bavius farm where he –’ Perilla stopped. ‘I’m sorry, but that doesn’t make sense.’

‘What doesn’t?’

‘If Cosmus hadn’t been directly involved in the murder, then why should he run? Especially with stolen goods from the dead man’s room in his possession. The boy may’ve been stupid, but he can’t’ve been that stupid. He would have suspected he was being used, surely.’

‘Fine. So what’s to stop Castor from having planted the stuff on the body after he killed the kid but before he pitched him down the well?’

‘That’s...more viable.’ Perilla was looking thoughtful. ‘You’d still have to explain how he persuaded Cosmus to go to the Bavius place and stay there, mind. And if he did manage to invent a plausible reason for sending him to an empty property, one that didn’t involve the element of subterfuge where the boy was concerned, how would he know that Cosmus wouldn’t tell someone where he was going, or keep his presence there a secret? I’m sorry, Marcus, but it still raises serious questions of practicality.’

‘Yeah.’ I frowned. Bugger: she was right. In any case, it was pure theorising. What we needed now were hard facts. ‘Okay, never mind. That’s as far as we can go at present. Leave it.’

‘Very well. So what’s the next step?’

That was the biggie; worse, it was a question I really, really didn’t have an answer to. ‘The gods know. Follow up the business with the will, at least; that’s a loose end that needs tying. Apart from that’ - I took a morose swallow of wine - ‘just hope like hell that somewhere there isn’t another body.’

The problem with the last one was that the cold feeling in my gut told me that there was. It was only a matter of time before we found it.

18

I was over at Six Cedars fairly prompt the following morning. It was an old-fashioned working farm, which meant the farmhouse itself was part of a rambling complex of stables, workshops and storage rooms centred round a rough-cobbled courtyard that was definitely seriously bucolic in parts. I made my way carefully past the worst spots and knocked on the door. A slave opened it, a house-slave, sure, but not the neatly-tunic’d variety; strictly functional, like the rest of the place.

‘Yes, sir?’ he said.

‘Is the master in?’ I said.

‘Master’s up in the top field harvesting beets, sir. Mistress is in the solar, if you want to see her instead.’

‘Yeah, that’d be fine.’ What was her name? Bucca had told me. ‘Uh...Faenia, isn’t it?’

‘That’s right, sir. Oh, no need to wait, I’ll take you straight through. Follow me, and mind your head. The lintels is a bit low.’

I went in. He wasn’t kidding: the place must’ve been built when Cato was in rompers, and not by anyone who’d much time for spacious rooms and high ceilings. Dark, too. He led me through a maze of stone-flagged corridors to a room at the end of a passage with a door that was six inches of solid oak.

‘Here we are, sir.’

He opened the door for me, and light spilled through: a big room full of old-fashioned, heavy furniture and with a big south-facing window. The woman sitting by an easel at the far end of it turned as I went in.

I’d never met Fimus, but as old Maecilius’s son he had to be in his late fifties at the very least. If so then his wife was a good fifteen or twenty years younger; no spring chicken, sure, but not much more than half way through her forties. She wasn’t a bad looker, either: her figure might be what you might charitably call ‘comfortable’, but she’d a pretty enough face and a nice smile.

‘Yes?’ she said.

‘Valerius Corvinus,’ I said. ‘I’m –’

‘Oh. Lucius Hostilius’s death.’ The smile had set. She put down the paintbrush she’d been using, and it rolled unnoticed off the table and onto the floor. ‘A dreadful business. Shocking.’

I looked at the picture on the easel: one of these standard still lifes you get, with a dead hare and assorted vegetables. The actual bits and pieces were arranged on a small table in front of her, and there wasn’t much resemblance between them and the painting. Forget the hare: even the carrot looked suspect.

‘Unusual hobby,’ I said.

‘Yes. I’ve painted since I was a girl. One of our slaves taught me.’ She glanced towards a settle against the white-plastered wall, but then her eyes came back to me and she said: ‘What can I do for you, Valerius Corvinus?’

I was having to revise my ideas about Faenia pretty drastically. I’d expected a fairly typical Latin farmer’s wife, stolid, grey-haired and country-spoken, and this lady wasn’t her. Oh, sure, she had the rural Latin burr, but it’d been smoothed out so much as to be practically unnoticeable; and an artist? Not a very good one, granted, but all the same I reckoned you could count the number of artistic Latin farmers’ wives on the fingers of one hand and still have three or four left over. Not that there’d be all that many more Roman matrons ditto, mind you. ‘Uh...it’s a bit embarrassing,’ I said. ‘Your husband had a...call it a disagreement with Hostilius the day before he died. No hassle, lady, I’m just filling in the corners, but I was wondering if he’d care to tell me about it.’

Was it my imagination, or did the eyes shift? ‘Marcus is out in the fields at the moment,’ she said. ‘I can get one of the slaves to take you to him if –’

‘Unless you can tell me about it yourself, of course. I understand it could’ve had something to do with a missing will.’

She stood up quickly; no smile now, there was a definite tremor in her voice and a redness in her cheeks. ‘No, I’m afraid you’d really have to speak to Marcus himself,’ she said. ‘It’s no problem, I’ll get Venustus to take you.’ She walked past me to the door, opened it and shouted: ‘Venustus!’

I hadn’t moved. ‘Your father-in-law stayed with you here?’ I said. ‘In this house?’

‘The...the other way round. We lived with him.’ She was sounding nervous as hell now, and her eyes were fixed on the corridor outside. ‘Venustus!’

‘Only your brother-in-law said that he’d made a new will just before he died, and that he thought your husband’s father had delivered it to his lawyers.’ I kept the conversational tone. ‘Maybe it didn’t get that far. Maybe it did.’ I shrugged. ‘Maybe it never existed in the first place. It’d be nice to know for sure.’

I might as well have been talking to the wall for all the attention she was paying me. ‘I’m sorry about this,’ she said, and there was a definite tremor in her voice. ‘He must’ve gone back to the kitchen, and he’ll be out of earshot. I’ll show you to the front door myself and there’ll be someone outside who can take you to Marcus. Follow me, please.’

And she was off, without a backward glance. I went after her, but she didn’t slow her pace or turn her head until we reached the entrance lobby, and even then she checked only long enough to open the door.

There was a slave wheeling a barrowload of manure across the yard.

‘Onesimus!’

He stopped and tugged his forelock. ‘Yes, madam?’

‘Take Valerius Corvinus here to the master straight away, please. He’s in the top field. A pleasure to have met you, Valerius Corvinus. I hope Marcus can help you more than I can.’

She stepped back to let me past, her hand on the door to close it behind me. I turned and rested my own hand on the door-jamb.

‘Incidentally,’ I said. ‘You don’t happen to know a guy by the name of Castor, do you? Hostilius’s –’

– but that was as far as I got before I had to whip my hand away and the door was closed quickly and firmly on a pair of very frightened eyes.

I stared at the woodwork, brain racing. Shit!

Fimus - Marcus Maecilius - was a big guy, huge limbed and shaggy as a bear, in heavy countryman’s boots and a rough, homespun tunic that looked like it’d started out in life as a sack for turnips and might be that again some day. He and his slaves - and a kid of about ten who was his spitting image in miniature - were topping beets and throwing them into a wagon. He looked up as I trudged across the remainder of the crop towards him. Right: I’d forgotten about Gabba’s Fimus/Polyphemus gag, but the second name fitted him as well. His single eye glared at me through a mass of tangled black hair.

‘Yeah?’ he said.

‘Valerius Corvinus.’ I waved my thanks to the yard-slave who’d brought me and was turning to go back. ‘Looking into –’

‘Lucius Hostilius’s death. I know. What’s it to do with me?’

Not exactly brimming over with cheerful welcome and bonhomie, this guy. Ah, well. ‘I, uh, was wondering if you could help me out over a couple of things,’ I said.

The stare rested a moment longer. Then he spat to one side, shoved his beet-topping knife into his belt and lumbered over. Close to, he had the same bucolic smell as his courtyard: score another one for the Castrimoenian nicknamers. ‘Carry on, lads,’ he growled over his shoulder to the slaves. ‘This won’t take long.’

I nodded towards the kid. ‘Your grandchild?’ I said.

‘Yeah.’ Then - maybe because he thought he was overdoing the unfriendly bit - ‘He belonged to my only son and daughter-in-law. They died of a fever eight years ago come August.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said.

He shrugged. ‘These things happen. So what d’you want?’

‘I understand you had a run-in with Hostilius the afternoon of the day before he died,’ I said, keeping my voice as unthreatening as possible: Fimus Maecilius had as much chance of winning the All-Comers’ Friendliness Stakes as he did the Mr Charisma title or the Perfumiers’ Customer of the Year award, and his hand was resting casually on the knife hilt.

‘That’s right.’

I waited. Nothing more. ‘Uh...care to tell me what it was about?’ I said.

‘He accused me of keeping back a second will that Dad was supposed to’ve made in favour of that poncy brother of mine.’

‘And did you?’

That got me a long, hard stare. Finally, he said: ‘No. I didn’t.’ He turned away, cleared his throat and spat to one side. ‘Now if that’s all you wanted to know I’ve got work to do.’

‘So why did Hostilius think you had?’ I said.

He turned back, slowly. ‘Listen,’ he said. ‘Dad had no more time for that chancer than I have, never did. He wouldn’t’ve left him a penny if he hadn’t been kin. And what Lucius Hostilius might’ve thought was his own business. I don’t bear the man a grudge, mind, least of all now he’s dead, but he’d some queer ideas these last few months, did Hostilius. He wasn’t responsible for half what he said. You had to make allowances.’

‘So where do you think your brother got the idea from?’ I said.

‘Of Dad making the will? Or of me hiding it?’

‘Either. Both.’

He spat again. ‘Out of his own head, probably. Bucca was always full of piss and wind. Or it could’ve been that fancy lawyer of his over in Bovillae put him up to it. That Novius, I wouldn’t trust him to tell me the time of day.’

‘What about your brother’s offer? To split the cash with you and give you a third of what he got for his half of the property?’

I thought I’d gone too far. His head went down like a bull’s and his shoulders hunched. ‘Look, Corvinus,’ he said. ‘This is my land, all of it, every inch, and it stays that way. I’ve farmed it all my life, my father farmed it all his, so did his father and his grandfather, right the way back to when you fucking Romans were still sitting on your fucking seven hills minding their own fucking business. And when I go young Aulus over there’ - he nodded towards his grandson - ‘will farm it after me. Bucca can take his offer and stuff it. That answer you?’

‘Yeah,’ I said quietly. ‘Yeah, it’ll do.’ I’d been afraid he’d say that because it made things really, really nasty, but, well, that was life. You had to take it as it was. ‘Thanks for your help, pal. Sorry to’ve troubled you. Much obliged.’

He didn’t answer. I could feel his single eye boring into my back all the way across the field to the road.

The news was waiting for me when I got back home. A messenger had arrived from Libanius to say that a hunter and his dog had found a woman’s body in the woods near Caba, and if I was in before lunch would I ride up there asap.

Hell!