David Wishart - Illegally Dead

‘No, sir.’

‘And Cosmus would’ve known what it was?’

Scopas’s face hardened. ‘No reason why the — ’ He stopped, and I heard his teeth click as he pressed them together hard. ‘No reason why he shouldn’t’ve, sir. It wasn’t a secret.’

‘Tell me about Cosmus. Had Hostilius had him long?’

‘About a year. The master bought him from Tuscius over in Bovillae.’

‘Tuscius?’

‘Marcus Tuscius, the slave-dealer.’

‘Where did he get him from?’

‘’Fraid I can’t tell you that, sir. Cosmus’ — Scopas looked like he wanted to spit when he said the name — ‘never mentioned where he’d been before, and no one felt inclined to ask. He wasn’t exactly popular with the other lads and lasses.’

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Yeah, so I gathered. What about with the family?’

‘He was a smarmy little bugger, sir, if you’ll forgive the language, in with every chance he could get. He’d a way with him, Cosmus, I’ll give him that, good-looking and well-spoken, and it was no secret he was angling for an above-stairs job. The master didn’t like him for’ — he hesitated — ‘reasons that we won’t go into but maybe you can imagine, sir, having talked to the mistress, but he could get round the two youngsters easy enough. Especially Miss Paulina.’

Uh-huh. And I could guess what Hostilius’s ‘reasons’ had been: sleeping with good-looking slaves, didn’t she say? The fact that according to Hyperion Cosmus’s natural proclivities lay in other directions was neither here nor there: it would’ve been business, not pleasure. ‘Where did he work, usually?’ I said.

‘Kitchens, sir. He was one of the kitchen skivvies. He wasn’t there more than he could help, though, every chance he got he bunked off down to the stables where he could be on his own. Not that anyone cried on that account.’

‘You, uh, reported him missing to the Lady Veturina the day your master died, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, sir, that’s right. Before the master died, actually, because he should’ve been on duty to wash up the breakfast dishes and scour the pans. I didn’t know nothing about the ring or so on then, mind, because the master kept them in the drawer of his desk and I didn’t notice they were gone until the next day.’

Well, that settled that; not that I was surprised. Still — ‘Uh, one last thing, Scopas. Castor. The mistress’s brother.’

I couldn’t’ve been mistaken this time. When I mentioned the name I could almost feel the guy tense. Interesting. ‘Yes, sir?’

‘He around at present?’

‘No. No, I…don’t think so.’

‘Know when he’ll be back?’

‘That I couldn’t say, sir.’

Straight into the one-liners, and to anyone who’s had anything to do with slaves that can only mean one thing.

‘Look, pal,’ I said wearily. ‘You’ve been really, really helpful so far. Don’t start giving me the run-around now, okay? Just tell me what you’re carefully not saying and we’ll call it a day. Bargain?’

He swallowed. ‘Sir, I’d really rather not — ’

Screw that. ‘Listen, Scopas,’ I said. ‘I don’t like to remind you of this, but if it wasn’t for me you’d be answering any question anyone liked to put to you tied hand and foot to a couple of sliding boards. Answering it pretty damn quickly, too, because there’d be a set of sadistic bastards in attendance just waiting for the teensiest hesitation. So come on, let’s have it.’

He rubbed the back of his neck nervously. ‘All right, sir, but I’m sure there’s a — ’

‘Scopas! Just give!’

Pause. ‘The mistress’s brother hasn’t been home for eight days, sir.’

Shit. I just stared at him. ‘Since the day before your master died, in other words,’ I said.

‘Yes, sir.’ He didn’t look happy, and unhappy was an understatement.

‘Any idea where he’s gone?’

‘No, sir. No one does.’

‘Know why he went?’ He stared back. ‘Scopas!’

‘He’d had a…quarrel with the master that afternoon, sir. In town. I swear I don’t know what it was about,’ — he must’ve seen my face, because that came out quickly — ‘not the quarrel itself, sir. But the master was furious and he…well, when he came back he took it out on the mistress. They’ve always been close, her and her brother.’

‘Go on,’ I said. ‘Scopas, pal, you listened in. That’s what slaves do.’ I waited. Nothing. ‘You want me to go back and ask the mistress herself?’ No answer. I shrugged and moved towards the door. ‘Fair enough, we’ll just have to play it — ’

‘He accused Castor of being a spy, a traitor and a thief, sir,’ Scopas said woodenly. ‘He accused him of adultery with Quintus Acceius’s wife, he accused the mistress of aiding and abetting him, and he said that he wanted him out of the house for good. I’m omitting the filthy circumstantial details, Valerius Corvinus, because do what you like to me I won’t put my mouth to them, and in his right mind the master wouldn’t’ve either. Now does that satisfy you, sir?’

Gods. ‘Yeah,’ I said quietly. ‘That satisfies me.’

‘Then if you’ll excuse me I’ll get back to my duties. I’m sure you can find your own way out.’

‘Right. Right. Uh, thanks, pal.’

He didn’t answer, just walked past me and through the open door to the corridor beyond.

‘She killed him.’

‘Oh, Marcus!’ Perilla put down her book on the small table beside her chair. ‘You can’t possibly be sure of that at this stage. Especially after what Marcia said.’

‘I’m sure.’ I took a morose swig of the wine Bathyllus had brought out when I’d got back as per standing instructions — Fundanan, not Caecuban, but none the worse for that — and stared out over the rolling Alban Hills towards Alba itself, smokily cloud-wreathed in the distance.

Bugger!

‘But to murder someone after having lived with them for thirty years — ’

‘Thirty-six. And I didn’t say that Veturina had murdered Hostilius. I said that she’d killed him.’

Perilla frowned. ‘I don’t understand, dear. They’re the same, surely.’

‘Uh-uh, not this time. That’s the problem.’ Still, thank the gods, the problem wasn’t mine, and Libanius wasn’t the sort to insist on the letter of the law. No doubt Marcia could weigh in as well where the praetor’s rep was concerned, if things came to that.

‘Marcus, you are not making sense. And Aunt Marcia gave the woman a glowing testimonial. Veturina was a good, loyal, faithful wife who loved her husband all their married life. To say categorically after only two days’ acquaintance with the situation that she killed him or could even be remotely capable of killing him is — ’

‘That’s the whole point. She was all of those things, and of course she loved him. That’s why she did it.’

Perilla went very quiet. Then she said: ‘Explain.’

‘She practically told me herself. He wasn’t the man she’d married any more. Lived with.’ I took another swallow of wine. It didn’t help. ‘She’d watched him turning into someone he’d’ve hated. Hated and despised. If it was me, Perilla, if I went the way Hostilius went and didn’t have the sense to recognise what I was becoming and manage to slit my own wrists before it got that far I hope you’d do the same. And if you did I’d bless you for it.’

Perilla said nothing.

‘The poor sod was dying anyway. It was only a matter of when, and how, and whether he’d go with what dignity and self-respect he had left.’ I lifted the winecup, then set it down again without drinking. ‘Me, I’d be grateful that someone had had the guts to make the decision for me.’