David Wishart - Illegally Dead

‘How did your talk with Veturina go, Corvinus?’ Marilla asked.

‘Tie that foul brute to the railings and I’ll tell you,’ I said, wiping my face on my tunic-sleeve.

She did, and I did.

‘So you don’t think she was responsible after all?’ Marilla said when I’d finished.

‘Let’s say there’s a strong possibility that she wasn’t. As things go, anyway.’

‘So who was?’ Clarus said.

I gave him the suspect list that I’d just run past Perilla. Such as it was. ‘You help me with any of these?’ I said.

‘Not much. Acceius has a good name locally. He’s honest, he’s well liked, and he’s respectable. Also, he’s a top-notch lawyer. The general opinion, far as I’ve heard, is that Castrimoenium’s lucky to have him. He could’ve done a lot better for himself in Rome or somewhere else big like Naples or Capua.’

‘That so, now?’ I said. ‘General opinion say why he hasn’t?’

‘No. But it doesn’t suggest any reason why he couldn’t’ve done, if that’s what you’re asking.’

I grinned. ‘Well done, pal. Yeah, that was about it. What about his relations with Hostilius? Or lack of them?’

‘Positive again. He’s had a lot of sympathy locally, mostly for not dissolving the partnership, going it alone and landing the guy a sock on the jaw for good measure long ago.’

‘Maybe he couldn’t, for some reason. Financial or otherwise.’

‘Pass.’

Well, that was fair enough. Clarus might be sharp, but he wasn’t omniscient. ‘What about his wife?’ What was her name again? ‘Uh…Seia Lucinda? Hostilius claimed she was having an affair with Castor, or so Scopas told me. Anything in that?’

‘Pass. Look, Corvinus, Castrimoenium may be a small place but we don’t live completely in one another’s pockets. And me, I don’t have either the time or inclination to listen to gossip. Ask your pal Gabba. He might be able to help more.’

Yeah, good idea; I probably would, at that, if I could find some way of keeping prim-and-proper Pontius from blowing the whistle and calling time. ‘Okay. Leave Acceius. Castor.’

‘Sorry again. At least, I’ve seen him, but — ’

‘I know Castor,’ Marilla said. She was over by the railings, keeping Placida quiet and relatively civilised.

‘What?’ Clarus whipped round.

‘Only slightly. We’ve talked in the street, once or twice. He likes animals. He’s tall with brown eyes and brown curly hair, and he’s very good looking.’

‘Really?’

‘Clarus, he’s ancient! Thirty-five, at least.’

I grinned. ‘Actually, if you remember, we’d got the guy’s physical description already from Hyperion, Princess,’ I said. ‘In essence, at any rate, barring the fine details you seem to have noticed. Anything you can add to it? If you can stop drooling long enough, that is.’

Clarus snorted.

‘Marcus!’ Perilla said.

‘He’s very serious,’ Marilla said. ‘When you speak to him, I mean. He actually talks. And he wants to be a lawyer himself.’

‘Does he, indeed?’ I said. ‘Anything else about him?’

‘He’s very grateful to his sister. And to Quintus Acceius.’

‘What for?’

‘I don’t know. I just got that impression from how he talked about them. When he did.’

‘How about to Lucius Hostilius?’

‘No, he didn’t like him at all. And it was mutual.’

Well, that was understandable, given what I knew so far. ‘You, uh, seem to’ve had quite a cosy chat with this guy, Princess,’ I said. Beside me Clarus was grinding his teeth.

She coloured. ‘Not all at once,’ she said. ‘We’ve bumped into each other maybe four or five times since last summer. And as I said, he talks.’

‘Talks too bloody much, if you ask me,’ Clarus muttered.

Fortunately he hadn’t seemed to notice that once or twice had become four or five times; but Perilla had already put the kibosh on stirring things so I let that one pass unremarked. ‘Anything else to throw into the pot while we’re about it?’ I said.

‘No, I think that’s — ’

‘You wanted to see me, Corvinus?’

I turned. Meton. ‘Yeah, pal. Excuse us, Clarus, small domestic matter. Where the hell’ve you been?’

Meton sniffed. Meton’s sniff is not like Bathyllus’s: it’s to the little bald-head’s what Placida is to a pedigree toy poodle. He removed the result with a hairy finger and wiped it on his tunic.

‘Shopping,’ he said.

‘Come on, Meton! You could’ve walked to Bovillae and back in the time you’ve been away. What about the lunch?’

‘’s in hand,’ he grunted. ‘I’m doing you a ragout of left-over pork an’ a red-cabbage-an’-walnut salad.’

‘Okay.’ Well, that sounded more like it, anyway. ‘So what took you so long?’

‘Checking out a new source of hares, wasn’t I? Little farm out past the Caba gate.’

Uh-huh. Yeah, I’d go for that: Meton’s dedication to sussing out the best suppliers of meat, game, fish, vegetables or anything edible was absolute, and his exacting standards of quality control had put the wind up the wollocks of every market stall owner back home from Ostia to the fifth milestone. ‘And?’ I said.

‘They’re rubbish. Hutch-reared tat. And you know what they feed the buggers on? Bran. Bran!’ He spat into the ornamental rosebush. ‘I ask you!’

‘Right. Right. Well, in that case I’m sorry I — ’

‘You know what a diet of bran does to the taste of a hare, Corvinus? I wouldn’t boil the bugger up for fucking soup, let alone — ’

‘Yes, right, well, I think we’ve got the message. That’s — ’

‘- stew it. And as for roasting, you can just fucking sod that for a game of soldiers completely, because — ’

‘Meton!’ Perilla snapped. ‘That is enough!’

He subsided, with another sniff. ‘So. Lunch in half an hour, okay?’

‘Okay,’ I said.

He lumbered off.

‘Small domestic matter?’ Clarus said. Marilla grinned.

‘Yeah. Yeah. Give or take.’ I glanced at Perilla; the lady was simmering. ‘You staying for lunch?’

‘If you don’t mind. Oh, and by the way, Dad says to tell you he’s looked and there was no water in Cosmus’s lungs.’

‘Oh, great.’

I’d really, really wanted to know that. Ah, well: at least he’d told me before we sat down to the pork ragout.

Doctors!

I’d earmarked next morning for a talk with Partner Acceius: not before time, because barring Veturina squeaky-clean reputation or not as far as motive went he had to be up there with the prime suspects. Clarus had given me both of his addresses, the office and the house, though practically speaking there wasn’t much difference: he might not actually live over the shop, but his house was just around the corner.

Office first, as being more likely. Also, Scopas had mentioned a clerk — what was his name? Fuscus — who might be able to fill in a few of the obvious blanks.

The office was on the main street leading off the town square, a smart-looking property with a plastered front, a marble-pillared porch and a smart-looking (but not plastered) young door-slave sitting on the steps outside. He stood up as I came over.

‘Good morning, sir.’

‘Morning.’ I went up the steps and he opened the door for me. ‘Quintus Acceius in?’

‘I’m afraid not. His clerk’s here, though. He’ll look after you.’

‘Fine. Thanks, pal.’ I went inside. Impressive: the entrance lobby had a good abstract mosaic on the floor, pastel-blue walls with a bowl-of-fruit fresco and an alcove with a bronze Mercury. Tasteful without being showy; and if the quality of the decor went for anything the firm wasn’t doing too badly.