David Wishart - Illegally Dead

I straightened. ‘You think someone’s watching you?’

‘Yes. I have done since the day of the attack. Which’ — he grinned — ‘I’m perfectly ready to admit need have no sinister implications at all. This is not Rome. In Castrimoenium we don’t expect to be attacked in the street, in broad daylight, by knife-wielding thugs, and the incident shook me, perhaps to the extent that it’s made me imagine things. As I say, I have no proof, none at all, and just talking about it embarrasses me. But…if you put me on oath then I’d have to say yes, I do think someone is watching me. And although it is probably sheer imagination, because I haven’t the slightest idea who would bother or why, I thought I should at least mention it. Now. That’s said, and we can both forget that I spoke. Is there anything else I can help you with?’

‘Uh…yeah.’ My brain was buzzing. ‘Castor. Your partner’s brother-in-law. I understand he and Hostilius had a…call it a quarrel at your office. Again the day before Hostilius’s death. You know what that could’ve been about?’

‘You’ve talked to Fuscus?’

‘Yeah. Yes, of course.’

‘Then you’ll have all the information that I have myself, since Fuscus was my only source. No, Corvinus; apart from saying that Lucius had taken an irrational dislike to Castor and wanted him dismissed — again I’m sure you knew this — I can’t provide any specific reason for the quarrel at all, nor even guarantee that there was one. Castor, of course, I haven’t seen since, and nor has anyone else to my knowledge.’

‘You’ve no idea where he might have gone?’

‘None.’

Well, that about covered things for the present. I got up. ‘Thanks for talking to me, pal. It’s been very useful.’

He stood too. ‘My pleasure, Corvinus. Any time.’

‘Ah…one last question, before I go. Quite a personal one, if you don’t mind.’

‘Carry on.’

‘Were either of you thinking of terminating the partnership at all? Would it have been possible, uh, financially, I mean?’

He nodded. ‘Yes. I was. Or rather, I was sorely tempted to, although I doubt very much if I’d’ve carried the intention through in practice. As for your second question, the answer is also yes, as far as I was concerned. Lucius was the senior partner in terms of age and the history of the firm, certainly, but…well, the balance had shifted completely over the years, even before he fell ill. Had the partnership been dissolved — by him or by me — he would have suffered financially and in every other way far more than I would.’ A smile. ‘I can give you a note for my banker, if you like, and you can discuss the matter in confidence with him.’

‘Uh-uh. That won’t be necessary,’ I said. ‘And I’m sorry I asked the question.’

‘Oh, don’t be sorry, no umbrage taken. I’d be a poor excuse for a lawyer myself if I didn’t recognise my own value as a suspect, and a financial motive for murder would be one of the more obvious ones.’ I said nothing. ‘Let me just add one thing, though, Corvinus, in my own defence. Lucius and I were not only partners but close friends for over twenty years, and I still regard his wife as such. Very much so. Dissolving the partnership, especially since…well, in the natural course of things it would end of itself in two or three years at most would have been a poor return for these years of friendship and a terrible blow to Veturina. I could not and would not have done it, whatever the provocation. You understand me?’

‘Yeah. Yeah, I understand.’

‘Then I wish you good luck in your investigations. Don’t hesitate to call again if you have further questions, or I can help in any way.’ He held out his hand.

We shook, and I left.

Okay; it was past noon and I reckoned I’d earned myself a cup of wine and some cheese and olives at Pontius’s. Especially if I could manage to combine them with a little gossip from Gabba. First, though, I went in the other direction from the town square, to the undertaker’s shop where Sextus the door-slave had said they’d taken the corpse of the guy who’d attacked Hostilius.

It was the usual setup you’d get in any small town: a frontage with a tasteful urn tastefully draped and, inside, a sombre-looking guy in a sharp mantle hovering attentively without seeming to be touting for custom. Not that funeral establishments get all that many browsers, mind.

‘You Trophius, pal?’ I said.

I could see him give me the quick once-over: no mourning-mantle, reasonably freshly-shaven, fringe unclipped. The sombreness slackened off a distinct notch. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said.

‘Marcus Valerius Corvinus. I’m, ah — ’

‘Looking into the death of Lucius Hostilius on behalf of the senate, sir,’ he said. ‘Yes, I know.’

Well, that saved us a bit of time. And no doubt most of Castrimoenium did, by now. ‘The corpse from that incident up the street fourteen days back. It was brought here, I understand.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Care to describe the guy to me? Is that possible?’

‘I never forget a face, sir, although in this instance, ha ha, there was no question of taking a death mask.’ He looked at me. ‘I’m sorry, sir. Just my little joke.’

Yeah. Right. ‘The description, pal?’

‘Looked in his sixties, at least, but that could just’ve been the condition he was in, he could’ve been years younger. Hair long, completely grey, matted with grease and worse. Beard ditto, fingernails like talons. Most of his teeth missing, nothing to him, skin and bone practically. No belt-pouch, no rings, necklets or bangles, nothing but the knife. Oh, and he’d shackle marks on his wrists and ankles.’

‘Shackle marks?’

‘That’s right, sir. Not recent, the abrasions’d healed, but he’d worn them for a long time in my opinion. A very long time, years, certainly. His wrists and ankles were one big scar.’

Shit; well, that fitted with Acceius’s theory that the guy had been involved with the firm, anyway, on the receiving end. Chained wrists and ankles meant the galleys; or the mines, maybe, although it came to the same thing. Whichever it was, he’d have to be tough: if you lived longer than a few months in either you could count yourself lucky, and as for escaping…well, it was possible, sure, but the chances were in the flying pigs league. Certainly it’d explain his condition, his state of mind and his attempt on Hostilius: with obvious shackle marks on his wrists and ankles most people would think a lot more than twice before they gave him a job or a handout because sheltering a runaway slave or an escaped criminal is a serious offence, and who’d take the risk? And if Hostilius — or he and his partner — had been responsible for putting the marks there then it was no surprise he’d want to get even. The question was, had the meeting been accidental or had it been deliberate? And who the hell was the guy himself? Not that I’d much hope of finding the answer to that last one, mind.

The undertaker was looking at me. ‘That all I can help you with, sir?’ he said.

‘Uh, yeah. Yeah, thanks, friend.’ I turned away. ‘Oh…what happened to the body? No one claimed it, I assume.’

He laughed. ‘Oh, no, sir. We kept him a couple of days, just on the off-chance, but no such luck. The lads took him to the cemetery out beyond the gates and burned him with some scrap timber we had lying in the yard. Got most of him, too, before the wood ran out.’

Uh-huh. Not a bad man, this Trophius. At least he’d given the guy a funeral of sorts where he could’ve just dumped him with the token sprinkling of earth for the local wild-life to dispose of. Considering that he had no hope of any return, and the man had been practically a murderer, that was pretty generous. ‘Well, thanks again,’ I said. ‘I’ll be — ’