David Wishart - Illegally Dead

‘But he would’ve had access to the medicine bottle?’

‘Naturally he would, in theory at least. As would any of the household. I told you, it wasn’t locked away. Why would Castor want to kill his brother-in-law?’

I shrugged. ‘I’m not saying he did. How could I? But if you and Marcia are right in your assessment of Veturina then she didn’t, either. On the other hand, maybe one of them did, or both of them together, because they both had the opportunity. We’re only playing empty possibilities at this stage, pal. Which brings me to the point. What do I do now?’

Hyperion frowned. ‘But surely — ’

‘Find out who did it, of course,’ Marilla said. ‘I thought that was obvious.’

‘Princess,’ I said. ‘Just think for a moment, will you? As far as everyone’s concerned, including — overtly, at least — his doctor, the man’s death was completely natural, end of story. I’ve no official standing, I can’t even ask for official standing because the minute I raise the possibility of murder with the authorities they’ll pull in his slaves. So I can’t turn up on doorsteps asking embarrassing questions because the best I could hope for would be a raised eyebrow and the bum’s rush. And unless I can do that we’re stymied. Okay?’

‘Ah,’ Hyperion said.

‘Ah is exactly right.’

‘Just a moment.’ Marcia cleared her throat. ‘I think you may perhaps be being a little overpessimistic here.’

I turned to face her. ‘Is that so, now?’ I said.

She stiffened. ‘Yes, it certainly is so,’ she said. ‘And, Marcus Valerius Corvinus, don’t you dare use that tone with me.’

Oh, shit. I glanced at Perilla. She was grinning. Marilla sniggered. ‘Uh…yeah. Well. I’m sorry, it’s just that — ’

‘I’m glad to say I disagree with Hyperion on one important point. The Castrimoenian authorities are not ogres, and although I have little time normally for modern so-called morality it is sometimes superior to the variety which I was brought up with.’ I kept my lips tightly shut: Jupiter! Coming from Marcia an admission like that was up there with the flying pigs! ‘Besides, slaves are valuable commodities not to be wasted needlessly. You remember Quintus Libanius, of course?’

‘Yeah.’ Head of the Castrimoenian senate, and the only bearded town magistrate north of the Bay of Naples. ‘Yeah, I remember Libanius.’

‘He’s not an unreasonable man, and you did impress him over that unfortunate business two years ago. I’m sure that if he were properly approached and talked to in advance he might be prepared to show a little flexibility.’

‘Well, that’s great. In that case maybe I could — ’

She fixed me with a freezing stare, and I clammed up.

‘I meant by me, naturally,’ she said.

I winced. He wasn’t a bad guy, Fuzz-face Libanius, as magistrates go, and I felt sorry for him in prospect: properly approached and talked to was three-line-whip standard in Aunt Marcia’s lexicon. Knowing the old girl’s powers of coercion, my bet was that by the time she’d finished with him the poor bugger would agree to anything short of selling Latium to the Parthians. Not that I was complaining, mind.

‘Ah…fair enough,’ I said.

‘Good, I’m delighted that you agree. I’ll send a slave. In the meantime’ — she rearranged a fold of her impeccably-draped mantle — ‘I for one have had quite enough of murder for one afternoon, especially just before dinner. Change the subject. How is that little brat Gaius shaping up as emperor?’

Marcia’s slave came back while we were half way through the dessert with the news that Libanius would drop by mid to late afternoon the next day.

We were in business. Maybe.

I was down to breakfast late next morning: at Marcia’s, if the weather’s good, as it was that day, we always have it outside on the terrace looking towards Mount Alba. Me, I’m not a breakfast person normally, unlike Perilla, who can really shift it, or the Princess, who’s been known to eat five two-egg omelettes at a sitting, but the air in the Alban hills gives you an appetite, especially when the breakfast table’s out of doors. Marilla was ensconced already, shovelling in rolls and honey like there was no tomorrow while Bathyllus hovered with the fruit juice.

‘Morning, Corvinus,’ she said. ‘Did you sleep well?’

‘Like a brick,’ I said. ‘Or whatever. Bread and honey’s fine, Bathyllus, but wheel out a cup of the Caecuban, okay?’

‘Very well, sir.’ Impeccable butlerese: when we’re at Aunt Marcia’s, the little guy is always on his best behaviour. Aunt Marcia has tone, and Bathyllus is the snob’s snob. ‘I could ask Meton to make you an omelette, if you’d prefer.’

‘No, that’s okay.’ I reached for the rolls. Meton the chef and Alexis, technically our gardener, were the other two members of the Corvinus household we always brought with us; Meton because Marcia’s own chef, like Laertes the major-domo, was well past his sell-by date and you took your life in your hands with the canapes and Alexis because he was far and away the smartest cookie on our staff and a good set of brains was never wasted. Oh, and Lysias the coachman, but since his interests extended to horses and chasing the local bits of skirt, total, we barely saw him. ‘Got any plans for today, Princess?’

‘Clarus should be over any minute. We were hoping that we might, ah — ’ She stopped dead.

‘Might ah what?’

She grinned. ‘I’ve never been involved in a murder enquiry. At least, not properly. Nor has Clarus.’

‘And?’

‘So we were hoping that we might, ah, tag along. Sort of. If that’s okay.’

Hell. I set down the roll I’d taken from the basket. ‘Now listen, Marilla — ’

‘Oh, good. That’s marvellous. Here’s Clarus now.’ She waved. ‘Clarus! Over here! We haven’t finished breakfast.’

‘Marilla, watch my lips,’ I said. ‘You are not going to — ’

‘Good morning, sir. Did you sleep well?’

‘Morning, Clarus. I was just telling Marilla that there’s no way that — ’

‘I thought before Quintus Libanius arrives we could show you where the Hostilius house is. Then we could — ’

Gods! ‘Clarus, pal,’ I said. ‘Shut up. Please.’ He did. ‘Now. I was just telling this fugitive from a maenad pediment that you’re not getting involved in this. Neither of you, no way, never, nohow. Clear?’

‘But Perilla said we could,’ Marilla said.

I goggled. ‘She did what?’

‘Of course I did.’ I whipped round. The lady was coming out through the portico in her dressing-gown, which considering I’d left her flat out and dead to the world upstairs practically put her in the Bathyllus bracket for omnipresence. ‘After all, dear, it’s only fair. They started it and they’ve got a vested interest. Besides’ — she sat down and helped herself to a roll — ‘the suggestion came from Aunt Marcia. If you’ve any objections then you can take them up with her.Yes, thank you, Bathyllus, I will have a cup of fruit juice.’

I stared. Bugger! Double bugger! It was a conspiracy! ‘Now look here, lady — ’

‘You look, Marcus. How old were you when you forced the empress Livia to bring my stepfather’s ashes back from Tomi?’

Shit. ‘Uh…’

‘You were twenty-one. Which is only a year more than Clarus is now, and Marilla is only thirteen months younger than him.’ She broke the roll and reached for the honey. ‘Oh, Bathyllus, ask Meton if he’d make me a cheese omelette, would you? Clarus, have you eaten?’

Clarus nodded. ‘Yes, thanks,’ he said, and turned back to me. ‘We don’t expect you to carry us with you everywhere like useless baggage, Corvinus. It wouldn’t be practical, and it wouldn’t be sensible. But my father feels responsible for Hostilius’s death, and just staying out on the sidelines doing nothing doesn’t seem right, somehow. Can you understand that?’