David Wishart - Illegally Dead

‘No. I’ve no more questions.’

‘Good. Then I won’t keep you any longer.’ He hesitated. Then he said, formally: ‘Thank you for coming, Valerius Corvinus. Thank you for everything.’

I left him sitting. The marble bust’s eyes were on me all the way to the door. I still felt them on my back as I closed it behind me.

When I got home after my long talk with Libanius Perilla and the youngsters were already in the dining room and the skivvies were serving the starters.

‘Marcus, why on earth didn’t you send word if you were intending to — ?’ Perilla began. Then she must’ve noticed the look on my face, because her voice changed and she said simply: ‘What’s happened?’

I set the welcome-home cupful of wine down on the table and stretched out on my usual couch.‘Quintus Acceius is the murderer. By now he’ll be dead. Him and his wife both.’

All three of them stared at me, Marilla with a stuffed olive half way to her lips.

‘What?’ Perilla said.

I told them the whole boiling. I didn’t feel much better by the end of it, either. He’d thanked me; the poor bugger had actually thanked me, like I’d done him a favour.

‘It’s not your fault, Corvinus,’ Clarus said.

‘No.’ I sighed and took a swallow of the wine. ‘He’d’ve killed himself anyway, eventually, even if Hostilius’s murder had never come to light.’

‘It would’ve done, or it might’ve, even if you hadn’t got involved. Veturina knew who was responsible, right from the start. And Castor. Didn’t they?’

I shot him a quick look. I hadn’t been going to let that aspect of things out, not even to Perilla: it was too dirty. He was no fool, young Clarus: Marilla was lucky. If you could call it luck. ‘Uh-huh,’ I said. ‘At least, I think so. For Veturina not to know, she’d’ve had to’ve stopped listening, that day of the conversation between Acceius and her husband. And she would’ve told Castor. I don’t think she could’ve kept any secrets from him.’

‘So why didn’t she say?’ Perilla was frowning. ‘After all, he was her husband.’

‘Clarus?’ I took another slug of wine and topped up the cup from the jug. This was an evening I didn’t intend to stay sober.

‘She’d been planning to kill him herself,’ Clarus said. ‘A mercy killing. Acceius beat her to it, and whatever his motives were she couldn’t bring herself to betray him. It could’ve been her; thanks to him, it wasn’t.’

I nodded. ‘Yeah. That about sums it up. Also…well, I’d guess she thought it could’ve been Castor, too. Although personally I think he preferred things the way they were. The chances are, a month down the line Acceius would’ve found himself being blackmailed; that is, if Castor hadn’t already begun putting the bite on, which he may well have done because Acceius wouldn’t’ve told me. And I doubt that Acceius would’ve stiffed him for it as he deserved, even if he’d lived, because the guy had had enough of killing. Bugger!’ I slammed the cup down and the wine spilled. ‘Why is it always the wrong person who dies?’

‘Gently, Marcus,’ Perilla said. ‘Besides, it isn’t.’

‘I could’ve done without Castor,’ I said. ‘If there’s anyone who deserves a place in a fucking urn just by existing it’s that bastard.’

‘It’s over. Leave it. Change the subject.’

Yeah, well; she was right as usual. Not that that was any comfort. I refilled the cup and sank another quarter pint as the skivvies came in with the main courses. Meton had done us proud again. Which reminded me. ‘So how did your meeting with Renia go, lady?’ I said. ‘You manage to see her?’

‘Mmm. Chicken with chives and hazelnuts,’ Marilla said brightly. ‘Corvinus, you must have some of this. Clarus, pass Corvinus the — ’

‘Yes, I did, Marcus. As a matter of fact.’

Uh-oh. There weren’t any spiders to rush for cover, but I’d bet if there had been the little buggers would’ve been swinging on their webs as fast as their eight legs could carry them, because the atmosphere had just turned glacial. ‘Ah…good,’ I said. ‘Good.’

‘“Good” is not a term I’d use.’ Perilla picked up her spoon. ‘Not even close. I have never, ever been so embarrassed in the entire course of my life.’

‘I forgot to check on Corydon,’ Marilla said, sliding off the couch like it was greased. ‘Come on, Clarus.’

They disappeared. Shit; for the Princess to leave the table half way through a meal this had to be bad. ‘She, uh, denied it?’ I said. ‘Having an affair with Meton?’

‘Renia, Marcus, is a perfectly respectable married woman who enjoys the complete and fully-justified confidence of her doting husband and would not countenance having an affair with anyone, let alone a paunchy, middle-aged slave with all the allure and sexual charms of a warthog.’ Perilla dumped a serving of carrots in cumin savagely onto her plate. ‘Her words, not mine, in case you’re wondering. Personally, I think the warthog comparison is overgenerous.’

‘But — ’

‘This when she saw that I was making a serious accusation, mind. Her first reaction to the idea, after I’d introduced myself and told her why I was there, was uncontrollable laughter involving a certain amount of rib-hugging. The stage that followed it consisted of a threat to call her husband’s slaves and have me thrown out on my ear.’

‘But — ’

‘Fortunately, she was and is by nature a very nice girl indeed, with a lively sense of humour and of the ridiculous. After I had grovellingly apologised’ — I winced; oh, hell! — ‘we got quite chatty and discussed the misunderstanding over a cake or two and a cup of honey wine. So’ — she laid down her spoon with a snap — ‘that is that little mystery cleared up. And, Marcus Valerius Messalla Corvinus, if you ever, ever again put me into a situation like that I will kill you in the slowest, most painful way I can possibly devise. And I have an extremely good imagination.’

‘But I saw them! Marilla and Clarus saw them! Meton was all over the woman! And what about the way he was fucking dressed? Meton never wears — ’

‘Marcus!’

Oh, bugger. A chip of plaster from the ceiling fell onto the table. I clammed up, fast.

‘Do you want me to explain or don’t you?’

The hard ones first. Ah, well; best get it over with. I took another belt of the Alban as an anaesthetiser. ‘Yeah, okay, lady,’ I said. ‘You’ve got the floor. Go ahead, tell me.’

She did.

Oh, bugger!

We took the carriage into town the next day, Perilla and I, about two hours shy of lunchtime. I got Lysias to park it just short of the market square — no point in giving the duplicitous bastard advance warning — and we walked the rest of the way to Pontius’s. We’d timed it well: they’d all be inside already.

I led the way up the outside stair to the first floor and opened the door at the top. Perilla and I slipped inside.

The place was packed full of women. At least, there was one man there, apart from the major attraction at the front of the room, and he was standing two or three yards away. I edged over, grabbed his arm and twisted it up his back. He squealed, and a plump woman sitting on the bench immediately in front of him turned round and said: ‘Ssssh!’

‘Sorry, lady,’ I whispered. ‘Private business.’ Then, in his ear: ‘Gabba, you bastard! You set this up, didn’t you?’

‘Corvinus? What the hell are — ?’ Then he saw Perilla, and swallowed. Yeah, well, I knew the feeling.

‘How much are you getting?’ I said.

‘Just the usual agent’s fee, consul. Ten per cent of the gate. But it’s a public service. You heard old Titus Luscius downstairs the other day, his wife feeds him on beans four days out of five, and the fifth it’s chitterlings. I just thought — ’