David Wishart: In at the Death

‘No one at the office, anyway,’ he said. ‘Or not unless he volunteered the information himself. That’s not how we work it.’

‘So how do you work it?’

‘We’ve each got our own list, and we take it how we want, when we want. Oh, sure, if Sextus was interviewing Caepio then he’d’ve arranged the meeting with him in advance. Naturally he would. But only he and Caepio would know.’

‘Unless Caepio himself told the owner.’

‘Yes. Yes, that’s true. But no one else would be involved.’

I topped up both our cups. ‘What about the actual, uh, death. You know anything about that?’

He swallowed: a sensitive soul, Marcus Atratinus, despite the haircut and the beard. ‘No. Nothing at all. Barring the broad details of where, when and how.’

‘Were you expecting it at all?’

‘No!’ That came out so short and sharp that I jumped. I noticed a few heads turn, and Placida shifted against my foot and growled. Atratinus smiled; or almost did. ‘I’m sorry, Corvinus,’ he said. ‘But no, I wasn’t expecting it. Why should I? I saw Sextus the morning of the day it happened. We talked about the party that evening, at Vettia Gemella’s — she’s my fiancee, it was her birthday. He was looking forward to it.’

‘Was he bringing Cluvia?’

‘No, actually, he wasn’t.’

‘Any reason?’

‘She wasn’t well. Or so he said.’

Uh-huh. ‘So when did you find out? That he’d killed himself, I mean?’

‘The next day. It was all over the office.’ He looked at his hands. ‘I still can’t believe it.’

‘That he’s dead? Or that he killed himself?’

He looked me straight in the eyes. ‘Both,’ he said.

Yeah, well, I’d got a lot here to think about, but the kid had done okay and I couldn’t complain…

Down at my feet there was a hssss, and a faint malodorous tendril of something that definitely wasn’t scent drifted up from floor-level. Oh, bugger. Speaking of complaints, I reckoned we were about due a whole roomful any second now. Time to be going; past time.

I stood up. ‘Head for the door, pal. Quick as you can.’

‘What?’ Atratinus was staring. Placida’s contribution to the proceedings obviously hadn’t reached him yet, but heads at the table behind me had begun to turn. It was all a question, as it were, of the prevailing wind…

‘Trust me,’ I said, lugging Placida to her feet.

A stool at my back shifted. Someone muttered: ‘Jupiter bloody hell!’

I turned. ‘Ah…sorry, pal. It’s the dog.’ Well, at least I’d already paid the bill, and Atratinus could always come back in after we’d gone. If I hadn’t got the poor bastard barred for life, that was. Upmarket chichi places are pretty sensitive about these things.

I dragged the offending brute towards the exit before she could reach second-strike mode.

Once we were out in the open air I turned to Atratinus. ‘Thanks, pal. You’ve been very helpful.’

‘Don’t mention it.’ He was still looking fazed. ‘Any time.’

I took a good grip on the leash in case of ballistic cats and…

‘Uh…Corvinus?’

I looked back. ‘Yeah?’

‘We talked about Sextus’s gambling debts. He, uh, took out a loan from a money-lender to clear them. Quite a big one, I think. The man’s name was Vestorius, Publius Vestorius. He has an office in Julian Square.’

I nodded; he hadn’t been going to tell me that — dealings with money-lenders were another definite no-go subject where lad-about-town solidarity was concerned — but he’d obviously thought better of it. A nice kid, Atratinus. Sextus Papinius had been lucky with one of his friends, anyway.

‘Thanks, pal,’ I said. ‘Much appreciated.’

The rain that had been threatening all day — October’s always a very unsettled month — had started down in earnest. I threw the hood of my cloak over my head and let Placida pull me back along Iugarius towards Saturn’s temple. Julian Square’s just off Market Square itself, and I was going there in any case to lodge Natalis’s draft with my banker. I might as well drop in on this Vestorius now, and get it over with.

Shit; a money-lender, eh? And ‘quite a big’ loan. That gave the affair a pretty ominous slant, as if it hadn’t already had one: you don’t put yourself in these guys’ hands, not if you’re a nineteen-year-old kid on a slim allowance, because the interest will be crippling, they collect on the nail every month or add what’s missing to the principal, and that’s a vicious spiral that only ever gets worse.

If I wanted a reason for young Papinius’s suicide, trying to service a sizeable loan from a money-lender would provide it in spades. Bugger. I felt depressed as hell. It looked as though Minicius Natalis wasn’t going to have to wait all that long for an answer to his question after all.

I was out of luck: when I found it, Vestorius’s office was closed. Too early to shut up shop for the afternoon, so this looked bad. Damn. I shoved my head round the door of the silversmith’s next booth along where a little bald-headed guy was doing delicate things to a bracelet with a pair of pliers.

‘Excuse me, pal,’ I said.

The guy glanced up. When he saw Placida the pliers slipped and he winced.

‘Uh…I was looking for Publius Vestorius,’ I said.

He was staring at the dog and sucking the back of his hand where the pliers had caught him. ‘Then you’ve just missed him. He left half an hour ago.’

Bugger. ‘You happen to know when he’ll be back?’

‘Not today. He said he had business in Ostia. You could try again tomorrow, but I can’t guarantee it.’ He was still staring. ‘What is that thing?’

‘Gallic boarhound.’ Shakeshakeshake. Splattersplattersplatter. ‘Ah…sorry, friend. She forgets herself sometimes.’

‘That so, now?’ He reached for a piece of rag and wiped himself off, glaring. I beat a hasty retreat.

Hell. Well, for what it was worth — not a lot, to tell the truth — I’d got plenty to be going on with, and Vestorius, like Balbus at the aediles’ office, could wait for another time. In any case, the rain had slackened off and I might just make it back to the Caelian before Jupiter decided on another cloudburst. I called in at my banker’s to lodge Natalis’s draft, feeling guilty as hell in the process — the case, if you can call it that, was practically stitched up already, and it had been money for jam — and then headed for home.

Perilla was in her study indexing her book collection, and the place looked like the Pollio library on a bad hair day. Me, I can’t see the point in filling your study up with books — these things only sit there sneering at you — but the lady has some queer ideas about what constitutes comfort and entertainment. Ah, well. It takes all sorts.

‘Oh, hello, Marcus,’ she said, turning round. ‘You’re back. Where’s Placida?’

‘In the garden moored to the fountain. Unless she’s half way to Ostia dragging it behind her.’

‘Did you have a nice walk?’

I threw myself onto the couch. ‘Lady, watch my lips. That is the last time I take that fucking brute anywhere.’

‘Nonsense, dear.’ She kissed me, tasting of ink and gum. ‘She just needs a little getting used to, that’s all.’

‘Believe it.’ I took a slug of the wine Bathyllus had given me.

She finished tying a tag to a book’s roller, made a note on the sheet of paper on the desk, and slipped the book itself into a cubby. ‘So. How’s the case coming? Do you know yet why Papinius killed himself?’

‘No. But I’d guess the usual. Money, or lack of it, rather. Gambling debts. He’d got himself mixed up with Mucius Soranus.’