David Wishart - In at the Death

‘No, that’s okay.’ With that leg, climbing five flights of stairs wouldn’t be easy. ‘I’ll drop them back down on the way out.’

‘It’s the door on the left.’ He handed the bunch over. ‘Take your time.’

I went up to the sixth. There were two flats opposite each other either side of the landing, and on an impulse I knocked a couple of times at the other door. No answer. Well, like I say that was par for the course: people in tenements are out most of the day, and any top-floor flat will be as basic as you get, with no incentive for staying in.

Once inside the flat itself I opened the shutters to let in the light: tenement windows, especially those on the upper floors, are just holes in the wall, and with the weather we’d been getting Caepio had kept them closed. I’d expected the place to be bare, but there were three or four stools and the framework of a bed, with no mattress. Also, although it smelt stale and unused, it was dry, fairly clean and even clear of dust. Good sign: empty flats, particularly the no-frills variety right under the tiles, tend to get the go-by where everyday maintenance is concerned. Caepio was obviously the conscientious type.

I looked through the window and down. A long way down: six storeys seem more when you’re at the top of them. The street below was crowded — it’d been a miracle that Papinius hadn’t taken an innocent pedestrian or two with him when he jumped — but all I could see was the tops of heads and my friend the fruit-seller’s stall on the opposite pavement. Nothing at eye-level, not for at least a block either side. Good view of the Aventine, if you like that sort of thing. Window-sill chest high, but he could’ve clambered up easy, or used the stool immediately beneath the ledge to stand on. He’d’ve had to have climbed, certainly: accident wasn’t an option here.

I leaned out and shouted. Two or three heads swivelled upwards briefly.

It all checked; the physical side of things, anyway. I poked around a bit in the room, but there was nothing to see that I wouldn’t have expected, and even the bloody Thirteenth District Watch wouldn’t’ve missed something as obvious as a suicide note that’d got itself mislaid in one of the corners. Bugger. That was that, then.

I took a last look from the window down towards the pavement, feeling my balls shrink: me, if I had to kill myself, I’d do it clean by slitting my wrists in the bath or putting a sword to my ribs and falling on it. Or maybe just lighting a charcoal brazier and shutting all the windows. I sure as hell wouldn’t jump from a sixth-floor window in a strange building head-first onto a crowded street. Still, I wasn’t Papinius. And he had taken the key. That last I was sure of: Caepio hadn’t been lying, I’d bet my last copper penny there, which meant that it was suicide after all, carefully planned and premeditated.

The only question left to answer was the one I’d started with: why?

I dropped the keys off with Caepio and went down to collect Placida.Zilch. The banister-holding bracket had been torn clear of the wall, and there was a distinct absence of dog. Which meant…

Oh, hell!

Here we went again. I cleared the tenement entrance at a run. Too late, miles too late; I could tell that straight away from the crowd of interested bystanders round the butcher’s.

Shit! She’d planned it! She had bloody planned it! I’d kill the brute!

I pushed my way through. Placida was up on the counter gulping down the last of the dangling pork links. The butcher himself was standing well clear, cleaver in hand.

Happy, smiling and contented were three things he wasn’t.

‘That your dog, friend?’ he said.

‘Uh…yeah. In a manner of speaking.’

‘Fuck that,’ he spat. ‘You owe me for’ — he counted off on his fingers — ‘two pounds of tripe, six chops, three pork knuckles, an ox liver and a bowl of dripping. Plus the sausages, of course.’

‘What? Nothing can eat — !’

‘I got witnesses.’

I glanced round. Several of the punters nodded. They were all looking impressed as hell. One old guy with no teeth and a face like a pickled walnut was making a trembling sign against the evil eye.

I sighed and reached for my purse. This was getting monotonous. Maybe we should give the brute an allowance and bill Sestia bloody Calvina when she finally rolled in from Veii.

‘You want to look after her better.’ The butcher had his hand out. ‘Me, I’ve always said there’s no problem dogs, just problem owners.’

‘Very profound, pal.’ I tipped half of the purse’s contents into his palm. ‘Have a really, really nice day. Come on, Placida.’

I pulled on the dangling lead. She came down, grinning.

‘Urp.’

‘Yeah, I’m not surprised.’ Well, it might slow her down a bit, at least. It was a long drag from the Aventine to Julian Square, and that was our next stop to see the money-lender Vestorius.

Lugging the bloated Placida behind me, I took the hike back to the centre and Julian Square. Bankers and money-lenders tend to keep fairly self-indulgent hours, but the sun was half way through the morning now and the chances were that if Vestorius was anywhere to be got then I’d get the bastard now.

Sure enough, the Shark was In: a tall, spare, elderly North Italian with a sharp well-starched mantle, a wispy goatee beard and an air that left him somewhere between a professor of rhetoric and any kid’s ideal of a cuddly grandpa. When I shoved my head round the door of his booth — really, a small room done up like an office — he was slaving over a hot abacus with added ledgers.

‘Publius Vestorius?’ I said.

‘That’s right.’ I got the full hundred-candelabra smile as he took in the purple stripe on my mantle. Nice teeth, but then loan-sharks, like professional politicians, tend to look after them if they can. A good smile is one of these bastards’ most important assets. ‘Come in, sir.’

‘You mind if I bring my dog with me? Only if I leave her tied up outside she’s liable to get bored and eat people.’

The smile wavered. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Joke. In you come, Placida.’ I moved aside to let her past, and the smile disappeared altogether. ‘Don’t worry, pal, she’s got a lovely nature.’

‘Ah…yes.’ He rallied visibly. ‘Fine animal. Very fine. Do have a seat. You’ll find that chair quite comfortable.’

Yeah, I’d bet it was, because the whole room was designed to put the customer at his ease and keep him there while he got rooked. The chair was padded with crimson wool-stuffed cushions. I sat, and sank a good two inches before I stopped. ‘The name’s Corvinus,’ I said. ‘Valerius Corvinus. Settle, Placida.’

Amazingly, she did, albeit with a single prolonged belch. I wondered what the odds were in favour of her crapping on the guy’s fancy polished wooden floor. Pretty good, I’d imagine, considering how much she’d eaten and her total lack of the social graces. Not that I’d mind, myself. Quite the reverse.

‘I’m delighted to meet you.’ Vestorius moved the abacus aside. ‘Such unpleasant weather this time of year, isn’t it? Still, we can’t complain, we had quite a moderate summer. Some wine?’

‘Yeah. Yeah, sure.’ Me, I never pass up a free cup of wine, and if the bugger wanted to think I was a punter that was his affair.

There was a slave hovering. Vestorius snapped his fingers and the guy oozed across to the wine-jug and cups on the small table to one side of his desk. ‘Now,’ he said, and the smile was back in spades, ‘how exactly can I be of help? Presumably you need a loan. I can assure you here and now that there will be no difficulties on that score.’

I waited until the slave had handed me the cup and I’d taken a sip: Alban, and top-of-the-range Alban as well. Profit margins must be pretty generous in the loan-shark market. As if I didn’t know.