David Wishart - Food for the Fishes

Sweet gods alive! ‘Whereabouts was he killed?’

‘At home, sir. Or outside in the grounds, rather. I don’t know for certain.’

‘Ah…right,’ I said. My brain was whirling. ‘Right. Thanks for telling me, friend. Oh, incidentally. Just a small question. Was your master at home two nights ago?’

I’d left it casual intentionally, and the door-slave answered without thinking. ‘No, sir. He was out all evening.’

‘You know where?’

You could almost see the brain kick into gear: two nights ago was when Chlorus had been killed, and peaching on the master is not a good career move in bought-help circles. The guy’s expression went suddenly blank. ‘No, sir,’ he said.

I took a silver piece out of my purse. ‘You sure?’

He was staring straight ahead. ‘Yes, sir. I’m afraid I can’t help you.’

Yeah, well, it’d been worth a try. And at least I knew now for certain that Nerva had lied to Florus about staying in with a head-cold the night of Chlorus’s murder. That made twice, by my counting, and twice was two too many. I flipped the silver piece at the slave and he caught it neatly. ‘Never mind, sunshine,’ I said. ‘Thanks again anyway.’

So; what now? Well, that was obvious. Forget Nerva for the time being. I’d have to go over to Tattius’s place, pdq.

Bugger! What a mess!

‘One of the slaves found him by the little grotto of Pan at the far edge of the grounds,’ Penelope said.

We were in the room we’d been in last time, the lady’s sitting-room. Penelope was wearing mourning; triple mourning, I supposed it would be now, for a father, a brother and a husband. Knowing what she’d thought of Tattius — and why — I hadn’t expected her to be too cut up about his death, but her face was flushed and she’d obviously been crying. Yeah, well, I supposed it must have been a surprise.

Or had it?

‘The door-slave at your brother’s said he’d been stabbed.’

‘Yes. That’s right.’ She stood up suddenly. ‘Would you like to see him?’

That fazed me for a moment. ‘You mean the — he’s still here?’

‘In his room, yes. I had the slaves carry him there until the men from the undertakers arrive.’

‘Ah…yeah. Yeah, if it isn’t too much — ’

‘Follow me, then.’

It was a big house. We went upstairs to one of the bedrooms. Tattius was lying on the single bed covered to the chin with a sheet, the coins on his eyes. He looked smaller than he had in life, but then laid-out corpses often do, and what little I could see of him was older. I looked around for the usual pair of scissors and bowl to collect tufts of hair from the mourners, but they weren’t in evidence.

Penelope must’ve noticed, and guessed. ‘That won’t be necessary, Corvinus,’ she said briefly. She took hold of the top edge of the sheet and pulled it down.

Straight through the heart, like Nerva’s door-slave had said. He hadn’t bled much, or if he had a lot of the blood had been soaked up by his tunic and under-folds of the mantle before it could spread to the surface.

‘When did it happen?’ I said.

‘This morning, just after breakfast. He had it late, because he hadn’t got back from Neapolis until after midnight.’ Yeah; I remembered when I’d been here yesterday — Jupiter! Was it only yesterday? — she’d said he was away on business in Neapolis. ‘He usually takes a constitutional walk in the garden first thing. Does the rounds of the property. He had an appointment at noon in town and Stentor — you remember Stentor? He brought you your wine yesterday — went to find him, to remind him.’ He lips twisted. ‘Which he did. As far as the finding was concerned, anyway.’

‘Who was the appointment with?’ I asked. ‘Do you know?’

‘Yes. My brother Aulus.’

‘But Nerva was — ’ I stopped. Yeah, well, he could’ve forgotten, I supposed. There again, pigs might fly.

‘He was what?’

‘Nothing. It’s not important.’

‘You’ve seen enough?’

‘Yeah. Yeah, thanks.’

‘Then we’ll go downstairs again.’ She pulled back the sheet. For a moment, her hand paused. Then she whispered, under her breath, so low I could hardly hear: ‘The silly, silly man!’

She’d said it gently, almost lovingly.

We went back down. While we’d been away, someone — Stentor, presumably — had put a tray with a jug and two cups down on the side table. Penelope went across to it, poured and handed me a cup.

‘To Decimus’s memory,’ she said.

I drank. It was the same stuff as last time, with just as little water.

‘Sit down, Corvinus. Make yourself comfortable’ She settled in her chair and adjusted the folds of her mantle. ‘Decimus wasn’t a real husband — I won’t pretend that — but he was the only one I’ll ever have. Rest his bones, I’ve no quarrel with him now.’

‘Who do you think killed him?’ I said. ‘Do you know?’

She watched me carefully. Then she said simply: ‘No.’

‘Or why?’

‘Not that either.’

‘What was the appointment with your brother about?’

She smiled. ‘I’m sorry, I’m not being very helpful, am I? I really can’t say. The only reason I knew of it at all was because Stentor told me, after he’d found Decimus’s body. My husband, as you’ll realise, Corvinus, didn’t take me into his confidence very often. But I assume it was something to do with the business.’

‘Did that happen often? I mean, from what I’ve gathered your husband didn’t take much part in that side of things.’

‘No, he didn’t. But with Father’s death, and Titus’s, he was the only other surviving partner. I’d imagine they’d have some things to discuss, at least.’

‘Why did you call him silly?’

She looked blank. ‘What?’

‘Upstairs. Before we left. You called your husband a silly man.’

‘Did I?’ She frowned. ‘If you say so. Yes, well, he was silly, wasn’t he? Completely ineffectual. But I must have been talking to myself. I do that, sometimes, Corvinus, but I don’t always listen to what I’m saying.’

‘Is there anything you can tell me, lady?’ I said gently. ‘Anything at all?’

‘About Decimus’s death? I don’t think so, beyond what I’ve told you already. As I say, I wasn’t in his confidence.’

‘The business in Neapolis yesterday. What was that?’

‘Oh, nothing. Nothing relevant, I don’t think. Decimus goes there every so often to see his banker.’

‘Regularly? Or only now and again?’

‘About once every two months.’

‘And yesterday was about the right time?’

‘Yes. The last time was late May. Just after his birthday.’

‘He didn’t seem worried about anything at all? Preoccupied?’

‘Not that I noticed. But then I didn’t have the opportunity to notice.’

There was a knock on the door and the slave came in. Stentor.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you, madam,’ he said quietly, ‘but the undertakers’ men are here.’

‘Oh. Yes. Very well, Stentor.’ Penelope stood up. ‘I’m sorry, Corvinus, I’ll have to go and talk funeral matters. Was there anything else you’d like to ask before you go?’

‘No, I think that about covers it,’ I said. ‘Unless — ’

‘Unless what?’

‘I was wondering if I could get Stentor here to show me where it happened.’

‘If you like. There’s nothing to see, though. Stentor?’

‘Yes, madam. Of course.’

Like the rest of the place, the grounds — you couldn’t really use the word ‘garden’ — had obviously been left to fend for themselves, and outwith the bit immediately by the house that meant they’d run wild. I didn’t believe a gardener could’ve been here for months, and in places it was difficult just walking along the path.