David Wishart - Food for the Fishes

The grotto to Pan was in the wildest part, which I suppose was fair enough given the god’s preferences: a small cave, partly natural, partly artificial, with the god’s statue more than half hidden by greenery and the water that seemed to seep through the walls collecting in a shallow basin at the front, then led off through a stone channel into the undergrowth.

‘This is where I found him, sir,’ Stentor said. ‘Lying on the path with his face to the shrine.’

I looked around. No problem with cover here, that was for sure: you could’ve hidden a dozen men among the bushes and high weeds beside the grotto, and the amount of free-flowing water around made for thick foliage. We were a long way from the house, too; two hundred yards, easy, and most of that was trees, bushes and assorted green stuff. He could’ve yelled, and someone might’ve heard him, but I doubted if his killer had given him the chance. And if he’d known the person he wouldn’t think of yelling until it was too late.

‘Is there any other way in here?’ I said. ‘Barring the way we came?’

Stentor smiled. ‘Oh, yes, sir. Lots. The wall on this side of the grounds has been crumbling away for a long time, and we’ve woods behind us, as you see.’

‘Who knew your master took these morning walks?’

‘Everyone in the household, sir. Other people — well, it was no secret, and he’s had the habit for many years.’

‘And no one saw or heard anything? None of the other slaves?’

‘No, sir. That time of day we all have our jobs inside. And there isn’t really a gardening staff as such. The master isn’t — wasn’t — much concerned with the garden, except for keeping the part most visitors would see tidy. It wouldn’t’ve been likely that there would be anyone on this side of the house at all.’

Fair enough, and it answered most of my questions. I hadn’t just got Stentor out here, though, to show me the scene of the crime. ‘This appointment your master had with Aulus Nerva. You know anything about that?’

‘Only what the master told me, sir. That the gentleman was expecting him at noon at his house in town.’

‘Who made the appointment? Your master or Nerva?’

‘That I can’t tell you, sir. I only know it existed.’

‘Was he looking forward to it, do you think?’

Stentor shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I really know nothing about it more than I’ve said. The master asked me to remind him if he forgot, that was all.’

Only it wasn’t Tattius who had forgotten, was it? It was Nerva. According to his door-slave he’d gone off to Bauli. The question was, why?

‘Who do you think killed your master, Stentor?’

He opened his mouth to say something, but then he seemed to change his mind and he shook his head again instead. ‘I’ve no opinion, sir. And I’m my mistress’s slave, not my master’s. A wedding present.’

‘She…doesn’t go out walking herself in the morning, does she?’ I said. ‘Your mistress, I mean?’

He might be a slave, but he wasn’t thick. He delayed the answer long enough to show me just what he thought of the question and then said: ‘No, sir. The mistress isn’t a walker. And to my certain knowledge this morning she went straight to her room after breakfast, as she always does, and remained there until I brought her the news of the master’s death an hour or so later.’

‘They had breakfast together?’

‘Yes. They always do. And dinner, when the master’s at home. He’s always insisted on that. Whatever the other…separate arrangements.’

‘Fine, fine.’ Well, that just about covered it. I’d got all I was going to get, for what it was worth, and that wasn’t much. I reached into my purse, took out a couple of silver pieces and handed them over. ‘Thanks a lot, pal. You’ve been really helpful.’

‘You’re welcome, sir.’

What next? A place to think, and a half jug of wine to help me do it; apart from the quick swallow I’d managed in Penelope’s room I hadn’t had time for a drop all day.

Zethus’s.

One thing did occur to me, though. Stentor had said his mistress had gone straight to her room after breakfast, before Tattius had been killed, and she’d still been there an hour later, after he’d found the body. Which was fair enough, and it should’ve been conclusive, because I’d bet Stentor hadn’t told a lie from beginning to end.

The only flaw in the chain of logic, though, was that Penelope’s room was downstairs, facing the garden. The back garden, where — eventually — the grotto was, and where, according to Stentor none of the household slaves would be at that time of day, if ever.

And Penelope’s room had door-sized sliding shutter-windows.

I hadn’t been to Zethus’s for a couple of days, not since the punch-up with Philippus’s heavy. This time of day — late afternoon, by now — there was a fair smattering of regulars drinking round the bar, including the loud-mouthed Alcis and my pal Lucius who’d driven me to the doctor’s.

‘Hey, look what the cat’s dragged in,’ Alcis said. Original as ever.

‘How’s the rib, Corvinus?’ Lucius raised his winecup at me.

‘Not bad.’ I went over to the bar, opened my purse and put the money on the counter. ‘Still there, last time I looked. Half a jug out of that, Zethus.’

‘Sure.’ Zethus hefted the wine jar out of its rack and filled the jug. ‘How’s the case going?’

‘All right.’ I poured, sank the first one down and poured again. ‘We’re getting there.’

‘Only Trebbio was asking.’

Shit. I kept forgetting Trebbio, and he was the reason for this after all. Still, he couldn’t blame me on the effort score. ‘He okay?’

‘Happy as a kid in a sandpit. He’s made pals with the jailers and decided he’s better off where he is than he would be at home. Sobered up, too, although that isn’t all his doing. We see he gets his wine regular, but not too much.’

Yeah, well, if he was doing well and becoming a model citizen then that was fine. At least he couldn’t’ve done the other two murders, but until the local authorities had someone definite to pin the Murena rap on they wouldn’t be too keen to let him loose.

‘Hear there’s another of these bastards gone,’ Alcis said. ‘The son. Chlorus. Unlucky family, that.’

‘Make that three,’ I said. ‘Decimus Tattius was killed this morning.’

There was a hushed silence. Then one of the other barflies — I didn’t know his name — whistled softly between his teeth and spat on the sawdust.

‘What happened?’ Zethus said.

‘Someone knifed him in his own garden.’

‘Really, really unlucky.’ Alcis shook his head. ‘There’ll be none of them left soon. Pity.’

‘Who do you think did it, Corvinus?’ That was Zethus again. ‘You got any theories?’

‘Uh-uh. Nothing definite, anyway.’ Nothing I wanted to share at present with the loose-mouthed clientele in this hotbed of gossip, certainly. I picked up the jug and winecup. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I want to sit and think.’

‘Cerebrate,’ said Alcis.

‘Right. Whatever.’

I took the wine to the table in the corner and sat down.

Okay; so what had we got? Where Tattius’s murder in isolation was concerned, once you discounted Stentor’s evidence about the lady being in her room all morning Penelope was the odds-on favourite by a mile. She knew Tattius’s habits, she knew up there by the grotto the chances of an accidental witness to the stabbing were pretty slim, and she had easy — and private — access to the back garden through her own windows. So opportunity — and motive — both in spades. On the other hand, if she had murdered her husband — and she’d hated him bad enough — we were back to the old objection: why do it now? Also, I wouldn’t put her down as the murdering type. Her father, sure, I’d stretch a point on him if I was pressed, but not Tattius, and certainly not Chlorus, not unless she’d had a really strong reason for getting rid of him that I didn’t know about. There was that…softness as well, when I’d talked to her earlier. I could be wrong, sure, and certainly it went against all my expectations of how things ought to have been, but I’d say that Penelope genuinely regretted her husband’s death.