David Wishart - Food for the Fishes

Even the flower beds were colour-co-ordinated.

‘Uh…is the mistress at home?’ I said to the slave who opened the door.

‘She’s at dinner, sir.’ The guy gave me an unwelcoming look. Fair enough: dinnertime wasn’t exactly within the usual visiting hours. ‘With the master.’

Hell. ‘This’ll only take five minutes,’ I said. ‘The name’s Valerius Corvinus. She doesn’t know me but I wondered if I could have a word with her in private.’

‘What about?’

‘A mutual friend asked me to call round in passing. Name of Catia. Seemingly there’s been some mix-up over the dates for a women’s honey-wine klatsch.’ Thin, sure, but it was the best I could think of on the way over. And the mention of Catia should get me a hearing if nothing else. Assuming the lady knew about her.

It seemed she did. Not that that made me persona any more grata, mind. When Rufina stormed into the little sitting-room where the slave had taken me to wait she was purpled up to the eyeballs and fit to be tied.

A stunner, though. I had to admit that. Mid twenties, five foot two, curves like a Praxiteles Venus and a bust that wouldn’t’ve disgraced the Leda on Nerva’s wall. Currently, it was heaving. Rufina was not pleased.

She closed the door carefully behind her. ‘Valerius Corvinus,’ she hissed, ‘I don’t know why you’re here, but — ’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, handing over the note. ‘Maybe you’d better read this first.’

She snatched it out of my hand, tore it open and read it. I’d dictated it myself, and stood over Nerva while he wrote it, so I knew the contents were pretty bald: just who I was, a request for Rufina to answer my questions truthfully, and Nerva’s signature. No mention of an alibi.

‘Well?’ she snapped. Her colouring had gone up another notch. ‘What’s this all about?’

‘Aulus Nerva says he was here on the night of the twentieth, six days ago, again two nights back and all of this morning. Was he?’

‘Valerius Corvinus!’

The hell with that. I wasn’t in any mood for going round the houses. ‘Just answer the question, lady,’ I said. ‘Please. It’s important.’

‘I don’t see why I should — !’

‘Was he here or not?’

She fizzed for a bit, biting her lip and glancing nervously towards the door. Finally, she nodded. ‘Yes. Yes, he was, as it happens.’

‘All night? The first two, I mean?’

‘He…arrived just before dinner on the first occasion and stayed until the morning. On the second, he was slightly later, but not by much. Today…yes, Publius was at home last night, but Aulus…called round after he’d left for the day to Misenum.’ She’d coloured up like a beetroot and she thrust the note back at me like it was red hot. ‘Now I want to know what right you have to walk in here and — ’

‘That’s all, lady.’ I shoved the note back in my belt-pouch. ‘Thanks a lot. No hassle.’

Shit!

‘If my husband finds out there’ll be trouble! You can tell Aulus from me that — ’

I backed away, one hand reaching for the doorhandle. ‘I said: no hassle. Honestly. Thanks for your help.’

‘How I’m going to explain this to Publius I just do not know! He knows I’m not friendly with anyone called Catia, and that fool Eupolis said right out when he came into the dining-room that you’d — ’

I escaped while she was in mid-flow, past the door-slave and out the front door. Jupiter in bloody rompers! Well, I’d done my best, and I’d got what I came for, but I suspected that the next time Aulus Nerva came calling — if he ever did — he’d be lucky to get clear with his eyes unscratched-out. Not that I’d much sympathy.

Fuck; where did that leave us now?

The sun had gone down in earnest when I reached the villa. Gods, I was knackered! Two hard days in a row, and the case in shreds. I stabled the mare, noticing while I did it that the carriage was back. Bathyllus was waiting by the door with the usual jug of wine.

‘Satisfactory trip, sir?’ he said.

There was no answer to that, not one that wouldn’t’ve made the little bald guy’s hair curl, so I didn’t make one. It wasn’t his fault everything had just gone down the tubes.

Perilla was sitting reading under a candelabrum in the atrium.

‘Oh, hello, Marcus,’ she said brightly. ‘Enjoy your day?’

I grunted, kissed her, took the winecup and jug over to the couch opposite, and lay down.

‘Ah.’ She let the book roll up and put it aside. ‘I’ll take that as a “no”, then.’

‘We’re stymied, lady. One hundred percent, gold-plated, spit-on-your-granny screwed. The whole case has gone pear-shaped.’

Her eyes widened. ‘Oh, dear. It can’t be as bad as that, surely.’

I took a gulp of the Special. ‘Nerva’s out of the game. He was comforting a lonely office widow in Bauli. Which she’s just confirmed. Oh, sure, he might by some stretch of the imagination have killed Chlorus, but he couldn’t’ve done the other two murders.’ I punched the couch-back. ‘Hell’s bloody bells and fucking upper canines!’

‘I see. Then who’s left?’

‘Search me. Tattius and Chlorus are dead, Ligurius is alibied, so’s the doctor. Aquillius Florus wouldn’t have the guts to kill a chicken. That leaves Gellia and Penelope. Both of them have motive enough, sure, but I’d bet a sack of gold pieces to a plugged copper that Penelope’s no murderess.’

‘That leaves Gellia, then.’

‘Yeah.’ I took another morose swallow and refilled the cup. ‘Only can you see that lady in her fancy mantle and three-hour hairdo stalking Chlorus through the streets of Baiae and slitting his throat in an alley? Or hanging about in the shrubbery for Tattius to come along then stabbing him through the heart? Because I fucking can’t.’

‘Don’t swear, dear. It’s not necessary,’ Perilla said. ‘Anyway, I’ve never met the woman. I can’t judge.’

‘Take my word for it. If she didn’t have help from Florus or the doctor, then Gellia’s a non-runner.’

‘You’re sure about Diodotus?’ Perilla was twisting her curl. ‘After all, he only has an alibi for the first murder. And Gellia could have done that one herself.’

‘Diodotus is clean. He’s got more sense than to get himself mixed up with a bubblehead like that. And I don’t think he likes the woman much, let alone fancies her.’

‘Florus, then. Despite appearances.’

‘Florus has as much backbone as a slug. You’ve seen him for yourself, Perilla. You think he could commit a cold-blooded murder without pissing himself and dropping the knife out of sheer funk before he used it? Let alone three of them?’

‘Very well. Then it must be Penelope.’

‘Or someone outside the circle altogether. In which case we’re right back to where we started.’

I took a third gulp of the Special.

‘Hmm.’ Perilla was looking thoughtful. ‘I did wonder, Marcus. Apropos of that. Why Penelope?’

‘Why Penelope what?’

‘No. Her name. I’ve always found that curious, and we’ve never really asked ourselves where she got it from.’

‘It’s just a pet-name, lady. Every family uses them. Actually, she’s a Licinia.’ Something tugged at my subconscious, but when I reached for it it was gone. ‘What does that matter?’

‘It’s just…’ She hesitated. ‘Probably not at all. But what does “Penelope” mean to you? The name, on its own?’

‘Ulysses’s wife, of course. Gods, Perilla, what the hell does — ?’

‘Yes. Who waited for twenty years for her husband to come home, spurning the suitors. The faithful wife. Patient Penelope.’

Patient Penelope. Twenty years. The tug had become an itch, and everything had gone very still.