David Wishart: Food for the Fishes

She was quiet for a long time. Finally, she said: ‘All right, Marcus. You win. Not that I had any doubt you would, mind. But I still don’t like it.’

‘Yeah, well…’

‘Anyway, why are you so sure that this Trebbio isn’t the killer? Just because he claims not to be and has the cheek or perspicacity to ask you for help doesn’t mean he isn’t guilty after all.’

I grinned to myself: the fingers of her left hand had gone absently to the curl of hair at her temple, just above the hair band, and she was twisting it. She only does that when she’s sleepy or interested in something and thinking. Perilla may pretend she’s got no time for sleuthing, but she likes a puzzle as much as I do. She’s just ashamed to admit it to herself, that’s all. ‘Trebbio didn’t know a thing about the murder until Alcis told him,’ I said. ‘Unless he’s the best actor since Roscius I’d swear to that. Second, he didn’t make any bones about admitting he’d gone to check his lines near the fish farm last night, and if he had killed Murena then that’d be crucial. Third, I gave him an out and he didn’t take it. It would’ve been easy enough for him to say he saw someone skulking along the beach the time of the murder. He didn’t. Fourth — ’ I paused.

‘Fourth?’

‘He said he’d seen — or thought he’d seen — two lights at the fish farm. One, fair enough: that would’ve been Murena himself. But no one carries two lamps. Sure, the guy was confused and he said himself he could be wrong, but two lamps means two people. And you don’t show a light if you’re planning to sneak up behind someone and push them into an eel tank.’

‘So?’

‘So if there were two lamps then it had to be murder. Or at least there had to be two people involved. And if the second guy was carrying a light he couldn’t’ve minded being seen and recognised, not by Murena at least. Which meant that he had to be someone Murena knew.’

Long silence.

‘Ah,’ Perilla said.

I’d got her. Well, holidays in Baiae were boring anyway.

It worked like a dream. I had to compromise, sure — Trebbio was kept locked up in Baiae’s tiny holding-cell off the market square — but after a fifteen-minute interview with an increasingly-worried town officer I walked out with a letter empowering me to investigate Licinius Murena’s death.

That day was the funeral, butting in would’ve been crass, and besides we were booked for a visit and dinner to one of Mother’s friends who had a villa further down the coast, near Misenum. Pals of my mother’s can be hit or miss, but this one and her husband were okay, even if they did bring the conversation round pretty smartly to their new yacht and keep it there. Priscus, I noticed, was unPriscusly quiet throughout; he has a tendency to assume that everyone he comes in contact with has a deep and abiding interest in recherche topics like Umbrian marriage customs and Phoenician silver mines in Spain. This time we hardly got a single bleat out of him the whole visit. I had the distinct impression that the old guy was sulking.

We stayed over. The next day as soon as we got back I sent Bathyllus round — equipped with the town officer’s letter — to arrange a meeting the following afternoon with Licinius Murena’s widow.

Okay; so we were in business. First stop was the fish farm itself, half an hour before the scheduled meeting, to check out the basic facts. Zethus had said that Murena had been found by his manager. I couldn’t remember the guy’s name, if I’d ever heard it, but obviously he was the one to talk to.

Fish farms are common everywhere along this part of the Campanian coast. Some of them — the ones belonging to ordinary private villas — are pretty small-time and hardly worth the name: a couple at best of simple concrete tanks formed by projecting berms closed off at the far end and with a coarse-meshed gate on the sea side that lets the small fry in so the captive fish can feed but can’t get back to the open sea. Basically, they’re just larders for keeping shellfish or the finned variety alive until it’s wanted. Others — the commercial ones and the ones belonging to Baiae’s richer punters — are a lot more complex: anything from a dozen to fifty huge tanks, subdivided to make finding and lifting the fish easier and prevent the more vicious buggers from snacking on their less aggressive pals. Some places even have tanks that’re closed off from the sea altogether and kept supplied with fresh water from wells and springs inland: freshwater fish like barbels fetch prices you wouldn’t believe, even here in the seafood gourmet’s paradise where there’s plenty of the other sort. Fish-fanciers can be pretty obsessive, too. The story goes that old Lucullus — a gourmet if there ever was one — had an underground channel cut through the mountain between his estate and the sea, just so he could keep his dinner fresh and swimming. Digging the channel cost more than the estate.

Mind you, the returns are pretty hefty. Fish costs an arm and a leg in Rome, especially in winter. Prawns and sea-urchins can be literally worth their weight in gold pieces, and a decent-sized tuna’ll set you back the price of a slave. Serious stuff.

Murena’s fish farm was very definitely in the second category: a network of concrete tanks projecting out into the bay beyond the stretch of rocks at the far end of the beach where Trebbio must’ve had his lines, and for a good hundred yards along the coast the other way. There was a flanking wall cutting the place off from the shore and running up to a gate further inland, but it’d collapsed at the sea end to an easily-climbable height and been left unrebuilt. Either Murena had been slovenly over repairs or he hadn’t viewed theft as a serious danger. Whichever the reason was, for anyone who didn’t want their presence officially known informal access to the farm from the sea side would be easy-peasy. One for the prosecution, although even with his head for booze I doubt if Trebbio could’ve managed it in the state he was in when he left the wineshop.

Under normal circumstances I’d’ve shinned over the wall to check out the practicalities, but this first time things had to be done formal. Besides, for the purposes of the interview I was wearing a decent mantle, and these things aren’t designed for a scramble over brickwork. I followed the wall up the beach to the gate.

There was a slave on duty, naturally: places like that, you don’t just wander in as the mood takes you. A young guy with a prominent Adam’s-apple. He stood up when he saw me coming.

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Marcus Valerius Corvinus,’ I said. ‘I’ve got an appointment with the Lady Gellia.’

‘Villa entrance is further on, sir.’

‘Yeah, I know. I wanted to have a word with the farm manager first. What’s his name?’

‘Ligurius, sir. No problem.’ He unlatched the gate. ‘He’s probably in his office. Straight ahead and to the left as you go in. If he’s not then any of the boys’ll tell you where to find him.’

‘Thanks, pal.’ I paused. ‘You on here nights as well, by the way?’

‘No, sir. No one is. The gate’s locked at sunset.’

‘Keys?’

He hesitated, then said carefully: ‘Uh…could I ask your reason for asking, sir?’

I took out the letter I’d brought with me. Not that the guy could read it — literacy isn’t part of a gate slave’s job description — but it looked official and had the town officer’s signature at the bottom. He glanced at it, swallowed — investigations into a master’s death always make the bought help uneasy, for obvious reasons — and nodded. ‘Ligurius has one. He’s responsible for locking the gate at sunset and opening up in the morning. Decimus Tattius. And the master himself, of course.’