David Wishart: Finished Business

‘Dreadful. Ruinous, in fact. It was centuries old, originally some sort of watchtower, I think, and it had been abandoned for years. He’d taken a fancy to turn it into a philosopher’s sanctum. Philosophy was his hobby, you know, or rather more than a hobby, particularly astronomy and astrology. Also, he wanted somewhere quiet to take himself off to on an evening. Away from the villa itself.’

‘Oh? Why would he do that, especially?’

‘For the usual reason. Uncle Lucius was married, to Cornelia Sullana, and the marriage was not a particularly happy one. These things happen, of course, and when they do it’s good for both parties concerned to have some private space. Or don’t you agree?’

‘Yeah. Yeah, I suppose so.’

‘Mind you, I should say that when he died — that was three days ago, by the way — he and Sullana had been divorced for almost a month, so that aspect of things was academic.’

‘You, uh, know the reason? For the divorce, I mean?’

‘No. He gave none, neither to me nor to anyone else — Sullana, presumably, excepted. And I didn’t ask, because it was no business of mine. Besides, as I said, he and Sullana had not been a couple, properly speaking, for many years. That might well be reason enough. Although …’ She stopped.

‘Although?’

‘Nothing. Or nothing that I wish to expand on. As I say, it wasn’t my business.’

I shelved that for the time being. ‘Did they have any family?’

‘Two sons, both living. Lucius Junior, the elder, intends to run for praetor this coming year. The younger, Hellenus — Marcus, really, but he prefers the nickname, and the family indulge him — is, well, rather a disappointment.’

‘In what way?’

‘He’s an artist.’

I stared at her. ‘He is what ?’

‘Yes, I know , Valerius Corvinus. Totally dreadful, and a serious embarrassment to his poor father, but there it is, what can you do? Young people today, I don’t know what the world is coming to. He absolutely refused to enter on a proper political career — I mean, refused point blank, if you can imagine that. He and his parents are estranged, and although Uncle Lucius never went as far as to disinherit him, there’s been, to my knowledge, no contact with either his father or his mother for at least the past two years. He has, I understand’ — she sniffed — ‘a workshop or a studio or whatever you’d call it somewhere near the Circus, and there he stays.’

Yeah, well, not that I was going to let on to the lady, but I could sympathize with that because I’d done more or less the same myself, barring the art bit. And knowing how my own father had reacted when I told him where he could put his plans for my future, I could appreciate how Hellenus’s had felt. Not to mention the guy’s mother: anyone with the name Cornelia Sullana belonged to one of the top families in Rome, and those lads and lasses are sticklers for tradition. An artist as a descendant would have the old dictator himself spinning in his urn.

‘Getting back to the business of the tower,’ I said. ‘You say it was in a very bad condition.’

‘Oh, yes. Completely ramshackle, particularly the upper storeys. The builders Uncle Lucius hired to do the renovations are charging him a fortune because they say they’re taking their lives in their hands working on it.’

‘Then your uncle’s death could’ve been an accident? I mean, the weather now being what it is, if he’d simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time-’

‘It was quite definitely murder, Valerius Corvinus,’ she said firmly. ‘The family and everyone else will tell you differently, of course they will, but I know that for a fact. Alexander told me.’

‘Who’s Alexander?’

‘ The Alexander.’ Then, when I looked blank, ‘Oh, really, young man! Get a grip, please! King of Macedon? Philip’s son?’

I was boggling slightly.

‘Ah … right,’ I said. ‘Right.’

‘I presume you had some education.’

‘Yeah, well, it’s just that-’

Which, luckily, was when Bathyllus smarmed back in with one of our best silver cups balanced on its matching tray.

‘The chef apologizes, madam.’ He set the tray on the table beside her. ‘We seem unaccountably to be out of buffalo milk, but he hopes goat’s will suffice.’

Uh-huh. I smothered a grin. Knowing our Meton, whatever he’d said when Bathyllus had relayed the order, it hadn’t been that. What’s more, I’d bet he’d qualified the nouns with a few choice adjectives and participles of his own, too.

‘I’m sure that will be perfectly adequate.’ She sipped, and I winced. ‘Yes, indeed. Delicious.’

Bathyllus bowed and buttled out.

‘Ah … you were talking about Alexander, Naevia Postuma,’ I said, and added carefully, just in case I’d got it wrong after all, ‘Alexander the Great, that would be, yes?’

That got me a look that should’ve curdled her milk. ‘Naturally it would,’ she said. ‘I must say, Valerius Corvinus, from what I’ve heard about you, I’d’ve expected you to be much quicker on the uptake than that. Alexander is my control.’

‘Control?’

‘In the spirit world. Regarding my uncle’s murder, he was quite definite. As he was, in fact, that I should follow my friends’ suggestion and consult you on the matter. I’ve never known him so insistent.’ She sipped again. ‘This really is quite delicious. Hymettus honey, I do believe, and from flowers grown on the southern slopes.’

‘Yeah. Yeah, very possibly. So, ah, let’s just be absolutely clear about this, shall we? You’re saying that your only reason for believing that your uncle was murdered is that Alexander the Great told you so, right?’

‘Indeed. But there is no only about it. Alexander is never wrong. Never. And he says that it is absolutely vital that you find the murderer.’

‘He vouchsafe why?’ Or best of all, just give the stupid woman the name of the fucking perp straight out and save us all a lot of time and grief faffing around. But then for some arcane celestial reason, that never happens with chatty spirits, does it?

‘I’m afraid not, no. Only that it was of the utmost importance.’

Well, bully for Alexander. This thing needed nipping in the bud before it went any further. ‘Now look, lady …’ I began, just as Perilla breezed in from her honey, wine and poetry klatsch.

‘Hello, Marcus,’ she said. ‘Bathyllus said you had a visitor. How lovely to see you again, Naevia Postuma. And how is your husband, the consul?’

‘Gaius is very well, thank you, my dear. He would send you his regards.’

‘What a beautiful mantle. Is it new?’

‘Actually, yes, as it happens. From a little shop that’s just opened in the Saepta. Next to Argyrio’s. You know it?’

‘Fabatus’s? Oh, yes, although I haven’t been there yet myself. Calventia Quietina told me about that when I talked to her a few days ago. She said-’

Jupiter on wheels! ‘Ah … Perilla,’ I said. ‘Naevia Postuma here thinks her uncle has been murdered. She wants me to-’

‘I don’t think it,’ Postuma snapped, turning back to me. ‘I know . And I have explained why, fully and concisely.’

‘Because Alexander the Great told you so,’ I said neutrally, with one eye on Perilla. The lady had parked herself on her usual couch. She looked remarkably unfazed at the news, which I thought under the circumstances was pretty odd.

‘Quite.’ Postuma reached into the fold of her mantle and took out a small book-roll. ‘However, I’m glad you’re here in person, Rufia Perilla. It makes things much simpler. As I told your husband, my visit had two purposes. This is the second.’ She handed the roll to Perilla. ‘As you can see, there’s a letter attached.’