Marilyn Todd - Man Eater

He scratched the tip of his thin nose. ‘Let’s recap, shall we?’ Damn. It didn’t work. ‘You received a note from your bailiff urging you to come to Etruria at once?’

‘Correct.’

‘You decided this was a much-needed escape from a crowd of attentive servants and, with the exception of Junius, left them in Rome?’

‘Correct.’

‘You hired a gig from the stand, taking your chances with a new and untried driver?’

‘Correct.’

‘You left the Via Flaminia at Narni in order to take a shortcut through Umbria on the abandoned road and spent the night at Tarsulae simply because that was the only town with a half-decent inn?’

‘Correct.’

‘The following morning you were run off the road by person or persons unknown and stumbled upon the Villa Pictor by chance?’

‘Correct.’

‘You did not recognize Fronto, even though he might (note, I say might) have been the arsonist, you did not argue with him, you did not plunge a kitchen knife into his belly?’

‘Correct.’

‘And last night another man, who has yet to be identified, tried to kill you by throwing you alive and kicking to the crocodiles?’

‘Correct.’

He breathed on one of his gold medallions and polished it with the heel of his hand.

‘Suppose I put it to you, Mistress Seferius, that you are lying through your lovely white teeth? That right from the very beginning you have tried to pull the wool over my eyes?’

‘I don’t think the servant issue constitutes major controversy, Prefect, I’ve explained-’

‘Servants? My dear Claudia, that’s neither here nor there, just another minor incident which shows your contempt for what you undoubtedly think of us yokels. I am referring to a far more contentious matter, the crux of your defence if you prefer.’

‘If I knew what a gog was, Macer, I would undoubtedly turn into one on the spot. Exactly where does the crux of my defence fall down?’

The Prefect stood up and flexed his shoulders. ‘There are several small irregularities, insignificant in themselves, yet lumped together they do cause me considerable grief. For instance, listening to the stories which abound, you’ve been through Hades and back, yet I see no broken limbs, Mistress Seferius. No cracked skull, no concussion.’

‘So if I was dead, you’d believe me?’

Macer’s teeth bared in a smile which didn’t extend to his eyes. ‘Your driver sustained a broken arm and Junius was, most fortuitously, knocked out, whereas you, my dear Claudia, you’ve had three encounters with violence in as many days and mere superficial scratches to show for it.’ He ran his finger under his collar. ‘And then there’s the cat.’

‘Drusilla? What about her?’

‘I have inspected her cage personally.’ He stared up at the darkening sky. ‘There is nothing wrong with that bolt.’

‘I never said there was, I merely said it shot open and she went to ground. If your accusation hinges on my hiding my own cat, I can’t wait to see the jurists’ faces. Is that your case, Macer?’

As he turned, she was eye-level with the splattered remains of Pallas’ lunch.

‘Not quite. There is also the little matter of the note.’ She stared at the stain. If it came out at all, it would need bleaching several times, and that’s a nasty place to have a big white mark, on your bottom.

‘Note?’

A fly settled on the egg yolk and she resisted the urge to swat it.

‘The message from Rollo. You see, my men have been asking questions at your villa and your bailiff seems a decent sort of chap. Honest, up-front. Quite without guile, I should say.’

A chill wind passed across the garden. ‘So would I, that’s why I employ him.’ She hoped this change of temperature was attributable to the impending storm.

‘So when Rollo tells me he didn’t send you a note, I am rather tempted to believe him.’

Claudia watched the Prefect stride up the path, where her attention was no longer held by the splurge on his tunic, but by his parting words. Because for once she agreed with this smarmy, smug weevil. She, too, was inclined to believe her reliable, hard-working bailiff. If he said he sent no summons, he sent no summons.

Which meant Marcus Cleverclogs Orbilio was right.

Someone at the Villa Pictor hated Claudia Seferius enough to want either to frame her for murder, or, when that failed, kill her outright. By definition, last night’s attacker must have been a hired assassin, but would the brains and the money behind it stop there?

The sky turned dark as charcoal, a rumble of thunder bellowed along the Vale of Adonis, then another, then another. But long after the heavens had opened, Claudia remained bolt upright on the smooth white marble bench as though she had been grafted there.

How long before the killer tried again? she wondered.

And what method would they employ next time round?

Like other people’s lives after personal bereavement, the Villa Pictor set about its business none the wiser and certainly none the worse. As Claudia dripped across the atrium floor, two men staggered towards the kitchens, laughingly balancing an amphora of oil between them. A gap-toothed maid buffed up the bronzes. An applecheeked redhead tickled the corners of this splendid marble hall with her heather broom. Alis was making devotions at the family shrine, a young Syrian topped up the water-clock, the porters changed shifts in the vestibule.

Proof positive that victims don’t suddenly glow in the dark to distinguish themselves from the rest of humanity.

And proof that the expression on one’s face doesn’t necessarily reflect the fact that one’s brains are bubbling so loud you’re surprised other people can’t hear them.

Once inside her bedroom, however, cosy and warm thanks to the gentle heat of the charcoal brazier, a sense of balance prevailed and Claudia finally thought to peel the cold, soggy tunic away from her skin. Yeuk! She hung the gown over the back of a chair and as clouds of steam rose up from her clothing and dribbles of condensation ran down the walls, she vigorously towelled herself dry. The very action-instinctive, elementary, primordial-was sufficient to restore perspective, and she cursed herself for allowing that snide little Prefect get to her. Now had the crocodiles eaten him, they’d have had a belly-ache to remember. Probably turn them vegetarian.

Flipping the towel into a roll to dry her back, Claudia wondered what Sergius intended to do with those plug-ugly reptiles. They won’t dance very gracefully, and somehow I can’t see them jumping through hoops. Ah, now, wasn’t there some talk of him employing Egyptian natives to swim amongst them?

She leaned down and rubbed between her toes. Good grief, people will hand over small fortunes to watch a gang of youths splashing around with the crocodiles. Indeed, these spectacles are going to turn established shows right on their boring old heads. What innovations, what vision this man Pictor has!

And talking of animals… Cat fur and rainwater is an explosive combination and by the time poor old Drusilla can leg it to shelter, she’ll have a hump the size of a camel’s. I really don’t know where she learned swear words like that.

Today’s storm, though, had an entirely different quality about it, throwing out an invigorating energy as opposed to the ill-mannered depletions of last night’s tantrums. It was, Claudia thought, listening to the raindrops pitter-pat on to the broad, flat leaves of the elecampane, the difference between a play by Plautus and a torrid melodrama. One blows life-the other just sucks.

It was only when she reached for a comb to untangle her curls that she realized that, even in her own bedroom, she wasn’t safe. The room had been searched. Not just cleaned. Not just heated. Not just tidied. She meant searched. By an amateur at that.