David Wishart - Solid Citizens

‘Indeed he was, sir. And you’re not unexpected.’ The guy got up. ‘Novius is in and alone, but I’ll just check to see if he’s free. If you’d care to wait a moment.’

‘Sure. No problem.’

He crossed to the communicating door, knocked, opened it and went in. I listened to the murmur of voices while I inspected the mural on the wall behind the desk: Hermes, Greek god of eloquence, whispering in the ear of what was evidently a lawyer in a courtroom presenting his case. Slick-smart advocate though Novius undoubtedly was, I reckoned he was purblind when it came to irony: silver-tongued Hermes is also the god of thieves, tricksters, shysters and liars. Of course, it was possible that I might be doing the guy an injustice and he’d fully realized the double implication when he commissioned the thing, but from what I recalled of Novius, self-parody wasn’t his bag.

The clerk came back out. ‘He’ll see you, if you’d like to go in.’

I did, and he closed the door behind me. Novius was sitting behind his desk, the same little wrinkled prune of a man in a sharp mantle I’d talked to eighteen months before.

‘Valerius Corvinus,’ he said. ‘I heard that you were in town. And indeed why. Such a pleasure to see you again, even under these melancholy circumstances. Do have a seat.’

Well, maybe I’d been wrong about the irony. Whatever he was feeling about seeing me, it certainly wasn’t pleasure, not after the last conversation we’d had in this room. Still, if that was how he wanted to play it then it was fine with me. I pulled up the visitors’ stool and sat down.

‘So how’s your pal Castor?’ I said.

He didn’t blink. ‘Well enough, as far as I know, and living now in Pisa. I understand he married a rich widow up there.’

‘Bully for him,’ I said drily. ‘He meet her before or after her husband died?’

Again, not a flicker; I got a look as blind as a marble bust of Homer’s. ‘That I really can’t tell you, Corvinus,’ he said. ‘I have no knowledge of the matter beyond the bare facts that I’ve just given you. Or indeed interest in it.’ He moved the stylus on his desktop a few inches to the right. ‘Now. How can I be of service?’

‘No hassle. You being Caesius’s lawyer I just need some basic background information. At present, anyway.’ Still no blink; the sharp eyes were watching me benignly, like I was a performing dog. Which probably, as far as Novius was concerned, summed up his view of me pretty well. ‘First off: the heir. That would be his brother, wouldn’t it?’

‘Lucius, yes.’

‘The town drunk.’

He moved the stylus back again carefully to its original position and looked me straight in the eye before answering.

‘Corvinus,’ he said. ‘Let us be clear about this. The law is only interested in relationships, not character flaws, unless these are criminal ones. Lucius Caesius does, indeed, have a problem in that direction, but as the executor of his brother’s estate it is no concern of mine. Nor, forgive me, should it be one of yours.’

Yeah, well, fair enough; maybe I had been out of order, at that. I let it go.

‘Caesius named him as heir in his will?’ I said.

‘No, as it happens he died intestate. Or rather, in his only existing will, made shortly after his marriage thirty-five years ago, he left everything, barring some small personal bequests, to his wife Vatinia, and should she predecease him to any children of the union. In the event, of course, there was no family, and his wife died two months ago. I’d advised him very strongly after her death — and naturally several times on previous occasions over the years — to draft a new will, but as far as I’m aware he had not yet done so.’

‘Yeah? Why would that be, now?’

Novius shrugged. ‘Quintus, I’m afraid, was the lawyer’s nightmare, the chronic procrastinator. The situation was made even more complex by the fact that he genuinely could think of no alternative principal heir, and so put things off sine die . As a result — and I agree that the result is an unfortunate one, which Quintus himself would have deplored — under the circumstances the estate reverts to the nearest male relative, who is his younger brother.’

‘And Lucius Caesius knew this?’

‘That I’m afraid I can’t tell you. You would have to ask him.’

There was something puzzling me. ‘His major-domo, Anthus. He said his master had freed him.’

‘Indeed he did. But the freeing was done not in accordance with a will but as the result of a Declaration of Intent.’

‘Which is?’

‘Exactly what it says. Fortunately for Anthus, it happens that several years ago Quintus promised him, in my personal hearing and in the presence of other witnesses, that when the time came he would have his freedom. I was delighted to be able to confirm this and so make it legally binding, as no doubt Quintus would have wanted.’

‘The two brothers had nothing to do with each other, as I understand. And it went a long way back. In fact, the estrangement was originally between Lucius and his father.’

‘Who told you that?’ Novius said sharply. I said nothing. ‘Well, it’s true enough, as it happens, and no secret. Lucius was always a wastrel. Old Caesius — Marcus Caesius, that was, the father — was extremely patient with him for many years after he’d put on his adult mantle, but finally he gave him up. Oh, he didn’t actually go as far as disinheriting him, or not at that stage, but he did make it clear that he wanted no further contact. The feeling, I should say, was quite mutual, and from the time Lucius was about twenty-five until his father’s death they had no connection barring the financial one.’

‘Financial?’

‘Yes. I acted as the intermediary myself, as it happens. Marcus Caesius made his son a small allowance, payable each month. After he died, Quintus continued it.’

‘Hang on, pal,’ I said. ‘I’m no lawyer, sure, but even I can see an inconsistency there. If the father didn’t disinherit Lucius then why was it necessary? Why didn’t Lucius get half the property in his own right when the old man died?’

‘I did say “at that stage”, Corvinus. Old Caesius disinherited Lucius in his will. The whole property went to Quintus.’

I sat back. ‘ What? ’

Novius shrugged again. ‘It was perfectly legal. And Lucius had no right to expect anything else, after all that time. He and his father — and, of course, his brother — had been virtual strangers for most of their lives. Also, Lucius had got quite enough out of him already over the years.’

‘When did the father die?’

‘Comparatively recently. Only eleven years ago, in fact. He was a very old man, well into his eighties.’

‘Just before Aulus Mettius was relegated, in other words.’

This time Novius did blink. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Mettius. Caesius’s nephew.’ I’d rattled him, which was the hope and intention. ‘He was working for you at the time, I think.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t see the connection.’

I gave him my sunniest smile. ‘I didn’t say there was one. Is there?’

‘Certainly not! Why should there be?’

‘No reason. But he was the other thing I wanted to ask you about. Theft, wasn’t it? And you were the injured party?’

Rattled was right: the old guy’s mottled face was almost purple.

‘Corvinus, this has nothing whatsoever to do with Quintus Caesius’s death!’ he snapped.

‘Maybe it hasn’t. I don’t know. But like I said I’m just getting an idea of the background here, so indulge me. Unless it’s a secret, naturally.’

‘Of course it isn’t! The circumstances are a matter of public record!’