David Wishart - Solid Citizens

‘OK,’ I said. ‘So tell me more about Caesius himself. Married? Family man?’

‘He was married, until a few months ago when his wife died. There were no children.’

‘So who inherits?’

Another hesitation, this time with a pursing of the lips. ‘His younger brother, I suppose. Lucius. But you’d have to ask Publius Novius about that. Novius is-’

‘The family lawyer.’

He looked surprised. ‘You know him?’

‘We’ve met.’ Yeah, although maybe collided was a better word. I’d run into Novius a year or so back, in connection with the Lucius Hostilius business. He might not be an actual crook — the jury was still out on that one — but he certainly wasn’t above a bit of legal skulduggery when he thought he could get away with it.

‘Oh, excellent!’ Nerva had brightened; this was the way things should go, with the Old Pals’ network swinging into smooth operation and no embarrassing slugs in the salad of life. ‘Then there should be no problem. He’s a splendid fellow, isn’t he, old Publius; one of the best. Marvellous for his age, and very helpful.’

‘Yeah. So I found.’ I kept the dryness and sarcasm out of my voice. ‘Anything else you can tell me?’ In addition to the miserable pittance I’ve finally managed to screw out of you, you closed-mouthed bastard. Gods!

‘No. No, I don’t think so. Or nothing of much importance, anyway. You’ll take the case for us?’

‘Yeah. I’ll come over to Bovillae and ask a few questions, if you like. Starting tomorrow.’

‘Splendid!’ He got to his feet, looking relieved. I half-expected him to wash his hands in the ornamental pool. ‘Anything more I can do to help, just ask. I’m an easy man to find.’

‘Actually, there’s something now,’ I said. ‘I’ll need Caesius’s address, so I can have a word with his major-domo.’ A good rule, when you’re digging the dirt, is to talk early on to the bought help. Caesius’s major-domo might not be too forthcoming in the event — there was such a thing as loyalty — but he would sure as hell know about his master’s private concerns, if anyone did.

‘Yes, of course,’ Nerva said. ‘It’s in town, the big old house near the Arician Gate. Easy to find. The major-domo’s name is Anthus. Not that he’ll be able to tell you much.’

Par for the course, so far. Ah, well.

‘Thanks, pal,’ I said. ‘I’ll be in touch.’

We shook hands and he left quickly, oozing relief from every pore in his not-inconsiderable body.

Now I had to break the news to Perilla. The hard ones first.

She got back about an hour later, with Marilla and — unfortunately — Placida. The hellhound did her usual haven’t-seen-you-for-years dash at me, put her paws on my chest and licked my face. I fended her off.

‘Don’t encourage her, Corvinus,’ Marilla said. ‘She’s not really supposed to be in here before she’s had a bath. She found something dead up by the Maecilius place and rolled in it before we could stop her.’

Aaargh! Mind you, in our brief bout of physical contact I’d sort of half-concluded that already. Plus from the smell of her breath she’d gone on to eat most of it after she’d finished. Ah, the joys of owning a dog. If, indeed, Placida qualified as such, which I doubted. Me, I’d put her in a category that included the Lernaean Hydra myself.

Perilla had grabbed her by the collar and hauled her back.

‘Lupercus? If you would?’ she said through gritted teeth, the major-domo having edged in behind them. ‘Quickly, please!’ The brute’s claws scrabbled on the marble floor tiles and the panting and slavering grew more frantic.

‘Certainly, madam.’

Placida was removed, and fresh air returned slowly to the world.

‘So.’ Perilla took a deep breath and gave me a brittle smile. ‘How was your morning, dear? Did you have a nice time?’

‘Uh, it was OK. Quiet.’

‘But Lupercus said that you had a visitor.’

Bugger! How had the blabbermouth managed to squeeze that one in between opening the front door and hauling off our ballistic boarhound? ‘Ah … Yeah. Come to mention it, I did at that.’

‘A senator from Bovillae, no less. What did he want?’

There was no escape, so I told her the basics while she sat down on the other couch and stared at me. Hard.

‘Oh, Marcus!’ she said when I’d finished. ‘ Not just before the Winter Festival! We’re on holiday! And you said you’d do it, I suppose? Look into things for them?’

‘More or less. It was sort of difficult to refuse.’

‘Why would you want to do that?’ Marilla was perched on the third couch, grinning. ‘I think it’s fantastic. Clarus will, too. And of course if you need any help …’

‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘I will not need any help. Besides, it happened over in Bovillae.’

‘That’s only four miles away. And Clarus knows people there. We could …’

‘No. That’s final.’ Jupiter! Marriage hadn’t cured the ghoulish streak in her, anyway. ‘I can handle this perfectly well on my own, Princess. Just forget it, right?’

‘We’ve got your mother and Priscus arriving, too,’ Perilla said. ‘Marcus, I do wish you’d think before you agree to things and upset all the arrangements. I mean, it’s only a murder after all.’

Said without a blink. Sometimes I wonder about the lady’s sense of priorities. ‘Look, Perilla …’

Bathyllus shimmered in. This business of having two major-domos in the house simultaneously was going to be confusing, particularly since each of them ignored the other’s existence. Still, I supposed Lupercus had his hands full at present with fumigating the hellhound, and we’d brought it on ourselves.

‘Lunch is served,’ he said.

‘Good. I’m starving,’ Marilla said. ‘Any sign of Clarus, Bathyllus? He said he might be back.’

‘No, madam. He sent word to say he’d be delayed and you were to start without him.’

Madam . We were getting the perfect butler act here. I suspected the little guy was making a point: where savoir-faire and a general awareness of what was Done and Not Done went, some major-domos had what it took in spades, while others were only fit to sluice down the dog. I grinned at him and got a poached-egg-eyed stare back.

‘Yes, sir?’ he said. ‘Did you wish to comment?’

‘No, Bathyllus. Lunch it is.’

We went through to put on the nosebag. As to the murder, when push came to shove I wasn’t particularly worried. The lady would come round, Festival or no: Perilla couldn’t resist a case, any more than I could. The difference was that she would never admit it.

It was only a matter of time, really.

I rode over to Bovillae mid-morning the next day, wearing my heaviest cloak because it was raining cats and dogs, with a cutting wind from the north. Par for the course: the weather had been unsettled for days now, with rain being the default. Not my favourite Winter Festival weather, by a long chalk.

Nerva had said that Quintus Roscius, the guy who’d had the set-to with Caesius in the street a couple of days before he died, owned a farm on the Castrimoenian side of town. I passed quite a few tracks on the way — most of the rural properties in the Alban Hills are smallholdings, those that haven’t been bought up by wealthy punters from Rome and converted into luxury homes-from-home, that is — but there was no indication as to which one was his. Besides, it was a case of first things first. Roscius and his spat with the dead man could wait until I’d had a talk with the brothel-keeper.

I reached Bovillae, left my horse — not my usual mare, who was back in Rome, but the quietest nag I could find in the villa’s stable — at the snazzy drinking trough on the edge of the market square, and got directions to the brothel from the first likely looking passer-by. It turned out to be quite close, in one of the side streets a bit further along the main drag, just past the burned-out shell of a large building with a weed-strewn courtyard and, from the carved-phallus plaque by the door and the graffiti on the surrounding masonry, easy to identify. I knocked — these places are open all hours, to catch the passing trade — and was let in by the door slave.