Ruth Downie - Caveat emptor

Perhaps she had been worrying about nothing. Caratius did not know he was under suspicion. Besides, the man had spent money on the dinner. He would not do that if he were planning to attack his guest. He had just brought the Medicus out here to tell him what to think.

She glanced at her husband’s bowl. He had stayed with the oysters. She helped herself to a couple of olives. The taste reminded her of Gaul. Caratius was boasting about his wine specially imported “from a man I know in Aquitania” and how their grandfathers had been friends and how he was thinking of inviting him over here to help set up a vineyard. The Medicus very politely did not say that his own family had been making wine back in Gaul for years and that anyone-even a British woman who preferred a good beer-could tell that it was better than the rubbish the grandfather’s friend was sending over.

Caratius carried on gulping down oysters and ignoring her. He was too busy explaining why the Council would do well to listen to him in future and how the Medicus ought to go about his investigating. The Medicus was saying very little, perhaps waiting for Caratius to give something away by mistake.

Her hand slipped down to massage her bare toes. She could have outrun that big lad. She had been watching them for most of the journey. Neither of the so-called guards had paid any attention to a woman in a nondescript shawl hurrying along the road to get home before dark. None of them had noticed her slip into the woods. Even when she had startled a magpie and the big one had spun around and spotted her, she could have gotten away. She flexed her toes and rubbed away a sliver of grazed skin. If only she had noticed that tree root.

She shivered. The evening air drifting in through the window was chilly and Grata’s shawl was damp after its roll in the leaves. Outside, she could see the Medicus’s guards leading the stray horse up the track from the woods.

One of the slaves came in to light the lamps. Caratius stopped talking for long enough to grab another oyster and order the shutters closed. Before he could start again she said, “Have you told the investigator that you invited Julius Asper here to see you on the day he was killed?”

The point of Caratius’s spoon skidded off the edge of the oyster and narrowly missed stabbing his thumb. The Medicus glared at her. Later on, no doubt, he would tell her he had a plan and she had wrecked it. When really, he was trying to find a way to ask, and not doing very well at it.

Caratius put the oyster down. “I think you are mistaken.”

“I have been told,” she said, “that he was not going to Londinium at all. He had a message to come here and see you. I have spoken to the housekeeper who took it.”

“Here? No, no, no. I never wanted to go near the man. Absolutely not.”

He turned to the Medicus. “This is the sort of thing I was telling you about earlier. False rumors. Cursing in public places. Vindictive behavior. I wasn’t even at home that day.”

That, of course, meant nothing at all. He could still have sent the message and ordered the murder. She said, “Asper thought you wanted to talk about-” She stopped. Outside in the hall, an old woman was shouting in British for help.

As they all leapt to their feet, Caratius was saying, “Please don’t disturb yourselves!” and heading for the door. It burst open before he got there. A little woman with sparse white hair was shouting in a cracked voice, “They are here! Warriors in the woods!”

Caratius moved to put himself between her and his guests. He said in British, “It’s all right, mother.” He took hold of one thin arm and tried to steer her back out of the room. “They’re just guards from town rounding up a loose horse. They won’t hurt anybody. Mother, have you been hiding food again?”

“Let go of my bag!” Her hands were like claws, clutching a grimy sack to her chest. “I need my bag!”

The waft of roasting beef from the kitchen mingled with something more pungent.

“Just go to your room, mother. Nobody wants your bag. Where’s that dratted girl?”

The woman peered past him. “What are those people doing in my house? Are they the ones who took our silver?”

“They’re visiting, Mother. Guests come to share a meal. It’s nothing to worry about.”

A maid hurried in, flustered, and took the old woman by the arm. As she was led away she was still saying, “There are men in the woods!” and the maid was trying to reassure her.

Caratius turned to the Medicus. “I’m sorry. My mother is having a bad day.” He cleared his throat. “You may have understood her talking about stealing. Please don’t take offence. She’s not well.”

Tilla said, “Have you lost some silver?”

Caratius shook his head. “My mother remembers many things, but not in the right order. My grandfather’s stock of silver was lost sixty years ago. If it ever existed. I’m sorry you were disturbed.” He clapped his hands and a servant stepped out of the corner to stand at his shoulder. “We’ll have the beef.” He turned back to his guests. “Now, as I was saying…”

As he went back to talking about the Council, Tilla was distracted by a whispered conversation in the doorway behind her. The servant who was supposed to be fetching the beef hurried back into the room and murmured something into his master’s ear. Caratius hissed in British, “Can’t it wait?”

The servant did some more murmuring. Caratius’s body jolted as if someone had just shot an arrow into his back. He looked at the Medicus. Suddenly efficient, he said, “Investigator, you need to come with me.”

Before she could say anything, the Medicus gave her a look that said if she tried to follow, he would be very angry indeed. On the way out she heard Caratius giving someone orders to bring lanterns. She needed her shoes.

The hall was empty. Behind the farthest door she could hear the mother’s anxious voice and the maid still trying to calm her. The main door was open. Servants and farmworkers had clustered out in the yard. All had their backs to the house and were standing looking toward the darkening woods.

What had the servant done with her shoes?

As she entered the kitchen a tabby cat leapt off the table, onto the sill, and out the open window. The steaming joint of beef sat abandoned on the table in a pool of congealing grease. The platter held the small clean wipes of tongue marks.

She found the shoes set back from the fire. The damp leather was cold and clammy around her feet. She had just closed the window shutters to keep the cat out when Caratius’s mother wandered into the kitchen. The maid was close behind, looking almost as desperate as her charge. “Your little boy is a man now, mistress. He will make sure you are safe.”

“You’re lying to me!” insisted the mother. “Everybody lies to me. What have they done with my son? Where’s my bag? I saw the warriors!”

“Your bag is here, mistress. You have everything you need. Your son is safe. We’re all safe now. Come back and eat.”

“Where’s Father? Father is still down there. He thinks he can talk to them.”

The maid shot Tilla a look of despair across the gloom of the shuttered kitchen.

“Your Da is in the next world with mine, Mother,” Tilla assured her.

The woman backed away. “Who are you?”

“A friend,” Tilla told her. “Your Da and mine are in the next world talking about the breeding of horses and my brothers are arguing with them and my mother is asking why they always have to shout.”

“We don’t care about horses. Father is a silversmith. We live behind the workshop. Who are you?”

“She’s a friend, mistress,” said the maid.

“A friend?”

“Yes.”