David Wishart - White Murder

‘Yeah. He was stabbed yesterday in an alley off Iugarius. You didn’t know?’

The guy shook his head. ‘I’m sorry to hear it. He may’ve gone over to the Whites but he was a fine driver. A joy to watch.’

‘He come in here often?’

I’d made the question sound casual, but I could feel a shift in the atmosphere.

‘When he was with the Team, sure,’ the landlord Pinnius said, and I could just hear the capital letter: for Pinnius there could only be one Team. ‘Not since he made the switch.’

His voice was guarded, and I noticed that Cascellius had suddenly become interested in his winecup.

There was something screwy here. I took a bite of the sausage and chewed on it. That was okay, too, if you managed to rid yourself of the suspicion that the beast who’d contributed the meat part of it might’ve brayed rather than gone oink. ‘Uh…I’m told he was involved in a brawl here about six months back. With another Green. A guy called Sopilys.’

Screwy was right: you could’ve carved your name on the silence with a chisel. Cascellius was still staring into his winecup like it was a fortune-teller’s scrying glass. Pinnius had gone back to polishing the counter. Finally he said: ‘Yeah. That’s right. Not inside, though. On the pavement. And Sopilys was no Green. Not technically, anyhow.’

I let that last bit go for the moment. ‘You care to tell me what happened?’

Pinnius shrugged. There was something aggressive about the movement, like he was within an ace of telling me to get lost. ‘Not much to tell. Pegasus had been in here drinking. He left, ran into Sopilys. Next thing, they’re punching hell out of each other. End of story.’

‘He was on his own?’

‘No. There were two or three other lads from the Team with him.’

‘Uhuh. And they broke it up, right?’ They would: faction solidarity. Especially if the other guy was the aggressor and ‘technically no Green’.

Pinnius hesitated. ‘No. Not exactly.’

Things went very still. ‘Just how not exactly is not exactly, friend?’ I said carefully.

‘It was a fair fight.’ The guy didn’t look happy. ‘They let it go to a finish.’

Jupiter! It didn’t make sense. Not any kind of sense. ‘So who won?’

‘Sopilys. He knocked Pegasus on his beam end and left him lying.’

‘Was he hurt?’

‘Two shiners, a bit of bruising. Nothing much. Like I said, they were only using their fists. The other lads took him home.’

‘Okay. So what was the fight about?’ Silence. ‘You said Sopilys wasn’t technically a Green. What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘He’d just been given the shove. He was one of the grooms.’

‘Uh-huh.’ I took a sip of the wine. ‘Was there a connection between the sacking and the fight?’

But that was obviously one question too many. Pinnius laid the cloth down carefully. ‘Look, friend,’ he said. ‘There’s something you have to understand. The Green lads come in here to drink. If they want to talk racing with me or any of the other customers then they do it, but they don’t volunteer information about what goes on inside the stables all that often and we don’t ask, we don’t speculate, and we sure as hell don’t discuss it with strangers. That way everyone’s happy. Okay?’

‘So you don’t know?’

‘I don’t know and I don’t want to know. Whatever the reason for the fight was, it was private business and it was settled private. You want any more, you talk to Sopilys yourself.’

‘I might just do that, friend,’ I said. ‘You happen to know where he might be at present?’

But I’d lost him; I’d lost both of them, because Cascellius wasn’t looking too friendly now either. Pinnius shrugged; this time it was definitely aggressive. ‘No idea,’ he said. ‘He’s not anywhere around here, anyway, that I can say. I haven’t seen him since.’

‘What about Pegasus? He come in here much after the punch-up? Between then and leaving the Greens?’

Another shrug. He had picked up the cloth again. ‘Can’t recall one way or the other,’ he muttered.

Hostile; definitely hostile, and tighter than a constipated oyster. I sighed. Bugger, there was definitely something screwy here, but I wasn’t going to get any further by asking questions, that was certain, because the temperature was dropping by the minute. I finished my wine and sausage quicker than I’d otherwise have done, paid up and left.

Outside, it was throwing it down even harder: the rain was bouncing off the pavement and gurgling between the crossing-stones. Shit: under these conditions, walking’s no fun, none at all. I broke my usual rule, took a chair from the rank in Vegetable-Sellers’ Square and went straight home.

Perilla had just finished lunch when I got in. I changed into another tunic – even the short walk from the Black Cat to the chair rank had left my cloak sodden – and carried Bathyllus’s welcome-home jug through to the dining room. At least the Setinian had been all present and correct this time, although I couldn’t say the same for Bathyllus. Whatever was eating the little guy, it was still chewing away, and he showed no signs of unburdening himself. Still, his eyes were bright enough, his nose was cold and moist and although he didn’t have any coat to be glossy his bald pate was shining as usual, so I wasn’t too worried.

‘Hey, lady.’ I kissed her and settled down on the couch. ‘How has your day been?’

‘Drier than yours, by the look of your hair. How are things going?’

‘Not bad. But these factions are something else. I’d bet there’s more backstairs intrigue goes on than happens up on the Palatine.’

‘So who did it?’

I glanced at her over my winecup. She looked back demurely and I grinned. ‘Cut it out, Perilla.’ Still, it was time to sit back and work out just what exactly we’d got so far. ‘You want to hear the story?’

‘Do I have an option?’

I ignored that one: she didn’t really mean it. ‘Let’s concentrate on motive, because that’s all we really have to go on at present.’ There was a plate of cold chickpeas with fennel on the table, practically untouched. I pulled it towards me and picked up a spoon. ‘The guy wasn’t liked, that’s obvious, either by his Whites teammates or the Greens.’

‘Start with the Whites.’ Perilla settled more comfortably against the arm of the couch.

‘Okay.’ I took a mouthful of chickpeas and spoke round them. ‘From their angle, Pegasus was an incomer from an opposition team. He put everybody’s nose out of joint, he had a reputation for dangerous driving and just before he joined the faction he’d run down and killed one of their sprinklers.’

‘Was it an accident?’

‘Sure, as far as I can tell, but the kid’s still dead. Those are the pluses, for what they’re worth. On the minus side, I have Cammius’s assurance that Pegasus practically carried the faction’s future along with him single-handed, and to be fair that’s a clincher. Everyone might’ve hated his guts, and probably did, but in this case simple hatred just isn’t motive enough.’

Perilla frowned. ‘That sounds a little sweeping, dear.’

I swallowed a mouthful of wine. ‘Lady, you don’t know these faction guys. I’d’ve said that too before this morning, but they’re something else. I’m rapidly coming to the conclusion that where racing goes obsession just isn’t the word. The faction comes first, middle and last.’

‘Hmm.’ Perilla helped herself to a stuffed olive. ‘All right. Leave the Whites. What about the other factions? If Pegasus was as important as you say then it would be in the opposition’s interest to get rid of him.’

‘Yeah. Right.’ I took another swallow. ‘That’s the line I’m working on. As I read it, they’re all possibles, although the motives are mixed. Even the Blues.’