David Wishart - White Murder

‘Appointment I wouldn’t know about. He just said he’d be busy and I assumed it had something to do with his work at the racing stables. He’s a professional charioteer, you know. Quite a famous one.’

‘Yeah. Yeah, I know.’ My brain was humming. Dear gods! There went Uranius’s alibi in spades! And not only that; he’d known for at least six days prior to the twenty-fourth that he wouldn’t be able to make the meeting and hadn’t let on to anyone what his alternative plans were. ‘He make a habit of missing sessions, or was it a one-off?’

‘It happens, now and again. In everyone’s case, excluding mine, although Uranius is always very conscientious about warning me in advance. Sometimes we rearrange the date or cancel, but mostly we go ahead with just the three of us. Which we did on that occasion.’ The guy’s voice had taken on an edge. ‘Valerius Corvinus, I’ve been very patient. What exactly is this all about? Uranius isn’t in trouble, is he?’

‘No. No.’ I hoped he couldn’t read the lie on my face, but I wouldn’t’ve bet on it. ‘He probably was at the stables right enough.’

‘Then perhaps you could answer my first question. What’s your interest in my friend Uranius’s movements?’

Well, there wasn’t any reason not to tell him. ‘I’m looking into a murder. One of the other White drivers. A guy called Pegasus.’

Silvius sat back. ‘Ah,’ he said. He didn’t look happy.

‘You’ve heard of him?’

‘As a driver, certainly. From Uranius, too, yes. Not a very nice man, as I understand.’

‘Most people seem generally agreed on that, yeah.’

‘And he was killed – presumably – the same afternoon as our practice?’ I didn’t say anything: given the circumstances, it was a logical assumption to make. ‘Corvinus, you’re very lucky. If I’d known that fact before you arrived I would have lied to you with absolutely no compunction whatsoever. As it is, I’ll tell you categorically that Uranius wouldn’t harm anyone. He may not look it, but he is a very gentle man. A gentleman, indeed.’ His lips twisted. ‘Slave or not, Uranius is a gentleman. Now if you have no further questions…’

The atmosphere had turned definitely chilly, and I had the distinct feeling that I’d outstayed my welcome. ‘I’m sure it’ll all work out,’ I said, getting up. Like hell I was. ‘Gentleman’ or not, if Uranius hadn’t been over on Iugarius shoving a knife into Pegasus then where had he been? And why the big secret? ‘In any case, I won’t take up any more of your time. Thanks a lot, friend.’

‘Time is something I have a great deal of, certainly too much to worry about anyone taking it up. And I don’t believe I want your thanks. Nor do I consider us friends.’

‘No.’ I felt, suddenly, tired. ‘No, you probably don’t, on either count. But I appreciate the help anyway.’

He didn’t answer. I let myself out and closed the door after me.

Okay; so Gentleman Uranius wasn’t off the hook yet, not by a long way. Still, I’d been impressed by how far Silvius had been prepared to go to defend him, and it certainly chimed with all the other reports. Despite the business of the phantom rehearsal, I’d be almost ready to call the guy a red herring and throw him back, only on the evidence of my interview with him I’d bet a flask of imperial Caecuban to a worn copper piece that he had something to contribute. To do with the case, I mean, not some little personal secret he was keeping schtum on for reasons of his own. I’d used the word ‘appointment’ with Silvius. That hadn’t been intentional, but maybe my subconscious had been working: we still had the problem of who Pegasus had been planning to meet in Renatius’s. If Uranius had known six days in advance that he’d miss the choir practice…

No; that horse wouldn’t run. They may’ve got on as well as two dogs over the same dinner dish, but Pegasus and Uranius were both Whites drivers; they saw each other every day, or they could’ve done, and if one of them wanted to talk to the other then there wouldn’t’ve been any reason to make clandestine arrangements. Unless of course Uranius had somehow suckered Pegasus into thinking he’d be meeting someone else…

That thought stopped me, but I put it to one side for the present. Ah, hell; we’d get to the truth eventually, and there was no point theorising in a vacuum. The fact remained that the guy was hiding something, and I couldn’t rule him out until I knew what it was.

I’d have to have another little talk with Uranius.

The weather was still holding when I got back to the Caelian. Bathyllus was outside the front door, buffing up the knocker. He did a double-take when he saw me.

‘You’re early, sir,’ he said.

‘Yeah. It’s getting to be a habit.’ Well, another trip uptown to the stables would’ve put me in grave danger of missing Meton’s dinner deadline, and I’d done enough for one day. Besides, I had my domestic responsibilities to consider. ‘Uh…how are you, sunshine?’

Bathyllus gave me what only amounted to a quarter-major-domo- power sniff. ‘Much as usual, sir. Shouldn’t I be?’

Hell; I wouldn’t get a better chance, despite Perilla’s warnings. ‘Since you mention it, little guy -’

I stopped. Bathyllus wasn’t listening. The cleaning rag drooped from his hand and he was staring past my shoulder with an expression on his face like a calf with a belly-ache. I turned round.

The door of the next house -Petillius’s place – had opened and a woman had come out. Alexis hadn’t been kidding: large was right, and it was the first word that came to mind. Housekeepers don’t come small as a rule – the kitchen pickings are too lavish – but this one would’ve tipped the scales at two hundred pounds, easy. She didn’t so much walk towards us as roll in state, like Cleopatra’s barge coming into dock.

‘Afternoon, Bathyllus,’ she said. ‘Lovely weather, isn’t it?’

I glanced at the guy. You could’ve used his face to roast chestnuts, and he was hissing slightly. ‘You want to answer the lady, pal?’ I murmured. ‘Quickly, for preference?’

The hissing stopped, but the colouring went up a notch. He swallowed and gave a sickly grin. I winced: grins and Bathyllus just don’t go together. ‘Yes!’ he squeaked. ‘Delightful! Quite spring-like!’

Oh, Jupiter in a bucket! Whatever chat-up lines Paris had used on Helen when she’d come sailing out of the Spartan royal palace I’d bet a sturgeon to a sardine that that wasn’t one of them. I nudged our Trojan hero manqué in the ribs, but it seemed that was all we were going to get this side of the Greek Kalends.

‘Uh…you’re Tyndaris, right?’ I said. ‘Petillius’s new housekeeper?’

‘I am, sir.’ She dimpled in three of her four chins. Not a bad looker, by any means, facially; there was just a hell of a lot of her. Twice what there was of Bathyllus, for a start. ‘And you’re Valerius Corvinus, no doubt. Master’s mentioned you several times.’

Yeah; probably, from the brittle brightness of her tone, with the prefixed phrase ‘that wine-soaked bugger next door’. If we got on okay with our new neighbour above the level of the bought help it was largely because of a live-and-let-live policy. Petillius might be a big, jolly, florid-faced man who’d double the clientele in a month on looks alone if he ever took on the running of a wineshop but he was a convinced water-drinker with a down on wine that would’ve beaten Demosthenes’s hollow. The first time I’d seen him our kitchen brigade were loading up the cart with a month’s worth of empty wine jars bound for disposal on Pottery Mountain, and the look I’d got would’ve fried a rissole. First impressions count. Ever since then, the best I’d been able to expect was a slight nod. Blink, and you’d miss even that.