David Wishart - Last Rites

Perilla was staring at me open-mouthed, horror-struck; obviously it did. ‘Oh, Marcus!’ she said.

‘Yeah. Yeah, right. That’s exactly what I thought.’

‘Clodius Pulcher!’

Trust Perilla to go for the historical parallel straight off, even if it was the obvious one; so obvious that even I’d drawn it. Young Clodius Pulcher had been a well-born dandy about a hundred years back. He’d had the hots for Julius Caesar’s wife – some people said it was mutual – and he’d dressed up as a flutegirl to gatecrash the rites of the Good Goddess held that year at Caesar’s house. Pulcher had been caught, sure, but although he’d got off the subsequent sacrilege rap by bribing the jury the scandal had stunk so much you could still smell it four generations down the road. One got you ten history had just repeated itself; at least partly so. I’d bet a jar of imperial Caecuban to a used bunion plaster that our phantom flutegirl – and so the murderer – had been a man.

‘But this is appalling!’ Perilla was still in shock. ‘It means the rites were profaned! Does Torquata know yet?’

I blinked. Damn; that aspect of things I hadn’t thought of. The chief Vestal would burst a blood vessel. ‘No. That’s a pleasure in store,’ I said. ‘And as far as the murder’s concerned it opens up a whole new can of worms. Like who was he and what the hell was going on.’

‘So what was going on, do you think?’

‘The gods only know.’ I took a swallow of wine. ‘Okay. Let’s consider the angles. The whys first. What was the guy doing gatecrashing the rites to begin with?’

‘But that’s obvious. He came to murder Cornelia. Why we may not know, but -’

‘Hang on. It’s not that simple. Maybe he did, but there are other possibilities. For a start, what’s wrong with taking the Clodius Pulcher line to its logical conclusion?’

Perilla sat up. ‘You’re saying he had an assignation with the senior consul’s wife? In her own house, during one of the most sacred ceremonies of the religious year? Corvinus, have you taken leave of your senses? This isn’t -’

‘With her or one of the other ladies, sure. But Aemilia’s a prime candidate. That sweet little bubblehead’s got an itch in her girdle, take my word for it. And from all accounts Galba’s no Hercules. Maybe she’s not scratching yet but it isn’t for the want of trying.’

‘That is wineshop bilge! You have absolutely no grounds for accusing Sulpicius Galba’s wife of infidelity!’

I shrugged. ‘Okay. True. But it would explain a lot. It’d get Cornelia off the hook, for one thing.’

‘Quite.’ Perilla sniffed. ‘Cornelia. She was the one who was murdered, after all. Or has that slipped what I can only loosely term your mind?’

Jupiter on a seesaw! ‘Lady, if you’ll just get off your high horse for one minute and shut up so I can explain then maybe we’ll get somewhere, okay? I’m as much in the dark as you are, but we won’t solve this thing by ignoring possibilities. Or calling each other names, for that matter.’

Perilla coloured up, then ducked her head. ‘Very well, Marcus. You’re quite correct. I’m sorry. Carry on.’

‘Right.’ I took an inspirationary belt of Setinian. ‘Let’s say the guy – call him X – has made an arrangement with Aemilia to scratch the lady’s itch for her. Despite what you said, Perilla, if you ignore the sacrilege aspect the situation’s ideal. She’s in her own home and she’s her own boss, on the one night of the year when she can be sure her husband’s not going to walk in at an embarrassing moment waving a horsewhip and demanding a divorce. More, the thought that his wife might be using her evening off to press the sheets with some young stud who has more under his belt than he does doesn’t even cross Galba’s tiny mind, because it’s an all-women shindig.’

‘Corvinus, don’t be crude, please; it isn’t necessary. Just give me the theory.’

I grinned. ‘Okay. Sorry. Anyway, that’s the other thing. When the rite itself is finished and the eating and drinking start, not to mention the sleep-over, no one’s going to notice where anyone else is, and no one’s going to care, either, because what’s the point? The house is sealed until dawn, they’re all girls together and the chances for an extramarital tumble upstairs are zero because there ain’t no men around to fill the other half of the bed.’

‘You’re beginning to convince me,’ Perilla said slowly. ‘Stop it.’

I grinned again and kissed her nose. ‘Yeah. Fine. So X has planned a rendezvous with Mrs Galba. He’s inside, he’s off and running. At the prearranged hour he slips out into the garden and round to the hall door. Either they’re going to slake their burning passion in one of the spare bedrooms off the hall or – more likely – he’s going to use the back staircase and nip up to Aemilia’s own room while the lady herself takes the corridor stairs when her duties allow her to retire gracefully to bed. Only at that point something screws up.’

‘Cornelia sees him,’ Perilla said. ‘Marcus, this really is beginning to sound rather plausible.’

‘Right. It’d mean she came the wrong way out of the latrine, sure, but maybe she heard him moving around and got curious. Or maybe she was just curious anyway and was taking a look round the back reaches of the property. In any event she sees X climbing the stairs, or about to, and -’

‘Wait a moment. Why doesn’t she give the alarm? Or run back to the atrium?’

‘Why should she? What she sees is only a flutegirl, remember. Maybe the girl’s lost, maybe she’s been sent on an errand. In any case all the situation demands is for Cornelia to order her back and send her down the corridor to where she belongs. There’s no need to go overboard.’

‘Very well. So what happened next?’

‘Now we come to the tricky bit. I don’t know; I honestly don’t know. Maybe from that close range she saw through his disguise. She may even have known the man’s name, if he was out of the top social drawer. Anyway, the upshot is that X panics. He grabs Cornelia and hustles her into the nearest bedroom which is only a step or two away opposite the staircase. Then he draws his knife and stabs her. He’s -’

‘Wait a moment. Why would he be carrying a knife?’

I frowned. ‘What?’

‘X is on a romantic assignment. Also, he’s disguised as a flutegirl, and as you are well aware flutegirls’ costumes are on the skimpy side. Why should he have provided himself from the outset with a weapon he didn’t envisage using?’

‘Shit, Perilla, I don’t know! Maybe he took it in case there was trouble.’

‘In a household full of women? Who would he be planning to use it against?’ She sniffed. ‘Hardly chivalrous behaviour, is it?’

‘Jupiter, the guy’s a murderer!’

‘Not yet he isn’t.’

‘Added to which, lady, some men are unchivalrous by nature. While others have unchivalry thrust upon them by their smartass bloody wives raising smartass bloody objections to a perfectly good theory.’

‘There’s no such word as unchivalry, Corvinus; the objection is a valid one; and don’t swear just because you’re losing an argument.’

Hell; she had a point. The knife – particularly that knife – was a major stumbling-block. Not that there mightn’t be an explanation; it was just I hadn’t got it yet. ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Let’s call a truce on the knife and finish the scenario.’

‘Very well.’ Perilla settled back against the cushions.

‘X is stymied. Sure, Cornelia hasn’t had a chance to yell, but it’s only a matter of time before someone finds the body. There’s no point, of course, in going through with the original plan of meeting up with Aemilia, and for equally obvious reasons he’d be a fool to go back to the party. Besides, judging by the amount of blood on the bedroom floor he must be covered with the stuff. So X doesn’t stick around. He pulls the bolts on the back door and slips off into the night.’ I took a satisfied swallow of wine. ‘So. There you are. Theory number one. What do you think?’