David Wishart - Last Rites

Oh, hell.

A message having arrived from Camillus to say he’d be free to see me first thing, next morning I grabbed a quick breakfast and headed across town to the chief priest’s residence.

This was going to be a tough one. Young Marcus Lepidus might not be the murderer after all, but all the circumstantial evidence still pointed his way and the guy certainly had questions to answer. If he would answer them. That was the bummer. Not having any official standing, I couldn’t put any pressure on, especially since the kid was top-drawer patrician, but maybe Camillus could. He was a friend of the family, for a start, and the old-boy network has ways of dealing with scandals involving their own that have nothing to do with the due processes of law. They have to have. Over the last five hundred years they’ve had plenty of practice.

The other problem was a nagging one that wouldn’t go away, and it wasn’t connected with the actual murder; at least, not directly. Lepidus was broad-striper class, like the victim and, presumably, Cornelia’s killer. We were moving in high circles here. Only, if so, there were parts of the case that didn’t square up because they didn’t belong in the broad-striper world at all. The knife, for a start. Like Perilla had said, in the context it didn’t make sense; a knife like that wasn’t a broad-striper tool, even as a once-off murder weapon. It was the sort of cheap rubbish you’d find in the belt of a punter from the Aventine slums who queued every day for his grain dole and used the thing for slicing cookshop sausage. If it had been brought specially to do the killing, which seemed more than likely, then squaring the whys and wherefores was a real bugger.

Second was the whole fluteplayer business. For it to work, for Lepidus to be able to bluff his way into the Galba house, he needed an in with the fluteplayers’ guild at grass-roots level. He’d have to know how the booking system worked and which particular girls would be playing at the rites. More, even if he knew the names he’d have to have some sort of personal contact with the girl whose place he was taking because otherwise he couldn’t have squared it with her, especially if the thing had been arranged at such short notice. None of that was broad-striper country; yet it had to have been possible for the whole scam to work. All of which meant that even with the phantom flutegirl angle stitched up firm from the other end I still needed to talk to Thalia. Which was yet another bugger: where the hell was she? Fluteplayers can’t afford to pass up invitations from well-heeled clients, especially when they pay in advance, but it seemed that that was just what the girl was doing. And that smelled. After my visit to Camillus I’d have to drop in at the guildhouse for a third word with Celer.

I knocked on Camillus’s door and the slave let me in, looking more Jupiter-like than ever. Camillus was in his study. The guy looked tired.

‘Good morning, Corvinus,’ he said. ‘You wanted to see me?’

‘Yeah.’ I pulled up a stool.

‘There have been developments, I take it.’

‘Yeah. I can put a name to our fluteplayer friend.’

‘Really?’ His eyes sharpened. ‘Who was he?’

This was the tricky bit. ‘You’ve talked to Junia Torquata?’ I said.

‘No. Not since we last spoke. I’ve been very busy. So has she, arranging a repeat of the rites.’

Damn, I was hoping Torquata might’ve softened the old guy up. Lepidus was a big name, and, like I say, Camillus and the kid’s father were friends. I had to take this slowly. ‘Seemingly Cornelia was seeing someone on a regular basis.’

He stiffened. ‘“Seeing” someone?’

‘Not in the sexual sense. Or at least I don’t think so. But there was definitely a… friendship. Going back a long way. The man took the place of one of the flutegirls at the ceremony so he could talk to her.’

Camillus’s mouth was a hard line. ‘Go on.’

‘I’m not sure what happened next. Sure, the guy could be the killer, but I’ve talked to him and I think profaning the rites is all he’s really guilty of.’

‘That is bad enough, Corvinus. His name, please.’

I hesitated. ‘If you don’t mind, sir, I won’t tell you that yet. Bear with me, okay?’

His brows came down. I thought he was going to object but he just said, ‘Very well. Cornelia knew that this man was in the house? During the ceremony?’

‘No. At least, again I don’t think so. The whole idea was his, and like I say he only wanted to talk. When she left the room he followed her, using the outside route to the back hall.’

‘Talk about what?’

‘That’s what I don’t know, sir, and what I’m hoping you can find out for me because you know the man’s family. In the event, the conversation never happened. When he found her Cornelia was already dead and the murderer had left by the back door. I think then he probably panicked and slipped out himself.’

‘I see.’ There was a wax tablet on the desk beside Camillus’s hand. His fingers played with the laces. He wasn’t looking at me. ‘Now. The man’s name, please.’

There wasn’t any reason not to tell him. Not now the preliminary spadework was finished. ‘Marcus Aemilius Lepidus,’ I said.

I’d been expecting a reaction, but Camillus just grunted and nodded. He stood up, slowly and painfully, like he was closer to seventy than sixty.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I thought that might be who you meant. You truly, honestly believe he did not commit the murder?’

‘Like I say, it’s possible, but I doubt it.’ I felt uneasy; there was something screwy here, and I didn’t know what it was. The guy was taking this far too well. Or, no, that wasn’t it; he’d gone… quiet was the right word. Quiet and gentle. ‘Lepidus was fond of Cornelia. More than fond. He had no reason to murder her.’

Another nod; Camillus had his back to me. He was inspecting the titles of the books on the rack behind the desk. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Marcus Lepidus wouldn’t have harmed the girl. That’s only my personal belief, of course, but I’m glad to hear you confirm it.’

I cleared my throat. ‘He won’t talk to me,’ I said. ‘All the same, I think he knows who the killer is. Or if not at least whatever the secret he shared with Cornelia was it’d give us a lead. If you can get him to tell you we might be able to wrap this thing up. Sure, he’ll be in trouble over the sacrilege, but -’

‘The sacrilege is academic now, Corvinus.’ Camillus spoke very softly. ‘And I’m afraid I can’t help you with the secret, and nor can he. You see, yesterday evening Marcus Lepidus killed himself.’

Oh, gods. Sweet, immortal gods.

Bad time or not, bad form or not, it had to be the Quirinal next. The front of the Aemilius Lepidus house had as many cypress branches hung up on it as would’ve equipped a decent-sized forest, but I knocked on the door anyway. It was opened by the same slave as before, only this time he had a chunk of his forelock missing.

‘Uh, I’m sorry for the intrusion,’ I said, ‘but would it be possible to have a word with Marcus Aemilius Lepidus? Senior, that is.’ I bit my tongue as soon as the words were out. Gods, how crass can you get?

The guy just looked at me. I had the distinct impression that he wanted to spit in my face, but instead he turned and went back inside without a word, leaving the door open. I kicked my heels by the marble pillars for a good five minutes before he came back.

‘The master will see you, Valerius Corvinus,’ he said. ‘He’s in his study. Follow me, please.’

The atrium was a shock. I should’ve expected it, sure – the Aemilii Lepidi do these things properly, in the traditional way – but it was still a shock. They’d put him on a couch with his feet to the door, covered with an embroidered cloth to the chin so there was no sign of how he’d died. The slave stopped and handed me a pair of shears, then waited while I cut off the obligatory lock of hair, laid it in the basket beside the corpse and burned a pinch of incense on the brazier. Then he went on.