David Wishart - Last Rites

That was in the Temple of Saturn, across Capitol Incline from the Treasury and a stone’s throw from the House of the Vestals. Back where I’d started out from this morning, in other words. And Thalia’s flat, of course, was down beyond the Circus, the far side of Public Ponds, near the Capenan Gate. Well, I was certainly getting my share of walking today. If this was lunch then I’d better finish it. I took a bite of the sausage and chewed. Not bad, but they’d overdone the cumin. ‘You ever play for a client called Marcus Aemilius Lepidus, by the way?’ I asked.

‘The son or the father?’

‘The son.’

She picked up her spoon and began eating again. ‘Yes. Just the once. A dinner party in the Lepidus house.’

‘Just the once?’

‘My face didn’t fit. Literally. Or almost literally.’ Like it had been the last time she’d referred to her birthmark her voice was matter-of-fact. ‘“Dinner party”’s the wrong phrase. There wasn’t much food; not much conversation, either. Aemilius Lepidus’s friends aren’t the talking type.’ She shrugged. ‘It paid well, though.’

‘When was this?’

‘Three months ago? Four? I can’t remember.’

‘Was Thalia there?’

She gave me a suspicious look over her rissole. ‘What’s this about, Corvinus? I mean, seriously.’

‘Nothing. Just making conversation.’ I was; I already knew Lepidus had a connection with Thalia, and I’ve never enjoyed eating in silence.

‘Uh-huh.’ She bit into the rissole. ‘Okay, yes, Thalia was there. She went with young Lepidus, in fact. We were one for each of them. Only mine decided he’d have one of the servants instead.’

‘Girl?’

‘Boy.’

‘Ah.’ I took a spoonful of beans. ‘You know Lepidus played the flute?’

She spat out a fragment of stone. You have to be careful with cookshop rissoles; the silicate content tends to be pretty high and an incautious chew can lose you half a molar. ‘Yeah. He favoured us with a tootle or two before he and his pals got stuck in. To coin a phrase.’

‘“Tootle”?’

‘That’s the word. Oh, don’t get me wrong; he wasn’t bad for an amateur, especially a purple-striper amateur. Not bad at all. You could see he’d been well taught. But he was a counter, not a natural. He could hold a tune but he’d no real flair.’

Something cold was brushing the nape of my neck. ‘You’re sure?’

‘Sure I’m sure. The guy was drunk at the time, but that wouldn’t’ve mattered, it would’ve made for a bum note or two, that’s all. His phrasing was rubbish, and I don’t just mean now and again. Any professional would’ve curled up and died.’ She frowned. ‘Hold on. You said “played”.’

‘What?’ My brain had gone numb and taken my ears with it.

‘“Played.” Past tense, not present. You asked if Lepidus played the flute. You mean he’s dead?’

Jupiter! The girl was smart! ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘He’s dead. As of last night. He killed himself.’

She set down her spoon again. ‘But that’s terrible! Why?’

I hesitated. ‘He thought he was responsible for the death of the Vestal.’

‘Why should he think that?’

‘He’d arranged to meet her. In the Galba house, after the rite.’

She was staring at me. ‘But that’s impossible! He wouldn’t’ve been allowed in! The house was sealed until dawn!’

‘Lepidus was your substitute flutegirl. The one who took Thalia’s place.’

Aegle’s mouth opened. Then she laughed. ‘You think… Flora, Corvinus, you’re serious? You’re actually serious?’

‘Sure I’m serious.’

‘But that’s crazy! I told you before, that girl could play! And you think I could sit next to Aemilius Lepidus and not recognise him?’

‘Uh…’ Oh, Jupiter Best and Greatest!

‘Corvinus, you are really something, you know that? I’m not blind. The girl could’ve been a man, sure, easy, no problem at all, she was butch enough. But whoever the guy was, he wasn’t Aemilius Lepidus.’

I left the cookshop and headed down Suburan Street towards the Argiletum and Market Square. It was beginning to rain, and the city looked as miserable as I felt. So. We were back almost where we’d started, with X being both the phoney flutegirl and the murderer. I didn’t doubt what Aegle had said: she might’ve missed Lepidus under all that make-up, sure, especially if she wasn’t expecting a man in disguise and she’d only seen him once, but she wouldn’t’ve made a mistake about the playing. When a real professional gives you their opinion, you listen, and the girl was professional to her henna’d fingertips.

So where did that leave us? As far as I could see, up the creek without a paddle. If the guy had been the killer but hadn’t been Aemilius Lepidus then who the hell was he? Why the hell was he? And why, if he hadn’t gatecrashed the rites, did Lepidus still feel responsible enough for Cornelia’s death to stick a sword between his ribs? The ‘secret’, sure, but I was no further forward with finding out what that had been than I was with anything else. Two things were certain: one, the murderer was as much a professional as Aegle, which meant scratch the disguised purple-striper theory; and two, Thalia was still the key. Our fluteplayer had used her name, and the two had obviously been connected in some way. And I had a bad feeling about Thalia.

There are some crimes worse than murder. That was something to think about as well.

I ran up the steps of the Temple of Saturn and went into the citizen registration office adjoining it. The place was pretty quiet that time of day, and in the entrance hall I stopped a thin clerk with an armful of wax tablets and a preoccupied expression.

‘Where can I find Valgius, pal?’ I said.

‘Publius Valgius?’ The clerk nodded towards one of the side rooms. ‘He’s H to N. In there.’

The room had half a dozen clerks. The first pointed me towards a tubby little plain-mantler in the corner who was busy transferring names from tablet to roll. I went over and he looked up.

‘You Publius Valgius?’ I said.

‘Yes. That’s me. How can I help you, sir?’ Jupiter! Standby boyfriend was right; the guy must’ve been forty if he was a day, and he could’ve doubled for an ink-stained pigeon in moult.

‘You know a flutegirl called Thalia?’

His eyes took on a guarded look. ‘We see each other on and off, yes.’

‘That include the last few days?’

‘Wait a moment, sir.’ He set his pen down on the desk. ‘Exactly who are you, and what’s this about?’

I gave him my name; all four bits, because that might distract him from pushing too hard for an answer to his second question. ‘I’ve been trying to get in touch with her, that’s all. One of her colleagues said you might be able to help me.’

‘Uh-huh.’ The guarded look increased. ‘This would be a – uh – professional matter, would it? In which case, I’d suggest you call in at the guildhouse and talk to Celer. There’re plenty of other girls on his books.’

‘Not professional.’ I was grinning internally; I recognised jealousy when I saw it, and the guy was practically green. I’d the distinct impression that I wasn’t the first to make enquiries about sweet little Thalia, and that Valgius wasn’t too keen on agenting, especially with purple-striper clients. ‘Not in any sense. No hassle, pal. I just want some information about the night of the Good Goddess rite.’

He relaxed. ‘Then I can’t help you, Valerius Corvinus. I don’t know anything about Thalia’s professional life. Try Celer.’

‘I’ve already done that. She hasn’t been around recently.’

‘But if she was at the Good Goddess rite then -’