David Wishart - Last Rites

‘I’ll tell you this much,’ he said when I’d finished. ‘The murderer’s no amateur. Whoever killed her did a good job. Very neat, very professional. And if you’re looking for someone who can play the flute as well as he can slice throats then the field’s pretty limited. Fluteplaying knifemen aren’t exactly thick on the ground.’

Yeah; I’d worked that out for myself. But it still left us with a stack of unanswered questions. The guy could be a know-nothing hireling in the pay of someone who did have a motive, sure: that would make a lot of sense and solve a lot of problems with the theory at the same time. The fly in the ointment was you don’t hire fluteplaying killers just by painting an ad on a wall in Cattlemarket Square, and like Lippillus had said they don’t exactly form a significant percentage of Rome’s criminal classes. If our bogus fluteplayer hadn’t been acting for himself then the man behind him needed to have pre-existing connections, especially if – as it had to have been – the killing was set up at short notice. And in that case then one name led all the rest.

Forget actual motive for the moment, because we couldn’t even guess at that anyway. Who did we know who moved in high circles, who knew the geography of the Galba house, who had access through his wife to the musicians’ list for the evening and who, according to rumour as reported by sleaze-ball Caelius Crispus, fraternised with male fluteplayers?

Right. The senior consul, Servius Sulpicius Galba.

‘Corvinus?’ Lippillus was looking at me. ‘You okay?’

‘Sure.’ I could hear bumping and shuffling on the landing outside; the guys arriving with the stretcher, no doubt. I glanced out of the window. The sun was almost on the horizon; far too late now to hike halfway across Rome for another talk with Celer – or maybe Aegle would be a better bet – and there was nothing more I could do here. The next stage was to scare up a few male proponents of the fluteplayers’ guild and ask them some very pointed questions. ‘I’ll catch you later, Lippillus, right? Any news, you know where to find me.’

‘You don’t want to split a jug?’

‘Sorry. Not today, pal. It’s too near dinner, and if you don’t give Meton three days’ warning in advance that you’ll be late for the rissoles you’re talking serious repercussions.’

If I could eat anything after finally tracking Thalia down, of course. But the walk to the Caelian might bring my appetite back.

At least when I got outside the rain had stopped.

‘But, Marcus, why? ’ Perilla shelled a quail’s egg. ‘Why on earth should Galba want the girl dead? It makes no sense whatsoever.’

I shrugged and reached for a stuffed olive. ‘I don’t know. But if the killer was a proper fluteplayer then Galba’s a better proposition than most.’

‘Surely that very much depends on who your “most” are.’

True, unfortunately. ‘Yeah. That’s the problem. We’ve got no suspects, or rather no actual names. None that’s better than another, anyway. Sure, we know why Cornelia died, or at least we think we do: Lepidus told her something which presumably seriously compromised whoever arranged the killing, and she was on the point of letting the cat out of the bag. Okay. So now with our fluteplayer just a hired killer and the murder done be proxy the field’s wide open. Completely so. The guy – or the woman – responsible didn’t even have to be at the ceremony themselves any more.’

‘All right.’ Perilla dipped the egg in fish sauce. ‘In that case why not start at the other end, with Lepidus. What could the secret have been?’

I put the olive down. ‘Jupiter, lady! The guy was running around with half the blue-bloods in Rome! You like to guess how many skeletons there are currently propped against the inside of upper-crust cupboard doors waiting to fall out?’

‘Emaciated enough to kill for?’

‘Maybe. How do you decide that?’

Perilla frowned and bit into her egg. ‘Yes. Yes, I suppose you’re right. Very well. If not what, then who. Who did it concern?’

‘Same problem. These guys aren’t lily-white innocents, and some of the things they get up to would make your hair curl. It could be anyone.’

‘Not quite. Murdering a Vestal – or arranging to have one murdered – does argue considerable… desperation. And very strong character. In fact, the young man’s own family would be the logical starting place. The sister, I’ve heard, has quite a reputation.’

I’d been lifting my cup for a slug of Setinian. I put it down slowly.

‘Lepida?’ I said.

‘Why not? She would certainly be a better candidate than Sulpicius Galba, wouldn’t she?’

‘Yeah, but -’ I stopped. I’d been going to say that Lepida hadn’t been at the rites, but of course that wouldn’t matter now; in fact, if she’d known there was going to be trouble she might well have stayed away intentionally. She had the nerve for murder, too, at first- or second-hand; and I’d bet a dozen of Caecuban to a bunion plaster that there were enough skeletons locked away in her closet to stock an ossuary. So all being equal, character-wise, Lepida was a reasonable bet. More than reasonable. Motive, however, was another matter entirely. ‘Okay, lady,’ I said. ‘Go on. Why should it be Lepida?’

‘For one thing, she’s the common factor linking her brother and Cornelia. He’d be more likely to pass on something concerning her than anyone else. And, naturally, there would be no problem about how he came upon the information.’

I shook my head. ‘Uh-uh. Wrong; that won’t work. They hated each other’s guts, or at least that was the impression I got, from both sides. The Lepidi don’t exactly share their little hopes and fears over the breakfast porridge, and Marcus Lepidus wouldn’t necessarily have known any more about his sister’s private life than she knew about his. He probably wouldn’t’ve cared, either.’

‘Mmm.’ Perilla wiped her fingers carefully on her napkin. The lady didn’t look happy, but then she’s never liked having her own pet theories squashed. ‘Still, they were brother and sister. That would explain, wouldn’t it, why both Lepidus and Cornelia hesitated about making the matter public. Whatever it was.’

Family loyalty. Yeah, I’d believe that. These big names might fight tooth and nail among themselves but when there was a danger of the lid coming off the dirty linen basket they tended to close ranks and mouths pretty smartly. And it would explain Lepidus’s message to me, too: There are some things worse than murder . Like blowing the whistle publicly on another member of the clan, for example. The old family code. Still, he hadn’t told his father, either: Lepidus Senior hadn’t known the secret, of that I was sure. At least – hold that – he’d said, and been ready to swear to the fact, that his son hadn’t told him anything, which didn’t necessarily mean he didn’t know already off his own bat…

Or did it? I couldn’t remember the old guy’s actual words, but I had the distinct impression Lepidus Senior had denied all knowledge, from whatever source. Categorically. And if the secret concerned his sister, then why should Lepidus tell Cornelia but not his father? Unless, of course, he’d done just that, for reasons of his own that I couldn’t begin to guess at…

Hell; we were in a maze here. Leave it.

‘There’s one other problem,’ I said. ‘Our fluteplayer. If Lepida was behind this, then where did she get him from? Fast lady or not, she’s still broad-striper class and he’s specialist low-level merchandise. Added to which, how did she know enough about the arrangements for the musicians to fix the swap with Thalia?’

‘Assuming she did recruit him somehow, he could have found out for himself. He may even have known Thalia already. Or perhaps Lepida got the list from Aemilia. You say they were friends. Acquaintances, rather.’