David Wishart - Old Bones

'Here,' he said. 'What's this about?'

'I'm looking into a couple of murders as a favour to a relative.' I thought about pulling out my purse and then decided against it: the Secretary of the Lampmakers' Guild might get offended if I offered him a tip, and he was talkative enough already. 'I think your neighbour Bubo might've been involved.'

The smug expression came back. 'Murders, you say? I never thought he was in that league, but I wouldn't be surprised. This could be a revenge killing. Organised crime, even. They say there's a lot of it about.'

In Caeretan terms 'organised crime' could mean three men who shared the same crowbar. Still, if I wanted his tongue to keep wagging I had to humour the bugger. 'Yeah, I've heard that too,' I said. 'You happen to know if a guy called Titus Clusinus was a frequent visitor?'

'You think this Clusinus could've done it?' He was looking positively animated now.

'I doubt that, pal. But you don't recognise the name? Or maybe the description?' I gave him a thumbnail sketch of Clusinus, at least what I'd seen of him under his mud face-pack.

He shook his head, regretfully: I had the impression he'd've loved to have produced a diary with all Clusinus's visits noted down, the details of the heists the two had pulled together in red. 'I didn't know nothing about Bubo's business,' he said. 'But I can point you at someone who did. You go and talk to Pullia.'

'That's his wife?'

Smiler grinned. 'Nah. The wife's Arria Metella. She won't know nothing, he only married her for her connections. Pullia's the girlfriend. She's a -' he stopped. 'She works at the Cockerel in Half Moon Street near the baths.'

'I might just do that,' I said, turning to leave. 'Thanks for your help, friend.'

'Organised crime,' the guy called after me. 'Don't forget. This probably all hinges on organised crime.'

Well, even with Bubo murdered I couldn't complain about a lack of leads now, although how many of them would prove to be dead ends I didn't know. Also, there was the outside chance the guy's death had nothing to do with my business: a dealer in valuable goods working alone in his shop when all the other traders around him had packed in for the night is just asking for some local entrepreneur to drop in unexpectedly and close him down permanently. Still, it was strange that it should happen just when I'd got the guy's name and number…

I stopped. Shit, that was right! Okay, so maybe Titus Tolumnius had been playing straight when he'd pointed me in Bubo's direction, but the fact remained that the guy was already dead when Tolumnius had fingered him. The obvious question was, had he known? Because if he had then the odds on his being the murderer were pretty short. So. I could be being played for a sucker here. With Aulus Bubo definitely an ex Tolumnius's trade was no trade at all, I might be chasing rainbows, and with only seven days before Papatius's appointment with the praetor's rep that was not a smart position to be in.

On the plus side, at least Smiler had given me a name. If I couldn't talk to Bubo then at least I might be able to work out Clusinus's connection with him -if it existed – some other way.

Pullia would have to stand in line, though. I'd decided to put off talking to Gaius Aternius – there wasn't much I could do there, really, even if the guy was guilty, except rattle his cage to see if he jumped – but Arruns's pal Marcus Veluscius, whoever the hell he was, was a definite next step. All I could do at the moment was keep all the balls in the air for as long as possible and hope that when the dud ones finally fell there'd still be one left.

Three Heroes Street turned out to be the other end of town, in one of these quiet respectable districts where the houses aren't particularly grand but you get the impression that the residents have their slaves up before dawn scouring the doorstep and deadheading the roses. I asked one of the scourers and dead-headers – he was scooping up a pile of donkey manure at the time – for directions to Marcus Veluscius's place. He pointed me to a neat little property with chichi flowerpots along the wall and a knocker that positively gleamed.

The slave who answered the door gleamed too, like he'd just been laundered. I wondered if his drawers had creases in them.

'Yes, sir.' Smile.

'Someone called Marcus Veluscius live here, pal?' I said.

'Yes, sir. Indeed he does.' The smile widened, as if confirmation was a positive pleasure. He stepped back neatly, and his sandals squeaked on the fresh-scrubbed mosaic. Hercules cleaning the Augean stables, if you're interested. No joke; truth. 'Come in, please. Are you expected?'

'No. My name's Marcus Valerius Corvinus. Maybe you could tell your master that a man called Larcius Arruns sent me, and ask if I could take up a few minutes of his time.'

'Of course, sir. If you'd care to wait?' He hurried off at a pace that would've left Bathyllus nowhere. Impressive; slaves never run. Maybe I could take what he had, bottle it and feed it to the little guy. It'd certainly beat being sniffed at and sniped at all the time. But there again, maybe not; I had the idea that squeaky-clean bit of perfection would've had me climbing the walls inside of a month.

I looked round the entrance lobby. It fitted with the neighbourhood: nothing flashy, nothing expensive, but nothing particularly interesting or unusual, either; everything just…yeah, well, the word that sprang to mind was nice . It was a nice house, full stop.

The guy came back. 'The master's in the study, sir, if you'd like to follow me.'

I did. The slave showed me into a nice study with nice furniture and a nice, wrinkled old man sitting at a desk.

The bugger must've been pushing eighty. He was clean, though.

'Valerius Corvinus?' he quavered. 'I'm Marcus Veluscius. Pleased to meet you, sir. Have a seat.' I pulled up a chair. 'Candidus, bring us some wine, please.' Then, when Snow-White had vanished: 'You come from Larcius Arruns, I understand.'

'Yeah. He suggested I drop by and talk to you.' I had to lean forwards to hear him. 'Why I'm not quite sure, but I'm looking into three murders in Vetuliscum.'

'Murders?' The old guy's lips pursed; I got the impression that in this house murder was a four-letter word. 'Then I'm as puzzled as you are. I know nothing of any murders.'

'But you do know Arruns?'

'Of course. I knew him very well, in my working days. He comes from an old local family. A very old family. But murders? '

'Attus Navius.' I tried the names out on him, watching for a reaction. 'Titus Clusinus. And a Greek doctor by the name of Hilarion. The actual investigating officer's Gaius Aternius. He's the nephew of Mayor Cominius.'

'Ah.' Veluscius's lips pursed harder like he was sucking on a lemon. 'Aternius I also know. And Cominius, naturally. I knew Navius's father, but not the boy himself. Hilarion, no. But Clusinus, now. Clusinus rings a bell.'

'Yeah?' The hairs on my neck began to prickle. Maybe we were on to something after all: there was a brain there, under all the creases, and I could almost hear it ticking.

'Arruns didn't give any other indication of how he thought I could help you?' Veluscius asked. 'None at all?'

I shook my head. 'We were talking about an old vineyard sale, fifty years back. Arruns thinks Cominius's father and old Velthur Navius did his father out of the property.'

Veluscius's brow cleared, and he nodded. He was still doing his lemon- sucking act. 'Yes. Yes, that would be it.' He hesitated. 'Arruns, I take it, didn't tell you who I was? Before I retired a few years ago, that is?'

'No.'

'I was the Cominius family's head clerk.'

I swallowed. Bull’s-eye!

The door opened and Snow-White came back in with a tray. I noticed that there were two jugs.