David Wishart: Trade Secrets

‘Fair enough.’ He leaned back on his stool. ‘Me, I’d discount Festus. From what I know of him, which isn’t much, and that’s the point, he’s the quiet family type, solid citizen, never in any trouble that I’ve ever heard of. He married a young widow from out of town ten or twelve years back whose husband died leaving her with a two-year-old kid, and he can’t see past her. Vecilius, well, him I do know, professionally. He’s certainly got a temper, and he’s a bit too fond of the booze for his own good. Big lad. He’s crossed our path a few times, beat up a stevedore a couple of months back for making what he thought were suggestive advances. To his wife, not to him. But I don’t think he’d go the length of murder.’ He gave me a sharp look. ‘Of course, if his wife was involved that might be a different story. Was she?’

‘Yeah. Probably. Festus’s as well.’

‘Is that so, now?’ Memmius whistled between his teeth. ‘Both of them, eh? He must’ve been an active lad, our Tullius.’

‘So it would seem.’ I got up. ‘Anyway, thanks for your help. I appreciate it. You mind if I nose around a bit, ask a few questions, have a word with Festus and Vecilius?’

‘Go ahead. It’s a free city.’ We shook. ‘Just keep me posted, that’s all. And give my regards to Lippillus when you see him next.’

‘I will,’ I said, and left.

OK. A quick visit to the scene of the crime, just to get the details clear in my own mind, then it was the two husbands. From what Memmius had said about his propensity for jealousy and violence things weren’t looking good for Vecilius, sure, but I was an old enough hand at this business by now to suspend judgement. The same applied to Festus: even solid citizens could lose the rag if the circumstances were right, and I knew from Poetelius that he’d lost it far enough to make at least verbal threats. We’d have to see how things went.

The Shrine of Melobosis was more or less what I’d expected: a small, narrow enclosure twenty or so feet square halfway along the dead-end alley with a high wall in front, sandwiched between three-storey buildings to the sides and rear. No way in, in other words, except through the rusted iron gate in the alleyway itself. I pushed it open and went inside.

It wasn’t quite as overgrown as I’d expected, particularly in the middle round the altar itself and at the sides which showed signs of at least sporadic attention, but there was a lot of dense cover at the back: plenty of self-seeded bushes and tall weeds that looked like they’d had everything their own way for years. Like Memmius had said, odd: if the killer had wanted to hide the body and delay its finding he could’ve done it easily; in fact, it was strange that he hadn’t and just left the guy lying there, given that he’d also probably had all the time in the world to tidy up after himself. Apart from that, it was the perfect place for a private rendezvous, as witness the courting couple’s choice of it as an evening venue: off the beaten track and tucked well away from things, completely hidden by its walls from the alleyway itself when the gate was closed, shut in on every other side by buildings, and from every indication almost totally unvisited; the little lamp in front of the central altar was dry as a bone, and there were no signs of any offerings, not so much as a withered flower.

Chummie had been taking a bit of a risk, mind, all the same. Once inside the gate, he’d have no problems, sure, but the before and after of the murder were another thing entirely. The place’s very isolation could work against him, because despite the day being a public holiday and the area round about being pretty much deserted as a result, if there had been anyone to see him going in and out he might well’ve been remembered. Maybe in the event someone had seen him, at that; but, given that any potential witness would quite understandably have thought no more about it, the chances were we’d never know.

I shivered. Some of these holy places – the ones that’ve been set aside as holy – have an atmosphere of calm cheerfulness about them that you can feel straight away as soon as you go in. This one didn’t: it was just sad. Sad, sunless, uncared for, and deserted. The atmosphere had nothing to do with the murder, either; that was just how things were. I wondered why the nymph was here in the first place – after all, we were well away from the coast, and she was a Daughter of Ocean – but no doubt whoever had been originally responsible for setting up her altar had had their reasons. Still, it seemed a shame she’d come so far just to be ignored.

There were a few wild flowers growing by one of the side walls. I picked them, laid them beside the oil lamp, and went back outside, closing the gate behind me.

So. Time to interview the suspects. I came out of the alleyway onto the main drag and stopped the first guy I met, a slave wheeling a barrowful of sandals.

‘Excuse me, pal,’ I said. ‘You happen to know where I can find Lucilius Festus’s place? The pottery? Or failing that Titus Vecilius’s glassworks?’

‘Yes, sir, of course. Both.’ He grounded the barrow and pointed. ‘Festus has his yard up by the Gate, Vecilius’s is the other direction, halfway between here and the Emporium. Left-hand side, you can’t miss it.’

‘Thanks.’

‘No problem.’ He trundled off.

Not far away, then, either of them: the Trigemina Gate was only a couple of hundred yards to the right, while the Emporium was a scant half-mile further down the road. Six of one, half a dozen of the other. OK. We’d start with the least likely candidate. Festus.

There was only one pottery on offer before the Gate, so that had to be the one. I negotiated my way through the stacked pots in the yard and went into the building behind it where a dozen or so slaves were working the wheels, turning out what looked like everyday low-grade tableware.

‘Any chance I can see the boss?’ I said to the nearest one.

‘Who wants him?’ A big guy in a tunic was coming towards me, wiping his hands on a towel. Festus, obviously.

‘Name’s Valerius Corvinus,’ I said.

‘Customer? Only we’re working on a big order at present, I’m afraid, so we’re fully committed. We may be able to supply you from stock, mind, if you’d like to take a look around. Depends on what you need.’

‘The order would be for Gaius Tullius, would it?’ I said.

The hand-wiping stopped. Pause; definite pause, and the polite manner went down a notch.

‘For his partner,’ he said shortly. ‘Tullius is dead.’

‘Yeah, I know,’ I said easily. ‘That’s why I’m here. I’m representing the widow.’ I paused, myself. ‘So, ah, how come you do? Know that the guy’s dead, I mean.’

He shrugged. ‘No big deal; it’s fairly common knowledge round here. Someone shoved a knife into him in Melobosis Alley, right?’

Fair enough. At least we were through the preliminaries stage and I could go straight for the throat.

‘I understand you had a run-in with him the day before he died,’ I said.

‘Really? Then you understand wrong, friend. I never saw him, more’s the pity, not then, anyway. The last time I talked with that bastard was about a month ago. And that was about pots.’

‘You sure about that?’

He glared at me. Then he grunted and turned away. ‘Come into the office,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘I don’t discuss my private business in front of the bought help.’

‘Office’ was dignifying things: the cubbyhole was even smaller than Poetelius’s, a few square yards of floor space at the rear of the shop separated off by lath-and-plaster walls and a curtain. Festus pulled it aside and stood back.

‘Sit down,’ he said. ‘I’ll stand.’