David Wishart - Trade Secrets

I wasn’t the only punter in evidence this time; there were a couple of tunics propping up the bar, obviously locals. They gave me an incurious stare and a nod and went back to their wine-cups.

‘Afternoon, sir. Nice to see you again.’ The wineshop owner reached for an empty jug. ‘Graviscan, wasn’t it?’

‘Yeah. Well remembered,’ I said. ‘Just a cup this time, though, pal.’

He replaced the jug, set a cup on the counter, and filled it from one of the jars on the shelf. ‘You’ll be having more business with Vecilius, then?’ he said.

‘Yeah, as it happens.’ I reached for my purse and took out a silver piece.

‘Only no offence but I was just wondering a bit more after you left yesterday whether it mightn’t have to do with something other than glass. Seeing you were so interested in the man himself and all. I said so at the time, if you remember?’ He gave me my change and pursed his lips. ‘Terrible thing, that murder in Melobosis Alley, wasn’t it?’

Subtle as a brick, and the casual tone wouldn’t’ve fooled a mentally slow six-year-old. The two punters at the other end of the bar pricked up their ears and turned round. I sighed. Ah, well, it didn’t make any odds, cosmically speaking. And I didn’t owe Vecilius any favours.

‘The name’s Valerius Corvinus,’ I said. ‘I’m looking into Tullius’s death.’

‘There, now! That’s just what I thought!’ The owner slapped the counter and beamed at the two other customers. ‘Didn’t I tell you, lads?’ He turned back to me. ‘So Vecilius caught him messing around with his wife and knifed him, did he, sir? Well, I’m not surprised. Not that I blame him, poor devil, he probably had enough encouragement. She’s always been a fast little piece, that one, and his temper being what it is-’

‘Look, pal,’ I said quickly, ‘that’s just one possibility. There’re plenty of others.’

‘Oh, you can’t fool me, sir! He’s your man, all right, no doubt at all about that. Although I don’t blame you for being cautious about saying so outright to strangers, very laudable, that is. Prejudicial to the conduct of the investigation, that the legal phrase?’

‘More or less,’ I said. ‘It’ll do.’

‘He’ll get the chop, more than likely,’ one of the punters said. ‘Bound to, for killing a nob, whatever excuse he had.’

‘Good news for somebody, anyhow,’ the other punter said meditatively. ‘That’s a nice little business he’s got there, a real money-spinner, and it’ll all go to his widow.’ He grinned and winked. ‘Not that I’d mind a bit of Hermia myself, come to that, even without the money.’

Jupiter! Tried, convicted and buried inside two minutes! There spoke the vox pop. Still, I’d done my best, and like I said they were probably right about him having done it because it was the obvious answer. I took a swig of the Graviscan.

‘Incidentally, what would those other possibilities you mentioned be, now, sir?’ That was my muck-raking pal behind the bar, of course, angling predictably for extra scandal. ‘If you don’t mind me asking. Just idle curiosity, you understand. Between you and us and the doorpost, naturally. It won’t go any further.’

I shrugged and took another sip of the wine.

‘’Course, in situations like these it’s often the wife,’ said the more ruminative of the two barflies. ‘Hell hath no fury and so on. Little woman finds out that her hubby’s getting a bit on the side, picks up a kitchen knife, and stiffs the bugger.’

His friend gave him a sideways look. ‘Nah,’ he said. ‘This Tullius was a nob. Nobs’ wives don’t do that sort of thing. And she’s probably never been inside of a kitchen.’

‘No, not personally, sure; I don’t mean personally . Nobs’ wives would have somebody do it for them, wouldn’t they? Stands to reason. Some man or other. Having it done for them’s a different thing entirely. More respectable, like. That’s how nobs work.’ He turned to me. ‘You keep the wife in mind, sir. If it wasn’t Vecilius did it after all then I reckon the wife’s your best bet, myself.’

‘Thanks, pal,’ I said. ‘I’ll do that.’ I meant it, too. The guy had a valid point, and I was remembering what Marcia had told me about Annia being involved with Poetelius. Apropos of which … ‘Uh, incidentally. Tullius had a partner. A man called Publius Poetelius. Ring any bells?’ Blank faces all round; well, fair enough, the name on its own wasn’t likely to mean anything. ‘Tullius was the usual go-between where business was concerned, sure, so you might know him by sight, at least, but there’s a chance his partner subbed for him on occasion, when he was out of town. Youngish, mid-thirties.’ I described him. ‘You happen to’ve seen him around here at all recently?’

‘Could have,’ the wineshop owner said cautiously. He sucked on a tooth. ‘Might have done. Looks like a bit of a pen-pusher, right? Lost out of reach of an abacus?’

‘Yeah.’ Jupiter! ‘Yeah, that’s him.’

‘Ah.’ He nodded, reached for an empty cup, filled it, and took a slow, contemplative sip. He was enjoying this, I could tell. ‘Then I’ve seen him right enough, sir, in this very bar, standing just where you are now. Day of the murder, it was, too. About the middle of the afternoon. Yes, it must’ve been, because I’d just got shot of that bastard Vecilius.’

Hey! ‘You get talking at all?’

‘Nah, he wasn’t the talkative type.’ He grinned. ‘Well, well! So that was the dead man’s partner, was it? Interesting! Now why would he-?’

‘Thanks, pal.’ I swigged the rest of my wine and set the empty cup down on the counter. ‘I’ll see you around.’

Interesting was right, and in spades, to boot, because taken together with Marcia’s claim that Poetelius and Annia were an item it put the guy squarely in a frame of his own as far as motive and opportunity were concerned. Clearly, Vecilius wasn’t the only game in town after all.

I left them goggling and headed back to the Caelian.

Bathyllus opened the front door for me as I mounted the steps.

‘Hi, pal,’ I said. ‘Not late for dinner, am I?’ I’d cut it fine, I knew: the sun was just on the point of setting, and where Meton was concerned that practically constituted a dinner gong.

He handed me the obligatory cup of wine. ‘Not at all, sir. In fact, dinner will be slightly later this evening.’

‘Oh? Why’s that?’ I took my first restorative swallow.

He cleared his throat. ‘We had a little fracas, sir, which has somewhat disrupted the domestic arrangements.’

Oh, shit. ‘Don’t tell me,’ I said. ‘Involving next door, right?’

‘Indeed, sir. The mistress will explain. She’s in the atrium.’

I went through. Perilla was lying on her couch with an open book-roll. She looked up, and I gave her the usual back-home kiss.

‘OK, lady,’ I said. ‘Tell me the worst.’

‘Nothing very drastic, dear.’ She set the book aside. ‘Just a small contretemps at the fruit market.’ Jupiter! First a fracas, now a contretemps! ‘There was no actual blood spilled, and Paullus will be perfectly all right when the concussion wears off.’

‘Concussion? And who the hell is Paullus?’

‘Next door’s chef. Meton hit him with a melon. Quite a large one, I understand.’

‘He did what ?’

‘Of course, next door aren’t too happy about it, but from what Meton says it was largely the man’s own fault.’

Gods! I put the wine-cup down on the table and yelled: ‘ Bathyllus! ’

He soft-sandalled in. ‘Yes, sir?’

‘Tell Meton I want to see him! Now! ’

‘Yes, sir.’ He soft-sandalled out.