David Wishart - Trade Secrets

‘Hmm.’ Perilla helped herself to more of the chicken; she has a good appetite, the lady, bigger than mine, and no doubt the drive from Rome and the change of air would’ve helped. ‘So. What about this wineshop business?

I pushed my own plate away. ‘Right. That was interesting enough, but whether or not it’s relevant, and if so how it fits in, I haven’t the faintest idea. The owner – Vinnia – had a five-star grudge against Correllius, that was for sure, but just having a grudge against someone isn’t enough when you’re planning a murder. Besides, he died in Rome, not Ostia, and to most Ostians at her level and of her profession the big city’s a million miles away. How would she set things up?’

‘Marcus, you don’t know for a fact that she had no connections with Rome. Ostia is only fourteen miles away, it’s a small town, and by no means everyone who was born here stays here. She may have relatives there and gone through regularly.’

‘Uh-uh. No relatives. The lady’s from Gaul originally, and Rubrius told me categorically that she’d no family in Italy at all. In any case, the theory’s too complicated. Why the hell should she make things difficult for herself when the guy only lives round the corner? Plus the fact she’s a woman, and our perp was definitely male.’

‘You know the answer to your first objection yourself, dear,’ Perilla said. ‘Security. Correllius was a powerful man in Ostia, with a large organization. Creating an opportunity to murder him here would have been difficult, to say the least; Rome would be much easier. As for your second point, yes, I agree that she can’t have stabbed the man herself, but there’s no reason why she couldn’t have had someone else do the job for her, is there?’

‘Such as who?’

‘I don’t know. How could I? Your butcher friend, perhaps. You said he was quite smitten with her.’

I laughed. ‘ Rubrius? You’re joking!’

She ducked her head and smiled. ‘Actually, Marcus, yes, I am. He wouldn’t fit the maid’s description, for one thing, or I’m assuming he wouldn’t. But the principle holds good: she could have had a male accomplice.’

‘Yeah, well, whoever he was he’d have to be willing to risk putting his head into the strangler’s noose for her. Finding someone like that wouldn’t’ve come easy.’ I took a swallow of wine. ‘No, like I say it’s far too complicated. Leave it out. We’ve better fish to fry than Vinnia.’

‘Mm.’ She set the spoon down on her empty plate. ‘The way her husband died is a bit of a coincidence, though, isn’t it? I mean, as the result of an accident at the docks, assuming she’s right and that it was no accident at all. If the business with the falling amphoras in Gaius Tullius’s case wasn’t an accident either but his killer’s first attempt at murder, then-’

‘Too many ifs, Perilla.’ I refilled my cup. ‘Oh, I’ll grant you the coincidence, although on the surface both accidents could well have been just that. Ostia docks are no kids’ sandpit. There’s a lot going on there, a lot of heavy stuff being shifted around on a daily basis, and with the best will in the world accidents – even fatal ones – are bound to happen now and again. We can’t factor either of those into a proper theory until I’ve had a chance to talk to our cack-handed crane operator Siddius and Vinnia’s dead husband’s pal Cispius. If he’s still around, that is.’

‘Do you know where he lives?’ Perilla had finished off the chicken and chickpeas.

‘Uh-uh. Or not exactly. According to Rubrius he had a daughter whose husband has a fuller’s shop near Guildsmen’s Square. I might as well hunt her down tomorrow, for what it’s worth. I’ll pay a call on Fundanius, too. According to Rubrius, he’s practically a neighbour of ours, so I can use that as an excuse.’ I looked round; Bathyllus was hovering. ‘Yeah, little guy, we’re just about done. You can clear away. What’s for dessert?’

‘The chef has made a dried-fruit compote, sir.’ Bathyllus snapped his fingers for the skivvies with the trays. ‘He apologizes and promises that normal service will be resumed tomorrow when he can investigate the local fruit market.’

‘Compote’s great,’ I said. ‘And just top up the wine flask while you’re at it, OK?’

I stretched out on the couch. Eating al fresco had been a good idea: it’d settled in for a very pleasant evening. A bit on the cool side with the breeze from the sea, but from our raised terrace we had a fantastic view of the coast and the sunset; taken altogether, Ostia – or this stretch of coastline, rather – was not too bad. Not too bad at all. Certainly I couldn’t complain that this time round the case hadn’t had its incidental perks.

I glanced over at Perilla. The lady was watching me and smiling.

‘It is nice here, isn’t it, Marcus?’ she said quietly.

‘Yeah, it’s OK,’ I said. Perilla, it was clear, was really enjoying the break. Maybe we should hock some of the family silver and invest in a small out-of-town place of our own, and the advantage of Ostia over most of the places we’d been outside of Rome was that it didn’t offer much in the way of sightseeing. A definite plus, in my book: me, I’d go for the quiet life any time.

The case could wait for tomorrow. I took another swallow of wine, settled back, and closed my eyes.

I was out and about at a reasonable hour the next morning. Not too early, because the plan was to kick off with a visit to Publius Fundanius. Neighbour was right: according to Caesia Fulvina’s bought help his villa was only two along from us, practically a stone’s throw away on the road into town; in fact, I’d registered it on my walk the day before, a solid little property a bit bigger than Fulvina’s but with no flash about it and obviously kept in pristine condition.

I’d thought carefully about how I was going to play this. From what Agron had said, taking the direct, in-your-face approach and rattling the guy’s cage for him would be a bad, bad idea: Agron was no scaremonger, Ostia was his town, and if he’d warned me in no uncertain terms to be careful how I went, then I’d be a fool not to listen. So I’d keep this friendly, or as friendly as I could on my side, and if Mamilia had already warned Fundanius to be wary of me – which, if Perilla’s collusion theory was right, the odds were she probably would’ve done – then, as the Greeks say, tant pis . The neighbour ploy was good enough, but I reckoned I could improve on it: there must be properties along the Laurentian coastline for sale or let, and as a local – and already a casual acquaintance – Fundanius would be the natural person to ask about them. Particularly if he was in business on his own account.

I came abreast of the villa. It was no different, from the outside, at least, to any of the other coastal ones I’d seen so far; clearly, we’d got a different set-up here to the one I’d met with at the Correllius place, much more laid-back and normal. On the face of it, anyway.

The gate-slave was an inoffensive old guy who looked like the slightest puff of wind would blow him away, and he was dozing on a stool in the morning sunshine with his back against the villa’s wall. I woke him up.

‘The master at home, pal?’ I said. ‘Publius Fundanius?’

‘Yes, sir.’ He got arthritically to his feet. ‘I expect he’s just finishing breakfast. You wanted to see him?’

‘Yeah. If it’s convenient.’

‘Oh, that shouldn’t be a problem. He doesn’t usually leave for town before mid-morning. If you’d like to come inside and wait in the garden for a minute or so, I’ll tell him you’re here. What name should I say?’