David Wishart - Trade Secrets

His eyes widened. ‘Is that so, now? Turf war?’

‘No. Long-standing personal grudge.’ I gave him the details, while round about us the minions set the cold bits and bobs on the table and laid an extra place. ‘There was no point in taking things further, because in the event whatever the original plan was Vinnius didn’t kill the guy, and like I say the widow’s pretty blase about the whole thing. Ask me, she’s either happy enough on her own or she’s got another likely prospect already lined up.’

Perilla sniffed. ‘Marcus, that is pure unwarranted speculation,’ she said. ‘And it comes very close to muck-raking.’

Agron grinned.

‘Yeah, well, you haven’t met her, lady,’ I said. ‘She dresses to kill and she takes no prisoners.’ I refilled my wine-cup and offered the jug to Agron. ‘You want a top-up, pal?’ He shook his head. ‘Anyway, we thought – Perilla and me – that Mamilia might have a thing going with Publius Fundanius, business or pleasure or both, but that horse is a non-starter. Or I’m fairly sure it is.’

‘Glad to hear it,’ Agron said. ‘You’ve almost been knifed once in the past couple of days already. The less you mix yourself up with Fundanius the better.’ He reached for the plate of cheese and pickles. ‘I’ll tell you again: you want to stay clear of that guy.’

‘That might be tricky,’ I said. ‘Chances are, he’s still mixed up in things somewhere along the line. Where exactly or how deeply he’s involved I don’t know, but lily-white he isn’t, nor is Correllius’s erstwhile second, Publius Doccius. That crooked bastard’s in it up to his eyeballs, that’s for sure. I’d bet my sandal straps.’ I helped myself to some of the cold chicken stew. ‘Anyway, leave it for the present. Eat your lunch, I’ll give you the tour, and then you can-’ I stopped. ‘Shit!’

‘What is it, Marcus?’ Perilla said.

The niggle at the edge of my mind was back, and this time it’d had something to say for itself. I shook my head. ‘Nothing. Just an idea. Or half of one, if that. Forget it; it’ll wait until I’ve talked to our cack-handed crane operator.’

Fundanius and Publius Doccius, eh?

Hmm.

There was still plenty of the afternoon left when we arrived at the stonemason’s yard. Like Agron had said, it was just down the road a shade from his place, in the town’s top right-hand corner near the river, where a lot of the commercial enterprises are located: handy for trans-shipping the stone, and not all that far from the Roman Gate and the Appian Road beyond with its flanking line of roadside tombs where most of it would finally end up.

‘You need me any longer?’ Agron said.

‘No, that’s OK, pal.’ He was obviously anxious to get on, and unlike me he had a living to earn. ‘Thanks a lot. Dinner in a couple of days, all right? I’ll ask Meton to do fish.’

‘Great.’ He walked off, and I went through the yard gates.

Obviously a thriving business, this: there were at least half a dozen workmen busy on pieces of stonework in various shapes and sizes and a good few finished slabs and pillars waiting for delivery or purchase by the end-users’ heirs. Monumental sculptors’ yards have always seemed pretty sad places to me; your average concern is stocked with ready-made tombstones showing tradesmen or shopkeepers going about their everyday business or kids playing with their goat-carts, with an empty space underneath for the inscription to be added. The thing is, said tradesmen and kids are currently still alive and breathing, not knowing that their own personal tombstone is sitting there waiting for them.

Sad, like I say. Sad, and just a smidgeon eerie. The thought of it sends a shiver down my spine every time.

Still, the guys who work there don’t seem to mind. I buttonholed the nearest workman, who was chipping out the already-lined-in inscription on a tombstone showing a cutler standing in front of a rack of his wares. He was humming to himself while he did it; evidently a man happy in his work.

‘Excuse me, friend,’ I said. He stopped humming and looked up. ‘You happen to have a Gaius Siddius working here?’

‘Siddius?’ he said sourly. ‘Sure. If you can call it working. That’s him over there.’ He nodded in the direction of a weedy unshaven runt in a threadbare tunic who was sitting on a block of dressed stone drinking from a leather flask. ‘Skiving off like he usually does when the boss isn’t around.’

‘Thanks,’ I said. I went over. The guy looked up and lowered the flask.

‘Your name Siddius?’ I said to him.

He wiped his lips with the back of his hand. ‘What if it is?’ he said.

‘No hassle, pal. I just wanted to ask you a few questions.’

‘I’m on my break.’

I sighed. So, it was going to be like that, was it? I pulled out my purse, opened it, and took out a couple of silver pieces. His eyes followed every move, and he put the flask down.

‘OK,’ he said. ‘I’m Siddius. Questions about what?’

‘You used to work as a crane man at the docks, right? Until twelve or thirteen days back. Quay Twenty-five.’

‘Yeah, I did. So?’

I added another silver piece. ‘There was an accident the day before you left. You dropped a load of amphoras.’

He scowled. ‘What the hell is this?’ he said. ‘You from the port office? Because if you are, you can-’

‘No. I told you. No hassle. I’m just checking something out privately. Someone almost got hit. Name of Gaius Tullius.’

I was watching his expression. Wary; definitely wary, and his eyes flickered. Then he laughed. ‘Almost hit, nothing,’ he said. ‘The bastard was nowhere near me. He was a dozen yards up the quay.’

Uh-huh. ‘You’re sure?’

‘Sure I’m sure. The accident happened, no point in denying it, it’s no skin off my nose now, but if he’s a friend of yours trying it on with a claim then he’s lying through his teeth.’

‘The ship you were loading was the Porpoise . Master Titus Nigrinus.’ This time the flicker was unmistakable. ‘You know him?’

‘Yeah,’ he said grudgingly. ‘I know Nigrinus. He’s a regular. And it might’ve been the Porpoise right enough, for all I remember.’ His eyes went to the purse, and to the silver pieces I was holding in my other hand. I added another couple. ‘So what?’

‘So there’s one thing puzzling me, pal,’ I said. ‘According to the clerk in the harbour office the Porpoise ’s cargo was oil and wine. Drop a few amphoras of that on the quay and it’d make quite a mess. Only I talked to the quay-master and he said there was no sign of one. And that there’d been no accident at all, at least none that was reported, either by you or by Nigrinus. You care to explain, maybe?’

Siddius licked his lips. He looked round nervously. ‘That depends,’ he said.

‘Depends on what?’ I tipped out more coins into my palm. One of them was a half gold piece. His eyes went to it and stayed there, and he licked his lips again.

‘No hassle, you say?’ he said.

‘None at all. Cross my heart.’ I jingled the coins absently. There was enough money there to keep him drunk for the rest of the month. Even so, he was hesitating, which, if my theory was right, made a lot of sense.

‘OK,’ I said. ‘I’ll make it easy for you. I’ll tell you what I think the explanation was. All you have to do is say whether I’m right or wrong, and we’ll take it from there. Deal?’

He swallowed. ‘Deal.’

‘There was no mess because there was nothing to make it. The amphoras were empty. Throw the broken bits over the side, and everything’s neat and tidy again. And Captain Nigrinus wasn’t likely to kick up a fuss with the authorities, was he, because he knew damn well that there was no oil or wine there to begin with.’