Obsessed with our visions of strong men who would love us in all the ways Ovid promised, it was natural that we both noticed a newcomer to the house. Plautus, one of the top men in Pompeii, had many powerful friends, but until Titus Livius Silvanus appeared, we paid no attention to any of them. Tall, bronzed from the sun, broad shouldered, with dark hair cropped close, he carried himself with an impressive air of confidence, his wool toga draped over his left arm. Lepida spotted him first and pulled me through the atrium to the doorway of her father’s tablinium, where he met with his clients. The two men were engaged in conversation about a business concern of some sort. We had no interest in their words.
“I’m certain he was a soldier,” Lepida said, whispering as we peeked into the room, not wanting to draw their attention. “Look how he holds himself.”
“His voice sounds kind,” I replied. “And I like his eyes.”
“What are you girls doing?” Plautus said. “Mean you to interrupt us?”
We giggled. We were young.
He waved for us to come into the room and introduced us to the visitor. Two weeks later, we both considered Silvanus a friend. Three weeks after that, Lepida was engaged to him. The following week, when he returned his fiancée to the house after a banquet, he asked to see me alone. I was a slave; I knew what that meant. My life would never be the same.
1902
3
I left Ivy in Callie’s capable hands after informing Augustus Mau, an exceptional German archaeologist, whose work at Pompeii will always be held in the highest regard, about our discovery and then made my way back to the house containing the modern corpse. The building, only partially excavated, was out of the way of the better-known stops in the city. Whoever had placed his victim there had chosen wisely; not many tourists would bother to make the trek to such an isolated location when there were so many other splendid places to explore. Here, instead of ancient façades, embankments of earth rose from the street on either side of me, waiting for archaeologists to uncover their hidden secrets.
I picked my way through stones and bricks, thankful for my sturdy boots. Returning to the triclinium filled me with solemn sorrow, and I said a quick prayer for all three sets of mortal remains in front of me. Then, I turned my attention to the one that did not belong. The man’s clothes must have been removed, as there was no sign of them in the plaster covering him. If it were not for his facial hair, no one would have ever questioned his presence. Sideburns of that sort—thick and long—had gone out of fashion ages ago, but there were still some men who wore them. Perhaps our victim was older, clinging to the style of his youth, or perhaps he was an eccentric, who cared not for the opinions of others.
There was no sign of fresh plaster anywhere in the house, and an exhaustive search of the premises revealed nothing I could tie to the crime. I heard the crunch of footsteps behind me and turned to see Colin, Benjamin Carter, and another gentleman, whom my husband introduced as Mr. Taylor.
“It is an absolute pleasure to meet you, Lady Emily.” He spoke with the brash confidence so often found in Americans and swept up my hand to kiss it. “I apologize for the circumstances, but Hargreaves here tells me you’re no stranger to death. If there is anything at all I can provide to make the situation more bearable, do not hesitate to ask.” Thunder sounded, and a soft rain began to fall. A shiver ran through me. No one can feel entirely at ease hearing any sort of rumble so near a volcano.
“You look anxious, Lady Emily, but fear not. It won’t erupt.” Mr. Taylor smiled—revealing an astonishing set of large white teeth—but then his face fell and he turned to his employee. “I wish I hadn’t agreed to let you work here, Carter. There’s something unsettling about thinking of you painting so close to a fresh corpse.”
“Your dig is beyond the city walls,” I said. “Why was Benjamin working here?”
“Carter is an artist of astonishing technical skill. There’s not much for him yet at our site—we’re still in early days—and knowing watercolors are his preferred medium, I had a word with Ettore Pais, the director of the excavations. He agreed to let the boy do a series of paintings and put together a list of the places and objects he wants included,” Mr. Taylor said. “Various expeditions have done engravings and taken photographs of the buildings in the city, but I prefer paintings. They better capture the essence of the originals.”
“You’re quite right on that count,” Benjamin said. “Photographs are at once perfect and a cold, soulless disaster. I’m fortunate to have an employer who recognizes this.” He glanced at the casts and then quickly looked away. “I was hoping to see the body before the police arrive. Does that make me sound morbid?”
It did, but I refrained from answering his question. I was accustomed to this sort of creepy curiosity and categorized the young man as someone likely to attend mummy unwrapping parties. “Were all three here when you were working?”
Benjamin cocked his head as he studied the casts on the ground before us. “I can’t say with any certainty. You begin to get inured to them. If you didn’t, it would be impossible to get anything done.”
“True words, Carter,” Mr. Taylor said. “I like to believe such things don’t bother me, but I can hardly bring myself to look at them. Their faces … seeing them haunts me.”
This, I could understand. Pompeii overwhelmed, not simply due to its scope, but because of the constant reminders of what Vesuvius did to the people in the city. The casts forced us to face mortality, that of those already dead, and our own, as well. “You made no mention of them in your notes?” I asked.
“I have no need for notes. I’d come only to copy the frescoes—they’re in extraordinary shape, which is why this house was partially excavated when nothing else around it was. I’m told some treasure hunters found it first and were frightened off by the Germans.”
“When was this?” Colin asked.
Benjamin frowned and squirmed, shaking his head. “A year or two ago, maybe? I’m not certain.”
“There’s no reason you should know, Carter. This is only your first season and you’re an artist, not an archaeologist,” Mr. Taylor said, his attitude toward his employee magnanimous. “I’ve funded digs in Pompeii for more than a decade, and have studied the site extensively. Mau excavated here three years ago and no one—aside from Carter doing his paintings—is currently working in this part of the city.”
“Secluded and abandoned,” Benjamin said. “The perfect place to stash a body. Who would notice another lost soul in a city of the dead?” He had circled the casts, but did not look closely at any of them, keeping a careful distance, as if their presence disturbed him, his actions at odds with his earlier eagerness to see the body.
“Is there anything we can do to help, Hargreaves?” Mr. Taylor asked.
“No, thank you,” Colin said. “There’s nothing to be done until the police arrive.”
“You know where to find me if you require assistance.” Mr. Taylor adjusted his hat and took his leave, Benjamin following close behind. The police did not arrive for hours, and it took them an inordinately long time to remove the body. The chief inspector, prone to frequent sighs, inspired no confidence, and I insisted that we accompany them back to the coroner’s office in Naples.
* * *
By the time we returned to the villa, it was after midnight, but Ivy was still awake, a piece of embroidery she’d been working on the previous day untouched in her lap. “It’s so odd,” she said, scrunching her perfect brow and twisting a handkerchief in her hands. “I find myself unaccountably captivated by the ancient dead. I want to sketch all of them and imagine the stories of their lives. I’m drawn to them, not out of morbid curiosity, but by something else, as if their mortal remains can somehow reveal their whole history as individuals. Yet this new death … that cast was identical to the rest on the surface, but knowing that his whole body was inside, intact, not just a skeleton … his family not yet aware of his fate. It…” She swallowed hard.
“It i
s a wholly different thing,” Colin said, his deep voice reassuring. “You need not explain.”
“What did you learn from the coroner?” she asked.
“Very little,” I said. “Our victim was strangled and has been dead for approximately a month. The plaster slowed decomposition to some degree. The police, who are singularly unhelpful, haven’t the slightest idea who he might be. I made a rough sketch of his face, but I haven’t half your talent as an artist.”
Ivy, who breathed life into everything she drew, reached out and gently touched the paper I held in front of her. “He could be anyone. What a tragic end to a life.” She sighed and then started to laugh, softly at first, then more loudly, until it consumed her.
“Are you quite well?” Colin asked. “Shall I fetch you something to drink? Some brandy, perhaps?”
“No, forgive me,” she said. “I assure you I’m not descending into hysteria, only thinking of my dear Robert. He wanted you, Colin, to provide Emily and me with a respectable chaperone on this trip, and here we are, embroiled in intrigue and investigating a murder. Not what he had in mind for our holiday.”
* * *
The next morning, Colin received word that the police were not planning to return to Pompeii, instead asking him to see if any of the archaeologists at the site recognized the man in my sketch. Ivy, fully recovered from her shock, accompanied us, and, before long, we had learned the dead man’s name. Karl Richter, one of Herr Mau’s workers, identified him as a journalist who, a few years earlier, had visited the site while researching an article.
“There can be no doubt. It is Walker, Clarence Walker,” Herr Richter said. “He’s a man of impeccable integrity. Works for The Times in New York. I was the one tasked with giving him an overview of how we approach a dig—” his voice faltered. “He had a guide called Mario Sorrentino, but Walker wanted to understand something about the method of archaeology and asked me to school him in the basics.”
“Do you know where we might find this Sorrentino?” Colin asked.
“I couldn’t say. Assuming he still works here, you could try early or late in the day at the ticket booth. All the guides loiter around there. You say that Walker returned to Pompeii and was killed then? I can’t imagine that he would have come back.”
“It’s not unusual for a person to want to revisit such a spectacular place,” Ivy said.
“Quite right,” he said. “But the ruins didn’t captivate Walker the way they do so many others. He appreciated them, understood their significance, but in an academic way. They did not tug at his soul. I do not mean this as criticism. He was attentive and asked probing questions—he wanted to do his job well. He had that uncanny ability to make you feel, when he talked to you, as if there was no one in the world more interesting or important, and he showed genuine enthusiasm for the excitement and pleasure I take from my work. I enjoyed my time with him, brief though it was.”
“Did anything odd or unexpected happen when you were with him?” Colin asked.
“Not that I can recall,” Herr Richter said.
“The piece he was working on, was it published?” I asked.
“Yes, I still have a copy at my home in Berlin. He sent it to me, thanking me for my assistance, such as it was.”
“Did you see him when he returned to the site?” I asked. “It wouldn’t have been much more than a month ago.”
“No. I would have thought he’d get in touch, even if only to say hello. I had no idea he came back.”
“Hallo! I was hoping I might find you, Mr. Hargreaves, around here somewhere. It’s always good to see you, Richter.” A lanky gentleman approached, the fine layer of dust coating his clothes identifying him as an archaeologist, his brash accent American to its core. “I’m James Stirling, director of Taylor’s dig. Apologies for not waiting for a formal introduction, but I understand you’re hoping to identify the unfortunate fellow you found yesterday. I wonder if I could see the sketch?”
My husband extended his hand to the man before introducing Ivy and me. “You weren’t at the dig this morning when we came by.”
“No, Taylor and I had a meeting with Pais to go over some details of our plans,” Mr. Stirling said. I handed him the drawing. “I don’t know him, I’m afraid, but how terribly sad that he’s dead.” His voice grew quieter, hardly above a whisper. “Manibus date lilia plenis. Give lilies with full hands.”
“What a lovely phrase,” Ivy said.
“It’s Virgil, from the Aeneid,” the American replied.
“Walker was a journalist,” Herr Richter said, “but visited before you came to work for Taylor.”
“This is only my second season at Pompeii. Taylor didn’t bring me on board until he decided to embark on a bigger project than the ones he’d funded in the past,” Mr. Stirling explained. “Does Walker’s family know yet? They must be devastated.”
“No doubt they will be,” Colin said. “They have not yet been notified.”
The color drained from Mr. Stirling’s face. “Forgive me. I am a coward in the face of death. The thought of receiving such news—particularly given the violent circumstances of the poor man’s demise—is so very troubling.”
“Mr. Walker returned to Pompeii about a month ago,” I said. “You might have seen him then.”
“No … no, I didn’t.” He sighed. “I wish I could offer more than condolences. Mors ultima linea rerum est. Death is everything’s final limit. The poet Horace.” He turned and walked away without another word, Ivy staring at him as he went.
Colin frowned. “Strange bloke.”
“Yes, perhaps,” Herr Richter said. “But kind to a fault.”
“Kind or not, there’s something odd about him,” my husband said as we left Herr Richter to his work. “Emily, if you don’t object to finishing these interviews on your own—you’re more than capable—I could inform the police of our victim’s identity. I don’t like keeping this sort of news from a family longer than necessary. I’ll plan to rendezvous with you later. Let’s meet at the ancient amphitheater.”
After he took his leave, Ivy and I spoke to every person working in the scavi—excavations—but learned little more about Mr. Walker. A few of the Germans recognized him, but could offer no insight into his character beyond that which Herr Richter had already shared. One of the Italians lauded his generosity, explaining that the journalist had brought a bag of oranges for them to share after he and his guide had visited them. Beyond that, those who recalled him described him as sincere and earnest, but not all that interested in Pompeii itself. None of them admitted to having seen him when he returned to the city.
It had rained throughout the night, but the morning sun had dried all but the most stubborn puddles in the city. A little after noon, we stopped for luncheon in front of the ruins of a thermopolium, a casual sort of restaurant common in Roman cities. On the wall above where tables would have stood, there was a glorious fresco showing two gladiators engaged in combat. Tempting though it was to place on the ancient countertop—covered with colorful pieces of marble—the basket packed for us by the cook at our villa, we didn’t want to damage the site, and instead sat on the curb in front of the shop.
“A well-chosen location,” Callie called to us, her voice like a song. “Although when the place was teeming with people, you never would’ve wanted to sit there. Your feet would be dangling into the filthy water constantly flowing through the streets carrying the city’s refuse with it. I’ve been looking for you all morning. I hear you’ve got a picture of the dead man. Will you think me morbid if I want to see it?”
“Not in the least,” I said. “I was surprised not to see you at Mr. Taylor’s site when we were there earlier.”
“Apologies for that. I got a rather late start after a diabolical night. Argument with my brother. I adore the boy, but he can be a trial.” I passed her my sketch. The color drained from her face, she tilted her head, blinked twice, and then threw her hands in the air. “I know him. Well, I don’t know him
, but I recognize his face. We were never introduced. He was on our ship from New York. I saw him on deck nearly every day when I was taking my morning constitutional.”
“You never spoke to him?” I asked.
“No, I don’t engage strange men in conversation unless they are intriguing in some irresistible way. This one was rather ordinary and old-fashioned. The sideburns were a dreadful mistake. Terrible to speak ill of the dead and all that, but there it is. There was another man, one of the crew, whom I found rather fascinating. Spent more than a few evenings with him. A sailor of exquisite skill.”
“Exquisite skill at reciting poetry, I assume?” I was annoyed to feel hot color on my cheeks.
Callie flashed a wicked smile. “Quite, Emily. Reciting poetry. What a delicious man he was. Very strong. I do hope he’s on board during my return voyage. But, to the matter at hand. What do you know about Mr. Walker?”
Ivy, who had sat as still as a statue while Callie spoke, stirred now. “Not much beyond his name. It’s dreadfully sad.”
“Actually, we hadn’t mentioned his name,” I said. “How did you know it?”
“Gossip flies faster than Mercury’s winged slippers. Every archaeologist in Pompeii is talking about the murdered journalist.”
“Did you recognize his name when you heard it?” I asked.
“No. I wasn’t here when he was researching his piece for the newspaper.”
“But you were here when he returned,” I said. “You arrived on the same ship. Did you see him after you disembarked?”
“No, but I’d have taken notice if I had. The coincidence of running into him would’ve been quite a surprise. It’s rather unnerving, all of it.” She drew a deep breath and paused before she started speaking again. “I’d better get back to work. I do hope we can speak more about this. Not that I can contribute anything, but I admit to being hideously fascinated by the man. He’s the only victim of murder I’ve ever known.”
In the Shadow of Vesuvius Page 2