Finished Business

by David Wishart

  ‘Yeah, well, I won’t tell him if you won’t, pal.’ I stuck my head inside and took a look. As I’d expected, the ground floor, if you could call it that, was fully taken up with cement bags and builders’ tools, but there was a ladder leading upward through a hatch in the ceiling to what had to be a newly constructed first floor. Presumably when I reached that there would be another to the second storey, and so on.

  Right, then. Here we went.

  The first bit was easy-peasy: whoever Surdinus had contracted knew their stuff and were making good on each level before moving up to work on the next. The first-storey flooring was solid, and built on top of sturdy beams laid at their ends on stretcher stones tied into freshly cemented masonry. So was the second, when I reached it. And the third.

  The fourth, on the other hand, was what had to be the parapet level, right at the top of the tower …

  Oh, hell. Now we came to the difficult bit.

  The ladder was there, sure, plus a couple of bits of scaffolding reaching up from the third storey, but where the parapet level was concerned, the builders had only got as far as putting in the framework that would eventually take the tiles, or whatever arrangement Surdinus had had in mind for the topmost level of his hideaway. There was flooring of a kind, but it was no more than a skeleton of loose planks. Above it was the parapet itself – waist-high, it would be – and the open air.

  Fuck.

  Still, it was better than nothing. And at least I’d established that someone could get all the way up from below. Plus, if I’d come this far, I couldn’t very well give up now.

  I climbed the ladder and stepped gingerly sideways on to the plank laid across the set of rafters that would form the ceiling of the tower’s third storey and the roof of the tower itself. It gave slightly under my weight, but it felt firm enough, and there were other planks around the perimeter allowing access to the parapet on all of its sides. I was in the open air now, of course, and at this height the wind was a major problem. I rested my palms on the top of the parapet to steady myself and leaned out, to look below and get my bearings …

  The stone I was leaning on shifted, and I let go quickly, straightened, and stepped back – a bit too far back, because my heels found the edge of the plank and for a moment I teetered between falling backwards between the beams and down to the floor below and forwards over the parapet itself. I got my balance finally and stood sweating.

  Shit. That had been close.

  OK. Fine. So we’d do this next bit carefully. Very, very carefully.

  I was on one of the flanking sides of the tower. Its front – where there was a gap in the stonework – was the stretch to my left. Keeping my eyes firmly on my feet, and trying to avoid using the parapet as a handrail, I edged along the plank and round the corner to the matching one on that side. The gap was halfway along; only ten feet or so, but it felt like forty. I got to it at last, and stood for a couple of minutes sweating like a pig and breathing hard before I felt confident enough to take a proper look.

  There was still a good half-inch of cement covering the top of what had been the stone below the fallen block. It was old and crumbling, sure, but there were clear marks along its length of what must have been the knife or chisel that had been used to prise the missing block free. And on the plank beneath the marks, where I was standing, was a scattering of cement granules.

  Shit. It had been murder after all.

  Score one for Alexander.

  Leonidas was waiting for me when I got down, looking anxious as hell, as was quite natural: the life of a slave responsible for one of Rome’s social elite falling and breaking his over-privileged neck while he’s a guest in the master’s household would not’ve been worth a copper quadrans, even if it were said purple-striper’s own stupid fault. Under ordinary circumstances, I wouldn’t’ve put him at that kind of risk. Only the circumstances weren’t ordinary, and the risk had been justified. In spades.

  Leonidas wasn’t alone. There was a big guy with him, a good head and shoulders taller than him and built to match, dressed in a tunic two sizes too small for him that looked like it’d doubled as a bag for carting earth in. Or more likely (I caught his scent, and wished I hadn’t) carting manure. He was looking anxious as hell, too.

  ‘All right, Cilix,’ Leonidas said to him. ‘Tell the gentleman what you’ve just told me.’ Then, turning to me: ‘This is Cilix, sir.’

  Twice Leonidas’s size or not, the big guy was shooting him worried sideways looks like Leonidas was some sort of ogre that might any minute leap on him and gobble him up. Leonidas, on the other hand, was puffed up like a bantam with self-importance.

  ‘Go ahead, Cilix,’ I said. ‘You’re one of the garden slaves, right?’

  Not a difficult guess to make, that one, given the tunic and the smell.

  He swallowed. ‘Yes, sir. It’s about the day the master died, sir.’

  Long pause.

  ‘Go on, boy.’ Leonidas sounded dangerous. ‘Better out than in.’

  ‘I … saw someone, sir. A stranger.’

  My interest sharpened. ‘Here? At the tower?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, sir. Level with the house, he was, more or less, moving through the bushes close in to the wall. Stealthy, like. There’s a bit of the wall collapsed just shy of the north-east corner, that hasn’t been fixed yet, and I think he was heading for that. But he was coming from this direction, right enough. And it was about the time when the master … when he …’ He stopped and swallowed again.

  Shit! ‘Can you describe him at all?’

  ‘Oh, yes, sir. He passed quite close. He was a freedman, sir; at least he was wearing the cap. A bit bigger than Master Leonidas here, but not much, and not so … not so …’ He reddened and glanced down at Leonidas’s stomach.

  I grinned again. ‘Not so fat,’ I said. Leonidas gave a soft growl, and the guy winced and nodded. ‘Age?’

  ‘Not all that young, sir, but not old, neither.’

  ‘Thirtyish? Forties, maybe?’

  ‘The second, yeah. Yes, sir. Least, that’s what I’d guess. An’ he had a big mark here.’ He touched his finger to his left cheek. ‘Black. A sort of blotch, like a stain.’

  ‘Dirt?’

  ‘Could of been, sir. I didn’t see it clearly. But it dint look like dirt; it looked like one of them what’s-their-names.’

  ‘Birthmarks?’

  ‘Yeah. Or maybe a scab or a scar of some kind from a disease he’d had. I’d a mate of mine, once, sir, he got this manky disease when he was—’

  ‘Stick to the point, boy!’ Leonidas snapped.

  ‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.’

  ‘And he just walked right past you?’ I said. ‘Just like that? Close enough for you to see the mark on his cheek? He didn’t say anything to you, and you didn’t say anything to him? You just ignored each other.’

  The guy had reddened again. ‘S’right, sir. More or less. He dint see me, you see.’

  ‘Didn’t see you?’

  ‘No, sir.’ If he’d been any redder he could’ve doubled as a six-foot-six beetroot.

  ‘Tell the gentleman why not,’ Leonidas said through gritted teeth.

  ‘’Cos I was crouched down in the bushes at the time, sir,’ Cilix mumbled. ‘Havin’ a … you know.’ He swallowed again. ‘Havin’ a crap, like.’

  Jupiter! ‘Ah … right. Right.’ I glanced at Leonidas, who was quietly fizzing. ‘That would explain it.’

  ‘I’d of got up and said something to him, sir, all the same, because I thought he might be a poacher, like, but things’d got a bit messy just then and—’

  ‘Cilix, the gentleman doesn’t want to know!’ Leonidas snapped.

  Spot on the button: the precise details were things, in this case, that I could do without. ‘So why haven’t you told anyone about this before?’ I said.

  Cilix glanced anxiously at Leonidas, but said nothing. Leonidas cleared his throat.

  ‘That’d be because the garden slaves aren’t allo
wed to ease themselves in the grounds, sir,’ he said stiffly. ‘Master’s orders.’

  Cilix nodded violently. ‘Yeah, right,’ he said. ‘I thought I might get into trouble, sir. Over the crap side of things, like. I’d never of done it, honest, unless I was desperate. Which I was – you know how it is when you’re caught short on the job, you’ve got to go, whatever. Pissing’s OK, you’re allowed to piss, all right, no problem, so long as there’s no one from the house around and you do it well off the paths and out of sight, like, but crapping’s—’

  ‘Cilix!’

  I was grinning. ‘That’s OK, pal,’ I said. ‘I get the general idea.’

  ‘Only I thought now you being here, an’ the master’s death maybe not being an accident after all, I’d best say.’

  Joy in the morning! Me, I’ve given up trying to work out why slaves know everything that goes on practically instantaneously by osmosis, but they do. Even the Cilixes of this world. I took out my purse, reached for his hand, turned it grimy palm up and slapped a half-gold piece into it. He stared down at the coin, then up at me, mouth open in astonishment.

  ‘Thanks for the information, sunshine,’ I said. ‘Enjoy. It’s cheap at the price, believe me.’ It was: six got you ten our loose-bowelled friend had just described Naevius Surdinus’s killer, and that doesn’t happen too often, particularly within what was, in effect, only five minutes of the start of an investigation. We were miles ahead of the game for once, and a half-gold piece in exchange wasn’t OTT, by any means.

  All we had to do now was find out who the guy was, and why he’d done it. Oh, and of course break the glad news to Surdinus Junior.

  SIX

  ‘Well, at least we don’t have to worry about chasing alibis,’ I said to Perilla at dinner as Bathyllus served the dessert. ‘The big question is, who was the guy working for? And if he’s a freedman, is he a home-grown one or was he specially hired for the job?’

  ‘Of course, he might also have done it as a favour. For a friend,’ Perilla said.

  ‘How do you mean, lady?’ I picked up my spoon and looked down at the bowl Bathyllus had put in front of me. In it was a sort of yellowish-grey paste mixed with what looked like thick flower petals. ‘Gods, Bathyllus, what the hell’s this?’

  ‘Rose hip and calf’s brain custard, sir. With a sprinkling of cinnamon.’

  ‘For dessert?’

  ‘It would seem so, yes. A new recipe Meton is trying out.’

  ‘Hmm.’ I tasted it. Not bad. Not bad at all. Slightly nutty, with a perfumed aftertaste. I could’ve done without the cinnamon, though. ‘How do you mean?’ I asked Perilla again.

  ‘I was thinking of his mistress. Tarquinia?’

  ‘Tarquitia.’

  ‘A freedman friend would fit with her social background. And as far as motive goes, she’s the only obvious suspect at present.’

  ‘Come on, Perilla!’ I spooned up a bit more of the custard. Yeah, definitely one of Meton’s winners. ‘Tarquitia’s no murderess.’

  ‘She now owns what is essentially a substantial part of the Naevius villa, which she can either sell for a large sum to a third party or, far more likely, given the circumstances and the awkwardness that would cause him, do a deal with Surdinus Junior for a similar or probably even larger amount. And on top of that there’s the fifty thousand sesterces legacy. Not bad going, in her position, for what was in effect a year’s work. I’d say that was an excellent motive.’

  ‘Perilla, she already owned the property when Surdinus died. Plus, she didn’t know she was a beneficiary in the will.’

  ‘So she told you. And as far as the Old Villa is concerned, Surdinus’s death simplifies things enormously. She’s free now to turn it into ready cash, which she couldn’t creditably have done while he was alive, and furthermore – again given the circumstances – it would be the natural thing to do. Obviously, she can’t live there herself, can she?’ She poked at her own plate of custard with her spoon, pushed it aside and reached for an apple. Not a calf’s brains person, Perilla.

  ‘You didn’t meet her,’ I said. ‘She was genuinely fond of him, and genuinely upset. And in any case, she was sitting pretty. You don’t kill the golden goose.’

  ‘That’s the goose that lays the golden eggs, dear.’ She began peeling the apple with her knife. ‘And we don’t know that the eggs were currently all that golden. We only have Tarquitia’s word that the relationship was all sweetness and light. What if Surdinus were getting tired of her? The property sale, yes, that was over and done with, although again we don’t know for certain that the idea originated with him. However, the will’s another matter. If Surdinus changed his will once, he could do so again, for any reason or none, but with him dead she could be absolutely sure of being set up for life.’

  ‘If she knew of the existing terms. I don’t think she did. And what about the business with the horoscope? That was weird, if you like.’

  ‘Again, she could have made the whole thing up. We don’t know.’

  ‘It fits with the date of the letter to you, whatever the hell that was about. From the looks of things, leaving all the whys and wherefores aside, Surdinus knew or at least thought he was booked for an urn shortly and was setting his affairs in order before he went.’

  Perilla sighed and put the knife down. ‘Even if that part of it was genuine, it isn’t relevant. In fact, it could have put the idea of murder into Tarquitia’s head in the first place. Marcus, you’re not being reasonable about this. Just because you’re smitten with the girl—’

  ‘Come on, lady!’

  ‘That doesn’t mean you can throw common sense out the window. For the present, she’s the obvious candidate. Admit it.’

  I grinned. ‘OK. Fair enough. Admitted. Even so, it’s early days yet.’

  ‘Certainly it is.’ Perilla picked up the knife and the apple again. ‘No argument. But what do you actually know about her and her relationship with Surdinus? Apart from what she told you?’

  ‘Not a lot. Before she took up with him she worked at a club called the Five Poppies, near the vegetable market. Or at least so she said, and there was no reason for her to lie because she volunteered the information herself. I was thinking of going over there tomorrow, having a talk with the owner. See if he or she can fill in a bit of the lady’s background. Then there’s Surdinus’s ex, Cornelia Sullana. I got an address for her out of Junior when I gave him the news that his father’s death was no accident. Pretty smartly, too, with no griping.’ I took another spoonful of the custard. ‘In fact, I’d say he was more pleased than not that I might be sniffing around in that direction, just like he was over the significance of Tarquitia being mentioned in the will. Not much love lost there either, I’d imagine, which is interesting.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that Sullana seemed a very likely possibility, dear. I mean, what possible reason would she have for wanting her ex-husband dead? Not a desire for revenge because he’d divorced her and taken a mistress, surely. From what you told me, they’d been virtually estranged for years, and she knew all about Tarquitia long before the divorce happened.’

  I shrugged. ‘She’d no reason that I know of. But then nobody does have one, not an obvious one, as far as I can see – barring your front-runner, Tarquitia. I’ll just have to dig around, see what comes up. There’s the other son, too. Marcus. Hellenus, whatever. That’s another possible angle. Oh, sure, Postuma said he hadn’t had any contact with his father for years, but if he wasn’t formally disinherited he’ll have a share of the estate. We don’t know his circumstances, and maybe he suddenly needed a large amount of cash urgently enough to tempt him to cut corners.’

  ‘That is pure speculation, dear.’

  ‘Sure it is, no arguments. But I have to start somewhere.’

  ‘What about the actual killer? The freedman?’

  ‘Lady, Rome is full of freedmen, and whoever used the guy as the perp isn’t exactly going to advertise their relationship, particularly if he owes his cap to them
, which would point the finger pretty effectively. Me, if he was one of my dependants and the fact meant I could be traced through him, I’d make damn sure he got himself well and truly lost for the duration. Get him out of the city altogether, for preference, certainly put the bugger in strict quarantine. Oh, I’ll ask around for a shortish forty-plus-year-old freedman with a mark on his cheek, sure, but I don’t think I’ll get any joy.’ Sad but true: most of the time, unless of course they come specifically to his attention for some reason, to your average middle- or upper-class Roman another man’s (or woman’s) freedmen dependants, like their slaves, are non-people, featureless nonentities. They just don’t get noticed, because they’re of no importance. Ask any three-namer to describe his next-door neighbour’s major-domo to you and the chances are you’ll just get a blank look. Ask some of the more pukkah-sahib types to describe their own and four times out of five you’ll get the same.

  ‘You might be lucky,’ Perilla said.

  ‘Yeah, well, just don’t hold your breath, that’s all.’ I finished off the custard. ‘You don’t want yours?’

  She shuddered. ‘No. Definitely not.’

  I reached over and swapped the plates. Not wholly greed: Meton can take it really personally if the empties tray comes back with an untouched dish on it, and risking Meton’s displeasure is not something you do lightly.

  ‘What about Surdinus’s relationships outwith the family?’ Perilla said. ‘I mean, in terms of enemies?’

  I shrugged again. ‘From the looks of things, there isn’t much mileage there. Not if you believe Tarquitia, and if she were the guilty party, the chances are she’d be only too glad to bring out the dirty linen. He wasn’t involved with politics, which is the main area for a guy of his class where making enemies is concerned.’

  ‘Business relationships?’

  ‘Possibly. That’s one side of things I’ll have to check with his ex-wife. But the impression I got was that his mind didn’t run that way. He was a stay-at-home, for a start, and an interest in philosophy and astrology doesn’t chime too well with hard-headed business sense.’