Food for the Fishes (Marcus Corvinus Book 10)

by David Wishart

  There was a slave on duty, naturally: places like that, you don’t just wander in as the mood takes you. A young guy with a prominent Adam’s-apple. He stood up when he saw me coming.

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘Marcus Valerius Corvinus,’ I said. ‘I’ve got an appointment with the Lady Gellia.’

  ‘Villa entrance is further on, sir.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. I wanted to have a word with the farm manager first. What’s his name?’

  ‘Ligurius, sir. No problem.’ He unlatched the gate. ‘He’s probably in his office. Straight ahead and to the left as you go in. If he’s not then any of the boys’ll tell you where to find him.’

  ‘Thanks, pal.’ I paused. ‘You on here nights as well, by the way?’

  ‘No, sir. No one is. The gate’s locked at sunset.’

  ‘Keys?’

  He hesitated, then said carefully: ‘Uh...could I ask your reason for asking, sir?’

  I took out the letter I’d brought with me. Not that the guy could read it - literacy isn’t part of a gate slave’s job description - but it looked official and had the town officer’s signature at the bottom. He glanced at it, swallowed - investigations into a master’s death always make the bought help uneasy, for obvious reasons - and nodded. ‘Ligurius has one. He’s responsible for locking the gate at sunset and opening up in the morning. Decimus Tattius. And the master himself, of course.’

  ‘Who’s Tattius?’

  ‘The master’s partner, sir.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ I filed the name for future reference. ‘Ligurius live on site?’

  ‘No, sir. In the town.’

  ‘There isn’t a night-watchman?’

  ‘Not necessary, sir. There’s one up at the villa, but we’ve never had no trouble, and the villa being so close the place is safe enough.’

  ‘Fine. Thanks, friend.’

  I went in. It was more or less what I’d expected. To the right - between me and the sea - were most of the tanks, with here and there a slave walking along the berms with a long netted pole. As I watched, one of them slipped the net end of the pole carefully into the water then lifted it with a kicking fish trapped in the mesh. He laid the fish on the ground, checked the side of its head, measured it against a length of cord he kept round his waist, then put it gently back into the water.

  Ahead and to the left, the gate slave had said. Sure enough, set against the high boxwood hedge that probably screened the farm off from the villa gardens behind was what had to be the office building, open-fronted and with a stretch of stone counter, a bit like a free-standing shop. There were two guys inside, a tunic and a mantle, with their backs to me, talking. The mantle was wearing mourning. I went over, and when they heard me coming they turned round.

  ‘Ah...I was looking for the manager,’ I said. ‘Guy called Ligurius?’

  The tunic gave me a very careful once-over. ‘I’m Ligurius,’ he said quietly. Which, by the look of him, was his normal tone of voice. ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘The name’s Marcus Valerius Corvinus,’ I said. ‘I’ve got an appointment with the Lady Gellia.’

  The mantle - mid- forties, long-jowled and po-faced - had been giving me a once-over of his own, not a very friendly one, either. ‘Oh, yes,’ he said. He stretched out a reluctant hand. ‘Titus Licinius Chlorus. Murena was my father, and I’m also the business’s accountant.’

  I shook. The hand was thin and parchment-dry with fingers like leather-wrapped bones. ‘I’m, uh, sorry about the circumstances,’ I said.

  ‘So are we all.’ That came out dry too, but there was something in the tone that jarred. Sarcasm, maybe. A cold bugger, this, and he was watching me closely, like I was a specimen. ‘You asked for Ligurius. No doubt you wanted to know the background details to my father’s death before you talked to us.’ I didn’t answer, but that didn’t matter because he’d already turned to the manager. ‘You won’t need me for that. Apua, bring Valerius Corvinus up to the house when he’s finished, will you?’

  ‘Certainly,’ Ligurius said. I glanced at him. Interesting: the voice had been quiet like before, but there was no forelock-tugging tone to it and no ‘sir’ tacked on the end. The guy wasn’t wearing a freedman’s cap, either. Freeborn, then, and careful that people knew it. And what was this ‘Apua’? I doubted if someone like Ligurius merited the three names, and in any case Apua was one I hadn’t heard before. The word meant ‘anchovy’. Maybe it was a nickname.

  ‘We’ll see you later, Corvinus,’ Chlorus said.

  ‘Sure.’

  He left. Ligurius and I stood looking at each other. He was about the same age as Chlorus, but a good head shorter: no more than five four, spindly as a hazel stick and balding. Not the sort of guy who stood out in a crowd.

  ‘Now,’ he said. ‘You’ll want to see where it happened. Follow me.’

  We walked towards the top line of tanks, then for twenty or thirty yards along the curve of the first row. Finally, Ligurius stopped.

  ‘This is it,’ he said.

  I looked down into the water, and the hairs rose on my neck...

  There must’ve been dozens of the brutes, five feet long if they were an inch and the thickness of my thigh, stacked under the water to within a foot of the surface like rolls of cloth in a draper’s shop. As I watched, the one nearest me moved, sliding his long belly across the tops of his pals like he and they were greased. I caught the glint of a wicked eye and a flash of teeth bigger than belonged by rights on any fish.

  ‘Almost fully-grown,’ Ligurius said. ‘Another month or so and they’ll be ready.’

  My gut turned. ‘You’re still going to sell them?’

  He shrugged. ‘It’s not my decision, but why not? There’s a lot of money tied up in these beauties.’

  Yeah, and I’d bet that the fact they’d breakfasted on their erstwhile owner wouldn’t harm the sale price, either. You’d think covering that up would be the natural thing to do, but you’d be wrong: like I say, where morays that’ve eaten human flesh are concerned there’s always some weirdo who’s prepared to pay extra for quality.

  Ligurius moved so he was standing beside me, looking down; like we were next to a grave, which in a way I suppose we were. ‘I found him in the tank when I did my morning check,’ he said. ‘Or what was left of him. I wouldn’t’ve known at all but for the mantle.’

  Jupiter, the guy was calm enough! That might just be how he was made, sure, but I had the distinct impression that losing his boss even under these circumstances hadn’t cracked him up unduly. Which was interesting.

  ‘What time do you pack in for the day?’ I asked.

  ‘Sunset. I lock the gate behind me when I go. The farm’s still accessible from the villa, though, of course. The perimeter wall goes round both.’

  ‘I understand Murena made a habit of coming down here alone of an evening.’

  ‘That’s right. With a bag of scraps from dinner. He liked to watch them feed.’

  Gods! I shut that image out of my mind. ‘Could it have been an accident?’

  He sucked on a tooth for a long time before replying. ‘It’s possible. Never mind the fish, once he was in the tank it would’ve been difficult for him to get out. He couldn’t swim, and there was no one around that time of the evening to hear him shouting. If he shouted at all.’

  ‘Why shouldn’t he?’

  ‘He’d been getting fainting fits recently. He could’ve been unconscious when he hit the water.’

  I felt my eyebrows rise. ‘Fainting fits?’

  ‘So I believe, although I can’t vouch for it personally. He always looked fit enough to me. You’d have to ask his doctor.’

  Was I wrong, or was there a certain woodenness of expression there? More than usual, that is. And Toothy Alcis had mentioned a doctor...

  ‘Who would that be, now?’ I said.

  ‘His name’s Diodotus. He has a practice in town.’

  ‘Okay.’ I very carefully didn’t look at him. ‘So what about...not a
n accident?’

  Pause; long pause. ‘That I wouldn’t care to comment on,’ he said at last. ‘Perhaps you’d better talk to the family.’

  Yeah; right. And the woodenness was still there, with bells on. There were things the guy was obviously not saying, even by implication, and I was beginning to get a prickle at the top of my spine. ‘They would be who, exactly, now?’ I said. ‘I’ve got names for the Lady Gellia and the son who just left, Titus Chlorus. Who else is there?’

  ‘The younger son’s Nerva. Aulus Nerva. Then there’s a daughter. Real name’s Licinia, naturally, but she’s always been called Penelope.’

  ‘Any of them Gellia’s kids?’

  He almost smiled, but not quite; no more than a twitch of the lips. ‘No. Gellia’s younger than any of them. The boss married her after his first wife died.’

  Had there been just a smidgeon of hesitation before the last word? I wouldn’t’ve put serious money on it, mind, but that’s how it came across. And I was still getting the poker face.

  ‘How about the partner?’ I said. ‘What was his name? Tattius?’

  But Ligurius had already turned and was walking back towards the office. ‘I’m just the hired help, Corvinus,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘If you want any more information you’ll have to get it from the family. If you’re done with me - and I can’t really tell you anything else - then I’ll take you up there now.’

  I followed him, thinking hard.

  Yeah, well: accident it may still have been, but I’d met one of the sons and the manager so far, and if they were anything to go by I reckoned that as far as real, genuine grief at Murena’s death was concerned the fish had the edge.

  Things were shaping up very nicely.

  5

  Them. The family. We.

  I’d been given enough hints and I ought to’ve realised, sure. My appointment was with the widow Gellia, not with the whole boiling, but there they all were, reclining or sitting in the villa’s main atrium, stiff-faced as ancestral death masks. And watching each other closely out of the corners of their eyes, like in case any moment one of them would jump up and decamp with the family silver.

  I couldn’t be wrong, no way; the body language and the general atmosphere made that clear from practically the moment I walked into the room. I knew, absolutely and irrevocably, that whatever the cause or causes of it might be all the members of the Murena family hated one another like poison.

  No wonder they were all sitting here: not one of them trusted any of the rest further than they could spit.

  Not that I suspected I was flavour of the month either, mind.

  ‘Ah, Corvinus, so you’ve arrived.’ That was the one I had met, Titus Chlorus. Stupid bloody observation, sure: the fish farm was only two hundred yards away the other side of the gardens, and Ligurius had taken me to the door, but I could see the reason for it. The guy was seriously nervous. He wasn’t the only one, either, by any means. Which was interesting.

  ‘Yeah,’ I said.

  ‘Let me introduce you. My father’s widow, Gellia –’

  A hard-faced, brassy woman in a blonde wig and black eyebrows, early- to mid-thirties, sitting on a chair and sporting a mourning-mantle that practically knocked my eyes out. She gave me a frozen nod.

  ‘– sister Penelope. –’

  In another chair to one side, slightly out of the circle. Odd. Early forties, probably, small and dumpy, ‘matron’ written all over her. Her white mantle wasn’t a patch on Gellia’s, and although she didn’t look exactly slovenly she clearly didn’t take much trouble over her appearance. She was the only one of the four, though, who was composed. Small, neat hands with only one ring on the engagement finger, resting motionless on the chair-arms.

  ‘– and my brother, Aulus Nerva.’

  The youngest of the three siblings, probably mid-thirties. Like Chlorus, he was reclining on a couch. His mourning-mantle and stubble didn’t go well with the podgy lad-about-town face, overneat haircut and flashy signet ring. He was the only one of the four to be drinking. He raised his cup and, like Gellia, gave me the briefest of nods.

  ‘Take a seat, Corvinus,’ Chlorus said. ‘Some wine?’ He motioned to a slave standing by one of the side tables. I went over to the remaining couch and lay down. ‘Now. Apua’ - he corrected himself - ‘forgive me, Ligurius, rather, will have told you about how he found my father, so we can skip that part if you don’t mind, yes?’

  ‘“Apua”?’ I said.

  Chlorus smiled. ‘I’m sorry. It’s a family nickname, one of my father’s coining. Father was fond of nicknames.’

  Murena the eel-boss and Apua the anchovy-manager. Right. Quite a sense of humour the old bugger must’ve had. No doubt it creased them up when fish farm owners got together and swapped anecdotes. I reached out and took the cup of wine the slave handed me.

  ‘I understood the town officer already had someone in custody for killing my husband,’ Gellia said. Nice enough voice, but there was a nasal twang to it that I reckoned could get wearing after a while. Five minutes would do me.

  I couldn’t complain about the actual comment, mind: straight to the point, no messing. The strange thing was that every eye in the room had zeroed in on her, and not with approval, either.

  ‘Gaius Trebbio. Right,’ I said. ‘Only I have personal reasons for thinking he couldn’t’ve done it.’ Was it my imagination, or was there a general sharpening of interest? ‘Besides, why should it be murder, lady? Why not an accident? I was told Licinius Murena had fainting fits.’

  Gellia sat bolt upright in her chair. ‘Who told you that?’ she snapped.

  Queer; me, if our positions had been reversed, I’d say an accidental death would’ve been better news than murder, and so, I’d bet, would ninety-nine percent of the world’s population. Gellia, though, seemed to take the suggestion as a personal insult. The strange thing was, I had the impression that at least two of the other three weren’t exactly taken with the suggestion either. With Penelope, I couldn’t tell. She just stared at Gellia with what looked like distaste and terminal boredom.

  ‘Ligurius,’ I said.

  ‘Did he, now?’ Chlorus said softly. I glanced at him. His eyes were on Gellia. ‘Well, well. Bravo, Anchovy!’

  Gellia ignored him. ‘My husband,’ she said, ‘had several fancies about his health. That was all they were: fancies. For his age he was as strong as an ox.’

  ‘That’s not what Diodotus says.’ Chlorus said mildly. ‘Or for that matter, I’m afraid, what you - I use the plural, note - have been telling us for the past few months.’

  She went brick red, and for a moment her composure cracked. ‘Just what do you mean by that?’ she snapped.

  ‘In fact, I can remember you yourself saying only four days ago –’

  ‘How dare you!’ Looking at her, I’d’ve said that Gellia was within a copper piece’s-worth of throwing herself at Chlorus’s throat. ‘I never –!’

  ‘Oh, yes you did.’ Chlorus was completely at his ease. ‘I remember it distinctly. You told me four days ago, when I called round about the cost of repairs to Number Three Tank, that Father had taken a giddy turn after breakfast, and you were quite concerned. There’s no point in denying it now. That will do no good at all.’

  ‘Hear, hear,’ Nerva murmured. ‘Don’t you believe her, Corvinus. She always was a little liar, and now she’s got Dad safely dead –’

  Gellia whirled round. ‘Aulus, you complete –!’

  I held up a hand. ‘Lady? Gentlemen?’ Shit; what was I into here? Revelations were one thing, but at this galloping rate there’d be blood on the tiles before we’d even started. ‘Maybe we could keep this reasonably amicable, okay?’

  Gellia subsided. Fancy wig or not, made up to the eyeballs or not, she was no looker in herself, and a complexion that currently would’ve given a beetroot a run for its money didn’t help things much, either. She took a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry, Valerius Corvinus,’ she said, cut-glass tones back in spades. ‘What
must you think of us?’

  ‘In your case that should be pretty obvious, I’d imagine,’ Nerva said. ‘And he’d probably be right.’

  Gellia ignored him, but her colour heightened. ‘You have some questions,’ she said stiffly to me. ‘Perhaps you could ask them.’

  ‘Ah...okay.’ I cleared my throat. Maybe we’d better do this formal at that: it was probably safer. I felt like I was like a kid poking at the workings of a military catapult: the slightest mis-prod and the thing would go off. ‘The night your husband died. I understand he took a bag of scraps down to the farm to feed the fish.’

  ‘Yes. He did that every evening. He was quite fond of the brutes, the gods know why.’

  ‘Right. What time would that be?’

  ‘An hour or so after sunset, after we’d finished dinner. That was when he usually went.’

  ‘He was pretty well normal at the time? Nothing unusual?’

  ‘Not at all normal. He was rather upset, as it happens. By events earlier in the day.’ She smiled unpleasantly, and her eyes rested on Nerva. I glanced at him. He was glaring at her with complete loathing.

  ‘Ah...what events would these be, now?’ I said.

  ‘Perhaps you’d better ask Aulus.’

  I looked at Nerva and got a stare blank as a marble statue’s. I waited. Nothing. Well, we’d get there eventually, no doubt. I turned back to Gellia. ‘And you didn’t realise he hadn’t come in again?’ I said.

  ‘No. I went off to bed shortly afterwards. We have separate bedrooms.’

  ‘What about the house slaves?’

  ‘Lucius was a late owl. He enjoyed the dark. Sometimes he’d take a walk along the beach before he went to bed, and the slaves were ordered not to wait up. He was very considerate that way.’

  ‘No one else missed him?’ I looked at Chlorus.

  ‘None of us lives here, Corvinus,’ he said. ‘We didn’t know Father was dead until Gellia’ - he smiled at her- ‘sent to tell us the next day. She was the only one present at the time of Father’s death.’ He paused, and then said carefully: ‘Of the family, that is.’