Food for the Fishes (Marcus Corvinus Book 10)

by David Wishart

  I thanked the guy, left the two silver pieces on a convenient stone, and pushed off back towards the centre of town.

  Nerva was out.

  ‘He’s in Bauli, sir,’ the door-slave said. ‘He left early this morning and he won’t be back until late this afternoon.’

  Bugger. I should’ve gone to Neapolis after all. I’d’ve had no intention of sitting in while Priscus and his friend discussed the finer points of Samnite cuirass fastenings, mind, let alone tagging along with Mother and Perilla on their shopping spree (I’d done that once before, and it still gave me nightmares. Forget being strapped to an ever-revolving wheel or suffering torments of hunger and thirst: hell is making up a third to two women shopping); but Neapolis had some pretty good wineshops in the tree-lined streets that led off the main square, and I could quite happily have parked myself in one of them while the ladies bought up half Campania. Or didn’t, rather. That’s what really gets me about women shopping. Me, if I want something I go to a shop and buy it, finish. Women can quite happily spend hours drifting from shop to shop and end up buying something in maybe one out of every fifteen. Crazy.

  ‘Fine,’ I said to the slave. ‘It doesn’t matter. Thanks, pal.’ I turned to leave.

  ‘Valerius Corvinus, sir!

  ‘Yeah?’ I turned back.

  ‘Perhaps you don’t know. Decimus Tattius was found dead this morning.’

  My guts went cold. ‘What?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Stabbed through the heart. At least, that’s what the slave who brought the message said. The Lady Penelope Licinia only sent to say he was dead.’

  Sweet gods alive! ‘Whereabouts was he killed?’

  ‘At home, sir. Or outside in the grounds, rather. I don’t know for certain.’

  ‘Ah...right,’ I said. My brain was whirling. ‘Right. Thanks for telling me, friend. Oh, incidentally. Just a small question. Was your master at home two nights ago?’

  I’d left it casual intentionally, and the door-slave answered without thinking. ‘No, sir. He was out all evening.’

  ‘You know where?’

  You could almost see the brain kick into gear: two nights ago was when Chlorus had been killed, and peaching on the master is not a good career move in bought-help circles. The guy’s expression went suddenly blank. ‘No, sir,’ he said.

  I took a silver piece out of my purse. ‘You sure?’

  He was staring straight ahead. ‘Yes, sir. I’m afraid I can’t help you.’

  Yeah, well, it’d been worth a try. And at least I knew now for certain that Nerva had lied to Florus about staying in with a head-cold the night of Chlorus’s murder. That made twice, by my counting, and twice was two too many. I flipped the silver piece at the slave and he caught it neatly. ‘Never mind, sunshine,’ I said. ‘Thanks again anyway.’

  So; what now? Well, that was obvious. Forget Nerva for the time being. I’d have to go over to Tattius’s place, pdq.

  Bugger! What a mess!

  ‘One of the slaves found him by the little grotto of Pan at the far edge of the grounds,’ Penelope said.

  We were in the room we’d been in last time, the lady’s sitting-room. Penelope was wearing mourning; triple mourning, I supposed it would be now, for a father, a brother and a husband. Knowing what she’d thought of Tattius - and why - I hadn’t expected her to be too cut up about his death, but her face was flushed and she’d obviously been crying. Yeah, well, I supposed it must have been a surprise.

  Or had it?

  ‘The door-slave at your brother’s said he’d been stabbed.’

  ‘Yes. That’s right.’ She stood up suddenly. ‘Would you like to see him?’

  That fazed me for a moment. ‘You mean the – he’s still here?’

  ‘In his room, yes. I had the slaves carry him there until the men from the undertakers arrive.’

  ‘Ah...yeah. Yeah, if it isn’t too much –’

  ‘Follow me, then.’

  It was a big house. We went upstairs to one of the bedrooms. Tattius was lying on the single bed covered to the chin with a sheet, the coins on his eyes. He looked smaller than he had in life, but then laid-out corpses often do, and what little I could see of him was older. I looked around for the usual pair of scissors and bowl to collect tufts of hair from the mourners, but they weren’t in evidence.

  Penelope must’ve noticed, and guessed. ‘That won’t be necessary, Corvinus,’ she said briefly. She took hold of the top edge of the sheet and pulled it down.

  Straight through the heart, like Nerva’s door-slave had said. He hadn’t bled much, or if he had a lot of the blood had been soaked up by his tunic and under-folds of the mantle before it could spread to the surface.

  ‘When did it happen?’ I said.

  ‘This morning, just after breakfast. He had it late, because he hadn’t got back from Neapolis until after midnight.’ Yeah; I remembered when I’d been here yesterday - Jupiter! Was it only yesterday? - she’d said he was away on business in Neapolis. ‘He usually takes a constitutional walk in the garden first thing. Does the rounds of the property. He had an appointment at noon in town and Stentor - you remember Stentor? He brought you your wine yesterday - went to find him, to remind him.’ He lips twisted. ‘Which he did. As far as the finding was concerned, anyway.’

  ‘Who was the appointment with?’ I asked. ‘Do you know?’

  ‘Yes. My brother Aulus.’

  ‘But Nerva was –’ I stopped. Yeah, well, he could’ve forgotten, I supposed. There again, pigs might fly.

  ‘He was what?’

  ‘Nothing. It’s not important.’

  ‘You’ve seen enough?’

  ‘Yeah. Yeah, thanks.’

  ‘Then we’ll go downstairs again.’ She pulled back the sheet. For a moment, her hand paused. Then she whispered, under her breath, so low I could hardly hear: ‘The silly, silly man!’

  She’d said it gently, almost lovingly.

  We went back down. While we’d been away, someone - Stentor, presumably - had put a tray with a jug and two cups down on the side table. Penelope went across to it, poured and handed me a cup.

  ‘To Decimus’s memory,’ she said.

  I drank. It was the same stuff as last time, with just as little water.

  ‘Sit down, Corvinus. Make yourself comfortable’ She settled in her chair and adjusted the folds of her mantle. ‘Decimus wasn’t a real husband - I won’t pretend that - but he was the only one I’ll ever have. Rest his bones, I’ve no quarrel with him now.’

  ‘Who do you think killed him?’ I said. ‘Do you know?’

  She watched me carefully. Then she said simply: ‘No.’

  ‘Or why?’

  ‘Not that either.’

  ‘What was the appointment with your brother about?’

  She smiled. ‘I’m sorry, I’m not being very helpful, am I? I really can’t say. The only reason I knew of it at all was because Stentor told me, after he’d found Decimus’s body. My husband, as you’ll realise, Corvinus, didn’t take me into his confidence very often. But I assume it was something to do with the business.’

  ‘Did that happen often? I mean, from what I’ve gathered your husband didn’t take much part in that side of things.’

  ‘No, he didn’t. But with Father’s death, and Titus’s, he was the only other surviving partner. I’d imagine they’d have some things to discuss, at least.’

  ‘Why did you call him silly?’

  She looked blank. ‘What?’

  ‘Upstairs. Before we left. You called your husband a silly man.’

  ‘Did I?’ She frowned. ‘If you say so. Yes, well, he was silly, wasn’t he? Completely ineffectual. But I must have been talking to myself. I do that, sometimes, Corvinus, but I don’t always listen to what I’m saying.’

  ‘Is there anything you can tell me, lady?’ I said gently. ‘Anything at all?’

  ‘About Decimus’s death? I don’t think so, beyond what I’ve told you already. As I say, I wasn’t in his confidence.’<
br />
  ‘The business in Neapolis yesterday. What was that?’

  ‘Oh, nothing. Nothing relevant, I don’t think. Decimus goes there every so often to see his banker.’

  ‘Regularly? Or only now and again?’

  ‘About once every two months.’

  ‘And yesterday was about the right time?’

  ‘Yes. The last time was late May. Just after his birthday.’

  ‘He didn’t seem worried about anything at all? Preoccupied?’

  ‘Not that I noticed. But then I didn’t have the opportunity to notice.’

  There was a knock on the door and the slave came in. Stentor.

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, madam,’ he said quietly, ‘but the undertakers’ men are here.’

  ‘Oh. Yes. Very well, Stentor.’ Penelope stood up. ‘I’m sorry, Corvinus, I’ll have to go and talk funeral matters. Was there anything else you’d like to ask before you go?’

  ‘No, I think that about covers it,’ I said. ‘Unless –’

  ‘Unless what?’

  ‘I was wondering if I could get Stentor here to show me where it happened.’

  ‘If you like. There’s nothing to see, though. Stentor?’

  ‘Yes, madam. Of course.’

  Like the rest of the place, the grounds - you couldn’t really use the word ‘garden’ - had obviously been left to fend for themselves, and outwith the bit immediately by the house that meant they’d run wild. I didn’t believe a gardener could’ve been here for months, and in places it was difficult just walking along the path.

  The grotto to Pan was in the wildest part, which I suppose was fair enough given the god’s preferences: a small cave, partly natural, partly artificial, with the god’s statue more than half hidden by greenery and the water that seemed to seep through the walls collecting in a shallow basin at the front, then led off through a stone channel into the undergrowth.

  ‘This is where I found him, sir,’ Stentor said. ‘Lying on the path with his face to the shrine.’

  I looked around. No problem with cover here, that was for sure: you could’ve hidden a dozen men among the bushes and high weeds beside the grotto, and the amount of free-flowing water around made for thick foliage. We were a long way from the house, too; two hundred yards, easy, and most of that was trees, bushes and assorted green stuff. He could’ve yelled, and someone might’ve heard him, but I doubted if his killer had given him the chance. And if he’d known the person he wouldn’t think of yelling until it was too late.

  ‘Is there any other way in here?’ I said. ‘Barring the way we came?’

  Stentor smiled. ‘Oh, yes, sir. Lots. The wall on this side of the grounds has been crumbling away for a long time, and we’ve woods behind us, as you see.’

  ‘Who knew your master took these morning walks?’

  ‘Everyone in the household, sir. Other people - well, it was no secret, and he’s had the habit for many years.’

  ‘And no one saw or heard anything? None of the other slaves?’

  ‘No, sir. That time of day we all have our jobs inside. And there isn’t really a gardening staff as such. The master isn’t - wasn’t - much concerned with the garden, except for keeping the part most visitors would see tidy. It wouldn’t’ve been likely that there would be anyone on this side of the house at all.’

  Fair enough, and it answered most of my questions. I hadn’t just got Stentor out here, though, to show me the scene of the crime. ‘This appointment your master had with Aulus Nerva. You know anything about that?’

  ‘Only what the master told me, sir. That the gentleman was expecting him at noon at his house in town.’

  ‘Who made the appointment? Your master or Nerva?’

  ‘That I can’t tell you, sir. I only know it existed.’

  ‘Was he looking forward to it, do you think?’

  Stentor shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I really know nothing about it more than I’ve said. The master asked me to remind him if he forgot, that was all.’

  Only it wasn’t Tattius who had forgotten, was it? It was Nerva. According to his door-slave he’d gone off to Bauli. The question was, why?

  ‘Who do you think killed your master, Stentor?’

  He opened his mouth to say something, but then he seemed to change his mind and he shook his head again instead. ‘I’ve no opinion, sir. And I’m my mistress’s slave, not my master’s. A wedding present.’

  ‘She...doesn’t go out walking herself in the morning, does she?’ I said. ‘Your mistress, I mean?’

  He might be a slave, but he wasn’t thick. He delayed the answer long enough to show me just what he thought of the question and then said: ‘No, sir. The mistress isn’t a walker. And to my certain knowledge this morning she went straight to her room after breakfast, as she always does, and remained there until I brought her the news of the master’s death an hour or so later.’

  ‘They had breakfast together?’

  ‘Yes. They always do. And dinner, when the master’s at home. He’s always insisted on that. Whatever the other...separate arrangements.’

  ‘Fine, fine.’ Well, that just about covered it. I’d got all I was going to get, for what it was worth, and that wasn’t much. I reached into my purse, took out a couple of silver pieces and handed them over. ‘Thanks a lot, pal. You’ve been really helpful.’

  ‘You’re welcome, sir.’

  What next? A place to think, and a half jug of wine to help me do it; apart from the quick swallow I’d managed in Penelope’s room I hadn’t had time for a drop all day.

  Zethus’s.

  One thing did occur to me, though. Stentor had said his mistress had gone straight to her room after breakfast, before Tattius had been killed, and she’d still been there an hour later, after he’d found the body. Which was fair enough, and it should’ve been conclusive, because I’d bet Stentor hadn’t told a lie from beginning to end.

  The only flaw in the chain of logic, though, was that Penelope’s room was downstairs, facing the garden. The back garden, where - eventually - the grotto was, and where, according to Stentor none of the household slaves would be at that time of day, if ever.

  And Penelope’s room had door-sized sliding shutter-windows.

  25

  I hadn’t been to Zethus’s for a couple of days, not since the punch-up with Philippus’s heavy. This time of day - late afternoon, by now - there was a fair smattering of regulars drinking round the bar, including the loud-mouthed Alcis and my pal Lucius who’d driven me to the doctor’s.

  ‘Hey, look what the cat’s dragged in,’ Alcis said. Original as ever.

  ‘How’s the rib, Corvinus?’ Lucius raised his winecup at me.

  ‘Not bad.’ I went over to the bar, opened my purse and put the money on the counter. ‘Still there, last time I looked. Half a jug out of that, Zethus.’

  ‘Sure.’ Zethus hefted the wine jar out of its rack and filled the jug. ‘How’s the case going?’

  ‘All right.’ I poured, sank the first one down and poured again. ‘We’re getting there.’

  ‘Only Trebbio was asking.’

  Shit. I kept forgetting Trebbio, and he was the reason for this after all. Still, he couldn’t blame me on the effort score. ‘He okay?’

  ‘Happy as a kid in a sandpit. He’s made pals with the jailers and decided he’s better off where he is than he would be at home. Sobered up, too, although that isn’t all his doing. We see he gets his wine regular, but not too much.’

  Yeah, well, if he was doing well and becoming a model citizen then that was fine. At least he couldn’t’ve done the other two murders, but until the local authorities had someone definite to pin the Murena rap on they wouldn’t be too keen to let him loose.

  ‘Hear there’s another of these bastards gone,’ Alcis said. ‘The son. Chlorus. Unlucky family, that.’

  ‘Make that three,’ I said. ‘Decimus Tattius was killed this morning.’

  There was a hushed silence. Then one of the other
barflies - I didn’t know his name - whistled softly between his teeth and spat on the sawdust.

  ‘What happened?’ Zethus said.

  ‘Someone knifed him in his own garden.’

  ‘Really, really unlucky.’ Alcis shook his head. ‘There’ll be none of them left soon. Pity.’

  ‘Who do you think did it, Corvinus?’ That was Zethus again. ‘You got any theories?’

  ‘Uh-uh. Nothing definite, anyway.’ Nothing I wanted to share at present with the loose-mouthed clientele in this hotbed of gossip, certainly. I picked up the jug and winecup. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I want to sit and think.’

  ‘Cerebrate,’ said Alcis.

  ‘Right. Whatever.’

  I took the wine to the table in the corner and sat down.

  Okay; so what had we got? Where Tattius’s murder in isolation was concerned, once you discounted Stentor’s evidence about the lady being in her room all morning Penelope was the odds-on favourite by a mile. She knew Tattius’s habits, she knew up there by the grotto the chances of an accidental witness to the stabbing were pretty slim, and she had easy - and private - access to the back garden through her own windows. So opportunity - and motive - both in spades. On the other hand, if she had murdered her husband - and she’d hated him bad enough - we were back to the old objection: why do it now? Also, I wouldn’t put her down as the murdering type. Her father, sure, I’d stretch a point on him if I was pressed, but not Tattius, and certainly not Chlorus, not unless she’d had a really strong reason for getting rid of him that I didn’t know about. There was that...softness as well, when I’d talked to her earlier. I could be wrong, sure, and certainly it went against all my expectations of how things ought to have been, but I’d say that Penelope genuinely regretted her husband’s death.

  Not Penelope, then. The obvious candidate for Tattius - by extension, anyway - was Nerva. After all, I’d practically made him for the first two killings, and the third fitted the pattern.

  So first the how. That was simple: I only had his door-slave’s word for it (or rather he only had Nerva’s) that the guy had gone to Bauli at all. He could easily have sloped up to Tattius’s villa, waited for him to take his usual constitutional in the grounds - there was no reason to assume he couldn’t have known about that - stepped out of cover and stabbed him. Then ridden on to Bauli - it wasn’t far, only two or three miles, and he was on the right side of town - to establish some sort of alibi.