A Bitter Chill: An Aurelia Marcella Roman Mystery (Aurelia Marcella Roman Series)

by Jane Finnis

  “I think that’s for the best. None of them were involved in this sad business,” Quintus said.

  Horatius stirred himself and asked, “What’s in your mind, Antonius? You’re wondering about the note Plautius received today?”

  “I think it must have a bearing,” he answered.

  “What note?” Priscus asked sharply. “I’ve heard nothing about any note.”

  Without a word, Quintus produced the papyrus he’d shown me earlier. Priscus read it and burst out, “Why wasn’t I told about this? Why was he allowed to attend the banquet, with so many people about, when he was in such danger?”

  “He wanted to attend,” Quintus said gently. “And he didn’t want his family worried, as he thought, unnecessarily, so he only told Timaeus, Horatius, and me. Now, first things first. Was this a natural death, caused by his illness? Timaeus, come over here please.”

  We all moved to the couch and looked down on the dead man.

  Quintus asked the physician, “What was the nature of his illness?”

  “He had a diseased heart, and congestion of the lungs.”

  I pointed to the foam around his mouth. “Was that one of his usual symptoms, when he was ill?”

  “No, it wasn’t.”

  “And this bluish colour in his face?” Quintus asked.

  Timaeus replied slowly, “Yes, I have seen something like that before, but not so extreme. He gets—he used to get bad chest pains and have trouble breathing. Sometimes he almost seemed to be choking, gasping for air, and then his face went greyish, perhaps with a tinge of blue. But not like this.”

  “In your opinion,” Quintus asked, “has he died as a result of his illness?”

  After a long pause, Timaeus answered, “No.”

  “Let’s be absolutely clear,” Quintus persisted. “It’s your opinion that he did not die a natural death?”

  “No, he did not.”

  A shiver went through us all. Before our eyes, on what should have been a happy, peaceful occasion, Plautius had been murdered.

  “What exactly did he have to eat tonight?” I asked Timaeus.

  “One step at a time,” Quintus said. “I see where you’re driving, Aurelia, but let’s go carefully here. Timaeus, can you make a suggestion as to what caused his death?”

  “Aurelia’s right. It looks like poison. But the gods alone know how it was given. I was extremely careful. He ate a little of the meat that everyone else had—the pork, which we saw carved in front of us. The rest of his meal, a selection of appetisers and vegetables and sweets, I prepared with my own hands, and I tasted a sample of each one before I’d let him eat it.”

  “You got the food ready in the kitchen beforehand?” Priscus asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Could someone have tampered with any of it while it was waiting in the kitchen?” Quintus suggested.

  He shook his head firmly. “I left Hector guarding it.”

  “Ah, now we’re getting to it,” Horatius exclaimed. “The kitchen was quite disorganised tonight, with some sort of Saturnalia horse-play. Isn’t that right, Chief Councillor?”

  “Yes, just seasonal fun and games, you know,” Clarus agreed. “I had to speak sternly to my major-domo to make sure things did not get out of hand.”

  “Well, Timaeus?” Quintus asked sternly, “Can you swear that nobody could have interfered with your master’s food? Can you be sure that Hector wasn’t careless, letting his attention wander when the others were running amok? You can’t, can you?”

  The physician had gone deathly pale and seemed unable to speak.

  Priscus said, “Gods, I wish I’d known about the threatening note that Father received. I’d have taken better care of him! Whoever actually committed this foul crime, I’m holding you responsible, Timaeus. You should have guarded him better.”

  Timaeus bowed his head. “Yes, my lord. I know I’ve failed him.”

  I thought this was unfair of Priscus. “I think Timaeus did everything he possibly could. Your father was well aware of the risks he faced. Whoever killed him was clever, and well-organised, and determined. This was his second attempt, remember, and he also killed Leander. I’m saying ‘he’, but there could perhaps be more than one person involved.”

  “You should rather say ‘he or she’.” We all turned to the door and saw Sempronia standing there. Her first reaction, weakness or shock or whatever it had been, was clearly over. She strode into the room, erect and angry, with Diogenes following at her heels.

  “Mother,” Priscus objected, “you shouldn’t be here. Please wait with Fabia until we’ve finished.”

  “Nonsense, Aulus! Where else should I be? This is in effect a family council, and I have a right to be here.” She walked over to her dining-couch and sat down. We all moved to stand in a group round her, like courtiers around a monarch.

  “Now, you’re discussing how my poor Gnaeus died, and from what I heard as I came in, you’ve concluded that his death wasn’t a natural one. Is that correct?”

  “I’m afraid so, Sempronia,” Quintus said. “It seems he was poisoned sometime during the banquet.”

  “May the gods of the Underworld receive him kindly.” Her composure almost slipped, but then she was in control again. “There’s no doubt who’s responsible. I assume you all agree. So what are you doing to arrest her?”

  “Her?” Priscus echoed blankly.

  Horatius said, “Who d’you mean, Sempronia? You know who’s done this dreadful thing?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? It’s that girl Albia.” She turned on me. “Your sister!”

  “What? Don’t be ridiculous!” I took a step towards her, but Quintus put a hand on my arm, and I stopped and said more calmly, “Albia is no murderer. She couldn’t, and she wouldn’t, do something like this.”

  “Of course she wouldn’t,” Quintus put in. “I know you don’t like her, Sempronia, but that doesn’t make her a killer.”

  “You think not? Then allow me to show you how wrong you are. Albia has made up her mind to marry Decimus, regardless of where his duty lies, and against his family’s wishes. She came to realise she couldn’t do so while Plautius was head of the family and refused to give consent. So she decided that killing him was her only way of achieving what she wants. Well, she may think she’s achieved it, but let me tell you here and now, I shall never accept a murderer as my son’s wife.”

  This brought me up short. I’d been so preoccupied with how Plautius had died that I hadn’t thought about the implications. Candidus was now the head of the Plautius family, with freedom to do as he liked, whatever his mother said, and she would certainly continue to say plenty. His father’s death had released him to marry Albia. I knew my sister would never resort to killing. But Candidus—was it remotely possible that he’d been so enraged by his father’s intransigence that he’d made up his mind to poison him?

  No, it wasn’t even remotely possible. But it wasn’t surprising that the burden of suspicion was being thrown onto him and the woman he’d chosen. Everyone knew there had been violent disagreements, culminating in tonight’s argument. What was it Horatius had told me? “He finished by storming out and yelling, ‘Goodbye, Father. I hope I never see you again. Remember, men are only mortal, but love goes on for ever!’” How many other people had heard the words?

  As if she read my thoughts, Sempronia said, “The girl might even have lured Decimus into helping her. He was always an impressionable boy. But she’s the one who is truly guilty. She’s the murderer. And I don’t understand why you’re all sitting around like a gaggle of old wives discussing the price of fish. Get after her! Find her! Bring her back here, and Decimus too, if you have to!”

  Thank the gods, I thought, the old horror has just shown me the obvious way to prove Albia’s innocence. “They left here just before the banquet began, didn’t they? About—what, three hours ago?”

  “Yes,” she agreed. “So they can’t be far away. If we get a party on the road now to pursue them….”r />
  “Just hear me out, please. Supposing for the sake of argument that Albia was the kind of person to commit murder, she couldn’t have poisoned Plautius at the banquet. She wasn’t here.”

  “Oh, that is irrelevant. She wouldn’t necessarily do the killing with her own hands. In fact she almost certainly would use a servant. What slaves did you bring with you?”

  “None.”

  “None? How extraordinary! But you must have had a carriage driver.”

  “Yes, and I sent him home again. He’ll collect me at noon tomorrow.”

  “Then she used one of the Chief Councillor’s slaves, or perhaps one of ours. She tried to murder Gnaeus at the mansio, and then she killed another of our men in a pathetic attempt to cover her tracks. You see? It all fits together.”

  “If you please, my lady,” Diogenes spoke up, “I don’t know what happened tonight, but I’m fairly sure that Margarita must have been involved with the earlier attempts to kill the master.”

  I glanced quickly around. Everyone else looked as astonished as I was, even Sempronia.“Margarita?” we all exclaimed.

  The Weasel said, “I may be wrong of course. Perhaps I shouldn’t say any more, now that Margarita is gone anyway.”

  “Stop rambling, Mustela,” Sempronia barked, “and tell us what you’re talking about.”

  “Yes, my lady. Young Gaius told me he’d seen a bloodstained cloak hidden away in the woods. A blue cloak, belonging to one of our slaves. He was reluctant to tell me, because he thought the owner would get into trouble for dirtying his uniform, and I didn’t want to press him too hard. He’s so easily frightened.” I didn’t like the gloating expression in those weasel eyes. “So I asked Margarita about it. She denied all knowledge of it, which made me suspicious. After all, if Gaius was speaking the truth, I can’t believe he wouldn’t tell his mother of something like that. More likely he was only giving me part of the story, and it was Margarita who hid the cloak in the first place.”

  I was both angry and alarmed. How had he managed to get that choice bit of information out of Gaius? Surely the boy wouldn’t willingly have given away the secret, so what had Diogenes done, or threatened, to make him tell? Or maybe the Weasel knew about the cloak anyway, because he was the one wearing it when the bloodstains were made?

  But Sempronia was convinced. “You think, Diogenes, that this blue cloak the child saw was worn by whoever tried to kill your master?”

  He nodded. “It grieves me to say so, my lady, but yes, I do. And it was also worn by whoever killed the guard Leander. There was a good deal of blood, according to the child.”

  “What do you mean, whoever killed Leander?” she snapped. “Leander killed himself, and left a note confessing to attempted murder.”

  Diogenes shook his head. “With the greatest respect, my lady, I don’t think he did. The note was a forgery.”

  “Forgery?” Sempronia pounced on the word like a cat on a rat.

  “I only found out today,” he said meekly, “and I haven’t had time to tell your ladyship. Leander didn’t know how to write.”

  “Indeed?” She sat thinking for a few heartbeats, and then turned to me. “If we needed additional proof of your sister’s guilt, we have it. With or without help from Margarita, she committed two murders while at the mansio. She failed to kill Gnaeus then, so she made another attempt tonight. And perhaps she had assistance from you also. Well? What have you to say to that?”

  “What I have to say to that isn’t fit for polite company.” I looked at the Weasel, determined to wipe that gloating smile from his face. “Diogenes, you seem to know a great deal. How did you come by the information about the bloodstained cloak?”

  But Sempronia ignored my question. “Don’t attempt to change the subject. There’s no doubt in my mind that both you and your precious sister are murderers. Antonius, kindly arrest Aurelia now, and send men to find Albia and bring her here. What are you waiting for?”

  “Arresting Aurelia would be a waste of time,” Quintus countered. “Time which we should be spending apprehending the real murderer.”

  “So you consider,” Sempronia demanded, “that Albia acted alone? Or even with help from Decimus?”

  Quintus faced her calmly. “It has to be a possibility, I admit, but not a strong one, to my mind. Plautius told me he’d been worried about his personal safety for some time. For some time,” he repeated with emphasis. “I took that to mean, before you ever came to the Oak Tree.”

  “He told me the same,” I put in. “On the first night that you stayed with us. And Albia proved to his satisfaction that she couldn’t have killed either Idmon or Leander. If she’d killed Idmon, she’d have had traces of his blood on her person, and she had none. And on the evening Leander was killed, she and I were both under surveillance.”

  “By Margarita!” Diogenes crowed triumphantly, “who was in possession of a bloodstained blue cloak. I said she was involved, my lady! Perhaps she didn’t wear the cloak herself, but she was helping Albia and Aurelia by hiding it.”

  I couldn’t fault his reasoning, though it must have a flaw somewhere. Whatever the provocation, Albia wouldn’t have killed anyone. I knew she wouldn’t—but I also knew that was hardly a convincing argument.

  Sempronia was smiling at the Weasel. “Good, Diogenes! That’s well argued. Antonius, do you agree now that Albia has a case to answer?”

  “Ye-es, I think she has,” he said slowly. “And Decimus too. I’ll bring them here for questioning tomorrow. It’s snowing now, so we can’t do anything tonight.”

  “But they could be miles away by tomorrow,” she objected.

  “I doubt that. The snow will stop them travelling far. I imagine they’ll stay the night at Decimus’ house, don’t you think, Aurelia?”

  “Albia told me that’s what they were intending to do.”

  “Very well then. Now, Sempronia, you must put aside your personal prejudices, at least where Aurelia is concerned. I know her, and I personally vouch for her innocence. And her accuracy—she’s given you a correct account of events. Plautius told me that he’d asked both her and Albia to investigate the murders. They have some useful experience in this sort of thing, so it wasn’t an unreasonable idea.”

  He glanced at me, but I said nothing. “Some useful experience” indeed!

  “When I arrived here,” he went on, “Plautius asked me to help in the investigation myself, and I agreed. I said it was better nobody was told, so I could ask questions without arousing the killer’s suspicion. I made a start, but what with the kidnapping, rescuing Aurelia and trying to find Margarita and Gaius, I regret I haven’t had much time.”

  Sempronia considered, and at last said grudgingly, “Very well, Antonius. If you vouch for Aurelia, your word is good enough, of course.” She looked at Priscus. “Isn’t it, Aulus?”

  “I suppose so. I mean, yes, I take your word about Aurelia. But Albia? My brother and Albia resented Father’s attitude to them very much, you know. They could have been driven to violence.”

  “They could. But resenting isn’t the same as killing.” Quintus gave a profound sigh. “I’m a professional investigator, as you know. I’d like nothing better than to capture the murderer, present him or her to the Governor, and hear you all say, well done, Antonius, you haven’t lost your touch when it comes to solving crimes. I’ll try my best to do it. But it’s not as simple as it looks, I’m convinced of that. There’s a lot of work to be done before I can be sure. To begin with, I must question everybody.”

  “Everybody? You mean all of us?” Sempronia didn’t like that.

  “Everybody,” he repeated firmly. “Starting with the obvious people, that is the servants who handled the food tonight. The kitchen staff, and the slaves who waited at table. Have I your permission, Clarus?”

  “Certainly, Antonius. But you’re not planning to torture them tonight, are you?” From his troubled expression, I guessed poor Clarus was wondering how he could protect his valuable chef.

&nb
sp; “Torture’s the only way to get admissible evidence out of slaves, legally speaking,” Horatius put in.

  “I know that, but I’ll stick to straightforward questioning to begin with.”

  “If you seriously think any of the slaves are implicated,” Sempronia said icily, “you have probably left it too late. Anyone with a guilty conscience has had ample time to make his escape from the house, snow or no snow.”

  “I’ve posted my man Rufus outside, with some of your bodyguards,” Quintus said. “No one will leave the house.”

  “That was well done,” Clarus said, and even Sempronia looked impressed.

  “One more thing,” Quintus said. “I’d like Aurelia to help me in my investigations. She’s worked as my assistant in the past, and an extra pair of hands will be useful now, in fact essential, if we’re to make any real progress. I trust nobody objects to that?”

  Nobody did, though one or two of them appeared less than ecstatic. I probably didn’t look overjoyed myself. She’s worked as my assistant…an extra pair of hands…oh, really? We’d been a partnership of equals, and I opened my mouth to tell him what I thought of his patronising, arrogant manner. Then it struck me that his public coldness towards me was to my advantage. They’d all seen how he treated me over the last few days, and nobody could possibly argue that he was defending me out of friendship, let alone affection.

  Yet he was defending me, that was the crucial point, and I must give him all the help and information I could. To do that, I needed to get him alone. And that was exactly what he was suggesting. Gods, sometimes I’m so slow, I’d have trouble catching a tortoise.

  “If you’ll excuse us, we’d better begin straight away,” Quintus said. “We’ve half a legion of slaves to interview. The quicker we start, the quicker we’ll finish.”

  “I’ll find you a room to use as an office,” Clarus offered. We followed him out.

  CHAPTER XXIII

  “Before we talk to anyone, I’d like you to tell me as much as you can about the Plautius household.” Quintus and I were sitting together in the small room that Clarus had lent us, and now that we were by ourselves, Quintus was as relaxed and friendly as in the old days.