Solid Citizens

by David Wishart

  ‘You think they are likely prospects? Really?’

  ‘Really, lady, I don’t know. They’re a proper pair of chancers, no arguments there, crooks to the core, and for guys from their background like you said yourself the threat of exposure and the social disgrace involved might swing things, sure. For Canidius, certainly; that is one cool, calculating bastard. Given the opportunity, and if he thought there was no way he’d be found out, I reckon Canidius could and would’ve done it. Manlius, now, I doubt if he’d have either the brains or the guts. Not on his own, and not with premeditation. Still, they’re both in there with a shout, particularly after the fake alibi business.’

  ‘All right.’ She moved the cushion on her couch and settled herself more comfortably. ‘So what else did you get? Did you speak to the rival collector, what was his name, Baebius?’

  ‘Yeah.’ I took another swallow of the Alban and topped up the cup from the jug. ‘Turns out he’d had a clandestine meeting arranged with Caesius for that evening at sunset, at the old wool store, practically right next door to the brothel. Only Caesius never showed.’

  ‘From what Baebius told you, you mean.’

  I grinned. ‘Come on, Perilla! I’m not stupid! He could’ve been lying about that, sure, but the details checked out with what his door slave said, and him I believed. Plus, whatever the truth of the meeting story was, Baebius couldn’t have done the killing because at the time Caesius left the brothel he was safely back home up by the Alban Lake Gate.’

  ‘Again, according to his slave.’

  ‘The boy had no cause to lie, under the circumstances. And like I say, I believed him. If he was acting and telling porkies then he was damn good at it.’

  ‘So what was the meeting about?’

  ‘That’s the odd thing. You know that figurine they quarrelled over, that all the fuss was about originally? The little bronze of the Runner? Seemingly Caesius offered to do an exchange, a partial exchange, for a similar piece they’d wrangled over in the past, and he was going to bring the figurine along with him. Which, presumably, he did, because it’s gone missing.’

  ‘What?’ Perilla said sharply.

  ‘Yeah. His major-domo Anthus hasn’t seen it since the day his master died. And Baebius denies all knowledge.’

  ‘Again, he could be lying.’

  ‘Why would he bother? He’s off the hook for the murder, and although the whole business of the clandestine meeting was a bit silly the deal itself was perfectly legal, none of anyone’s business but his and Caesius’s. If Caesius turned up and it went ahead, why complicate the issue? Besides, I’m pretty sure he was telling the truth there, at least. And the bronze was worth at least twenty thousand. If Caesius had it on him when he was killed – and I’d bet that he did, because where else could it have gone – then the simplest explanation is that the murderer took it himself.’

  ‘Or herself. What about the brothel owner?’

  ‘Andromeda? Perilla, that is crazy! Why should Opilia Andromeda murder Caesius?’

  ‘For the figurine, of course. Just for that. If it was worth twenty thousand sesterces it would be a motive in itself.’

  ‘Jupiter, lady! How would she know he had it? And it might be worth twenty thousand to a collector, but she’d still have to find one prepared to buy it. That wouldn’t be too easy out here in the sticks. Besides, there’d be the question of provenance. Any reputable collector she approached would want to know how she’d got her hands on it in the first place. He might even recognize it for what it was, in which case she’d be properly up the creek.’

  ‘I can’t see any reason why either of these objections should be valid, dear. She did let Caesius in herself that evening, didn’t she? Why shouldn’t she have seen the statuette in the process, if he had it with him? Then, of course, it would have been easy to hit him from behind as he went out, steal it, close the door and leave the body to be found in the morning.’

  ‘She’s a woman, for the gods’ sakes!’

  ‘Petite? On the small, fragile side?’

  ‘No, not at all, in fact, but—’

  ‘Then it’s a tenable theory. And you can always ask Clarus if it would be physically possible when he comes in. As far as selling the thing is concerned, well, Rome’s not all that far away; there are plenty of art dealers in the city, not all of whom are scrupulous, and I’m sure the lady would be quite capable of mounting any deception she felt was necessary. Or don’t you agree?’

  I was staring at her. Shit! It was possible, at that. It was even plausible: Andromeda was no fluff-ball; she was smart and ambitious, and if she was building up a business and looking to go upmarket then twenty thousand sesterces would buy a hell of a lot of prime interior decorating. And certainly where opportunity was concerned she’d’ve had that far more than most. Maybe I should have another word, see which way she jumped. If she jumped.

  ‘OK,’ I said cautiously. ‘Andromeda is a possibility, I’ll give you that. Albeit an outside one. Proving it would be another matter, though.’

  ‘Very well.’ Perilla shifted on her couch. ‘Let’s move on. The brother, Lucius, and the nephew. Anything new there?’

  ‘Not a lot, no. At least, nothing positive. As far as Lucius being behind the killing is concerned, sure, he’s still very much our front runner, both in terms of motive and opportunity. Particularly if you bracket him with Roscius as the actual perp supplying the muscle and assume the murder wasn’t premeditated. Marilla was right about that; it’s the simplest explanation and it was something I hadn’t thought of. Oh, I would’ve got round to it soon enough, but the kid was there first.’ I glanced at Perilla over the rim of my wine cup. ‘She’s got a good brain in her head, that girl.’

  Perilla sniffed. ‘I’m not denying it, dear. All I’m saying is that encouraging her to use it in theorizing about who committed a murder and how and why they did it is perhaps not such a good idea at her time of life and in her position.’

  ‘Yeah. Like I did with you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Come on, lady! You know what I mean! How old were you when you asked me to sub for you in getting your stepfather’s ashes back from Tomi? Twenty, was it? Twenty-one, tops. More or less the same age Marilla is now, anyway. And I seem to remember you didn’t have all that many scruples about getting involved with the case yourself at the time. Quite the reverse.’

  ‘Marcus, that is simply not fair!’

  ‘Sure it’s fair. And relevant.’

  ‘The situation was completely different! I had a vested interest!’ I just grinned at her, until finally she ducked her head and smiled. ‘Very well, dear, you have made your point; we won’t quibble. And you’re right; she does seem to have an aptitude. Unfortunately. Carry on. What about Mettius? Did you find out anything else on the will side of things?’

  I hesitated. ‘Mettius is still a puzzle,’ I said. ‘The guy’s got secrets, that’s certain, and he’s dishonest as a Suburan horse trader. No arguments there. But that’s “dishonest”, not “crooked”; he’s no Manlius, let alone a Canidius. He may be an outsider who plays by his own rules, but my gut feeling is that he plays fair and more for the sake of the game than anything else. That’s what his pal Ulpius said, the guy who moved the wool bales for our two upright magistrate friends, and I’d say it was a pretty fair assessment.’

  Perilla smiled. ‘You like him, don’t you?’

  ‘Liking has nothing to do with it. I’ve liked guys who’ve turned out to be murderers before, and as far as motive goes – probably opportunity too – he’s still well within the frame. But as far as the business with the will is concerned, I’m afraid that’s a complete washout. I talked to the old guy who witnessed it, and he was adamant that it was genuine.’

  ‘He was sure? It wasn’t just an opinion?’

  ‘Uh-uh. Marcus Caesius himself told him at the time that he was disinheriting his son, and he read the document before the old man signed it.’

  ‘Damn!’

 
I grinned. ‘Yeah. That’s what I thought. Naturally, it blows that part of the case against Mettius to hell. If there was no skulduggery between Caesius and Publius Novius then he’d no grounds for blackmailing them, and in that case they’d no need to trump up a fake embezzlement charge to get rid of him.’

  ‘So you think that was genuine, then?’ Perilla was twisting a lock of her hair.

  ‘It looks that way, sure. Like I say, Mettius is hardly squeaky-clean in the honesty department, and the only evidence to the contrary – if you can call it evidence – is his own claim that he was set up. On the other hand, everything I hear about Caesius confirms that he was straight where the law and business was concerned. Hard, yes, but straight. And by his own admission Mettius hated his uncle, there’s no getting past that.’

  ‘So where does that leave us?’

  ‘I don’t know, lady.’ I sighed. ‘He certainly went out of his way to finger Manlius and Canidius for me, which is suspicious in itself.’

  ‘That isn’t quite enough to make him a potential murderer, dear.’

  ‘Yeah. Agreed. And it might well’ve been that he had a personal axe to grind. According to Ulpius again, Manlius’s father was the aedile on the bench who sentenced him to relegation. Plus, he’s got a definite down on Bovillae’s Great and Good in general, so he could’ve done it simply out of pure devilment. That I’d believe, too.’ I took a morose swallow of wine. ‘Hell. Leave it for now. It’ll all work out eventually, no doubt.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Perilla frowned, then said, ‘Oh, by the way, we’ve had word from your mother and Priscus. They’ve decided to come early, so they should be here in three days’ time.’

  Oh, great. Joy in the morning. Only a scant four days left of not being told I drank too much and not being bored to death on the subject of Etruscan modal verbs.

  ‘That’s nice,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t be sarcastic, Marcus. Personally, I’m looking forward to it.’

  Yeah, sure; the lady had never been a good liar, and there was just a tinge of red in her cheeks.

  Still, maybe there’d be another murder that’d keep me out of the house. I could always hope. Meanwhile, I reckoned sleuthing had had its whack out of me for the present and I was owed a bit of quality time doing bugger all. There was enough of the day left before dinner to stroll down the road to Pontius’s wine shop in the village for a quiet cup or two and a gossip with the locals.

  So that’s what I did.

  FOURTEEN

  Pontius’s is in Castrimoenium’s main square, which sounds a lot more impressive than it is, because the place isn’t all that big; maybe ‘village’ is overstating things a bit, but it’s only half the size of Bovillae, if that, and Pontius’s is the only wine shop on offer. Not that I’m complaining: Pontius himself is a good lad, he serves a more-than-decent jug of wine, and in general his regular customers are an OK bunch. All in all, as an occasional home-from-home and a relaxing watering hole for when we come down to the villa, I couldn’t ask for better.

  It didn’t look like I was going to be shooting the inconsequential breeze with Pontius’s other drinkers after all, mind. Maybe it was something to do with the weather – we were getting wintry showers turning to hail again, and the regulars had probably decided to stick by their own hearths – but the place was almost deserted, the only punter in evidence being Gabba, the barfly’s barfly and Castrimoenium’s leading opportunistic entrepreneur, whom neither wind nor hail nor gloom of night could deter from getting his daily skinful. The gods knew what the bastard did when he wasn’t propping up Pontius’s counter, which by my reckoning had to cover a good ten hours out of the daylight twelve, but if he was central to the local Alban Hills economy then rural Italy was in serious financial trouble. Apart from the retail wine trade, naturally.

  ‘Hey, Corvinus.’ He raised his cup as I walked in. ‘I heard you were back. Good to see you again. How’s the lad?’

  ‘OK,’ I said, easing myself on to a stool: all that unaccustomed horse-riding to Bovillae and back was taking its toll. ‘Make it half a jug of the usual, Pontius. And a small plate of your cheese and olives.’ It wasn’t all that long until dinner, but I’d had an energetic day, and a few preliminary nibbles wouldn’t hurt.

  ‘Holidays again, is it?’ Gabba topped up his own wine cup as Pontius filled my half jug from the flask behind the counter. ‘All right for some. Ready for the festival, are you?’

  ‘More or less. Yourself?’

  ‘Looking forward to it, consul, looking forward to it. As ever. The wife takes the kids off to her mother’s in Caba, so I get a bit of peace and quiet for a change.’

  ‘Is that so, now?’ Like I said, Gabba spent most of his day perched on one of Pontius’s bar stools, so he couldn’t’ve seen much of his wife under normal circumstances in any case. Me, I was surprised that they’d had the time and opportunity to have kids in the first place.

  ‘Indeed it is.’ He took a swig of his wine and smacked his lips. ‘Best and sweetest time of the year, this. So. How’s things up at the big house? You bring that fancy chef of yours with you?’

  ‘Meton? No. He’s back in Rome.’ Pontius put the wine and nibbles down on the counter in front of me. ‘Staying there, too,’ I added pointedly.

  ‘Pity. He’s got talent, that boy, and it needs proper handling. Since them talks on cooking he gave last year I’ve had quite a few of the local ladies at me asking about a follow-up.’ He winked. ‘He could do pretty well for himself there, particularly this time of year when the little darlings’re looking for something a bit special to put on the table.’

  ‘Gabba, I’ve got enough trouble keeping Meton’s ego within manageable proportions without you agenting for the bastard, right? Trust me. As far as celebrity cheffing goes, the world just isn’t ready.’ I took a large swig of my wine; not the best name that the Alban Hills could offer, Castrimoenian, by any means, but it had its merits, and Pontius’s was top of the range.

  Gabba shrugged. ‘Suit yourself, Corvinus. Your loss. But it’s a crying shame.’ He reached over and took an olive from my saucer. ‘Oh, by the way, I hear you’re mixed up with another murder, over in Bovillae.’

  ‘Where did you get that from?’ I said sharply.

  ‘Word gets around. No particular secret, is it?’

  ‘No, but …’

  ‘There you are, then.’

  ‘One of the nobs, wasn’t he?’ Like he often did when it was quiet, Pontius filled a wine cup of his own, came round to the front of the counter, pulled up a stool and sat down. ‘Senator, magistrate or some such?’

  I sighed. Well, I supposed it was fair enough, and out here in the sticks you had to make your own amusement, which included milking any gobbet of current scandal for what it was worth. And a murder was scandal in spades.

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘An old guy by the name of Quintus Caesius. The censor-elect. He was—’

  The door opened, and we turned round.

  ‘Oh, bugger!’ The newcomer was staring at me like Perseus must’ve stared at Medusa, but without the benefit of the polished shield. ‘Corvinus? What the hell are you doing here?’

  After the initial shock of recognition, I was grinning. ‘Hi, Crispus,’ I said. ‘I could say the same. Lovely to see you again, pal. Small world, isn’t it?’

  ‘Bloody microscopic, seemingly. And none the better for that, either.’ Caelius Crispus, upwardly mobile foreign judges’ rep and Rome’s foremost authority on the top five hundred’s communal dirty linen basket, closed the door carefully behind him like it was made of glass. ‘I asked first. Just answer the question, OK?’

  ‘I’m practically one of the locals,’ I said. ‘Been coming here for years.’

  ‘Oh, fuck.’ Crispus hadn’t taken his eyes off me. ‘You’re kidding, right? Please say you’re kidding.’

  ‘Why should I do that? Cross my heart, hope to die. Perilla’s Aunt Marcia had the villa just up the road, and our adopted daughter and her husband have it now. You
can ask Pontius here, or Gabba, if you don’t believe me.’

  ‘He’s right, squire,’ Gabba said. ‘Back and forward all the time. I hate to say it, myself, because I’m no fan of purple-stripers, but there you are.’

  ‘She here as well? That wife of yours?’

  ‘Perilla? Of course she is. Wouldn’t go anywhere without her.’

  ‘Shit.’ Crispus moved across to the counter like he was a ghost walking on eggs and sat down. ‘Double shit.’

  ‘What can I get you, sir?’ Pontius said.

  ‘A carriage back to Rome would be favourite. Failing that, slip some arsenic into this bastard’s drink.’

  ‘He doesn’t mean it.’ I was still grinning. ‘Me and Crispus, we go way back. Been friends for years.’ An overstatement, if you like: if I died I suspected he’d quite cheerfully piss in my urn. Even so, our paths had crossed professionally quite a few times since I’d saved him a couple of years pre-Perilla from a boyfriend’s irate daddy with a very sharp knife hell-bent on cutting his bollocks off, and we’d developed a cautious respect for each other based – on his side, at least – on scrupulous avoidance. He was OK at root, was Crispus, and, like I say, where the dubious alleyways of upper-class Roman society were concerned, the expert’s expert. ‘Give him a cup of your best Alban, Pontius. My tab. Come on, Crispus! It’s not as bad as that.’

  ‘Yes it is. Worse. If I’d known that you and that hellcat’d be staying anywhere near me I’d never’ve bought the sodding place.’

  Aha! The penny dropped. ‘So,’ I said. ‘You’re the civil service bigwig who’s bought the Satellius estate, right? My son-in-law was talking about that a day or so back. Pushing the boat out a bit, aren’t you?’

  ‘Certainly not.’ He glared at me. ‘I have a position to keep up, remember. These days, a small country pied-à-terre close to Rome where one can entertain friends and professional acquaintances in proper civilized comfort is practically de rigueur for a public figure.’