Illegally Dead (Marcus Corvinus Book 12)

by David Wishart

  Shit. ‘So what happens about lunch?’

  ‘No doubt the kitchen staff will rise to the occasion, sir. There is the remains of the pork from yesterday, and I’m sure the boy can heat up the leftover bean stew without burning it too badly.’

  Oh, great. ‘Listen, sunshine,’ I said. ‘When that bastard does deign to reappear you tell him I want to see him forthwith. Okay? First hand, no delegating, no little notes left on the kitchen table, all right?’

  Another sniff. ‘If you insist, sir.’

  ‘I do.’ Bloody hell! He’d probably use sign language. Still, that was his problem, and with Meton you didn’t take chances. Give him an inch and he’d take the whole fucking Nilometer, then flog it to a pal in the trade down the Subura. I hadn’t forgotten that sheep, either.

  ‘Ah, here they are now,’ Perilla said.

  ‘Who’s th –?’

  – which was as far as I got before I was hit in the chest by a ballistic Gallic boarhound.

  ‘Oh, hello, Corvinus, you’re back,’ Marilla said, appearing round the corner with Clarus in tow. ‘Down, Placida. Behave yourself.’

  I fended the brute off while Clarus ran over and heaved back on her collar. Bathyllus had shot off like he was greased: Bathyllus and dogs don’t mix, except on the most basic level. Where Placida’s concerned I use the term ‘dog’ loosely, mind.

  ‘Did you have a nice walk?’ Perilla asked.

  ‘Just the one bit of trouble with a pile of horse dung,’ Clarus said. ‘We’re teaching her not to eat it.’

  ‘Successfully?’

  ‘Not quite. But we’re almost there. She stopped half way through.’

  Placida got in a substantial lick across my mouth and nose before he manhandled her to the ground. I gagged and reached for a napkin. There wasn’t one.

  ‘How did your talk with Veturina go, Corvinus?’ Marilla asked.

  ‘Tie that foul brute to the railings and I’ll tell you,’ I said, wiping my face on my tunic-sleeve.

  She did, and I did.

  ‘So you don’t think she was responsible after all?’ Marilla said when I’d finished.

  ‘Let’s say there’s a strong possibility that she wasn’t. As things go, anyway.’

  ‘So who was?’ Clarus said.

  I gave him the suspect list that I’d just run past Perilla. Such as it was. ‘You help me with any of these?’ I said.

  ‘Not much. Acceius has a good name locally. He’s honest, he’s well liked, and he’s respectable. Also, he’s a top-notch lawyer. The general opinion, far as I’ve heard, is that Castrimoenium’s lucky to have him. He could’ve done a lot better for himself in Rome or somewhere else big like Naples or Capua.’

  ‘That so, now?’ I said. ‘General opinion say why he hasn’t?’

  ‘No. But it doesn’t suggest any reason why he couldn’t’ve done, if that’s what you’re asking.’

  I grinned. ‘Well done, pal. Yeah, that was about it. What about his relations with Hostilius? Or lack of them?’

  ‘Positive again. He’s had a lot of sympathy locally, mostly for not dissolving the partnership, going it alone and landing the guy a sock on the jaw for good measure long ago.’

  ‘Maybe he couldn’t, for some reason. Financial or otherwise.’

  ‘Pass.’

  Well, that was fair enough. Clarus might be sharp, but he wasn’t omniscient. ‘What about his wife?’ What was her name again? ‘Uh...Seia Lucinda? Hostilius claimed she was having an affair with Castor, or so Scopas told me. Anything in that?’

  ‘Pass. Look, Corvinus, Castrimoenium may be a small place but we don’t live completely in one another’s pockets. And me, I don’t have either the time or inclination to listen to gossip. Ask your pal Gabba. He might be able to help more.’

  Yeah, good idea; I probably would, at that, if I could find some way of keeping prim-and-proper Pontius from blowing the whistle and calling time. ‘Okay. Leave Acceius. Castor.’

  ‘Sorry again. At least, I’ve seen him, but –’

  ‘I know Castor,’ Marilla said. She was over by the railings, keeping Placida quiet and relatively civilised.

  ‘What?’ Clarus whipped round.

  ‘Only slightly. We’ve talked in the street, once or twice. He likes animals. He’s tall with brown eyes and brown curly hair, and he’s very good looking.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Clarus, he’s ancient! Thirty-five, at least.’

  I grinned. ‘Actually, if you remember, we’d got the guy’s physical description already from Hyperion, Princess,’ I said. ‘In essence, at any rate, barring the fine details you seem to have noticed. Anything you can add to it? If you can stop drooling long enough, that is.’

  Clarus snorted.

  ‘Marcus!’ Perilla said.

  ‘He’s very serious,’ Marilla said. ‘When you speak to him, I mean. He actually talks. And he wants to be a lawyer himself.’

  ‘Does he, indeed?’ I said. ‘Anything else about him?’

  ‘He’s very grateful to his sister. And to Quintus Acceius.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘I don’t know. I just got that impression from how he talked about them. When he did.’

  ‘How about to Lucius Hostilius?’

  ‘No, he didn’t like him at all. And it was mutual.’

  Well, that was understandable, given what I knew so far. ‘You, uh, seem to’ve had quite a cosy chat with this guy, Princess,’ I said. Beside me Clarus was grinding his teeth.

  She coloured. ‘Not all at once,’ she said. ‘We’ve bumped into each other maybe four or five times since last summer. And as I said, he talks.’

  ‘Talks too bloody much, if you ask me,’ Clarus muttered.

  Fortunately he hadn’t seemed to notice that once or twice had become four or five times; but Perilla had already put the kibosh on stirring things so I let that one pass unremarked. ‘Anything else to throw into the pot while we’re about it?’ I said.

  ‘No, I think that’s –’

  ‘You wanted to see me, Corvinus?’

  I turned. Meton. ‘Yeah, pal. Excuse us, Clarus, small domestic matter. Where the hell’ve you been?’

  Meton sniffed. Meton’s sniff is not like Bathyllus’s: it’s to the little bald-head’s what Placida is to a pedigree toy poodle. He removed the result with a hairy finger and wiped it on his tunic.

  ‘Shopping,’ he said.

  ‘Come on, Meton! You could’ve walked to Bovillae and back in the time you’ve been away. What about the lunch?’

  ‘’s in hand,’ he grunted. ‘I’m doing you a ragout of left-over pork an’ a red-cabbage-an’-walnut salad.’

  ‘Okay.’ Well, that sounded more like it, anyway. ‘So what took you so long?’

  ‘Checking out a new source of hares, wasn’t I? Little farm out past the Caba gate.’

  Uh-huh. Yeah, I’d go for that: Meton’s dedication to sussing out the best suppliers of meat, game, fish, vegetables or anything edible was absolute, and his exacting standards of quality control had put the wind up the wollocks of every market stall owner back home from Ostia to the fifth milestone. ‘And?’ I said.

  ‘They’re rubbish. Hutch-reared tat. And you know what they feed the buggers on? Bran. Bran!’ He spat into the ornamental rosebush. ‘I ask you!’

  ‘Right. Right. Well, in that case I’m sorry I –’

  ‘You know what a diet of bran does to the taste of a hare, Corvinus? I wouldn’t boil the bugger up for fucking soup, let alone –’

  ‘Yes, right, well, I think we’ve got the message. That’s –’

  ‘– stew it. And as for roasting, you can just fucking sod that for a game of soldiers completely, because –’

  ‘Meton!’ Perilla snapped. ‘That is enough!’

  He subsided, with another sniff. ‘So. Lunch in half an hour, okay?’

  ‘Okay,’ I said.

  He lumbered off.

  ‘Small domestic matter?’ Clarus said. Marilla grinned.
/>   ‘Yeah. Yeah. Give or take.’ I glanced at Perilla; the lady was simmering. ‘You staying for lunch?’

  ‘If you don’t mind. Oh, and by the way, Dad says to tell you he’s looked and there was no water in Cosmus’s lungs.’

  ‘Oh, great.’

  I’d really, really wanted to know that. Ah, well: at least he’d told me before we sat down to the pork ragout.

  Doctors!

  10

  I’d earmarked next morning for a talk with Partner Acceius: not before time, because barring Veturina squeaky-clean reputation or not as far as motive went he had to be up there with the prime suspects. Clarus had given me both of his addresses, the office and the house, though practically speaking there wasn’t much difference: he might not actually live over the shop, but his house was just around the corner.

  Office first, as being more likely. Also, Scopas had mentioned a clerk - what was his name? Fuscus - who might be able to fill in a few of the obvious blanks.

  The office was on the main street leading off the town square, a smart-looking property with a plastered front, a marble-pillared porch and a smart-looking (but not plastered) young door-slave sitting on the steps outside. He stood up as I came over.

  ‘Good morning, sir.’

  ‘Morning.’ I went up the steps and he opened the door for me. ‘Quintus Acceius in?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. His clerk’s here, though. He’ll look after you.’

  ‘Fine. Thanks, pal.’ I went inside. Impressive: the entrance lobby had a good abstract mosaic on the floor, pastel-blue walls with a bowl-of-fruit fresco and an alcove with a bronze Mercury. Tasteful without being showy; and if the quality of the decor went for anything the firm wasn’t doing too badly.

  The lobby opened onto a smallish room with a desk to one side and two doors leading off it. The decor wasn’t cheap here, either, and just as tasteful: a painted and gilded plasterwork dado that ran all the way round the red-panelled walls, a big fresco of the Graces, all carefully draped, that could’ve been Greek work, and two or three very nice bronze candelabra.

  The guy at the desk stood up. Like Scopas, he was in his sixties, but that’s where the resemblance ended: five-five max, thin as a rake and with a bright, quick eye like a bird’s. He wore a neat beige tunic - tasteful again - and a freedman’s cap.

  ‘I’m -’ I began.

  ‘Yes, sir, I know. Valerius Corvinus. You’re looking into the death of Lucius Hostilius.’ Brisk and businesslike, but suitably grave. Yeah; we were dealing class here. ‘I’m Fuscus, the practice’s clerk. Quintus Acceius said you might drop in, and he told me to give you every assistance.’

  ‘He’s not in himself this morning?’

  ‘No, he had to go up to Rome yesterday and he won’t’ve got back until the early hours. But he did say if you weren’t too prompt he’d be delighted to talk to you at his home. That’s only a step or two away, just round the corner.’

  ‘Yeah. Yeah, I know. Great, I might do that.’

  ‘Fine. Do have a seat.’ He indicated the chair my side of the desk: polished oak, with red leather upholstery. I sat, and so did he. ‘Now. Please ask away, I’m at your service.’

  ‘This, uh, attack on Lucius Hostilius fourteen days ago. Can you tell me anything about that?’

  ‘Not personally, sir, as far as the attack itself went, but it happened just up the street and Sextus would be able to give you the full details.’

  ‘Sextus?’

  ‘The door-slave, sir. He saw the whole thing, although he wasn’t quick enough to help. A very strange business altogether. The two gentlemen were quite shaken when they came in, understandably so.’

  ‘Did they know the man at all?’

  ‘No, sir. No one did, he was a complete stranger to the town, a vagrant. Deranged, obviously.’

  ‘Obviously.’ Well, I could check up on the finer points with the slave on the way out. It might not have anything directly to do with Hostilius’s death, but I’d bet a gold piece to a sock in the jaw that there was more to that attempted knifing than met the eye. ‘Okay; let’s talk about Hostilius’s brother-in-law instead. Castor. He works here, doesn’t he?’

  Fuscus hesitated. ‘He...used to, sir, yes, certainly. To tell the truth, at present I’m not sure myself of his position vis-à-vis the firm.’

  ‘You mean after his spat with Hostilius the day before he died?’

  Fuscus looked relieved. ‘Oh, you know about that already? I’m glad, sir. As I said, Quintus Acceius instructed me to give you every help possible, but Castor’s not a bad young man by any means and I’d hate to prejudice you unduly against him. Especially since’ - he hesitated again - ‘appearances might be deceptive. Lucius Hostilius being the way he was, if you understand me.’

  ‘Yeah. Yeah, I know all about that side of things, too,’ I said. ‘So tell me about the spat.’

  ‘Castor came in just after lunch, sir. I was alone in the office: Quintus Acceius was out seeing a client and Lucius Hostilius had gone home mid-morning saying he wouldn’t be back again that day. Castor said he’d just come from there and that Hostilius had forgotten to ask me to take a conveyancing deed round to Publius Decius; he has a potter’s business sir, on the other side of the main square, and we were negotiating the sale to him of an adjacent property.’

  I nodded. Jupiter, you could tell that the guy was used to legal work: every ‘i’ dotted and every ‘t’ crossed.

  ‘Normally Castor would have run the errand himself - that was his job, sir, he was the firm’s messenger - but the deed needed a little explanation which he couldn’t give and I could. There was no problem: Decius’s was only five minutes away and the explanation wouldn’t take all that much longer, so I’d only be absent for half an hour, if that. I left Castor minding the office in case a client arrived unexpectedly and went off.

  ‘As it happened Decius was out, so I came straight back. Lucius Hostilius was here, with Castor. I’d missed the...whatever the scene was about, but Hostilius was clearly very angry. He accused Castor of being an ingrate, a spy, a traitor and a thief, and virtually threw him out of the office.’ He paused. ‘There you are, sir. That’s about all I can tell you. I haven’t seen the young man since.’

  ‘Did Castor say anything on his side?’

  ‘No. He’s quite a serious young man, for all his good looks, and he doesn’t have much to say for himself at the best of times. When I came in he was just standing there while Hostilius shouted at him; very pale, with a sort of...tight expression on his face, if you understand me.’

  ‘Hostilius give any explanation? After Castor was gone?’

  ‘No, he didn’t say a word. Just went into his office and slammed the door. He left a few minutes later, without a word again.’ Fuscus hesitated. ‘He was a...very difficult man, sir. Latterly. And as I say I wouldn’t be in too much of a hurry, myself, to put all the blame for whatever had occurred on young Castor. If, indeed, anything had occurred, which wasn’t necessarily so.’

  Yeah; right. And there were bits there that needed serious thinking about, what was more. Not a clear-cut situation, by any means. ‘Thanks, pal. Very lucid. The two, uh, didn’t get on at the best of times, did they?’

  ‘No, although –’ Fuscus frowned. ‘Valerius Corvinus, I must make something very clear, although you’re probably well aware of it already. The Lucius Hostilius of the past twelve or eighteen months was a completely different man to what he’d been before. Increasingly so. If you’d asked me that question two years ago, when his brother-in-law joined the firm, my answer would have been quite different. The impetus may have come from Hostilius’s wife - I believe that it did - but Hostilius certainly approved. Castor had no experience of legal work whatsoever - he was working with his father and elder brother in the family wineshop - but he was keen, intelligent and conscientious, desperate to do well. Professionally ambitious, too: he wanted to be a lawyer himself one day, or at least a lawyer’s clerk, like myself.’

  Yeah: Marilla
had told me that, it was one of the things that the guy had mentioned in their streetside tête-à-têtes. ‘So why didn’t he get some in-house training?’ I said. ‘After all, he was a relative, and if like you say he had things going for him –’

  ‘I’m afraid that was Lucius Hostilius’s doing, sir. After he...fell ill he took a dislike to the young man, wouldn’t have him as an apprentice at any price, to any degree. Quintus Acceius did what he could, tried to persuade him otherwise, but to have insisted or gone behind his partner’s back would only have led to serious trouble, perhaps ending with Castor being dismissed altogether and packed off to Bovillae again. He was forced to leave the situation as it stood.’

  Uh-huh. Well, that made sense; in effect, that was what had happened, finally. Or would’ve done, if Hostilius had lived. Interesting. ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Let’s move on. I understand that Hostilius had another spat recently. With one of the Maecilius brothers.’

  ‘Yes.’ Fuscus nodded. ‘Yes, that’s correct, the elder of the two, Gaius. He –’

  ‘Hold on, pal,’ I said. ‘That’s Bucca, right?’

  ‘Indeed it is.’

  ‘I was told the quarrel was with the younger brother. Fimus. About fifteen days ago, in the square.’

  Fuscus frowned. ‘I’m sorry, Valerius Corvinus, I know nothing about any quarrel with Fimus; in fact, I’d be very surprised if you haven’t made a mistake over the name, or that your informant has. After all, they are brothers.’

  ‘Uh-uh. No mistake, pal.’ There wasn’t, I was absolutely sure of that. Bucca’s name hadn’t come up in the conversation at Pontius’s at all.

  ‘Then it’s odd. Marcus Maecilius - Fimus - is the firm’s client, and as far as I’m aware he has no complaints whatsoever about how his brief is being handled.’

  ‘That’s the disputed will business, right? Which of his sons gets old “Lucky” Maecilius’s land?’

  ‘Correct. We are defending the status quo, under which Marcus - Fimus - gets the property and a quarter of the monetary estate while his brother has the balance.’

  ‘Who’s on the other side, by the way? Just out of interest?’