“Why would anyone do that?” she asked.
“We were hoping, Miss Carter, that you might be able to enlighten us on that point,” Colin said. “My wife was a witness to the conversation you had with him at Vesuvius, and it did not appear to be particularly friendly. What is the trouble between you?”
“There is no trouble,” Callie said. “Not any trouble that matters on a larger scale, at any rate. He and I had a disagreement—a private disagreement—that concerns no one but me. It wasn’t the sort of thing that would lead me to want him physically harmed.”
“I’m afraid I need to know more about the nature of this disagreement,” Colin said.
“And I’m afraid I’m unwilling to divulge any further details,” she said, rising to her feet and stepping to stand in front of him, her hands on her hips, her chin jutting out defiantly. “If you believe me to be guilty of some crime, send the police. Otherwise, I have nothing to say.”
“Why are you so defensive about this?” I asked.
“That is no one’s business but my own,” she replied. “I appreciate that the two of you have taken on the investigation of Mr. Walker’s murder, and I’m more than willing to be interrogated on that topic, as I have already proven. The same goes for Mr. Jackson. My private life, however, is not up for public review. I’m quite accustomed to people like you taking advantage of any excuse to nose in and offer advice, but it never endears them to me.”
“You misunderstand us entirely,” I said. “We have no desire to give you advice. A friend of ours has been savagely beaten—a friend who argued with you not long before the attack. Your private life can be as private as you like, but we have every right to question what happened between you two that might have catalyzed this terrible event.”
“If you have evidence that I set out to harm Mario, give it to the police. I assume the incident has been reported to them and I further assume that you will tell them—if you haven’t already—every nasty thing you can think of to make sure they are as suspicious of me as possible. In the meantime, as I’ve already communicated, I have nothing to say on the subject.”
“I’m at quite a loss, Miss Carter,” Colin said, his voice low and deliberate. “You, of course, have an absolute right to your private life. My wife and I have no desire to create fictional stories in an effort to make the police think ill of you—for fiction is what they would be. I have seen nothing in your behavior that I consider out of line. Perhaps you are so used to being judged for choosing a life more colorful than that usually offered to ladies you can no longer recognize friends when they stand before you, and I find that terribly sad. We won’t press you to reveal whatever secrets you want to keep. If you give us your word that you had nothing to do with the attack on Mario, that will be the end of it, so far as I’m concerned.”
“Thank you,” she said, lowering her eyes and looking cowed. “I apologize for responding with such venom. As you surmised, I am used to being judged: for wanting to pursue a career, for refusing to marry, and for any number of behaviors society considers unladylike.”
“I know the feeling all too well,” I said. “We have more in common than you realize, Callie. I never would want you to think we’re judging you in such an odious manner when, in fact, I find much in you to admire.”
“That surprises me,” she said.
Her words wounded me. I hated to think that anyone could believe I would sit in judgment in such a reprehensible manner. I had never in my life approved of the rules that shackle us ladies and have suffered from much censure as a result. Had I become the sort of person one could mistake for a society lady, bent on matchmaking and horrified by the suffragette movement? I, who had marched with the Women’s Liberal Federation in support of the right to vote? If so, I would have to correct the situation without delay.
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I had fallen into a strange new routine, completing the little work I still did for my father by the time the sun reached the top of the sky, and then retreating to my room, where, under Melas’s frescoes of the Aeneid, I wrote scroll after scroll of poetry. Every fifth day, I met Silvanus in the bar. And twice a week, I went to his house to visit Lepida, who had not the slightest clue I was seeing her husband so frequently. Although there was nothing but poetry between the patrician and me, I could not help feeling I was betraying my friend, especially now, when I’d started to believe Silvanus wanted more from me. Even if he didn’t, aren’t all secrets a sort of betrayal? There might be kind ones, ones to which no one would object, the sort when one lies to hide a gift until the occasion on which it will be given, but this was not what Silvanus and I were doing.
I was never at ease when I called on Lepida and was beginning to recognize luxury as less important to me than I had previously believed, for it was only in my father’s modest house that I could rest easy anymore. I had grown accustomed to the noisy streets of our new neighborhood. Galen knew my favorite dishes now and made a point of having them on hand at his thermopolium at least twice a week. When I went to buy bread each morning, Telekles in tow, I chatted with the daughter of the man who owned my preferred bakery, and soon we had taken to going to the sumptuous and comfortable Stabian Baths together.
I also found—most unexpectedly—that I had started to miss the banter I shared with Melas when he was working in our house. He still dined with my father on occasion, but they had taken to going out more often than staying in. Initially, this caused me to rejoice, but one day, when I was returning from the baths, I ran into the painter. More like we ran into each other, as we both landed on the same stepping-stone at the same time. I would have fallen into the street if he had not had the sense to grab me around the waist, saving me from toppling into the filthy water flowing through the gutter.
“I should have needed another bath if you hadn’t acted so quickly,” I said. “Thank you.”
“I would do the same for anyone. I’m not such a savage as you think.”
“I’ve never said you are a savage.”
“Will the two of you move if you want to have a conversation?” A man with a heavily loaded donkey shouted. “We’re trying to get through here.”
Melas took me by the arm and we leapt from the stepping-stones onto the pavement. “You may never have employed the term directly, but you have made no secret of your dislike of me.”
He was standing close to me, and I took the opportunity to study him. No one would describe his features as handsome, but his eyes were pleasing enough, and his skin clear. “It’s not so much that I dislike you…” My voice trailed because the fact was, I did dislike him, but until now, I had never really considered why.
“You’re not persuading me, Kassandra,” he said. “Allow me to buy you a beaker of wine and perhaps we can find a path to friendship. If nothing else, it would make your father happy.”
“Why would he care, one way or another?”
“He knows it irritates you when I dine with him. Why do you think we sit at Galen’s tables so often? Your father would be more comfortable in his own house, but he does not like to see you unhappy.”
“You’re both making more of this than you ought. I don’t give you all that much thought, Melas.” I sighed. “And now you will say my protest disproves my claim. Go ahead, pick a bar and buy me some wine. I will try to be your friend, but do not expect things to change between us too quickly.”
He grinned. “Dripping water hollows out stone, not through force but through persistence.”
The Greek painter could quote Ovid.
1902
31
Colin left Callie and me outside the Villa of Diomedes so that he could interview Mario’s neighbors. Callie insisted that she needed to return to work, so I accompanied her. As we walked, the friction between us started to fade. I told her about my childhood and how my mother cared for nothing but seeing me make a good marriage, and then about my first husband, whose proposal I had accepted only because it presented an easy way to es
cape her house.
“And then he died so soon,” Callie said, sighing after I explained how Philip’s friend had murdered him not long after our wedding trip. “You, left to mourn a man you hardly knew.”
“It was not all bleak,” I said. “Had it never happened, I wouldn’t have discovered my passion for the ancient world. Society forces widows into lengthy mourning, and in doing so, inadvertently gave me the time to develop intellectually, without anyone judging me for wanting to read Homer or spending too much time in the British Museum.”
“We do have more in common than I assumed,” she said. “I know how close you and Bainbridge are—he raves about you—but now that I know you better, I find it a most unlikely friendship.”
“There are ways in which it appears to be so,” I said. “Yet, if you understand his character, you’ll find that he and I are more similar than a cursory glance would reveal. I know how much you despise the aristocracy, but imagine the pressure on him to marry and provide the dukedom with an heir. His refusal to do so is anything but easy.”
“He doesn’t object to the inherent unfairness of the system, only to the rules he’s supposed to follow as part of it. He’s perfectly happy to embrace the trappings—and wealth—of his title.”
“Yes, he is, but don’t assume he is altogether content in a role he did not choose. I’m not defending the system, Callie, only asking you to consider this: Is it not as inane to reject a man’s affection because he possesses a title as it would be to seek it because of his rank?”
“I don’t think it’s the same thing at all,” she said. “He may not have chosen to be a duke, but he is one, nonetheless, and shows no signs of renouncing his title. I cannot, in good faith, ally myself with a man whose life is dependent on a system I find unfair and revolting.”
“Why, then, are you spending so much time with him?” I asked.
“Because he is so bloody charming,” she said, coming to a stop and flinging a well-formed arm over her face. “I can’t recall ever having so thoroughly enjoyed the company of a gentleman. This whole act of his—pretending to want nothing more than to be the most useless man in England—would be maddening if it weren’t so obvious that, beneath it, lies the heart of an individual who would sacrifice anything for a friend.”
“You do know him well,” I said.
“It’s not so difficult to crack that silly surface if one is willing to persist.”
“Yet you are determined to push him away, simply because he is a duke?”
“You’re a beast, Emily.”
“I am when it comes to defending Jeremy.”
She blushed, ever so slightly, but said nothing.
“How did you get along with Mr. Jackson?” I asked. “I understand he was rather fascinated with you.”
She bristled. “I did not appreciate his admiration for my person, but can assure you that it did not catalyze in me murderous impulses. And now, I must return to work.” She stalked off before I could ask her another question.
I let her go and returned to the villa, where I found Ivy on the terrace. She had just come from Mario’s bedside.
“His mother is terrifying, Emily, but you know that already. An absolute force of nature. If her son isn’t fully recovered by the end of the week … well, I shouldn’t want to be there to see it. He’s already much better. Bruised and battered, but more upset that he didn’t manage to stop his attacker than he is troubled by physical pain. He claims he could be back at work tomorrow, but fears that the colorful appearance of his face would prevent him from securing clients.”
“A valid concern.” He was so covered with bruises, it hurt to look at him. “He’s fortunate not to have sustained worse injuries.”
“The poor man.” Ivy’s voice faltered, but then she steeled herself and asked about my day. I told her about my conversation with Callie.
“I’m more than a little surprised you and Colin were so quick to accept her refusal to talk about her relationship with Mario,” Ivy said.
“I don’t think it’s a relationship, per se—”
“Call it what you like. I’m not suggesting there’s anything serious between them. She may reject the notion of aristocracy, but I see no sign that she’s keen to dabble with the lower classes, that sailor excepted. Regardless, she must be the most likely suspect behind Mario’s beating. We know she was upset with him before the attack and the fact that she will not reveal the content of their conversation is…” her voice trailed.
“What?” I asked.
“It’s … well … if she were not the sort of lady whom you admire, I don’t believe you would go so easy on her. You’re willing to give her the benefit of the doubt because she shares your intellectual leanings. I don’t mean this as criticism, my dear, but I do wish you would make yourself amenable to the possibility that she may be involved in something rather odious.”
I frowned. “You raise an excellent point. I shall strive to keep my mind open on the subject, even though I find that I like her very much.”
“As do I,” Ivy said. “If only she would be willing to marry Jeremy! That is, should it turn out she is quite innocent. We don’t know that she wasn’t involved in Mr. Walker’s demise.”
“She couldn’t have killed him,” I said. “She’s too small.”
“Not if she subdued him first and immobilized him,” Ivy said. “What if she whacked him on the head with a rock and then tied him up? She could have strangled him then.”
“What a ghastly imagination you have, my dear.”
“I saw Kat’s photographs of her with Mr. Jackson. She could have pushed that boulder onto him, too.”
“No, she couldn’t have. She was sitting at the table with us at the time, remember?”
“But Benjamin wasn’t,” she said. “What if they planned to stage his argument with Mr. Stirling so that he could rush off and deal with Mr. Jackson? I recall what happened with absolute clarity. Mr. Stirling was a bit stern with him, but not so much that any rational person would have taken offense. Benjamin was looking for an excuse to run off.”
“That doesn’t mean his sister knew what he was doing.”
“Perhaps not, but neither does it prove she didn’t.”
* * *
When Colin returned from interviewing the residents of Mario’s building, he found me in our room, where I’d retreated with a book, tired of watching Kat do her best to ignore me in favor of Ivy. He explained that at first, none would admit to having seen or heard anything at the time of the attack on their neighbor, but once he had managed to convince them that the Camorra were not involved, he discovered two useful clues. First, that the front door had been propped open as early as ten o’clock that night. A man, returning from an evening out with his friends, found it held open by a brick. Assuming someone had lost a key, he left the obstacle in place.
“Which suggests that our attacker neither had a key of his own nor picked the lock,” Colin said. “I didn’t find anyone who owned up to having opened the door for a stranger or who noticed someone slipping into the building behind him, but it would be easy enough to lay in wait for a resident to come home and slyly catch the door before it closed.”
“Someone could have noticed the brick and removed it. I’d wager our intruder kept close, ready to catch the door again, if necessary. Why did he wait so long between opening the door and going to Mario’s room?”
“It’s sloppy, the sign of a novice,” Colin said. “He could have slipped in and hidden somewhere in the building—in the cellar, for example—until he was ready to make his move. That would have been more sensible than loitering outside for two hours.”
“So we are not looking for a professional thug who chose a Roman theatrical mask to hide his appearance.”
“No, we are not. Which brings me to the other bit,” Colin said. He handed me a canvas bag that contained the shattered remains of the mask. “Given to me by an elderly lady who swept it up this morning. She has very strong feelings abou
t the common areas of the building being kept clean.”
I poured the contents onto a table and we arranged them, in the manner of a jigsaw puzzle, as best we could. Many of the pieces were too small to be of use—some little more than powdered remains—but, when we finished, we had a fair idea of what the mask had looked like. It was an unsophisticated rendering in ordinary clay of one of a pair of tragic masks featured in a mosaic originally found in the House of the Faun, now in the Naples museum.
“I questioned the souvenir sellers again. They all sell similar masks, but no one remembers anyone out of the ordinary,” Colin said. “It could’ve been purchased at the same time our ostraca were.”
“If so, Mario’s attack would be related to Mr. Walker’s murder, which makes me suspicious of Callie,” I said. “Ivy pointed out that she could have strangled him, if she’d first incapacitated him. Do you think we’re making a mistake in trusting her?”
“I don’t,” my husband said. “We have no evidence that suggests any involvement on her part in the murder. Which is not to say we should accept everything she says as a Home Truth. The attack on Mario wasn’t pulled off with the delicacy of the killing; it was noisy and messy. Granted, that could be a feint to make us believe that the two incidents are unconnected, but, for now, at least, I think we should treat them separately.”
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Despite myself, I came almost to enjoy Melas’s company. Which is not to say I still found him anything but immensely irritating. He had that intolerable Greek sense of superiority and an annoying habit of whistling when he started to grow bored with a conversation. Fortunately, he did not do this often with me, only when I started talking about Lepida.
“You would like her, you know,” I said one day when he had once again persuaded me to sit in a bar with him. He had a favorite, much nicer than the one Silvanus and I frequented, but as neither of us could afford much, the actual beverages were no improvement. “She’s not some vapid girl without opinions.”
In the Shadow of Vesuvius Page 18
