Last Rites (Marcus Corvinus Book 6)

by David Wishart

  ‘Oh.’ She sniffed. ‘It’s you again, is it?’

  ‘Yeah.’ I winked at the kid, who pulled himself round the old woman’s tunic like I’d just turned into an ogre with designs on his trotter. ‘Thalia hasn’t been back?’

  ‘No.’ Categorical. Uh-huh, so that was that, then. For a self-professedly incurious neighbour she seemed to be doing pretty well in the observation stakes. ‘You’re persistent, I’ll give you that.’

  Just for something to do, I beat another tattoo on the door and listened. Silence. Shit, this was hopeless. Still, I wasn’t going to go away a second time without having a look inside, even if it meant breaking in. I took a hold of the doorknob and pushed hard…

  No resistance. The door creaked open.

  ‘Here! You can’t do that!’ The old girl was bridling again. ‘That’s private property!’

  I ignored her. The ice was forming on my spine. Even with someone like Charybdis here standing guard, you didn’t leave doors unlocked in a Public Ponds tenement if you were spending a few days away from home. This looked bad. The worst.

  She was right at my shoulder, craning her neck to see past.

  ‘Take the kid back inside,’ I said.

  Maybe it was something in my voice, but she didn’t argue. The door closed behind them. I went in. The first room was empty, and no tidier than Aegle’s. I stepped over the remains of a meal and a bundle of clothes that was possibly the girl’s dirty washing. Beyond was a small bedroom, and on the bed…

  Yeah, well, at least it was winter and there were no flies. Not even, with the window being open, much of a smell. What there was was blood and plenty of it, dried now, but all over the pillow, the blanket and the floor. Where it’d come from was obvious. Thalia had certainly been a looker; even under the circumstances I noticed that. Her head was pulled back and her throat had been slit ear to ear like a pig’s.

  My stomach heaved. Quickly, I went back outside and closed the door behind me. She’d be safe enough left for the next half-hour or so. And it looked like I’d have to go round to Lippillus’s after all.

  16.

  ‘I’d reckon she’s been dead for four days, Corvinus.’

  I watched as Lippillus poked around the room, lifting bits of discarded clothing and setting them down again. ‘That’s quite a precise guess, pal,’ I said. ‘Why four exactly?’

  ‘Your sharp-eared old girl in the flat opposite’s the local midwife. She was out four days ago at a difficult birth, which means she wouldn’t be around to hear any visitor arrive.’

  Uh-huh. Four days; that’d put the murder the same day as the Good Goddess rites. It fitted. ‘Anything else you can tell me?’ I said.

  ‘Not a lot. At the moment, anyway. I’ll talk to the other residents, see if anyone noticed anything, but it’s not likely. Or at least not likely they’d tell me if they did. Tenement folk don’t have much time for the Watch.’ He moved over to the body and turned the head sideways. It lolled half off the pillow so that the empty eyes were looking straight at me. My stomach gave a lurch.

  ‘Jupiter, Lippillus!’

  He grinned. ‘You want to come next door? I’ve seen all I have to here, and the lads with the stretcher will be along soon.’

  ‘Yeah.’ We went into the other room. I opened the window – this one was shuttered – and took a few breaths of fresh air while he sat on the only chair and swung his legs. He was looking even more like an evil-minded dwarf than ever. Smart, though; vertically challenged or not, Lippillus is one of the best Watch commanders in the city.

  ‘So,’ he said. ‘What’s this all about?’

  I told him; the basics, anyway. He listened in silence.

  ‘I’ll tell you this much,’ he said when I’d finished. ‘The murderer’s no amateur. Whoever killed her did a good job. Very neat, very professional. And if you’re looking for someone who can play the flute as well as he can slice throats then the field’s pretty limited. Fluteplaying knifemen aren’t exactly thick on the ground.’

  Yeah; I’d worked that out for myself. But it still left us with a stack of unanswered questions. The guy could be a know-nothing hireling in the pay of someone who did have a motive, sure: that would make a lot of sense and solve a lot of problems with the theory at the same time. The fly in the ointment was you don’t hire fluteplaying killers just by painting an ad on a wall in Cattlemarket Square, and like Lippillus had said they don’t exactly form a significant percentage of Rome’s criminal classes. If our bogus fluteplayer hadn’t been acting for himself then the man behind him needed to have pre-existing connections, especially if – as it had to have been – the killing was set up at short notice. And in that case then one name led all the rest.

  Forget actual motive for the moment, because we couldn’t even guess at that anyway. Who did we know who moved in high circles, who knew the geography of the Galba house, who had access through his wife to the musicians’ list for the evening and who, according to rumour as reported by sleaze-ball Caelius Crispus, fraternised with male fluteplayers?

  Right. The senior consul, Servius Sulpicius Galba.

  ‘Corvinus?’ Lippillus was looking at me. ‘You okay?’

  ‘Sure.’ I could hear bumping and shuffling on the landing outside; the guys arriving with the stretcher, no doubt. I glanced out of the window. The sun was almost on the horizon; far too late now to hike halfway across Rome for another talk with Celer – or maybe Aegle would be a better bet – and there was nothing more I could do here. The next stage was to scare up a few male proponents of the fluteplayers’ guild and ask them some very pointed questions. ‘I’ll catch you later, Lippillus, right? Any news, you know where to find me.’

  ‘You don’t want to split a jug?’

  ‘Sorry. Not today, pal. It’s too near dinner, and if you don’t give Meton three days’ warning in advance that you’ll be late for the rissoles you’re talking serious repercussions.’

  If I could eat anything after finally tracking Thalia down, of course. But the walk to the Caelian might bring my appetite back.

  At least when I got outside the rain had stopped.

  ‘But, Marcus, why?’ Perilla shelled a quail’s egg. ‘Why on earth should Galba want the girl dead? It makes no sense whatsoever.’

  I shrugged and reached for a stuffed olive. ‘I don’t know. But if the killer was a proper fluteplayer then Galba’s a better proposition than most.’

  ‘Surely that very much depends on who your “most” are.’

  True, unfortunately. ‘Yeah. That’s the problem. We’ve got no suspects, or rather no actual names. None that’s better than another, anyway. Sure, we know why Cornelia died, or at least we think we do: Lepidus told her something which presumably seriously compromised whoever arranged the killing, and she was on the point of letting the cat out of the bag. Okay. So now with our fluteplayer just a hired killer and the murder done be proxy the field’s wide open. Completely so. The guy - or the woman – responsible didn’t even have to be at the ceremony themselves any more.’

  ‘All right.’ Perilla dipped the egg in fish sauce. ‘In that case why not start at the other end, with Lepidus. What could the secret have been?’

  I put the olive down. ‘Jupiter, lady! The guy was running around with half the blue-bloods in Rome! You like to guess how many skeletons there are currently propped against the inside of upper-crust cupboard doors waiting to fall out?’

  ‘Emaciated enough to kill for?’

  ‘Maybe. How do you decide that?’

  Perilla frowned and bit into her egg. ‘Yes. Yes, I suppose you’re right. Very well. If not what, then who. Who did it concern?’

  ‘Same problem. These guys aren’t lily-white innocents, and some of the things they get up to would make your hair curl. It could be anyone.’

  ‘Not quite. Murdering a Vestal – or arranging to have one murdered – does argue considerable… desperation. And very strong character. In fact, the young man’s own family would be the logical starti
ng place. The sister, I’ve heard, has quite a reputation.’

  I’d been lifting my cup for a slug of Setinian. I put it down slowly.

  ‘Lepida?’ I said.

  ‘Why not? She would certainly be a better candidate than Sulpicius Galba, wouldn’t she?’

  ‘Yeah, but –’ I stopped. I’d been going to say that Lepida hadn’t been at the rites, but of course that wouldn’t matter now; in fact, if she’d known there was going to be trouble she might well have stayed away intentionally. She had the nerve for murder, too, at first- or second-hand; and I’d bet a dozen of Caecuban to a bunion plaster that there were enough skeletons locked away in her closet to stock an ossuary. So all being equal, character-wise, Lepida was a reasonable bet. More than reasonable. Motive, however, was another matter entirely. ‘Okay, lady,’ I said. ‘Go on. Why should it be Lepida?’

  ‘For one thing, she’s the common factor linking her brother and Cornelia. He’d be more likely to pass on something concerning her than anyone else. And, naturally, there would be no problem about how he came upon the information.’

  I shook my head. ‘Uh-uh. Wrong; that won’t work. They hated each other’s guts, or at least that was the impression I got, from both sides. The Lepidi don’t exactly share their little hopes and fears over the breakfast porridge, and Marcus Lepidus wouldn’t necessarily have known any more about his sister’s private life than she knew about his. He probably wouldn’t’ve cared, either.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Perilla wiped her fingers carefully on her napkin. The lady didn’t look happy, but then she’s never liked having her own pet theories squashed. ‘Still, they were brother and sister. That would explain, wouldn’t it, why both Lepidus and Cornelia hesitated about making the matter public. Whatever it was.’

  Family loyalty. Yeah, I’d believe that. These big names might fight tooth and nail among themselves but when there was a danger of the lid coming off the dirty linen basket they tended to close ranks and mouths pretty smartly. And it would explain Lepidus’s message to me, too: There are some things worse than murder. Like blowing the whistle publicly on another member of the clan, for example. The old family code. Still, he hadn’t told his father, either: Lepidus Senior hadn’t known the secret, of that I was sure. At least – hold that – he’d said, and been ready to swear to the fact, that his son hadn’t told him anything, which didn’t necessarily mean he didn’t know already off his own bat…

  Or did it? I couldn’t remember the old guy’s actual words, but I had the distinct impression Lepidus Senior had denied all knowledge, from whatever source. Categorically. And if the secret concerned his sister, then why should Lepidus tell Cornelia but not his father? Unless, of course, he’d done just that, for reasons of his own that I couldn’t begin to guess at…

  Hell; we were in a maze here. Leave it.

  ‘There’s one other problem,’ I said. ‘Our fluteplayer. If Lepida was behind this, then where did she get him from? Fast lady or not, she’s still broad-striper class and he’s specialist low-level merchandise. Added to which, how did she know enough about the arrangements for the musicians to fix the swap with Thalia?’

  ‘Assuming she did recruit him somehow, he could have found out for himself. He may even have known Thalia already. Or perhaps Lepida got the list from Aemilia. You say they were friends. Acquaintances, rather.’

  ‘Yeah.’ I was frowning. Sure, it was all possible, but there were too many grey areas. Still, Lepida was someone to think about.

  I picked up the stuffed olive just as Bathyllus soft-shoed in.

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, sir,’ he said, ‘but a message has arrived from the deputy chief priest.’

  Uh-oh. This looked bad: the little guy had his serious face on. ‘Yeah?’ I said. ‘What sort of message?’

  ‘It concerns the dead Vestal’s maid, sir.’

  ‘Niobe?’ Oh, hell. I knew what was coming next; I just knew it. I put the olive down again.

  ‘Yes, sir. She’s been found in an alley off the Sacred Way. Her throat has been cut.’

  17.

  So it wasn’t going to be a quiet evening after all. Still, at least the sun was down and wheels were allowed in the streets, so we had time for an abbreviated dinner while Lysias got the carriage ready and then set off for Market Square. This time Perilla came too.

  The Jupiter look-alike Lucius brought us through the chilly, formal atrium to a small well-lit sitting-room where Torquata and Furius Camillus were waiting.

  ‘Corvinus. I’m sorry to drag you here, especially at such short notice, but I thought you’d rather be told immediately.’ Camillus had stood up. He looked at Perilla. ‘Ah. Your wife, yes? Rufia Perilla. I’m delighted to meet you, my dear, even under such unfortunate circumstances. Have a seat, please. Some’ – he glanced at Torquata – ‘some liquid refreshment. Lucius?’

  ‘Not for me,’ Perilla said. ‘Good evening, Junia Torquata.’

  Camillus was watching his major-demo pour wine into one of the two empty cups. ‘Also,’ he said, ‘I’m afraid I must apologise yet again for having to leave shortly. A dinner party this time, and rather an important one, although not one I’m particularly looking forward to since our new commander of Praetorians will be present.’ His mouth twisted. ‘I never thought that I would regret the demise of Aelius Sejanus, but Macro I find almost equally objectionable, and unfortunately my absence would be noticed adversely. However, I can let you have the salient points before I go, such as they are, and I’ve asked Junia Torquata if she will be kind enough to handle any questions or requirements you may have in my absence.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ I tasted the wine. It was Caecuban this time; Camillus was doing us proud. Lucius poured a belt into Torquata’s cup, put the jug down on the nearby table and withdrew, closing the door behind him. ‘So. What happened exactly?’

  Camillus glanced at Torquata. ‘The girl was found huddled against the wall of an alley by one of my own slaves some two hours ago,’ he said. ‘Luckily, he recognised her and informed me immediately.’

  Torquata grunted as if someone had run a needle into her arm. ‘She’d left the House of the Vestals an hour or so before, Corvinus. She asked leave to go to the old market off the Argiletum.’

  I took another sip of the Caecuban: that stuff you don’t gulp. It went down like liquid velvet. ‘And this would be her first time out since the… since her mistress died, right?’ I said.

  Torquata’s eyes rested on me speculatively. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘As a matter of fact it was. Apart from the funeral.’

  Hell. We should have thought of that angle and had her watched. But it was too late now. ‘No one saw anything?’

  ‘The alleyway is a short cut leading from the Sacred Way to the rear of this building.’ That was Camillus again. ‘It isn’t much frequented.’

  ‘You think there was a connection, of course, young man,’ Torquata said. ‘Between Cornelia’s death and Niobe’s.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said carefully. ‘I think we can assume that. The girl knew something that Cornelia’s murderer didn’t want made public, and the guy knew she knew. Only until she left the House of the Vestals he couldn’t do anything about it. I’d guess that since Cornelia died he’s been watching and waiting for his chance to make sure she didn’t blab.’

  Torquata closed her eyes. ‘That,’ she said, ‘is horrible.’

  ‘Niobe didn’t say anything over the past few days about what had been troubling her mistress, Junia Torquata?’ Perilla asked gently. ‘She gave no clue or hint? None at all?’

  ‘No.’ The chief Vestal’s eyes were still closed. ‘Not to me, at any rate.’

  ‘Would she have confided in anyone else? Had she a close friend among the servants, perhaps?’

  Torquata hesitated. ‘I have seen her with one of the kitchen slaves, a woman called Perdicca. Niobe may have spoken to her. Certainly it’s worth asking.’

  I glanced at Camillus.

  ‘All right, Corvinus,’ he said, getting up. ‘I
’ll see to it.’ He went to the door and opened it. ‘Lucius!’ The slave appeared. ‘Send round to next door’s kitchen and tell the slave Perdicca that Valerius Corvinus here would like a word with her. Now, please.’ He came back and sat down. ‘So. Who is this killer of yours? Are you any further forward?’

  ‘I think so, sir, yes.’ I gave him a run-down of the case so far, including Thalia and the fluteplayer. ‘He’s a professional. But the one we really want is whoever hired him.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Camillus looked grave. ‘You honestly think the man’s a purple-striper? One of us?’ There was total distaste in his voice. That I could understand: to someone like Camillus only one thing could be worse than the murder of a Vestal, and that was that the murderer should be someone he knew personally. ‘I thought perhaps after young Marcus Lepidus was cleared that the person responsible would turn out to be… well, not a gentleman. I realise that sounds naïve, but there you are. You couldn’t be mistaken?’

  ‘No, sir. At least, I don’t think so.’

  ‘And you have no idea at all who he might be?’

  ‘No. Not yet.’

  He grunted and stood up. ‘You will. And when you do find out, you make sure that I’m the first to know. Remember that, please. In return I guarantee that the ba-’ – he glanced at Torquata – ‘that the fellow will get the Rock, even if I have to drag him up there and push him off myself. That, or death by flogging. The emperor will agree, I’m sure.’ He set his empty cup down on the tray. ‘And now unfortunately I really must be going if I’m to avoid insulting his new lieutenant by arriving late. My apologies again.’

  After he had gone we waited in silence. Finally there was a knock on the door and Lucius came back in.