No Cause for Concern

by David Wishart

  I went downstairs. They’d laid young Titus out in the atrium, his feet towards the floor; not the slave, of course, he’d be elsewhere. I cut off my token scrap of hair, put it in the basket provided, and burned a pinch of incense on the small brazier beside the funeral couch.

  Then I set off home.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Perilla was upstairs in her study slaving over her anapaests. Or whatever compositional metre she was currently into. Me, unless the annual accounts are involved, when I need to use the desk space for laying out the tablets and catching the torn-out clumps of hair, I like to be comfortable, which means I loll around on a couch with a handy table next to it for the wine cup; the lady is definitely the sitting-up-straight-at-a-desk type. So that’s where she was. I gave her the usual back-home kiss, carried my cup over to the rarely-used reading couch and lolled.

  She closed the note-tablet and put down her pen.

  ‘So,’ she said. ‘You have your bodies.’

  ‘Yeah. Unfortunately. Be careful what you wish for, right?’ I gave her the run-down.

  ‘And you think this Astrapton was responsible?’ she said when I’d finished.

  ‘Give me a chance, lady! I don’t know! It looks that way at present, sure, or at least that he was seriously involved. The problem is that he didn’t have a smidgeon of motive. Direct motive, anyway. He didn’t have much in the way of opportunity, either. These little details aside, the guy’s perfect.’

  ‘How do you mean, no opportunity? He lived in the same house as Luscius.’

  I sighed and picked up the winecup. ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘You’re Astrapton. You’ve decided, for whatever reason, to kill your boss’s stepson. You want to lure your victim to an out-of-the-way part of the garden. Trouble is, he’s never had anything to do with you and doesn’t want to, so he’s hardly likely to agree to a meeting. Also, time’s short, because he’s heading for the tall timber. How do you do it?’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘“Ah” is right.’ I took a smug swig of the wine.

  ‘Actually, I can think of three possibilities.’

  I almost choked. ‘What?’

  ‘Theoretical ones, at least.’

  Jupiter! ‘Theoretical’s fine with me. Go ahead. The floor is yours.’

  ‘First. You say that Luscius and Sempronia used the grotto as a meeting-place, and that she couldn’t be absolutely certain that no one else knew this. If Astrapton did, then what was to stop him writing a note purporting to come from her arranging to meet at the grotto, and passing it on to Luscius?’

  ‘He’d smell a rat straight off. He’d know she wouldn’t use Astrapton as a courier.’

  ‘There are other ways. Astrapton is resident in the house, yes?’

  ‘Yeah, I assume so.’

  ‘Then it wouldn’t be beyond possibility for him to, say, slip the note under Luscius’s bedroom door during the night. Naturally I don’t know the layout of the house itself and where the bedrooms are located in respect of one another, so that might not be feasible in practice. But the principle holds good. If the meeting was timed for before dawn, or slightly after, there would be no chance of the deception being discovered before it was too late. And it’d explain why Luscius didn’t arrange to say goodbye to Sempronia and tell her where he was going. As far as he was concerned, an arrangement to meet had already been made, by Sempronia herself.’

  ‘Would Astrapton have known her handwriting? He’d’ve had to, to forge a note.’

  Perilla shrugged. ‘Again, I don’t know. Possibly, possibly not; I said, it’s only a theory, to be modified by the facts. But in any case I doubt if Luscius would be unduly suspicious. After all, why should he be? As far as he knew, the relationship was still a secret, one or two words would be enough, and they needn’t’ve included a signature. In fact, they probably wouldn’t, for safety’s sake. So unless the forgery was crude in the extreme Luscius wouldn’t’ve given it a second glance.’

  I grinned. ‘Okay, Aristotle. As a theory, it has definite possibilities. I’ll grant you that. File for reference. Next.’

  ‘You’re assuming that Astrapton did the arranging.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘What if he didn’t? What if the meeting was Luscius’s idea? Or at least that he wanted it to happen?’

  ‘Gods, Perilla! Why should Titus Luscius want to talk to Astrapton? I said: he wouldn’t even give the guy the time of day.’

  ‘As far as you know.’

  ‘Yeah, well, that’s sort of axiomatic, isn’t it? Everyone says he’d have nothing to do with his stepfather’s business associates, even his mother and his girlfriend. That’s enough proof for me.’

  ‘Yes, but what if Luscius had found out somehow that Astrapton was fiddling the books, and wanted to face him with it? Perhaps attempt a little blackmail?’

  ‘We don’t know yet that Astrapton was on the fiddle.’

  ‘No. But it’s a strong possibility, isn’t it?’

  ‘You’re fantasising, lady. One, unless I’ve got him completely wrong, Luscius was no blackmailer. He wasn’t the type. And two, if his motive wasn’t personal profit then why should he care if Astrapton was ripping Eutacticus off? From his point of view it’d simply be one crook stealing from another.’

  ‘All right. I admit that that scenario is the most unlikely. Leave it. Third theory, also involving the blackmail theme. What if it was the other way round, and Astrapton was blackmailing Luscius?’

  ‘Over what? Titus Luscius wasn’t –’ I stopped. Shit. I’d been going to say that Luscius wasn’t the blackmailer’s-victim type, that he wasn’t the sort to have a guilty secret. But he did have one, didn’t he? If Astrapton knew about the grotto then he must’ve known about his relationship with Sempronia, and as a top-notch accountant he could calculate how many beans made five. Yeah; that would work, and Occusia had said money wasn’t a problem for her son, that Eutacticus gave him as much as he liked.

  ‘It still wouldn’t make sense, though,’ I said. ‘A blackmailer doesn’t kill his victim. If anything, it happens the other way round.’

  ‘Perhaps he didn’t originally intend to. Perhaps Luscius was planning to kill him and Astrapton turned the tables.’

  Gods! It was usually me who went out on a limb with theorising! ‘Perilla, Luscius wasn’t the type to commit a murder any more than he was capable of blackmail. Trust me; he wouldn’t’ve set up a meeting intending to kill Astrapton in cold blood, no way. And if he had then that’s the way things would have gone. Luscius was a big lad, he could handle himself in a fight, we know that from his pal Bellarius. Besides, there was the slave Lynchus as well. If it had come to an actual fight, particularly if he’d been taken by surprise, a weed like Astrapton wouldn’t’ve stood a chance.’

  ‘But he evidently did. If it was him. More than a chance. The murder victims were Luscius and his slave, not Astrapton.’

  I frowned. ‘Yeah. That’s been puzzling me. Oh, one person could’ve done both murders, no argument, but to keep the element of surprise he’d have to have been sure of taking the pair down one at a time. Plus he’d have to be up to the job, because if he fumbled either killing, particularly the first one, the chances are he’d be up shit creek. Certainly scratch the surprise element.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So I think Astrapton – if it was Astrapton – had an accomplice. Things’d be a lot easier with two people.’

  ‘You mean someone from inside the house?’

  ‘No. Not necessarily, in fact not at all. The boundary wall backs directly onto the hill. There’s plenty of rough cover the other side, so any third party’d have all the time he needed to get over with zero risk of being spotted. He could even’ve used a ladder. And an accomplice would fit the mechanics of the thing. Astrapton takes Luscius inside leaving the slave to keep watch so they can discuss their business in private. Meanwhile his pal hidden in the shrubbery slits Lynchus’s throat – that was done just outside the entrance to the grotto, I saw the bloodst
ains – and then comes in to help Astrapton kill Luscius. That make sense?’

  Perilla was twisting a lock of hair. ‘Yes, Marcus, it does. And it would fit in just as well with the first theory of the bogus note. So if we shelve the question of motive for the present then who would the accomplice have been?’

  ‘Easy. Young Paetinius. Oh, it’s just a guess, but we don’t have any other front runners and he’s a fair bet. It’d solve the problem of motive, too, because Paetinius had it in spades, and from what Luscius’s pal Bellarius told me he has the form as well.’ I took a swallow of the wine. ‘It all fits beautifully. Paetinius makes the running and sets up the plan, Astrapton facilitates things from the inside.’

  ‘Just a moment. You’re assuming some prior connection between the two.’

  ‘Yeah.’ I rubbed my chin. ‘True.’

  ‘Besides, despite what you say, I’m not at all sure that even outright hatred would constitute enough of a motive to commit murder. There would have to be something more concrete, surely. And there’s still the very moot question of whether Paetinius would have the intellectual capacity to plan one.’

  ‘True again. All the same -’ I stopped. Oh, gods! I’d cracked it! Or part of it, anyway… ‘No there isn’t. Because he didn’t need to have.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘And there was something more concrete.’

  ‘Namely?’

  ‘Something that Eutacticus said when I talked to him this morning. That if it’d been him – Eutacticus himself – who’d been murdered I’d have a suspect list of enemies as long as my arm. And his ex-partner would be right at the top. Paetinius senior.’

  ‘Marcus, we’re talking about the son, not the father!’

  ‘Just hear me out. It comes to the same thing in the end, more or less. And it makes much more sense if father and son were in it together.’

  ‘Explain.’

  ‘If Eutacticus was planning to adopt young Luscius – whatever the kid’s own plans in that direction were – then getting rid of the son and heir might strike the elder Paetinius as a pretty good idea. Particularly if with Luscius gone his own son might be in the running again to inherit Eutacticus’s business operations.’

  ‘Now that is far-fetched!’

  ‘Not as far fetched as it sounds. Whatever Eutacticus’s feelings are on the matter, young Paetinius and his mother both claim – and maybe genuinely believe – that they’ve been screwed out of their rights. Their legal rights. According to Bellarius, Titus Luscius’d told Paetinius until he was blue in the face that he had no interest in taking over from his stepfather, and Paetinius still didn’t believe him. Now Luscius is actually dead, whether he was only acting disinterested or not is irrelevant. And what happens if Eutacticus dies without a replacement heir?’

  ‘If he can get himself recognised as Eutacticus’s son under law, then Paetinius would inherit. Could he?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m no lawyer. But he was born only four months after his parents’ divorce, and the whole business of Paetinius Senior being his natural father could just be malicious gossip and suspicion on Eutacticus’s part. Certainly it can’t be proved for definite, as it’d have to be for the thing to stand up in court. So, yeah, I’d reckon he’s at least in with a shout. A better shout than if Luscius was still around, anyway. Particularly with the elder Paetinius’s money to buy the best rep in the city and grease the legal wheels.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Perilla was still twisting her hair. ‘You know, it might even provide the missing motive for Astrapton. And the prior connection.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘If he had been putting in a bit of creative accountancy, it’d be sensible to have a contingency plan for the future, wouldn’t it? In case he was found out eventually?’

  ‘Sure, but –’ I stopped; I’d seen where she was going. ‘He gets in touch with one of the Paetinii – Senior or Junior, it doesn’t matter, lump them together as an item – and tells them he might be up for involvement in any scam they have cooking where Eutacticus and his stepson are concerned, in return for a guaranteed bolt-hole if he needs it. Yeah, that might work. Well done, lady. Astrapton is definitely in the frame. To say nothing of the Paetinius family.’ I stretched. ‘Still, we’re a long way from proof. Enough for today, leave it for now. You want some lunch?’

  ‘No, Marcus, I really need to get on with this. It’s for our next poetry meeting.’

  ‘Yeah. Right. Well, I think I’ll get Meton to make me an omelette, then take the afternoon off and go over to Renatius’s to prop up the bar with the punters. Assuming nothing else transpires in the meantime.’ I got up, picked up my wine cup and went to the door. ‘See you later.’

  One thing, though: if I was having an omelette I’d eat it off a tray in the atrium. There hadn’t been any sign of our pint-sized artistic guru when I’d come in – no doubt he was sharing his prodigious talents among several lucky households and we’d just have to wait in line until he deigned to take Fantasy Architecturescape Seven to the next stage – but just knowing while I ate that that aberration in the dining room was lurking behind my back waiting to pounce would put me right off my lunch.

  Ah, well, no doubt it would all work itself out; I had infinite confidence in Bathyllus’s deviousness and ingenuity, and judging by his reactions so far he was not going to take this lying down. Or at worst scenario it’d be whitewash time at the earliest opportunity, and screw the money. Meanwhile it was Renatius’s and an hour or two of shooting the breeze. The case could just simmer on the back boiler for a while.

  CHAPTER TEN

  I’d just finished breakfast in the garden next morning when Bathyllus oozed up with Laughing George – aka Eutacticus’s principal muscle Satrius – in close attendance. On a miffed rating of one to ten, the little guy was showing a clear fifteen.

  ‘It appears you have a visitor, sir,’ he said. ‘I asked him to wait in the lobby, but –’

  ‘That’s okay, Bathyllus. No harm done.’ I brushed the bread-crumbs off my tunic. ‘Go and count the spoons.’

  ‘Morning, Corvinus,’ Satrius said as Bathyllus huffed off. ‘The boss sent me.’

  ‘Yeah, I’d sort of guessed that.’ I stood up. ‘You’ve found Astrapton?’

  ‘Nah, not yet. I’m taking you to the Golden Fleece.’

  ‘What’s the Golden Fleece?’

  ‘Gambling joint. The boss said you’d asked him to find where the bastard did most of his hanging out. Word is, the Fleece. So that’s where we’re going.’

  ‘Uh...isn’t it a little early, pal? These places don’t open until –’

  ‘You’ll be with me, Corvinus. If we want the Fleece to be open then it will be fucking open. With little blue bows on.’

  Right. Right. Well, it had only been a passing observation. ‘You have an address, maybe?’ I said.

  ‘Banker’s Incline, behind the Porcian Hall.’

  The other side of town, near the Citadel. Still, it was a good day for walking. ‘Fine. I’m ready. Let’s go.’

  ‘I’ve got a litter outside.’

  ‘If it’s all the same to you, friend, I’d rather –’

  ‘Look. I’ve walked all the way from the fucking Pincian already this morning. We take the litter, right?’

  We took the litter.

  * * *

  Gambling’s technically illegal in Rome, barring at the Winter Festival, but in practice the law’s pretty much a dead letter in these more permissive days. Even so, if you provide a facility that encourages its customers to lose their shirts and hock their grandmothers outwith the comfort of their own homes, making the fact obvious is not a sharp idea. The Golden Fleece was an anonymous building in one of the blocks between the Porcian Hall and the Fontinal Gate; more specifically, a door with a heavy iron grille set between a cutler’s shop and a bakery. Satrius waited while I paid off the litter – evidently transporting purple-stripers didn’t come under the heading of legitimate expenses where gorillas were concerned – and kn
ocked.

  A face appeared at the grille. ‘Bugger off,’ it said. ‘We’re closed.’ Then it saw Satrius and did a double-take. ‘Ah. There again –’

  There was a rattling of bolts and the door opened to reveal a weedy slave in a threadbare tunic, clutching a mop like it was some apotropaic talisman. We went in.

  ‘Cicirrus around?’ Satrius said.

  ‘Yes, sir. In the office.’ The slave swallowed nervously. ‘It’s through here. If you’d like to follow me, sir.’

  We did. Separating punters from their money, or creaming off a percentage, however places like that did things, was obviously a lucrative business. The Golden Fleece was done up like a top-grade cathouse, which it may well have doubled as: gilt candelabra, inlaid cedar tables, couches upholstered in red velvet with gold tassel edging, and pricey artwork on the walls, particularly the centrepiece with a seriously-hung Jason heading for the tall timber clutching the eponymous fleece with one hand and a well-endowed Medea with the other. The lady appeared to have lost most of her clothes in the spat with the dragon and was in the process of rapidly losing the rest of them. Well, where subject matter was concerned it beat fantasy architecture hands down, that was for sure.

  The slave took us through the main room to a door at the back. He knocked, opened it and stepped aside. The guy behind the desk looked up from the tablets he was working on: late middle-age, balding, a run to fat that was more of a bolt.

  ‘This’d better be important,’ he snapped, ‘because if it isn’t –’ He stopped, did a double-take, and swallowed, just like the slave had done. I was beginning to see a definite pattern forming here. ‘Ah. Satrius. Not a problem, is there?’

  ‘Nah. Least, I hope not. The boss just needs some information, is all.’

  ‘Of course. Anything I can do to help.’

  ‘This is Valerius Corvinus. He’s got some questions for you. The boss wants you to answer them. No fudging, no cover-ups, just the straight answers. Okay?’

  ‘Certainly.’ Cicirrus gave me a nervous look. ‘About what?’