A Bitter Chill: An Aurelia Marcella Roman Mystery (Aurelia Marcella Roman Series)

by Jane Finnis

  “Meant to? You don’t think that’s what it is?”

  “Nah.” He shook his head emphatically. “Leander didn’t write that note. He couldn’t read nor write.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I found out yesterday, but I didn’t think anything about it till now. Several of their boys came round to the stables to play dice after dark, when it was snowing and we hadn’t any work to do outside. We cleaned ’em out good and proper.” He grinned. “We all got on well, and afterwards some of them stayed for a beaker of beer. Then they all went, except this Leander, and he asked me if I’d write a message for him, to go with a Saturnalia present that he’d got for one of Sempronia’s maids. She can read a bit, seemingly, and he wanted to impress her. So I wrote it out nicely for him.”

  “You’re sure he literally couldn’t write at all? Maybe his writing was very bad, or he couldn’t spell his words properly.”

  “Mebbe. But this note is spelt right.”

  “It is, and the writing’s not much worse than mine. But I need to be sure about this, Victor. He could have got someone else to write it for him, just as he asked you to do the Saturnalia message.”

  “Dictate a suicide note? I don’t reckon so, do you?”

  “No, you’re right. In fact the whole idea of Leander committing suicide seems pretty unlikely, when you stop to think about it. Nobody suspected him, they were all too busy accusing Albia and me. So if Leander really was the murderer, all he’d need to do was lie low, keep quiet, and let me and Albia take the blame. Unless he truly was overcome by guilt, of course.”

  “You can get overcome by guilt and not do away with yourself,” Titch commented. “If he felt badly, or thought he was going to be found out, why didn’t he just run away? Or steal a mule and ride away, more like.”

  “So then,” I said slowly, “if Leander was murdered, that means the murderer is still alive. And Albia and I will be under suspicion again. Plautius will say we killed the slave, to cover up the fact that we tried to kill the master. He’s bound to.”

  “Why then; tell him it was suicide.”

  His words shocked me. “Conceal a murder? I couldn’t do that.”

  “I could. If I was in the mess you’re in, I definitely could. Now I won’t tell anyone, and you don’t need to, neither. It’d only be for a while, after all, till you’ve caught the real killer. But if you go and blab to everyone that Leander was murdered, you won’t be given the chance. Like you say, you and Miss Albia will be the main suspects, and they’ll keep you guarded all the time, even if they don’t actually lock you up.”

  “That’s true, but still—to know about a murder, and not tell anyone?”

  He nodded seriously. “Either way, the murderer is still free. If you keep quiet, you’ll be free too.”

  I thought about it, and there was no doubt he was right. Perhaps not morally, and certainly not legally, but by all the laws of common sense, he was right. If I wanted to catch this murderer, I must keep my own counsel for a while, tell nobody, not even Albia. It wouldn’t be easy, but it could be done. It must be done.

  “Victor! Victor!” Gaius’ shrill cry brought me out of my pondering. I couldn’t see him, but his voice came from among the trees on the far side of the paddock. “Come and look at what Poppaea’s dug up!”

  “Saturn’s balls,” Titch said, “what now? I hope she’s not found anything too disgusting.”

  We hurried across the paddock and found Gaius standing on the edge of the trees a couple of yards from the dog. Poppaea was under a scrubby bush, crouched down and guarding a long blue shape that lay on the ground. For a few heartbeats I thought it was another body, but as I got closer, I realised it was just a rolled-up cloak, bulky and nearly the length of a man, but with nothing inside it.

  “She dug it out of the snow,” Gaius shouted excitedly. “I think it must belong to one of our boys. But she won’t let me go near and look.”

  Titch strode to the dog, which didn’t make a murmur as he picked up the bundle and brought it into the open. He began to spread it out, then stopped, but not quickly enough.

  “Yes, it’s a cloak!” Gaius squeaked. “It’s got all red and brown marks on it! Is it blood? Ooh, yes, how horrid!” He crouched down eagerly to take a closer look. “Lady Sempronia will be very cross. She hates it when we get our clothes dirty.”

  “Then don’t you get messy yourself,” Titch said, quickly rolling the cloak up again. “Leave it for now.”

  “But what’s it doing out here under a bush?” the child persisted.

  I caught Titch’s eye, and he gave an almost imperceptible nod. We both knew the answer: it had been hidden by the man who killed Leander. But that wasn’t for the child’s ears. “I expect one of the boys cut himself while he was shaving,” I suggested.

  Titch, who’d only recently begun to shave, rubbed his chin and nodded. “Aye, it’s very easy done. And then the poor lad knew his mistress would play war about it, so he hid the cloak out of the way.” He grinned at the child. “Let’s keep it a secret, shall we? Just between us three. Then he won’t get into bother.”

  “Good idea,” I agreed. “Our own special secret. All right, Gaius?”

  “All right. I don’t want anyone to get into trouble.” Gaius smiled, then lost interest. “Shouldn’t Poppaea be with her pups? They must be getting cold without her.”

  “She needs to get out of there sometimes, and they’ll keep each other warm for a while,” Titch said. “But why don’t you run along and make sure they’re all safe and sound? I’ll be there in no time.”

  “Well done,” I murmured, as the child trotted off happily. “And getting him to keep it a secret—a nice touch, that.”

  He spread out the blue cloak, and we could see that the front of it was well and truly splattered with blood. Some was brown and dry, but other patches were still sticky and reddish. Near the hem of the garment on the right side the cloth was torn and frayed, and there was another patch of reddish blood.

  “Get a sack to put it in, will you,” I said, “and hide it somewhere out of the way. We may need it as evidence, but whoever hid it won’t be best pleased if he finds out it’s come to light again.”

  “D’you mean he’d try and get you or me next time?”

  “I mean I want to make sure there isn’t any next time. Now I must go and report to Lord Plautius.”

  CHAPTER XIII

  I could have entered the guest wing by its outside door, but I wasn’t sure whether it would be unlocked, so I went the long way, through the bar-room and the hall. I opened the door from the hallway and was about to step through, when I saw two figures at the far end of the corridor. The light was dim, coming from a single torch on the wall, so I couldn’t tell who they were, only that they wore dark clothing and were embracing. Well, good luck to them. Servants in that household deserved their fun, even if it had to be snatched in dark corners.

  I began to edge back without a sound, and as I started to shut the door, a woman’s voice half-whispered, “No, we mustn’t. I can’t….” That was all I heard before I closed it. I pushed it open again as noisily as I could, at the same time half-turning and calling over my shoulder, as if talking to someone in the hall. “All right, but you’ll have to wait a bit. I’ll be as quick as I can.” This time when I stepped through, the only person in sight was Timaeus, standing just outside the sick-room door.

  “Good morning, Aurelia. I was on my way to find you. My lord’s awake, and a little better I think. I’ll tell him you’re here. And after you’ve seen him, could we have a quick word, please?” He winked. “About the kitchen arrangements?”

  “If that’s Aurelia Marcella, send her in,” came Plautius’ voice. “I may be ill, but I’m not deaf.”

  “Very good, my lord.” Timaeus made a comic face and opened the door for me.

  Plautius was propped up on a pile of pillows and was indeed looking better, with more colour in his thin cheeks. He gestured for me to sit on the stool n
ext to his bed. “So, Aurelia Marcella, I hear that one of my slaves has confessed to attempted murder, and taken his own life. Which means you and your sister are innocent. It’s proven beyond doubt.”

  I opened my mouth to agree with him, but no words would come out. I knew it was the wise thing to do, eminently sensible, convenient, reasonable. But when it came to the point, I couldn’t brazenly sit there and lie about something so serious.

  He noticed my hesitation. “Well? Have I been misinformed?”

  I took a deep breath. “I’m afraid it isn’t as simple as that. The fact is, if poor Leander was a murderer then I’m the Queen of Brigantia.”

  “You surprise me. You’re admitting that you and your sister are guilty after all?”

  “Of course not! I don’t know who’s guilty. I only know Leander isn’t, any more than we are. Someone else killed him, having tried to kill you, and wrote the suicide note to cover his tracks.”

  “An interesting theory. Perhaps you’ll explain how you arrive at it?”

  I told him how Titch had found the body, and how the man must have been killed last evening before the snow stopped. I showed him the note with its brief sad message, and he examined it thoughtfully, then put it down on the small bedside table. His steady grey eyes returned to my face. His stare was unnerving, but there was no going back.

  “Leander didn’t write that note,” I said finally. “He couldn’t read or write.”

  “Aha!” He laughed, and clapped his hands. “And you believe if the confession was a fake, so was the suicide.”

  “Yes.”

  “Good! I knew Leander couldn’t write. Most of my bodyguards can, but it’s not essential. It’s not what I buy them for. Interesting that you should have discovered it, and been prepared to tell me. Either you’re very stupid, or very wise. Because now I’m compelled to suspect you and your sister once again. Either of you could have written the note, and then killed the slave.”

  “If we’d written the note, why would I be standing here telling you it’s a fake?”

  “That’s easy. You discovered when it was too late that the man couldn’t write, so the easiest thing to do was point the fact out. You could still have done the killing.”

  “No. Leander was stabbed yesterday evening, which is proved by the snow that’s fallen on top of his body. Fallen naturally, not heaped there by hand. Albia and I were closely watched by Margarita at that time, as you’d instructed. Despite,” I added maliciously, “Diogenes’ attempts to entice her away, which she refused.”

  “Who can blame her?” Plautius murmured.

  “There’s one more thing. It’s something else which doesn’t exactly help to prove me or my sister innocent, but you’ve a right to hear it, just the same.”

  I told him about the blue cloak, and he remarked thoughtfully, “I’m coming to the conclusion you’re not stupid.”

  “That’s a comfort, I suppose. Some folk would say I’m being very stupid indeed, not accepting the facts at face value.”

  “No, I applaud your wisdom in being honest. On the other hand this murderer, whoever he is, hasn’t shown himself to be over-bright. He killed Idmon instead of me, and then he spoilt his second murder by forging a note for an illiterate slave.”

  “Killers don’t have to be very clever to succeed,” I pointed out. “They just need to be persistent, and have enough opportunities.”

  “So this one could try to murder me again? Another comforting thought.” The old man flexed his thin shoulders and leaned back against the pillows, smiling. Whatever else he was, he was no coward. In his army days, he’d have been an officer to be reckoned with.

  “Haven’t you any idea at all who your enemy could be?” I asked him. “Someone who feels strongly enough to kill you, someone in your own household?”

  “Quintus Antonius was right. He told me you’re inclined to be nosey. He also said you’re not stupid. Perhaps the two things go together.”

  “Quintus Antonius? You know him?”

  “Yes, quite well. He’s helped me out once or twice in the past. It was he who recommended that we should stay here. Don’t tell Sempronia, she thinks it was her nephew’s suggestion. I’d never have persuaded her to stay in a mansio if the idea hadn’t come through the Governor. But he got the recommendation from Antonius.”

  “Quintus Antonius and I are old friends. And if I may advise you, my lord, I’ll propose a course of action that Quintus himself would suggest.”

  “Which is?”

  “That you publicly accept that Leander killed himself, having tried to kill you, and therefore Albia and I are no longer under suspicion.”

  “So the murderer will believe his deception has worked?”

  “Exactly. And Albia and I will be free to go where we like and see who we like, so we can help protect you and track down the real killer. And you still want us to find your son Decimus, don’t you?”

  He nodded. “Your suggestion makes sense.” Suddenly he smiled. “I should warn you, Sempronia sent a messenger off yesterday, carrying an urgent despatch for her nephew in Londinium.”

  “Gods, that’s all we need!”

  “Don’t look so panic-stricken. I sent another message with the courier, explaining that I’m safe and well, and he is not to trouble himself about coming north in the dead of winter. But he’ll take a personal interest in the outcome. So you’d better catch this killer as quickly as you can, hadn’t you?”

  “Yes, my lord. We will.” One of my more useful skills is sounding confident even when I don’t feel it.

  “Meanwhile,” he still sounded amused, “you want me to lie here on my bed of sickness, expecting another attempt on my life. Not exactly how I’d choose to spend Saturnalia.”

  “You’ll be well guarded from now on. We’ll see to that.”

  “Ah, but if I’m supposed to be satisfied that Leander was the killer, how can I justify posting guards outside my door?”

  It was my turn to smile. “When we talked the other night, you said something about the way an old man rambles on about nothing in particular.”

  He gave his rasping chuckle. “Good! I accept your suggestion. But I shall delay making a final announcement until this Chief Councillor friend of yours arrives. I’ll let it be known that he’s vouched for your innocence, and I’m being guided by his opinion. That is, assuming he does vouch for your innocence?”

  “He will.” This time I didn’t have to pretend to be confident. “And he’s honest and honourable, a man to be trusted.”

  “Yes. Quintus Antonius told me that. He said the man’s ambitious and pompous, but intelligent, and utterly loyal to the Empire, above everything else.”

  “That’s a fair summing-up. He’s one of the modern type of native. He believes in the Empire, and passionately wants to be part of it.”

  “And now we’ve dealt with that situation, you can tell me about your plans to find Decimus. What do you intend to do?”

  “Albia and I will be going to Oak Bridges later, and we’ll ask for news there. If we have time, we’ll visit his house.”

  “Make time,” he said.

  “Very good. But he probably won’t be there, as he’s in the throes of moving all his personal effects to Eburacum.”

  “If the house is empty, you could search the place for information about where his new premises are located.”

  “No, I could not!” I was suddenly angry. He’d given me one too many orders. “He’s a free citizen, and a friend, and I won’t break the law to spy on him.”

  “You’re probably wise. If I need a professional investigator, I can always hire one.” As I left his room, I wished I’d had the effrontery to ask what else Quintus had said about me. More, I hoped, than that I’m nosey, and not stupid.

  Silvanius Clarus was quite magnificent. He arrived about an hour later, riding in his most elaborately decorated carriage, which normally I considered ridiculously ornate. But today I was delighted to see it, because it was even larger than
Sempronia’s. With its superb horses and an escort of six mounted bodyguards, it only needed to be preceded by a company of lictors and you’d have thought it contained a consul.

  Clarus himself was at his most imposing. Tall and fair, in his late forties, he was perhaps a little stouter and less athletic than he’d been as a young man, but freshly bathed and shaved and in his best toga, he looked every inch a Roman grandee. He came to me across the forecourt, with a slow dignified step, but a warm smile.

  “Aurelia, my dear.” He shook my hand formally. “I came as soon as I could.”

  “Thank you, Clarus. I really appreciate this. I need a friend—well, Albia and I both need one.”

  “You have one.” He squeezed my hand.

  I led him through to my study. When we were seated and he’d taken his first sip of wine, he leant back in his chair and smiled. “I couldn’t believe my eyes, when I read your message. Such distinguished guests! I’d have paid you a visit yesterday, if I’d known, just to welcome them to Oak Bridges. To have some of the Governor’s family here—it brings honour to the whole district.”

  “I hope so. From where I’m standing, all I can see is dishonour for the Oak Tree.”

  “You mustn’t worry. I’m certain we can resolve this—ah—misunderstanding about the murder of their slaves. Now, as well as your message, I have received a short note this morning from Lord Plautius himself. He explains briefly that you and Albia are suspected of trying to kill him, but that he is uncertain whether you are guilty. Please tell me as much as you can, so that I shall know how best to reassure him.”

  I gave him the details of both murders. “I think they realise now that we’re innocent, but your word as a senior magistrate will convince them.”

  “Leave it with me. Is there anything else I should know?”

  “I’m afraid there is.” I told him about the discovery that their runaway son was Albia’s fiancé, and about how much they disapproved. He listened attentively and made sympathetic noises. Just as I finished, there was a knock at the door, and a voice I recognised called out, “Mistress Aurelia?”