Three Hands in The Fountain mdf-9

by Lindsey Davis

  'So you're trying to convince me this maniac may be operating right out in the country at somewhere like Tibur?'

  'I'll be specific. I bet he dumps the severed pieces into the River Anio.'

  'I can't believe it.'

  'Well, I'm just making the suggestion.'

  I was talking to a man who was used to putting forward good ideas that incompetent superiors simply ignored. He had gone past caring. I could take it or leave it. The proposal sounded too far-fetched yet somehow ludicrously feasible.

  I did not know what to think.

  XXVI

  I was able to put off making a judgement. Something more urgent needed investigation first.

  I had arranged to meet Petronius back at Fountain Court. Arriving in the early afternoon I found, first, that I had missed having lunch with Helena; she had eaten hers, assuming I must be having mine elsewhere. My second discovery was that since Petronius had dropped in to see if I was home yet, he had been given my food.

  'Nice to have you in the family,' I commented.

  "Thanks,' he grinned. 'If we'd known you were on your way we would have waited, of course.'

  'There are some olives left,' Helena reported soothingly. 'Nuts to that!' I said.

  Once we settled down, I went over what Bolanus had told me. Petronius was even more scathing than me about the idea that the killer lived in the countryside. He did not take much interest in my newly acquired aqueduct lore either. In fact, as a partner he was jealous as Hades. All he wanted was to pass on what he himself had discovered.

  At first I wasn't having it. 'We've got trouble if Bolanus is right and the murders take place on the Campagna or up in the hills.'

  'Don't think about it.' Petro's vigiles experience was speaking. 'The jurisdicrion problems are a nightmare if you have to go outside Rome.'

  'Julius Frontinus may be able to override the normal bureaucratic rigmaroles.'

  'He'll need several legions to do it. Trying to take an investigation past the city gates is unspeakable Local politics, semi-comatose local magistrates, dimwit posses of horse-thief catchers, antique old retired generals who think they know it all because they once heard Julius Caesar clear his throat -'

  'All right. We'll follow up every feasible clue in Rome first.'

  'Thanks for seeing sense. While I shall always be an admirer of your intuitive approach, Marcus Didius…'

  'You mean you think my method stinks.'

  'I can prove it, too. Legitimate policing procedures are the ones that bring results.'

  'Oh yes?'

  'I've traced the girl.'

  Apparently his method did have something to recommend it: that mystical ingredient called success.

  Helena and I played him up by refusing to ask further questions even though he was bursting to tell us. We stayed cool, aggravating him by debating whether his one identification would be more useful than my obtaining background which could spark ideas that could lead to eventual solutions…

  'Either you two stop goading me,' snapped Petro, 'or I'm going out by myself to interview the man.'

  'What man, dear Lucius?' asked Helena gently.

  'The man called Caius Cicurrus, who this morning reported to the Sixth Cohort that he has lost his beloved wife Asinia.'

  I gazed at him benignly.

  'Falco, this is a damned sight more useful than wasting the best hours of your shift finding out that if you pee at Tibur in the morning you can be poisoning people at a snackshop outside the Baths of Agrippa by breakfast next day.'

  'Petro, you haven't been listening. The Baths of Agrippa are supplied by the Aqua Virgo, which has its source on the Via Collatina, not at Tibur. The Virgo is also only about fifteen miles long, compared with the Marcia and the Anio Novus at four or five times that, so if you pee in the marsh in the morning, allowing for how slowly the local water-carrier waddles to and from the fountain for your hypothetical snackshop, your noxious residue will actually be poured from his bucket into winecups about mid-afternoon -'

  'Dear gods, you're a self-satisfied bastard. Do you want to hear my story, or just mess about all day?'

  'I'd love to hear your story, please.'

  'Wipe off that stupid grin then.'

  Perhaps fortunately, just then Julius Frontinus knocked and came straight in. He was not the type to sit around waiting for us to report back when we fancied it.

  Thanks be to Jupiter, Juno and Minerva we did have news to relay.

  'Falco's been absorbing some fascinating facts and figures about water supply.' Petronius Longus said it straight-faced. What a hypocritical Janus. 'Meanwhile I learned from my personal contact in the Sixth Cohort of vigiles that a man called Caius Cicurrus has reported his wife missing; the wife's name is Asinia. It matches the ring on the hand you brought us, sir.'

  'I haven't been told this by the City Prefect.' Frontinus was put out. Senior channels had failed him. We low dogs had anticipated his illustrious peer network, apparently without exerting ourselves.

  'I'm sure the news is winging its way to you.' Petro knew how to make it sound as if he reckoned the City Prefect would never catch up. 'Excuse me for pre-empting official channels: I wanted to be in a position to interview the man before those idiots on the Curator's enquiry interfere.'

  'We had better do it now, then.'

  'It's going to be delicate,' I said, hoping to deter the Consul.

  'Caius has not yet been told his wife is dead,' Petro explained. 'My old subordinate Martinus managed to avoid revealing that her fate is already known.' Martinus in fact was so slow he probably only made the connection after Caius Cicurrus had gone.

  'Should he not have put the poor man out of his misery?' Frontinus asked.

  'Better for us to explain. We know the details of the find and we're engaged on the main enquiry.' Petro rarely showed his disapproval of Martinus.

  'We want to see the husband's reaction when he first hears the news,' I added.

  'Yes, I'd like to see that myself.' Nothing put off Frontinus. He was determined to accompany us. Petronius had the bright idea of saying the Consul's formal purple-striped robes might overawe the bereaved husband – so Frontinus whipped off his toga, rolled it in a ball, and asked to borrow a plain tunic.

  I was the closest to him in size. Helena quietly went and fetched one of my least mended plain white pull-ons. The ex-Consul stripped and dived into it without a blush.

  'Better let us do the talking, sir,' Petro insisted.

  I found our new friend Frontinus rather endearing, but if there's one thing Petronius Longus hates more than high-flown birds who stand aloof, it's high-flown birds who try to join in like one of the boys.

  As we all trooped outside, Petro checked abruptly on the porch.

  Opposite, a smart litter was pulling up outside the laundry. A small figure jumped out. All I could see was flimsy swathes of light violet, with heavy gold hems dragging at the fancy cloth, and a glimpse of anklet on a slim leg. The wearer of this flimflam spoke briefly to Lenia, then nipped up the stairs to my old apartment.

  Immediately she was out of sight. Petronius hopped down to ground level and made off with a long easy stride. Frontinus had noticed nothing, but I followed feeling curious. It rather looked as if Petro's sweet little turtledove had become somebody he was trying to avoid.

  I glanced back to my own door. Helena Justina was waving us off, standing on the porch holding Julia She too was looking thoughtfully across the street. I caught her eye. She smiled at me. I knew that expression. When little Milvia came down again she was going to be treated to a stern conversation with the daughter of the illustrious Camillus. I would be very surprised if Milvia ever showed her dainty ankle in Fountain Court again.

  By the way he was sneaking off round the corner into Tailors' Lane, that suited Petronius.

  XXVII

  As we were walking to the address Martinus had passed on to Petro, we heard a muffled roar from the Circus. The fifteen-day Ludi Romani were still in progress. T
he president of the Games must have dropped his white handkerchief, and the chariots had set off around the long arena. Two hundred thousand people had just exclaimed in excitement at some spill or piece of dramatic driving. Their massed exhalation whomphed through the valley between the Aventine and the Palatine, causing doves to rise and circle before they dropped back on to heated roofs and balconies. A lower hum continued as the race went on.

  Somewhere in the Circus Maximus would be the young Camillus brothers and Claudia Rufina (well, Justinus and Claudia anyway). Somewhere there too might be the killer who chopped up women, the man whose latest dreadful deed we now had to explain to an unwitting husband. And unless Caius Cicurrus could tell us something useful, then somewhere at the Circus Maximus might be the next woman who was destined to end up in pieces in the aqueducts.

  Caius Cicurrus was a chandler. With his wife but no children he lived in a typical third-floor apartment in a tenement full of identical small lets. His living space was cramped, but well kept. Even before we had knocked at his gleaming bronze lion-head knocker, the respectable flower tubs and rag mat on the landing had warned us of one thing: his Asinia had probably not been a prostitute. A young female slave let us in. She was clean and neat, shy though not cowed. Careful housekeeping was evident. Ledges looked dusted. There was an attractive scent of dried herbs. The slave girl automatically invited us to remove our outdoor shoes.

  We found Caius just sitting by himself, staring into space, with Asinia's spinning in a basket at his feet. He was holding what must have been her jewel box, running skeins of glass and rock crystal beads through his hands. He looked obsessively troubled and drowsy with grief. Whatever was making him miserable, it was not the purely financial loss of a deserted pimp.

  Caius was swarthy, but plainly Italian. He had the hairiest arms I had ever seen, though his head was nearly bald. In his mid-thirties, he was just a perfectly harmless, perfectly ordinary man who still had to learn of his loss and its terrible circumstances.

  Petronius introduced us, explained that we were conducting a special enquiry, and asked if we could talk about Asinia. Caius actually looked pleased. He liked talking about her. He was missing her badly and needed to console himself by telling anyone who would listen how sweet and gentle she had been. The daughter of his father's freedwoman, Asinia had been loved by Caius since she was thirteen. That explained why her wedding ring had grown so tight. The girl grew up wearing it. She would have been – she was, said Caius – only twenty now.

  'You reported her missing this morning?' Petronius continued to lead the interview. Through his job with the vigiles he had had considerable experience of breaking bad news to the bereaved, even more than me.

  'Yes, sir.'

  'But had she been missing for longer?'

  Caius looked perturbed by the question.

  'When did you last see her?' Petro probed gently. 'A week ago.'

  'Have you been away from home?'

  'Visiting my farm in the country,' said Caius; Petro had guessed something of the sort. 'Asinia remained at home. I have a small business, a chandlery. She looks after it for me. I trust her entirely with my affairs. She is a wonderful partner -'

  'Wasn't your business closed for the Public holiday?' 'Yes. So when the Games began, Asinia went to stay with a friend who lives much closer to the Circus: then Asinia would not have to make her way home late at night. I am very particular about her being out in Rome alone.'

  I saw Petronius breathe heavily, embarrassed by the man's innocence. To relieve him I weighed in quietly, 'When exactly did you realise that Asinia was missing?'

  'Yesterday evening when I returned. My slave told me Asinia was at her friend's house, but when I went there the friend said Asinia had gone home three days ago.'

  'Was she sure?'

  'Oh, she brought her here in a litter and left her right at the door. She knew I expected it.' I glanced at Petronius; we would need to speak to this friend.

  'Excuse me for asking this,' Petro said. 'We have to do it; you'll understand. Is there any possibility Asinia was seeing another man in your absence?'

  'No.'

  'Your marriage was perfectly happy, and she was a quiet girl?'

  'Yes.'

  Petronius was treading very carefully. Since we had begun our enquiry with the assumption that the victims were good-time girls (who could vanish without attracting too much notice), there was always the possibility that Asinia had led a double life, unknown to her anxious mate. But we knew it was more likely the maniac who carved her up was a stranger; that Asinia had just had the bad luck to put herself where she caught his eye and he was able to abduct her. The mutilations Lollius had described to me pretty well stamped a seal on it. Men who carve up women in that way have never been emotionally close to them.

  Now we were being told that this victim was a respectable girl. Where had she been after she was dropped at her door? What adventure had she set out for? Did even her girlfriend know about it?

  Petronius, who had been carrying the ring, now brought it out. He took his time. His movements were slow, his expression grave. Caius was supposed to have started guessing the truth, though I could see no signal that he had let himself be warned. 'I'd like you to look at something, Caius. Do you recognise that?'

  'Of course! It's Asinia's ring. You've found her, then?' Helpless, we watched as the husband's face lit with delight.

  Slowly he realised that the three men sharing his tiny room had remained sombre. Slowly he saw that we were waiting for him to reach the real, tragic conclusion. Slowly he grew pale.

  'There is no way I can make this easy for you,' Petronius said, 'Caius Cicurrus, I am afraid we are assuming that your poor wife is dead.' The stricken husband said nothing. 'There really can be very little doubt about it.' Petronius was trying to tell Cicurrus that there was no actual body.

  'You have found her?'

  'No – and the worst part is that we perhaps never will find her.'

  'Then how can you say -'

  Petronius sighed. 'Have you heard about the dismembered human remains that have been found from time to time in the water supply? Women have been murdered, over a long period, by a killer who cuts up his victims and deposits them in the aqueducts. My colleagues and I are investigating that.'

  Cicurrus still refused to understand. 'What can this have to do with Asinia?'

  'We have to believe that this killer has abducted her. Asinia's ring was found in the terminal reservoir of the Aqua Claudia. I'm sorry to have to tell you, one of her hands was with it.'

  'Only her hand? She could still be alive!' The man was desperate. He sprang at any shred of hope.

  'You mustn't believe that!' Petro rasped. He was finding this almost unbearable. 'Tell yourself she is dead, man. Tell yourself she died quickly, when she was first abducted three days ago. Believe she knew as little as possible. Tell yourself what was done to the corpse afterwards does not matter because Asinia did not feel it. Then tell us anything you can that will help us catch the man who killed your wife before he robs any other citizens of their womenfolk.'

  Caius Cicurrus stared at him. He could not go so fast. 'Asinia is dead?'

  'Yes, I'm afraid she must be.'

  'But she was beautiful.' He was grappling with the truth now. His voice rose. 'Asinia was unlike other women – so sweet-natured, and our domestic life was so affectionate – Oh, I cannot believe this. I feel she is going to come home any minute -' Tears began streaming down his face. He had accepted the truth at last. Now he had to learn to endure it: that might take him forever. 'Only her hand has been found? What will happen to the rest of her? What am I to do? How can I bury her?' He became wilder. 'Where is her poor hand now?'

  It was Frontinus who said, 'Asinia's hand is being embalmed. It will be returned to you in a locked casket. I beg of you, don't break the lock.'

  We were all crushed by the thought that if other remains did appear, we would have to decide whether to return them to this dev
astated man piecemeal. Was he then to hold funerals for each limb separately, or collect them for one final burial? At what point was he supposed to decide that enough of his darling had been returned to him to justify a ceremony? When we found her torso, with her heart? Or her head? What philosopher would tell him where the girl's sweet soul resided? When should his agony end?

  There was no doubt his devotion to Asinia was genuine. The next few weeks were likely to drive him into insanity. Nothing we could do would protect him from brooding over the horror of her last hours. We would say very little to him, but like us he would soon be imagining how the killer probably treated his victims.

  Petronius left the room as if he were going to fetch the slave to attend to her master. First I could hear him speaking to her in a low voice. I knew he was discreetly checking the story of Asinia's last known movements, and probably taking the name and address of the female friend with whom she had stayed. He brought the girl in, and we took our leave.

  Outside the apartment we paused for a moment in a group. The encounter had demoralised us all.

  'A perfect housewife,' said Frontinus, grimly quoting the conventional memorials. 'Modest, chaste and unquarrelsome. The best of women, she kept indoors and worked in wool.'

  'Twenty years old,' growled Petronius in despair.

  'May the earth lie lightly upon her.' I completed the formula. Since we had yet to find what was left of Asinia, perhaps it never would.

  XXVIII

  None of us could face doing any more that evening. Petro and I escorted the Consul to his house, where he returned my tunic after divesting himself on the doorstep. You could tell he was upper class. A plebeian would shy off such eccentricity. I've known wrestlers who turned their backs to strip, even in the suitable surroundings of the baths. Frontinus' own door porter looked alarmed, and he presumably was used to his master. We handed over the Consul into safe keeping, and the porter winked to thank us for keeping straight faces.