Old Bones (Marcus Corvinus Book 5)

by David Wishart

  Instead of answering, Smiler stuck his head round the doorway of his shop and shouted: 'Roach!'

  A thin kid with acne and a wall eye came out.

  'Yeah, boss?' he said.

  'Where was I two days ago, the morning after Bubo was killed?'

  'Here, boss.'

  'All the time?'

  'Sure. We was stocktaking. Then the priest from the Temple of Hercules came in with the bulk order, and that woman who runs the brothel on Turms Street –'

  'Right. That's fine.' The kid disappeared back into whatever limbo he had his existence in and Smiler turned back to me. 'Even if I didn't have Roach to alibi me there were plenty of other people around that time. The shop door wouldn't've been out of observation for two clear minutes after sunup. Besides, I'm secretary of the Guild and I've a reputation to lose. I wouldn't murder anyone if you paid me, not even Herminius Bubo.'

  I sighed. 'Okay, pal. Forget the implied slur on your honesty. Now. What kind of business was Bubo in?' Some shops have signs above the door; Bubo's didn't. The dead man evidently believed in keeping a low profile.

  'You name it, he did it.' Smiler grinned. 'I'm talking shady, you understand. But if you want to go by what he put on his citizen's papers you could call him a second hand goods dealer.'

  I nodded; yeah, that would cover a multitude of sins, all right. Like 'import-export agent’ or ‘entertainer’. A fence, in other words. ‘And what particular brand of second-hand goods did he specialise in?’

  ‘Jewellery. Old statues. Silver tableware. That sort of thing.’

  No surprises there either. Anything that was worth nicking and selling on, in other words. He must’ve been doing well, though, to judge by his funeral. ‘Wa anything missing from the shop?’

  ‘There certainly was,’ Smiler said smugly. ‘According to the militia the place was stripped. His wife had the shutters put up, but that was only for form. There's nothing left in there worth stealing.'

  'His wife. That'd be the lady I saw in the procession with the nose like the business end of a warship.'

  'That's right.'

  'And where would I find her, when all this is over?'

  For the first time the guy began to look suspicious. Me, I'd've smelled a rat long before this point, but he'd been so busy crowing and generally playing the smartass that he clearly hadn't wondered what the fancy Roman bastard's business with the dead man was. Now you could see the idea dawn.

  'Here,' he said. 'What's this about?'

  'I'm looking into a couple of murders as a favour to a relative.' I thought about pulling out my purse and then decided against it: the Secretary of the Lampmakers' Guild might get offended if I offered him a tip, and he was talkative enough already. 'I think your neighbour Bubo might've been involved.'

  The smug expression came back. 'Murders, you say? I never thought he was in that league, but I wouldn't be surprised. This could be a revenge killing. Organised crime, even. They say there's a lot of it about.'

  In Caeretan terms 'organised crime' could mean three men who shared the same crowbar. Still, if I wanted his tongue to keep wagging I had to humour the bugger. 'Yeah, I've heard that too,' I said. 'You happen to know if a guy called Titus Clusinus was a frequent visitor?'

  'You think this Clusinus could've done it?' He was looking positively animated now.

  'I doubt that, pal. But you don't recognise the name? Or maybe the description?' I gave him a thumbnail sketch of Clusinus, at least what I'd seen of him under his mud face-pack.

  He shook his head, regretfully: I had the impression he'd've loved to have produced a diary with all Clusinus's visits noted down, the details of the heists the two had pulled together in red. 'I didn't know nothing about Bubo's business,' he said. 'But I can point you at someone who did. You go and talk to Pullia.'

  'That's his wife?'

  Smiler grinned. 'Nah. The wife's Arria Metella. She won't know nothing, he only married her for her connections. Pullia's the girlfriend. She's a –' he stopped. 'She works at the Cockerel in Half Moon Street near the baths.'

  'I might just do that,' I said, turning to leave. 'Thanks for your help, friend.'

  'Organised crime,' the guy called after me. 'Don't forget. This probably all hinges on organised crime.'

  Well, even with Bubo murdered I couldn't complain about a lack of leads now, although how many of them would prove to be dead ends I didn't know. Also, there was the outside chance the guy's death had nothing to do with my business: a dealer in valuable goods working alone in his shop when all the other traders around him had packed in for the night is just asking for some local entrepreneur to drop in unexpectedly and close him down permanently. Still, it was strange that it should happen just when I'd got the guy's name and number...

  I stopped. Shit, that was right! Okay, so maybe Titus Tolumnius had been playing straight when he'd pointed me in Bubo's direction, but the fact remained that the guy was already dead when Tolumnius had fingered him. The obvious question was, had he known? Because if he had then the odds on his being the murderer were pretty short. So. I could be being played for a sucker here. With Aulus Bubo definitely an ex Tolumnius's trade was no trade at all, I might be chasing rainbows, and with only seven days before Papatius's appointment with the praetor's rep that was not a smart position to be in.

  On the plus side, at least Smiler had given me a name. If I couldn't talk to Bubo then at least I might be able to work out Clusinus's connection with him –if it existed – some other way.

  Pullia would have to stand in line, though. I'd decided to put off talking to Gaius Aternius – there wasn't much I could do there, really, even if the guy was guilty, except rattle his cage to see if he jumped – but Arruns's pal Marcus Veluscius, whoever the hell he was, was a definite next step. All I could do at the moment was keep all the balls in the air for as long as possible and hope that when the dud ones finally fell there'd still be one left.

  Three Heroes Street turned out to be the other end of town, in one of these quiet respectable districts where the houses aren't particularly grand but you get the impression that the residents have their slaves up before dawn scouring the doorstep and deadheading the roses. I asked one of the scourers and dead-headers – he was scooping up a pile of donkey manure at the time – for directions to Marcus Veluscius's place. He pointed me to a neat little property with chichi flowerpots along the wall and a knocker that positively gleamed.

  The slave who answered the door gleamed too, like he'd just been laundered. I wondered if his drawers had creases in them.

  'Yes, sir.' Smile.

  'Someone called Marcus Veluscius live here, pal?' I said.

  'Yes, sir. Indeed he does.' The smile widened, as if confirmation was a positive pleasure. He stepped back neatly, and his sandals squeaked on the fresh-scrubbed mosaic. Hercules cleaning the Augean stables, if you're interested. No joke; truth. 'Come in, please. Are you expected?'

  'No. My name's Marcus Valerius Corvinus. Maybe you could tell your master that a man called Larcius Arruns sent me, and ask if I could take up a few minutes of his time.'

  'Of course, sir. If you'd care to wait?' He hurried off at a pace that would've left Bathyllus nowhere. Impressive; slaves never run. Maybe I could take what he had, bottle it and feed it to the little guy. It'd certainly beat being sniffed at and sniped at all the time. But there again, maybe not; I had the idea that squeaky-clean bit of perfection would've had me climbing the walls inside of a month.

  I looked round the entrance lobby. It fitted with the neighbourhood: nothing flashy, nothing expensive, but nothing particularly interesting or unusual, either; everything just...yeah, well, the word that sprang to mind was nice. It was a nice house, full stop.

  The guy came back. 'The master's in the study, sir, if you'd like to follow me.'

  I did. The slave showed me into a nice study with nice furniture and a nice, wrinkled old man sitting at a desk.

  The bugger must've been pushing eighty. He was clean, though.


  'Valerius Corvinus?' he quavered. 'I'm Marcus Veluscius. Pleased to meet you, sir. Have a seat.' I pulled up a chair. 'Candidus, bring us some wine, please.' Then, when Snow-White had vanished: 'You come from Larcius Arruns, I understand.'

  'Yeah. He suggested I drop by and talk to you.' I had to lean forwards to hear him. 'Why I'm not quite sure, but I'm looking into three murders in Vetuliscum.'

  'Murders?' The old guy's lips pursed; I got the impression that in this house murder was a four-letter word. 'Then I'm as puzzled as you are. I know nothing of any murders.'

  'But you do know Arruns?'

  'Of course. I knew him very well, in my working days. He comes from an old local family. A very old family. But murders?'

  'Attus Navius.' I tried the names out on him, watching for a reaction. 'Titus Clusinus. And a Greek doctor by the name of Hilarion. The actual investigating officer's Gaius Aternius. He's the nephew of Mayor Cominius.'

  'Ah.' Veluscius's lips pursed harder like he was sucking on a lemon. 'Aternius I also know. And Cominius, naturally. I knew Navius's father, but not the boy himself. Hilarion, no. But Clusinus, now. Clusinus rings a bell.'

  'Yeah?' The hairs on my neck began to prickle. Maybe we were on to something after all: there was a brain there, under all the creases, and I could almost hear it ticking.

  'Arruns didn't give any other indication of how he thought I could help you?' Veluscius asked. 'None at all?'

  I shook my head. 'We were talking about an old vineyard sale, fifty years back. Arruns thinks Cominius's father and old Velthur Navius did his father out of the property.'

  Veluscius's brow cleared, and he nodded. He was still doing his lemon- sucking act. 'Yes. Yes, that would be it.' He hesitated. 'Arruns, I take it, didn't tell you who I was? Before I retired a few years ago, that is?'

  'No.'

  'I was the Cominius family's head clerk.'

  I swallowed. Bull’s-eye!

  The door opened and Snow-White came back in with a tray. I noticed that there were two jugs.

  'Ah, Candidus. Just pour and leave us to ourselves, will you?' Veluscius turned back to me. 'Mine will be mostly water, Corvinus. I don't imagine you'll care to follow my example.'

  I took a sip of the wine Snow-White handed me. Nice.

  'First of all, Arruns is quite right,' Veluscius said. 'Velthur Navius did forge his father's signature. And old Cominius did connive at the deception.'

  Well, well, well. 'Aren't you a bit late admitting that, friend?' I said. 'And why tell me?'

  Veluscius shrugged. 'Fifty years ago telling the truth wouldn't have done any good. It was a matter of personalities. Cominius was mayor himself at the time, and the most powerful man in Caere. Velthur Navius was one of the biggest landowners in the district, a member of the Caeretan Town Council. And Aulus Arruns may have been one of Vetuliscum's oldest residents but like his son he was too cross-grained and standoffish for his family to win much support. Now, conditions haven't really changed, and the result of any modern court case would probably be the same, as Arruns well knows. The difference is in myself. I no longer have a position to lose and frankly I'm too old now to care.'

  'So the Cominii are crooks?'

  'Most certainly, at least where property is concerned. It's a family tradition. And I'd include young Gaius Aternius with them. His mother, of course, is the mayor's sister.'

  'You said the name Clusinus rang a bell.'

  'Yes.' Veluscius took a sip of wine. 'That matter, naturally, is much more recent and quite above board. Or, I should say, within the limits of the law. Cominius and Aternius advance five-year loans to property owners on the security of the property itself. The terms are very favourable but there is no provision for renewal, and it is no coincidence that without exception the recipients are the sort of people who will default when repayment becomes due. At which time, of course, the property becomes forfeit. One agreement along those lines was entered into with Titus Clusinus.'

  Hey! 'And when would the loan expire?'

  'I left the Cominii almost exactly four years ago. If I remember rightly – and although I no longer have access to the company records there is nothing wrong with my memory – the contract had been signed in October the previous year, so repayment would be due quite shortly.'

  I sat back. So; Aternius had a definite link with Clusinus. I’d got the bugger. The only question was, why should Aternius kill him to get his farm when he’d default anyway? The guy had been broke, anyone could see that. All Aternius had to do was wait a couple of months and...

  My spine went cold. No, cancel that: if what Vesia had told me was true then Clusinus may have been broke when he died, but he had prospects; big prospects that hinged on whatever deal he had cooking with Aulus Bubo. If that had gone through presumably he'd've had the money to pay off the loan and then, if he wanted to, sell the farm on the open market and recoup his outlay. Probably better than recoup, from what Veluscius had said, if he was willing to wait for even a half-decent offer. But whatever the deal was, it had died with him before it could happen. A month or so down the road, Aternius was going to show up at Vesia's place, wave the signed contract under her nose and tell her to get the hell off his land. And he wouldn't've been able to do that if Clusinus hadn't been dead.

  It worked; sure it did.

  'One more thing,' I said. 'How exactly are the Cominii doing these days? Financially, I mean?'

  Veluscius hesitated. 'Well enough,' he said. 'But my sources tell me they are overextending themselves. The cash-flow, if you understand the term, is imbalanced.'

  'In other words, the bastards've got plenty of irons in the fire but they're in danger of getting burned, right?'

  'You put it very succinctly. That would certainly seem to be the case.'

  'If Gaius Aternius made a good marriage would that help?'

  'Considerably.' The old guy gave me a sharp look. 'Is he likely to?'

  'If I don't miss my guess he's got his eye on Sicinia Rufina. And it might well be mutual.'

  'Indeed? Then the lady had better consult a good lawyer concerning the future management of her financial affairs before she signs the marriage contract,' Veluscius said. 'Aternius has his own agenda.'

  Yeah. I'd just bet he did. And I was beginning to think that part of it had been four murders.

  30.

  Before I left, I asked Snow-White about the Cockerel.

  'It's Caere's biggest cookshop, sir,' he said. 'With' –he coughed delicately – 'entertainment. Very popular with the younger set.'

  Starched drawers was right: the guy must've been all of twenty-four and he came on like a dowager. No sniff, though. If it'd been Bathyllus I'd definitely have got a disapproving sniff; that bastard was so straight you could use him to draw lines.

  'Sounds fun,' I said. I wasn't being sarcastic: I've always liked dens of iniquity, the more iniquitous the better. 'Near the baths, I was told?'

  'That's correct. In Half Moon Street, not far from the Veian Gate.'

  All the way back to the centre of town, in other words. Hell. Walking I enjoyed, but these old Etruscan city planners had been real exercise nuts. Caere had stairs everywhere, and in some of the side alleys you practically needed climbing spikes. Well, it was good for the waistline. I waved Snow- White goodbye and headed for the Hinge.

  So; Aternius was definitely a front runner. I could make him now for the murders of Navius and Clusinus, and more important the same motive would account for both. I might even stretch things to Bubo. If killing Clusinus safeguarded his investment that end then Bubo's death made doubly sure: beating the guy's head in with a hammer was a pretty effective way of making certain he didn't call round to Vesia's to find out why his business pal wasn't coming out to play any more. The only question was, in that case how had Aternius known about the deal in the first place? Sure, Clusinus might've told him in advance that he'd be coming into some money and intended to pay off the loan – in fact, he'd've had to've done to give Aternius re
ason for murdering him – but he wouldn't've let on where the cash was coming from, especially if there was some illegality involved. Above all, he wouldn't've mentioned Bubo. So how could Aternius have made the connection? It was a detail, sure, and there could be half a dozen plausible answers, but it niggled.

  The way to the Veian Gate took me past the market square, and I called in at the clink to see Papatius. He was pretty low, which was understandable with the prospect of me for an advocate, but at least the militia heavies had stopped beating him up. Whether that was a bad or a good sign I wasn't sure; probably the former, since it implied they thought they'd got enough on the poor bastard to strangle him already. There wasn't much I could do about it either, least of all entertain him with a lively run-down of my current theories: I doubted if the news that the principal investigator and counsel for the prosecution might well have cogent personal reasons for putting him underground would have a very cheering effect, while any suggestion that his wife and girlfriend could be jointly responsible for the murders would've lost me a few teeth. So I confined myself to patting him manfully on the shoulder and telling him not to give up hope.

  On my way out I pumped the guy on the desk – not my sharp-eared pal from last time but a younger, less jaundiced version – on the subject of Bubo's murder. Not surprisingly, the militia were treating it as straightforward burglary with related homicide. Smiler's run-through was accurate as far as it went, and I didn't get much more: at some time between sunset and dawn, Bubo had been beaten to death with a mason's hammer – it had been found in the gutter round the corner – which his wife Arria had identified as having been left behind by workmen carrying out alterations the previous month and not returned by him, the shop had been stripped of everything that wasn't nailed down, and no one in the surrounding houses and flats hadn't heard nothing, officer. I got the distinct impression that the militia guy, speaking for his colleagues, regarded the investigation as closed: like Smiler, they were fully aware of the nature of Bubo's activities and reckoned the bastard had only got what he was due. There was, of course, no suggestion that the murder was in any way connected to the ones in Vetuliscum, so Papatius continued to be banged up.