Trade Secrets

by David Wishart

  ‘Such as what?’ Annius again, and it was snapped.

  Such as the possibility that he, or his sister, or Poetelius was responsible, or any combination thereof. Not that I could say that out loud, of course. I went for safer ground. ‘The business in Ostia, for a start. Oh, sure, the chances are that it was a straightforward accident, but—’

  Annius was giving me a blank look. ‘What business in Ostia?’ he said.

  ‘I didn’t tell you, Quintus,’ Annia said. ‘It happened on the quayside three days before Gaius died. A crane dropped its load when he was practically underneath it.’

  Her brother grunted. ‘It doesn’t sound too suspicious to me,’ he said. ‘Accidents like that do happen occasionally at the docks, and it’s not always the stevedore who’s at fault. Gaius was probably just not looking where he was going.’

  ‘Yeah. Yeah, right,’ I said. ‘Still, as I say, it’s a loose end to be checked.’

  ‘Surely that’s not necessary now,’ Annia said. ‘After all, if you’re practically certain that Gaius’s mistress’s husband killed him then—’

  I shrugged. ‘Maybe not. But me, I like to tick all the boxes.’ I set the empty wine-cup on the chair. ‘Thanks again, lady. I’ll keep in touch.’

  My brain was buzzing as I left. I’d planned to take the long hike to the Emporium straight away to check Poetelius’s story with Titus Vibius, but first a stopoff at a convenient wineshop for a leisurely think seemed in order. I found a new one I hadn’t tried before near the Temple of Honour and Virtue – trendy, with a suspiciously pricey wine list and a chichi snack menu, but there you went – ordered a cup of Massic, and settled down at one of the outside tables.

  OK. Annia. As a suspect, the cool, calm, and collected widow was definitely showing form. If she and Poetelius were an item, which despite the lady’s protestations and his was still a possibility, then they had motive in spades, plus – now that I knew that Poetelius had been in the neighbourhood the day of the murder – opportunity as well. The big problem was if, because possibility or not they’d both struck me as pretty much on the level: both had seemed genuinely surprised at the suggestion and denied the relationship flat, Poetelius had been inches away from handing me my teeth in a bag, and Annia had just laughed it off. Sure, it could’ve been an act – when a husband gets stiffed, the obvious first suspects are the wife and a lover, and they’d know that – but if so it was a damn good one. On the other hand, conditions for an affair developing were ideal. On Poetelius’s side, as far as I knew he was unattached, he’d obviously been in the running as a possible fiancé, and the chances were that his feelings for Annia still went way past friendship. Added to which, he clearly had no liking or respect for his partner either on a personal or a business level. On her side, she was locked in a loveless marriage with no exit clause and an unfaithful husband who wouldn’t care what the hell she got up to so long as she paid the bills at the end of the month.

  The other tick in the credit column for an affair existing – despite Annia’s claim to the contrary – was Marcia. Like I’d said, she’d no reason to make the story up; she’d told me – and I believed her – that she didn’t know who’d sent the anonymous letter, and I’d got the impression that she didn’t care, either. Certainly, she’d no spiteful feelings against Tullius’s wife; the only person she blamed was herself for getting involved with the guy in the first place. And Annia’s confession was just too slick. The letter might’ve prompted Marcia to invent a non-existent affair, sure, but more importantly what it’d certainly done was let the cat out of the bag where the two cuckolded husbands were concerned. If Annia had wanted Tullius killed by proxy, like my friend the barfly had suggested, or to set up a fall guy to take the rap for a crime she and her lover were planning to commit, she couldn’t’ve staged things better.

  Yeah, I could go for that pair, myself. I never did trust squeaky-clean, and Annia and Poetelius were certainly that.

  The brother, now. Quintus Annius …

  Annius was puzzling: I just didn’t get Quintus Annius at all. On the one hand, barring an altruistic collusion with his sister to rid her of an unwanted husband, the guy had no motive for killing Tullius whatsoever. Or not one I knew about or could guess at, anyway. And brotherly devotion doesn’t usually extend to helping out with a murder. In terms of pure common sense, Quintus Annius was a complete non-runner. There again, my gut feeling was that he was a wrong ’un somewhere along the line. Perilla would’ve slagged me off for even suggesting he was involved, sure, and she’d probably be right. But still—

  I’d been ignoring the wine. Now I took a long swallow. Not bad after all; it might even be worth its inflated price. Trendy or not, I’d have to remember this place. If it lasted much more than five minutes, mind. That’s the trouble with these designer wineshops: they spring up like mushrooms and when the fashion they cater for has gone they fold just as quickly. The edge of Circus Valley isn’t exactly Young Upwardly Mobile country, either, so I’d be surprised if they had a regular clientele.

  Ostia. That’d been odd, if you like. I’d only mentioned it for something to say and to get myself out of an embarrassing hole; the case had moved on since Annia had told me about the incident at the docks, and to tell you the truth I’d considered ignoring it, or at least putting the trip off indefinitely. Purely for selfish reasons: I’m no horseman, and a journey to Rome’s port is almost thirty miles, there and back, probably with an overnight stay involved if the business took more than a couple of hours. Which, to be fair, with luck it might not, under the circumstances. I was glad that Lippillus hadn’t pushed me re Marilla’s Ostian businessman; interesting though the circumstances of Marcus Correllius’s death – stabbing, whatever – had been, I just didn’t need the complication at present. And if Marilla had got even a whiff of the notion that her pet personal murder case hadn’t quite been shelved after all, she’d’ve pestered me to death to follow it up. Oh, sure, going down to Ostia would give me an excuse to shoot the breeze over a jug with my pal Agron, which didn’t happen all that often, and no doubt he and his wife, Cass, would’ve arranged a bed for me, but thirty miles on the back of a horse isn’t my idea of fun. Plus, like Annius had said, the business with the falling amphoras would probably turn out to be a run-of-the-mill, straightforward accident with no sinister connotations …

  Only now, thinking back on the interview, if I was honest with myself I wasn’t at all sure about that. Again, it was a gut feeling, with nothing particularly concrete to back it up: the mention of Ostia had touched a nerve somewhere, I’d swear to that. Which was strange, because again unless he was a damn good actor Gaius Tullius’s nearly getting flattened had come as news to Annius, while if his sister didn’t want me sticking my nose into the business’s whys and wherefores then why the hell had she mentioned it in the first place?

  It didn’t make sense. But what it did mean was that I was going to make a trip to Ostia a priority after all.

  I finished the wine and pressed on to Trigemina Gate Street. Well, if nothing else I was getting plenty of exercise this time around.

  Vibius was at the pottery, talking to the guy who’d given me his address two days before. His eyes widened when he saw me.

  ‘Corvinus, wasn’t it?’ he said. ‘I’m sorry, as far as Gaius Tullius goes I’ve told you all I know.’

  ‘It’s not about him,’ I said. ‘Or not directly, anyway. I just wanted to check something. It won’t take long.’

  He turned back to the older guy. ‘That’s fine, Sextus. Tell Nomentanus delivery by the end of the month should be no problem.’ The foreman left. ‘Now, Corvinus, we’ll go into the office. It’ll be quieter in there.’

  ‘Sure.’ I followed him through the workshop to a small room at the back, with the usual desk and cubbyholes for the paperwork. He closed the door behind him.

  ‘So how can I help you this time?’

  ‘Publius Poetelius came to see you the day of the murder, is that right?’


  He frowned. ‘When would that be again, exactly?’

  ‘Six days ago. On the Ides.’

  ‘Then yes, he did.’

  ‘You care to tell me why?’

  ‘To ask if I’d be willing to act as the firm’s supplier again. Seemingly his partner had had a major argument with Titus Vecilius and the contract wasn’t likely to be fulfilled.’

  ‘You agreed?’

  ‘Of course I did. I’d no time for Tullius, as you know, but business is business, and like I said, it was a big order, and a regular one. So long as the man himself didn’t put his face round my door in future – which was the first and only condition I made – I was happy to take it on. And I owed Poetelius a great deal, so it wasn’t as difficult a decision to make as it might’ve been otherwise.’ He gave me a straight look. ‘What’s this all about? You surely don’t think that he’d anything to do with Tullius’s death, do you? Because if so you’re completely wrong.’

  ‘No,’ I said easily. ‘No, I’m just checking, like I said. Uh … “owed”? Owed in what way?’

  ‘I told you. When I lost the contract I’d my back squarely to the wall. Poetelius lent me some money, interest-free; not a lot, because he hasn’t got it to spare, only a thousand or two, but it made servicing the debt to the money-lender and paying back the principal over time just the right side of possible. Without it, I’d’ve gone under in three months.’

  ‘His own money? Not the firm’s?’

  ‘Oh, yes. He was very clear about that. Tullius knew nothing about it, and he wouldn’t know, either. I paid Poetelius back as soon as I could, which was just about a month ago, but debts can be more than money, can’t they?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Yeah, they can.’ I put my hand on the door knob. ‘Well, thanks again, pal. And don’t worry: you’ve probably seen the last of me this time.’

  I was half out of the door when he called me back.

  ‘Corvinus?’

  I turned round. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Wait. I can’t let you go without telling you how much of a bastard Tullius was. Just so as you’re clear about it.’

  I went back in and closed the door behind me. ‘Oh, I think I’ve got that pretty clear in my mind already,’ I said.

  He shook his head. ‘No, you haven’t. Or not clear enough. I told you my wife was dead; I didn’t say how or why she died. She killed herself, just over a year ago. Two days before the contract was due for renewal.’

  I said nothing, but I had a fair idea of what was coming. Score one for Perilla.

  Vibius had turned his face away. ‘Paullina was a good bit younger than me,’ he said, ‘and she was a looker. Or at least I thought so. Before she died she left a note on my chair, where I’d be sure to see it, saying that Gaius Tullius had been trying to seduce her for months. Finally, he’d offered her a trade: a new contract in exchange for a single … Well, you have the idea. She knew how important not losing the order was to me, so she agreed. Afterwards, Tullius told her that wasn’t enough, she’d have to throw in our daughter as well, as a sweetener to the deal. He said to go away and think about it. She hanged herself that night.’ He turned round again to face me and smiled. ‘So you see, Corvinus, I’ve every reason to hope the bastard is burning in hell. And that you’ll never catch the person who killed him.’

  I got back home well in time for dinner, to find, when I walked into the atrium with my usual wine-cup, that from the look on Marilla’s face I’d been seriously Waited For. As far as she was concerned, anyway. Not that there was anything at all wrong with that, in my view, quite the reverse: me, I’d’ve said that the Princess’s interest in working out the whys and wherefores of a murder and fingering the perp was a pretty healthy sign in a young woman.

  Perilla, now … well, for some strange, unaccountable reason she can be funny about these things. Sometimes I don’t understand the way that lady’s mind works at all.

  Apropos of which, I wondered from the current vibes whether there hadn’t just been a slight clash of personalities here. Clarus was toying with a cup of something probably non-alcoholic – like I say, he’s no wine-drinker, Clarus – and looking a tad embarrassed as if he’d rather be somewhere else, while Perilla’s attention seemed to be fixed on young Marcus Junior, currently lying face-up on the floor between her couch and Marilla’s and Clarus’s and trying his determined best to roll over onto his front.

  ‘Hi, Corvinus.’ Marilla was grinning at me. ‘Have a good day?’

  ‘Not bad.’ I bent over to give Perilla the usual welcome-home kiss: frosty, distinctly frosty. ‘How was yours, Princess?’

  ‘OK. So. How’s the investigation going? Did you talk to the two wives?’

  I took my wine over to my usual couch and lay down. Opposite, the lady cleared her throat slightly, her eyes still on the Sprog. Her lips were pursed, but she didn’t say anything. I grinned to myself: yeah, well, if there had been a personality clash it was clear who’d come out on top here. She’s no pushover, young Marilla.

  ‘Yeah. Among other things,’ I said. I gave her the rundown of the day’s activities, glancing at Perilla now and again. Frost or not, her ears were twitching. I grinned again: sometimes the lady is her own worst enemy, if she’d only realize it.

  ‘So it’s still an open field,’ I finished. ‘Leaving Vecilius aside, it’s looking promising for Annia and A. N. Other, probably Poetelius, but I’d take side bets on Quintus Annius, the gods know why. Vibius is in there too, now. That last bit about his wife sounded pretty close to self-justification, because he’d no cause to tell me how she died off his own bat. At the very least, he couldn’t’ve made it plainer that he was glad to see Tullius dead and that all his sympathies were with the killer.’

  Perilla was still watching the Sprog doing his rolling-about act.

  ‘Do you think that’s good for him, Clarus?’ she said. ‘Or should I give him a hand?’

  ‘No, he’s fine,’ Clarus said. ‘Leave him to it; he needs the exercise. And they all do that at his age.’

  ‘If you’re sure, dear.’ She looked doubtful.

  Uh-huh. Well, at least she was talking, if not to me or Marilla. And I noticed that Clarus was still keeping his head diplomatically below the parapet. I sympathized: neither lady was one to cross, and he’d probably been getting it from both sides recently. When that happens, you lie low and say nothing. Clarus was certainly learning fast.

  ‘So how would it work, Corvinus?’ Marilla said. ‘In practical terms, I mean.’

  ‘You want the odds?’ I said.

  ‘Yes, please. Just to be clear.’

  ‘OK. Like I said, Annius is the least likely. Until we get a sniff of a genuine motive, at any rate. He and his sister are obviously very close, so if she did confide in anyone that she wanted rid of her husband he’d be first in the queue.’

  ‘Assuming there’s nothing between her and Poetelius.’

  ‘Right. Unfortunately, that’s as far as it goes. Otherwise, at present he’s a non-starter. He may be a cold-hearted bastard’ (‘Marcus, please!’ from Perilla; I ignored her) ‘who wouldn’t fight shy of murder – at least, I don’t think he would – but he didn’t have any connection with Tullius, either socially or business-wise, so—’

  ‘Hang on! You don’t know that for certain.’

  ‘Yeah, I do. Poetelius confirmed it, and if Poetelius isn’t A. N. Other, then what he says has weight.’

  ‘Fair enough. But he is in business himself, and Tullius was his brother-in-law. And as far as “socially” is concerned, if he and Annia were in it together then it’d be easy to cover up any compromising details.’ Marilla grinned. ‘I’m just playing devil’s advocate here, you understand.’

  ‘OK. All that’s true enough. But the bottom line is we’ve got nothing concrete on the guy. Poetelius, now, he’s a lot more likely. He’s got a motive, both personal – given the existence of the affair with Annia – and financial, and he’s also got opportunity, because he was definitely in the are
a when the murder happened.’

  ‘Oh, come on! He’d a good reason for being there!’

  ‘I’m not so sure about that. At least, not of the reason he gave.’

  ‘But Vibius confirmed it. He was there on business.’

  ‘Look, Marilla, Vibius owes Poetelius for the fact that he’s not short one pottery and signing on for the corn dole, OK? Plus the fact that he hated Tullius’s guts for seducing his wife and driving her to suicide. Given the choice between confirming the guy’s story and sending him up the creek without a paddle, which way do you think he’d jump?’

  ‘Yes, well, if you put it like that, I suppose …’ Marilla frowned.

  ‘It still wouldn’t explain how he engineered the opportunity, though, would it, Marcus?’ Perilla said.

  Hey! I turned towards her. ‘How do you mean, lady?’ I said.

  ‘Poetelius couldn’t have known that his partner would be in Trigemina Gate Street that day. It was a holiday, the office was closed. Oh, yes, as he said he had his reasons for going there himself. But Tullius didn’t, or not as far as he was aware.’

  Yeah; fair point. That had been bugging me, too. Sure, Tullius had called in on Hermia, that was certain. But it just didn’t square that any erstwhile lover with a grain of common sense would deliberately plan a visit the day after the lady’s husband had gone looking for him with a meat cleaver, nor that said lady would suggest it to him. A seized opportunity – straight in and straight out – while he was already in the neighbourhood for compelling and unrelated reasons, now, that might be another thing again. At least for a guy like Tullius. Which left the problem of the compelling reasons. If not to try it on with Hermia, then why the hell had he been there?

  ‘It could’ve been coincidence,’ I said. ‘They could just have bumped into each other.’

  ‘Marcus, do you honestly—?’ There was a howl from the Sprog, who’d suddenly and spectacularly managed to flip himself over and found he was face down on the mosaic tiling. ‘Oh, my!’

  Marilla got off her couch. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘It happens every time. He’s perfectly all right.’