Illegally Dead (Marcus Corvinus Book 12)

by David Wishart

  ‘Just along here, sir.’ Scopas led me along the portico and through a door back into the main building. ‘Here we are. The master’s suite is on your left.’

  Where the corridor ended, in other words. Before going in, though, I looked to the right. There were several doors. ‘Which are the rooms your mistress uses?’ I said.

  ‘Third door along, sir. The rooms’re connected inside.’

  Hardly more than half a dozen yards; yeah, Veturina had said that she didn’t want to be too far away. ‘And the latrine?’

  ‘At the far end of the corridor, sir, next to the bath suite.’

  Check. I opened the first door on the right after the exit to the portico. A small, anonymous bedroom, obviously unused. ‘That other room empty as well, Scopas? The one between here and your mistress’s?’

  ‘Just a cupboard, sir. Linen press.’

  ‘Fine.’ Well, that was all pretty straightforward. It added up, too. I opened the door to Hostilius’s bedroom and went in.

  Like Scopas had said, it was a small suite; the same sort of thing, presumably, as Veturina’s. The door led into a sitting-room that opened onto the portico outside and overlooked the garden beyond. It was a big room, light and airy, with frescos on the walls and a good mosaic on the floor, a couch and a table next to it, and a bookcase with most of the cubbies filled. There was a writing desk and a stool, too, and an alcove with a vase of fresh flowers.

  ‘The master spent a lot of time in here, sir,’ Scopas said. ‘He preferred it to his study and to the atrium, ‘specially in the summer.’

  ‘This where he died?’

  ‘That’s right. On the couch here. He was taken bad while he was reading. Luckily - or it might’ve been luckily, if it’d done any good - Sestus the gardener was just outside, and he ran for me. I sent someone straight off for Doctor Hyperion.’

  ‘When was this exactly?’

  ‘Late morning, sir, an hour or so before noon.’

  ‘Uh-huh. And you fetched the Lady Veturina at the same time, did you?’

  Scopas hesitated. ‘No. Only when I reckoned things was as bad as they could get, sir. The master...well, you know the situation, Valerius Corvinus. They hardly met, hardly spoke at all, and he wouldn’t have her in here at any price.’

  ‘She was in her own room along the corridor?’

  ‘That’s right, sir. Sitting-room like this one, with a bedroom beyond. It’s where she spends most of the day.’

  ‘So where was the medicine bottle kept?’

  ‘On a tray in the bedroom. If you’d like to see, sir?’

  We went through. It was almost the size of the sitting-room and just as well decorated: obviously the master bedroom of the villa, the one Hostilius and Veturina must’ve shared for most of their married life. There was big double bed with a richly-embroidered coverlet on it, several clothes chests, a shoe-rack and - next to the bed - a polished black-marble table with a tray on it. On the tray were a stoppered silver wine-flask and a matching cup.

  ‘I put them back where they’d been, sir, on the mistress’s orders,’ Scopas said. ‘The medicine bottle was there as well, of course, but -’ He stopped.

  ‘But Hyperion took that away with him. Yeah, that’s okay, pal, understood,’ I said. ‘Fine. So how did it work?’

  ‘The master had his routine, sir. Up about an hour after dawn, took a trip along to the latrine.’ He glanced at me. ‘Didn’t hold with chamber pots, the master, always said that a bedroom was no place for...well, you understand, sir. And he liked to sit and think in peace for a while before breakfast.’

  ‘He had breakfast in here?’

  ‘In the sitting-room. I brought it on a tray first thing when he woke and left it on the table for when he got back. And the...and the medicine, sir, ready-mixed in the cup.’

  ‘So the length of time between when you left the tray and the medicine ready and your master coming back would be what?’

  ‘About fifteen minutes, sir, give or take.’

  Yeah, right. Plenty of time, in other words, for someone - Cosmus - to nip into the empty room, do the business with the bottle, and nip out again. And if he’d been hiding in the spare bedroom a few yards along the corridor, like Veturina he’d’ve heard the footsteps coming and going and known the coast was clear. Easy-peasy. ‘The routine didn’t change?’ I said.

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘And Cosmus would’ve known what it was?’

  Scopas’s face hardened. ‘No reason why the –’ He stopped, and I heard his teeth click as he pressed them together hard. ‘No reason why he shouldn’t’ve, sir. It wasn’t a secret.’

  ‘Tell me about Cosmus. Had Hostilius had him long?’

  ‘About a year. The master bought him from Tuscius over in Bovillae.’

  ‘Tuscius?’

  ‘Marcus Tuscius, the slave-dealer.’

  ‘Where did he get him from?’

  ‘’Fraid I can’t tell you that, sir. Cosmus’ - Scopas looked like he wanted to spit when he said the name - ‘never mentioned where he’d been before, and no one felt inclined to ask. He wasn’t exactly popular with the other lads and lasses.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Yeah, so I gathered. What about with the family?’

  ‘He was a smarmy little bugger, sir, if you’ll forgive the language, in with every chance he could get. He’d a way with him, Cosmus, I’ll give him that, good-looking and well-spoken, and it was no secret he was angling for an above-stairs job. The master didn’t like him for’ - he hesitated - ‘reasons that we won’t go into but maybe you can imagine, sir, having talked to the mistress, but he could get round the two youngsters easy enough. Especially Miss Paulina.’

  Uh-huh. And I could guess what Hostilius’s ‘reasons’ had been: sleeping with good-looking slaves, didn’t she say? The fact that according to Hyperion Cosmus’s natural proclivities lay in other directions was neither here nor there: it would’ve been business, not pleasure. ‘Where did he work, usually?’ I said.

  ‘Kitchens, sir. He was one of the kitchen skivvies. He wasn’t there more than he could help, though, every chance he got he bunked off down to the stables where he could be on his own. Not that anyone cried on that account.’

  ‘You, uh, reported him missing to the Lady Veturina the day your master died, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, sir, that’s right. Before the master died, actually, because he should’ve been on duty to wash up the breakfast dishes and scour the pans. I didn’t know nothing about the ring or so on then, mind, because the master kept them in the drawer of his desk and I didn’t notice they were gone until the next day.’

  Well, that settled that; not that I was surprised. Still - ‘Uh, one last thing, Scopas. Castor. The mistress’s brother.’

  I couldn’t’ve been mistaken this time. When I mentioned the name I could almost feel the guy tense. Interesting. ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘He around at present?’

  ‘No. No, I...don’t think so.’

  ‘Know when he’ll be back?’

  ‘That I couldn’t say, sir.’

  Straight into the one-liners, and to anyone who’s had anything to do with slaves that can only mean one thing.

  ‘Look, pal,’ I said wearily. ‘You’ve been really, really helpful so far. Don’t start giving me the run-around now, okay? Just tell me what you’re carefully not saying and we’ll call it a day. Bargain?’

  He swallowed. ‘Sir, I’d really rather not –’

  Screw that. ‘Listen, Scopas,’ I said. ‘I don’t like to remind you of this, but if it wasn’t for me you’d be answering any question anyone liked to put to you tied hand and foot to a couple of sliding boards. Answering it pretty damn quickly, too, because there’d be a set of sadistic bastards in attendance just waiting for the teensiest hesitation. So come on, let’s have it.’

  He rubbed the back of his neck nervously. ‘All right, sir, but I’m sure there’s a –’

  ‘Scopas! Just give!’

  Pause. ‘Th
e mistress’s brother hasn’t been home for eight days, sir.’

  Shit. I just stared at him. ‘Since the day before your master died, in other words,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ He didn’t look happy, and unhappy was an understatement.

  ‘Any idea where he’s gone?’

  ‘No, sir. No one does.’

  ‘Know why he went?’ He stared back. ‘Scopas!’

  ‘He’d had a...quarrel with the master that afternoon, sir. In town. I swear I don’t know what it was about,’ - he must’ve seen my face, because that came out quickly - ‘not the quarrel itself, sir. But the master was furious and he...well, when he came back he took it out on the mistress. They’ve always been close, her and her brother.’

  ‘Go on,’ I said. ‘Scopas, pal, you listened in. That’s what slaves do.’ I waited. Nothing. ‘You want me to go back and ask the mistress herself?’ No answer. I shrugged and moved towards the door. ‘Fair enough, we’ll just have to play it –’

  ‘He accused Castor of being a spy, a traitor and a thief, sir,’ Scopas said woodenly. ‘He accused him of adultery with Quintus Acceius’s wife, he accused the mistress of aiding and abetting him, and he said that he wanted him out of the house for good. I’m omitting the filthy circumstantial details, Valerius Corvinus, because do what you like to me I won’t put my mouth to them, and in his right mind the master wouldn’t’ve either. Now does that satisfy you, sir?’

  Gods. ‘Yeah,’ I said quietly. ‘That satisfies me.’

  ‘Then if you’ll excuse me I’ll get back to my duties. I’m sure you can find your own way out.’

  ‘Right. Right. Uh, thanks, pal.’

  He didn’t answer, just walked past me and through the open door to the corridor beyond.

  9

  ‘She killed him.’

  ‘Oh, Marcus!’ Perilla put down her book on the small table beside her chair. ‘You can’t possibly be sure of that at this stage. Especially after what Marcia said.’

  ‘I’m sure.’ I took a morose swig of the wine Bathyllus had brought out when I’d got back as per standing instructions - Fundanan, not Caecuban, but none the worse for that - and stared out over the rolling Alban Hills towards Alba itself, smokily cloud-wreathed in the distance.

  Bugger!

  ‘But to murder someone after having lived with them for thirty years –’

  ‘Thirty-six. And I didn’t say that Veturina had murdered Hostilius. I said that she’d killed him.’

  Perilla frowned. ‘I don’t understand, dear. They’re the same, surely.’

  ‘Uh-uh, not this time. That’s the problem.’ Still, thank the gods, the problem wasn’t mine, and Libanius wasn’t the sort to insist on the letter of the law. No doubt Marcia could weigh in as well where the praetor’s rep was concerned, if things came to that.

  ‘Marcus, you are not making sense. And Aunt Marcia gave the woman a glowing testimonial. Veturina was a good, loyal, faithful wife who loved her husband all their married life. To say categorically after only two days’ acquaintance with the situation that she killed him or could even be remotely capable of killing him is –’

  ‘That’s the whole point. She was all of those things, and of course she loved him. That’s why she did it.’

  Perilla went very quiet. Then she said: ‘Explain.’

  ‘She practically told me herself. He wasn’t the man she’d married any more. Lived with.’ I took another swallow of wine. It didn’t help. ‘She’d watched him turning into someone he’d’ve hated. Hated and despised. If it was me, Perilla, if I went the way Hostilius went and didn’t have the sense to recognise what I was becoming and manage to slit my own wrists before it got that far I hope you’d do the same. And if you did I’d bless you for it.’

  Perilla said nothing.

  ‘The poor sod was dying anyway. It was only a matter of when, and how, and whether he’d go with what dignity and self-respect he had left.’ I lifted the winecup, then set it down again without drinking. ‘Me, I’d be grateful that someone had had the guts to make the decision for me.’

  ‘What about the slave-boy?’ Perilla said quietly. ‘Cosmus.’

  I frowned. ‘Yeah, that’s the only bit I can’t get my head around. He wasn’t necessary. And like I say Veturina’s no murderer. Not in that sense.’

  ‘Wasn’t he? Necessary I mean?’

  ‘No. Her room was only a few yards from her husband’s, and she knew he wasn’t in it at the time the business was done. She could even have got in round the front, through the portico. Why introduce a needless complication, especially since she’d know she’d have to get rid of the boy later?’

  ‘Insurance? In case things went wrong, as they did. She’d have someone to blame.’

  ‘The game wasn’t worth the candle, Perilla. Not to someone like Veturina. After all, what were the chances of being found out? The death looked natural. The medicine bottle was in the other room, and to all intents and purposes it hadn’t been tampered with. It was a pure fluke that Hyperion tested the contents, and he said himself they were no proof someone had actually consciously murdered the guy. The only conclusive proof of foul play was Cosmus’s corpse. In effect, by using Cosmus as an accomplice the lady upped the odds on someone blowing the whistle and left herself a real murderer into the bargain.’ I paused. ‘And then if she didn’t stiff the kid personally, which I grant she could’ve done, physically, she’d’ve needed an Accomplice Part Two. Shit. It doesn’t work, does it?’

  ‘No,’ Perilla said quietly. ‘No, I don’t think it does. Not as things stand, anyway.’

  ‘So where does that leave us?’

  ‘Who else is there?’

  I shrugged. ‘With motive? The partner, for one. Quintus Acceius. He seems an okay guy, from what Scopas the major-domo said, but he’d have reason enough. Hostilius was a major embarrassment to him, professionally and socially, and the situation wasn’t going to improve any. There needn’t actually have been any outright hatred involved, either, quite the reverse. Veturina told me herself, and Scopas backed her up, that he’d been a close friend of the family for years. Hostilius’s condition would’ve been as painful to him, personally, as to Veturina. There’re different kinds of love. I can see this Acceius killing his partner for the same reasons that Veturina would’ve had, more or less: because he couldn’t stand by and see a friend and colleague destroy himself.’

  ‘There’s still Cosmus.’

  ‘Yeah. But at least he’d be necessary this time. If Acceius didn’t want Veturina to know - and he wouldn’t, for obvious reasons - then he’d need someone inside the house to do the job for him; also, if things went wrong, to avoid any chance of Veturina being blamed herself. As far as murdering the kid afterwards goes, well, we don’t know the circumstances; the original intention might’ve been to smuggle him off somewhere alive. In any case, it may sound callous, but he was just a slave, and not a very nice person, at that.’

  ‘It does sound callous.’

  I sighed. ‘Perilla, I’m not excusing the guy. I’ve never even met him. And it’s only a theory. Besides, Acceius isn’t the only fish in the pond. There’s the brother, Castor. He hasn’t been seen since he quarrelled with Hostilius the day before he died. Then there’re the two Maecilii, Fimus and Bucca, for different reasons. Why either of them should’ve wanted Hostilius dead bad enough to actually kill him or have him killed I’ve no idea yet, but Fimus is on record as having had a spat with him recently and Bucca’s a dubious character with links to Cosmus. Plus there’s the business of that attack in the street.’

  ‘The attacker died, didn’t he?’

  ‘Yeah, I know, but –’ I frowned. ‘Oh, hell, look, lady, all I’m saying is at present there’re plenty of questions around with no answers. Let’s not get bogged down in useless theorising, okay?’

  Perilla smiled and ducked her head. ‘Very well,’ she said.

  ‘Where’s the Princess, by the way?’

  ‘Out with Placida. And Clarus,
of course. They said they’d be back for lunch.’

  ‘Fine.’ We’d still got Placida, the hound from hell. Her erstwhile owner, Sestia Calvina, had decided she couldn’t possibly deprive us of the brute’s company and wouldn’t take no for an answer, so she’d kept the puppies when they came and let us have the original. Placida had joined the Marilla Menagerie shortly afterwards after she’d blotted her copybook irrevocably by nailing next door’s cat and presenting it to its hysterical owner, who’d watched the whole gory business from the safety of her portico. Relations with the Petillius household were consequently at an all-time low and likely to stay that way until hell froze.

  ‘That is,’ Perilla said, ‘if there is any lunch.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘We seem to be short one chef. Meton’s disappeared.’

  I sat up. ‘What?’

  ‘I went along to the kitchen about an hour ago to talk to him about the dinner menu. The skivvy said he’d gone off after breakfast and hadn’t been seen since.’

  ‘Gone off where?’

  ‘He didn’t say. Meton didn’t, I mean. The skivvy assumed he’d gone into town for the shopping, but he’s usually back long before this.’

  Yeah: Castrimoenium isn’t Rome, and although Meton always liked to do his own shopping even he could get round all the places on offer in an hour. Besides, I didn’t trust that bugger. This needed investigating.

  ‘Bathyllus!’ I yelled.

  He shimmered out through the portico. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You know where Meton is?’

  ‘No, sir.’ A sniff. Hell; at this particular point in the see-sawing relationship between our ultraconventional major-domo and our anarchistic chef we’d obviously hit a trough. What had caused it this time I didn’t know - the last occasion had been a five-day-old fish nailed to the underside of a stool in the little guy’s pantry as a jolly Winter Festival jape - but the result was that yet again they were Seriously Not Speaking. ‘Not in the kitchen, as far as I’m aware, but that is all the help I can give you.’