Caveat emptor

25

Firmus must have been waiting for Ruso to leave the procurator’s office, because he appeared from somewhere and latched on to him as soon as he emerged. “So, what do we do now?”

He seemed to have decided they were a team. Ruso said, “I’m going straight up to Verulamium to try and track down the money.” And to find a way of keeping Tilla out of this business without mentioning Metellus. If there was even the slightest chance that she might be pregnant, he did not want to frighten her.

Firmus was insisting on knowing what his uncle had said about the letter.

Ruso said, “All it shows is that Asper was ill and confused.”

“I don’t agree. With all respect to my uncle, of course. I think Asper was about to expose some sort of crook who had him murdered.”

Ruso loyally defended the procurator’s position, aware that he was talking too much and it must be obvious that he was lying. Aware too that he should never have allowed Firmus to get so deeply involved in this. The lad had been sent here by his mother to work in an office, not to chase thieves and murderers, and certainly not to get within the striking range of vipers like Metellus.

Finally Firmus gave up. “So what do we do now?”

“While I’m away, I’d be grateful if you’d forward any news that comes into the office.”

The aristocratic nose wrinkled. “That sounds boring.”

“Most investigating is boring, sir,” Ruso assured him, adding the “sir” to try and reestablish the distance that he should have had the sense to keep between them all along. “It’s just collecting detailed information, and most of what you find out turns out to have nothing to do with what you want to know.”

They were almost at the gatehouse now. Seeing them approach, Albanus raised one hand and hurried toward them, cramming his official writing tablets into his satchel. “Sirs!”

“I was just explaining to the assistant procurator that investigating isn’t as exciting as it sounds,” said Ruso, noticing to his discomfort that Albanus’s eyes were bright and he was shifting his weight from one foot to the other as if he was eager to say something. “For example, you’ve just spent the afternoon recording-how many sightings of the missing brother?”

“Twenty-four, sir. Sir, I-”

“Twenty-four. And how many of them are credible?”

“Probably about three, sir. And even those contradict one another.”

Ruso fixed him with what he hoped was a meaningful stare. “So would you say investigating was exciting, Albanus?”

“It was a tedious afternoon, to be honest, sir.”

“Exactly,” said Ruso.

“Until I found out what Room Twenty-seven really means,” continued Albanus, unable to resist beaming with pride as he destroyed all Ruso’s good work in a sentence.

“Oh, well done!” cried Firmus. “I knew you were wrong, Ruso!”

At Albanus’s suggestion, they moved across to stand by the hitching rail on one side of the courtyard. Horses might hear, but they would not talk.

Apparently as he sat listening to the various accounts of sightings of men with mangled ears, Albanus had watched the stream of people going in and out of the Residence. Among them had been several couriers, most of whom delivered their items to the guard house at the gates to be distributed.

“And that’s when I thought again about the letter, sir. And about the way my aunt’s letters got forwarded on to me after I left the army, and that’s when it dawned on me. It doesn’t matter what you write on the outside. What matters is that the person who receives it knows what to do with it.”

Albanus paused here, perhaps waiting for his listeners to catch up.

“So where’s the real Room Twenty-seven?” demanded Firmus.

“We saw it earlier,” Albanus said. “But that’s not the point. The point is, when the men in the sorting room here get letters with addresses that don’t make sense, they put them all in the bottom right-hand pigeonhole. And there they stay, until somebody comes to look for them.”

So that was how Metellus did it. It was ridiculously simple.

“Or until there’s a clear-out, whichever happens sooner.”

“But that doesn’t prove that Room Twenty-seven means anything,” said Ruso, attempting to head them off. “It could just be a mistake by a dying man.”

“It could, sir,” agreed Albanus, “but the post room clerk says somebody’s been writing to it every week. And the pigeonhole hasn’t been cleared for a month, but there aren’t any Room Twenty-seven letters in there.”

“Somebody’s been collecting them!” exclaimed Firmus. “Oh, well done, Albanus! So all we have to do now is keep a watch on the post room-”

This was like trying to stop a runaway horse. “If the collector knows that Asper’s dead, he won’t come back for any more,” said Ruso, hoping the youth would not stumble over someone seeking messages from other informers. Would Metellus use the same system for several people? He had no way of knowing, nor any way to contact him and warn him.

Holy gods. He was starting to think in terms of warning Metellus now.

“Anyway,” he continued, “I’m supposed to be finding the money, not tracking down missing correspondence.”

“You are,” agreed Firmus, “but I’m not. I’m supposed to be learning about administration.” His smile was triumphant. “Administration includes post.”

Ruso restrained an urge to grab the front of his tunic and shake some sense into him. He sent a disappointed Albanus back to the gate to see if there were any more sightings of men with only one and a half ears before continuing, “Listen to me, Firmus. This isn’t a game. I don’t know what Asper was caught up in, but it might well be the business that got him murdered. Whoever follows the trail is going to run into the same people, and you’re not…” He hesitated.

“I’m not what?”

“You’re not supposed to be involving yourself in this sort of thing.”

“You were going to say, You’re not suitable because you can’t see past the tips of your fingers.”

“That too,” said Ruso, who wasn’t.

Firmus drew himself up to his full height, which was at least half a head shorter than Ruso despite the fancy hairstyle. “I am the assistant procurator,” he announced. “You have been given your orders. While you’re in Verulamium, I shall take whatever steps I consider to be necessary.”

Ruso sighed. That was the trouble with the upper classes. They were very friendly until you tried to cross them. Then they pulled rank on you.

This was going to be painful, but it was necessary. “Firmus,” he said, “I have a job to do. If I think someone-anyone-is compromising my investigation, not to mention getting himself into danger, then I won’t hesitate to report him to the procurator.”

The shortsighted eyes narrowed, as if the youth were trying to assess whether he was joking.

“I’m grateful for all the help you’ve given me, but it’s got to stop. Straightaway.”

“But I thought…” There was a tremor in the youth’s voice. “Ruso, I thought you were my friend.”

Ruso felt his stomach clench, just as it used to in the early days when he was about to amputate a limb in the hope of saving the owner’s life. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said, seeing hurt and bewilderment in the lad’s eyes. “I hope I’ve served you well. But we can’t ever be friends.”

Firmus’s chin rose. “Of course,” he said. “Thank you for reminding me. I am the assistant procurator of Britannia and you are a man who chases criminals for money.” He turned to peer around the courtyard and then strode off in the direction of Pyramus, who was waving at him from a doorway.

There was a bitter taste in Ruso’s mouth as he watched him go. No matter how often he told himself he had done that for the youth’s own good, he knew there would still be a whisper suggesting that he had done it to get himself out of trouble. And the whisper would have the smooth tones of Metellus.