Murder in Megara

Chapter Sixteen

John sat in the temple, contemplating the broad silver finger the moon had laid across the sea.

Strange to contemplate the earthly road that had led him from Megara as far as Bretania and Egypt, to Persia and Constantinople, and then back again to his starting point.

Unfortunately, the silver road did not point to any solution to his difficulty in grasping the thread that would ultimately lead to useful information. He sensed those on the estate he had interviewed were concealing knowledge. But how could he be surprised? They would be anxious about being punished for their blatant robbery of the absent former owner more than assisting him with anything they might know of Theophilus, even though to do so might serve to soften whatever justice was to be meted out. Meantime he was little further along in his investigation.

He saw very little likelihood of gaining any help from anyone in Megara, even assuming they had knowledge of an event that had happened away from the city.

He listened to the ratcheting of insects, the occasional distant barking of a dog, and tried to get his thoughts to march in order. It had been less difficult in Constantinople, where at this time of night he would be sitting in his study, sharing his cogitations with the girl in the wall mosaic and drinking what his friends termed his “foul Egyptian wine.”

He thought back to his conversation with Cornelia before she fell asleep and, restless, he had come to the temple to attempt to think of a plan of campaign.

“I am so sorry we came here of all places. If I had known-” she had said wistfully.

“It was inevitable,” he had replied. “After ordering the books for all my estates examined, this was the one place Justinian would not expect to be able to sell for a high price. And given it was Theophilus who sold the family farm, he must have inherited it from my mother. So with both of them dead, that closes another avenue to possible enlightenment to me.”

There was certainly light, and to spare, out here. The cold clear moonlight washed a landscape sculpted of marble. Trees and bushes might have been monuments to the dying year.

His thoughts wandered back to his mother. Was there anyone left on her side of the family whom he could consult?

It was unlikely, what with the passage of time, and given she was her parents’ only child. She had belonged to the curial class, one formed from respectable, well-to-do townspeople. Not that it had been as comfortable as it seemed, for over the years the class accumulated too many responsibilities for civic works, administration, and tax collection, though admittedly, Justinian had sought to lift the burden from them with officials such as the City Defender.

John’s tutor, Antigenes, had once informed his students that, in the old days, if a person was of this class, they had a choice of fattening their finances in various ways-not spoken about too loudly-or trying to carry out their duties honestly, resulting in financial ruin.

John’s grandfather had been of the latter sort.

Cornelia had asked him why, in that case, anyone in that position would act in an honest fashion.

“Integrity. Pride,” John had answered. “The position ran in families for generations. It was a great Roman tradition. My mother used to tell me how my grandfather wore a formal toga when performing his civic duties. Unfortunately, pride and integrity won’t pay for the necessities of life. My father might only have owned a small farm but his income was better than that of my mother’s family. She had insisted I had tutors, saying my father would have approved. I was hardly more than an infant when he died.”

And then she had remarried and Theophilus had taken his father’s place and John’s world changed into one much darker. For his stepfather mistreated everyone. In John’s opinion someone was bound to kill Theophilus in due course. Had not he himself threatened to carry out the act often enough?

Was there anyone in Megara who remembered hearing of those threats? If so, it was certain the City Defender would know all about them by now.

But if not, who remained in the city who would recall those long ago days and perhaps shed light on at least the beginnings of a road leading to the culprit?