Murder in Megara

Chapter Three

John stepped into the courtyard as the dazzling edge of the rising sun appeared over the barn roof. Wisps of fog steamed from the tiles. There was a chill in the air of the type that often presages a hot day. The front of the massive barn across from the house delineated the far side of the open space. House and barn were joined by extended wings housing servants’ quarters, storage rooms, and animal pens.

John shaded his eyes from the glare and looked around.

The blacksmith, a short, powerfully built man with a good-natured face and snub nose had already arrived. He was enveloped in a leather apron reaching past his knees, as if he were working at his forge rather than lounging in front of the pigsty. His punctuality impressed John.

“Petrus, sir, my name is Petrus. How may I be of assistance?”

“I want you to deal with these first.” John indicated the equipment piled next to the barn door.

The blacksmith strolled over and hunkered down over a broken plow, taking a closer look with his hands, tapping and fingering, knocking off bits of dried dirt. He raised his eyebrows and shook his head. “I’m surprised the fields could get tilled at all.” He stood, slapping his soiled hands on the leather apron. “I can take care of these, but it might be better to simply replace them.”

“Have you spoken about this to the overseer?”

“No, sir. Diocles hasn’t consulted me about repairs for months.”

“Has he ordered any tools from you? Pitchforks, spades, hoes? Much of what I’ve seen needs replacing or is in short supply. I’ve only found a single pruning hook for the olive trees.”

“It’s been a year since I’ve made any farm tools, sir, and I could certainly use the work. Not to speak ill of a fellow laborer, but Diocles doesn’t run the estate as he should. A workman is only as good as his tools, that’s what I always say. A dull sickle makes a hard harvest. A pitchfork with no handle is worse than a hammer with no head, for a nail can be pounded with a brick but what can replace a pitchfork?”

John concealed his surprise at sensing neither enmity in Petrus nor wariness of his new master. Hadn’t the town’s opinion of John and his family come to the blacksmith’s ears? Had he heard the rumors and dismissed them? Or was he merely being polite to the owner of the estate on which he lived as a tenant?

“Certain items for the kitchen are needed. Consult Peter on that. I understand a large bronze pot needs repair, for a start.”

Petrus smiled. “You know what the thrifty say. Make whole your pot and save more than just a cooking vessel.”

Before John could reply he was interrupted by Cornelia calling urgently from an archway leading into the courtyard.

“John! Come quickly!”

“What is it?”

She had vanished back inside. He found her standing beside a large amphora in the enclosure where the olive oil was stored.

“A mouse, John! A dead mouse floating in the oil!”

John patted her shoulder. “Since when are you afraid of mice?”

“I’m not, but it gave me a shock and…” she paused, composing herself, “Do you think someone was trying to harm us? Was it put there on purpose…?”

“I’ve never heard of anyone being poisoned by a mouse.”

“No, but we aren’t in Constantinople now. Everyone here hates us. Can we trust the estate workers? The mouse might have been tossed in there just out of malice.”

John looked down at the half-submerged rodent. Small glassy eyes stared back. He noticed Petrus looking on from the archway, hiding a smile behind his hand.

The blacksmith let out a stifled chuckle. “I beg your pardon, mistress. I know it must be difficult for a city person to come to grips with country ways. You’ve got to try and see the humor in them. He who smiles at ill fortune will conquer it, you know.”

Cornelia glared at him. Obviously he had misunderstood the cause of her discomfiture.

“Don’t worry about it spoiling the oil,” John said “On such occasions my mother would add a handful of some plant or other and it purified the oil.”

Cornelia gave him a puzzled look. “I thought plants didn’t interest you.”

“You can hardly avoid them completely when growing up in the country. This plant, if I remember right, was quite tall and branched out. It had white flowers.”

“I’m sure Hypatia will know what it is. I’ll get a ladle and fish the poor beast out.”

John returned to Petrus, who apologized profusely for his comments.

“No doubt you find us amusing? A strange family perhaps?” John replied.

“No, sir, I wouldn’t call it strange. Some in Megara…well…but never mind…I don’t find it strange. Not at all.”

“Very well,” was the curt reply. “Before you bring your wagon for these plows, find Diocles and send him to me. I’ll be in the triclinium.”