Solid Citizens

TEN

I had a leisurely breakfast the next morning before heading into Bovillae as usual. It wasn’t far, sure, but I don’t ride by choice, and covering the eight or so miles there and back was becoming a pretty tiresome routine.

I parked the horse by the market square water trough and set off gratefully on my own two feet. First things first: Baebius’s address. I called in at the antiques shop, renewed my acquaintance with the old freedman who ran it, and came away with directions: Baebius, it seemed, lived up at the top of town, near the Alban Lake Gate.

Before talking to the possibly homicidal antiquities collector, though, I wanted another word with Caesius’s major-domo, Anthus, regarding the death of his ex-mistress. Oh, the probability was that everything was above board — I’d only made the suggestion that it might not be to rattle Perilla’s cage, and the dead woman must’ve been getting on a bit — but it was worth making sure. Also, there was the question of the will to pursue.

So it was the Caesius place again first, further along the Hinge. The door slave showed me through to the atrium — the ordinary couches had been put back, now the funeral was over — and Anthus came in a couple of minutes later, wearing his squeaky-clean new freedman’s cap.

‘Good morning, sir,’ he said. ‘A pleasure to see you again. Presumably I can help you in some way?’

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry to bother you again so soon, pal, but I needed some more information from you, if you can give it to me.’

‘Certainly. Although I’m afraid as far as the master’s death goes I can’t think what else I can tell you.’

‘Actually, it was your late mistress I was interested in. Vatinia, wasn’t it?’

He looked nonplussed. ‘The mistress, sir? Why on earth would you be asking about her?’

‘As I said, I’m just getting as many background details as I can. Indulge me, will you?’

‘If you insist. But …’

‘She was younger than your master, was she?’

‘By a few years, yes, but not many. Four or five, I think.’

‘And they were married for, what, thirty-five years, wasn’t it?’

‘That’s correct, sir.’

‘So she must’ve been well into her twenties at the time? Isn’t that a bit late for a marriage?’

‘The lady had been married previously, but her first husband had died. A summer fever. That marriage was childless, too.’

‘So she was a wealthy widow, right?’

‘Moderately wealthy.’ He was beginning to give me funny looks, and I wondered how far I could push this without him clamming up on me. ‘She was from a good family in Aricia, and her former husband owned quite a bit of property in Rome which of course she inherited at his death. He and the master had known each other through their shared business interests for some considerable time, so naturally their relationship was a long-standing one.’

‘Fine.’ I paused; this next bit was the really tricky part. ‘Her, uh, death three months ago come as a surprise, at all?’

He frowned, but answered readily enough. ‘No, except that it was so long delayed. The mistress was never a well lady, even when she was first married. Her heart was weak, and in the last ten years or so she was a chronic invalid. The doctor said it was a marvel she lasted as long as she did.’

Hell. That scotched that idea, then, at least as anything but an outside bet: thirty-five years was thirty-five years, and if Caesius had married her with an eye to her money knowing she was a bit tottery on her perch and not been averse to giving her a shove he’d taken his time in doing it. And if the death was a natural one it put the mockers on any involvement on Lucius’s part, too. Still, it made for one oddity. ‘I understand from your master’s lawyer, Publius Novius, that he hadn’t made a will to replace the original one of thirty-odd years back, naming her as his heir,’ I said. ‘Is that right?’

‘Yes. To the best of my knowledge.’

‘You don’t find that a little unusual? After all, the chances were that he’d outlive her.’

Anthus was still frowning. ‘It’s not my place to say, sir. Or within my competence.’

‘Maybe not. But you’re the best person to ask. And it might be important.’

‘Very well. If it will help, then certainly.’ He hesitated, as if he was choosing his words carefully. ‘He … the master was a deeply private man, with very few friends. I don’t mean that in a derogatory way, not at all; it’s a simple fact. Oh, he was certainly no recluse; he had a great number of acquaintances, and he and the mistress when she was alive and able had a very busy social life. But none of them, even the closest, were really intimate, if you understand me.’ I nodded. ‘They were most of them very much part of his public rather than his private life. And to the master, sir, as you must always remember, his public life was everything. As far as family went, apart from the mistress there was no one at all close. Quite the opposite, as you know yourself.’

‘Meaning his brother and his nephew.’

‘Exactly.’ He ducked his head. ‘I’m sorry. I’m being long-winded and possibly unclear, but what I’m saying really does answer your question. The result of all this was that, although he may have recognized that not to make another will was short-sighted at best, there was no one — family member or close friend — whom he could conscientiously name as heir.’

Yeah; that was more or less what Novius had told me. Even so …

‘Even so,’ I said aloud, ‘the result’s been that his brother inherits the property. Which, naturally, would now include your mistress’s estate as well.’

‘Indeed.’

‘He must’ve known that would happen, and the two of them had no time for each other. Your master, so Lucius tells me, had even cancelled his allowance recently. Yet he deliberately let things slide, meaning his brother gets the whole boiling after all, both his money and his late wife’s. I’m sorry, pal, but to me that doesn’t make any sort of sense.’

Anthus hesitated again. ‘May I speak freely? Far more freely than I have a right to do?’

‘Sure. Go ahead.’

‘It’s only an idea that I have. I’ve nothing to base it on, and certainly nothing the master ever said to me, or in my presence, confirms it. Quite the opposite. But I did serve him all my working life, and I knew him as well as it was possible for any man. I truly think that Quintus Caesius wanted his brother to inherit. Certainly should the mistress predecease him, which as I said was more than likely.’

He’d fazed me. ‘Uh … come again, pal?’ I said.

‘It may be difficult to believe, sir. But personally I’m convinced it’s the absolute truth. The master put off making a will deliberately so that if he died first then everything would go to Lucius.’

‘Anthus, that makes no sense either! If he’d wanted the guy to be his heir beyond any legal doubt he’d have written a will to that effect. It’d be simple enough.’

The major-domo shook his head. ‘No, sir. Quintus Caesius would never, ever have done that, not under any circumstances. You misunderstand.’ He smiled. ‘Frankly, I’m not sure I understand myself, and it’s difficult even to put into words. You didn’t know the master, so of course what I’m saying wouldn’t make sense to you, but trust me it does. Despite what he said to anyone, me and the mistress included, I’m convinced that he felt responsible for his brother.’

‘Responsible?’

‘For how he’d turned out, how he led his life. I hesitate to use the words “guilt” and “atonement”, but I must. Although please keep in mind that he had — and knew he had — absolutely nothing concrete to feel guilty about or atone for. That’s just the point.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘You’ve lost me completely.’

‘Perhaps it’s the difference between active and passive action, sir, if there is such a term. Believe me: the master disliked and despised his brother, completely and utterly. There’s absolutely no doubt about that. He was also, in many ways, a hard-minded man, and as such had no desire to make things easy for him while he himself was alive. Quite the contrary, as his decision to terminate the allowance shows. On the other hand, if he could make amends simply by doing nothing, taking no action whatsoever, and leaving things to fate, then that was a different thing. Or perhaps he considered it as such.’ He paused. ‘I’m sorry, sir, I know I’m not expressing myself clearly, but it’s the best I can do. Perhaps it’s nonsense after all.’

‘No,’ I said slowly. ‘Cock-eyed, sure, but not nonsense.’ Leaving things to fate. Yeah, that was one way of putting it. Me, given what was at stake, I’d rather go for tempting fate where Brother Lucius was concerned. ‘His father’s will. The one that disinherited Lucius. You know about that?’

‘Of course.’

‘It was, uh, on the level, then?’

He frowned. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.’

‘The old guy — Marcus Caesius, senior — he actually made it?’

‘Naturally, he did.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘I never saw the actual document, sir, but the old master certainly intended to disinherit his son when he was in the process of writing it. I heard him say so myself. And it was formally witnessed.’

Damn. ‘Who by? Can you remember?’

‘Two of his business associates. Gaius Tucca and Lucius Ampudius.’

‘They still around?’

‘Tucca, no, sir. He died some five years ago. But Ampudius is still alive.’

‘Where would I find him?’

‘His house is up by the Alban Lake Gate, on the public baths side.’

Well, that was handy, at least. I could fit him in along with Baebius. ‘Fine. Thanks, pal. I think that’s about all for the moment.’ I turned to go. ‘No, it isn’t. You know a guy called Quintus Baebius?’

‘Oh, yes. But by name only. He’s never set foot in the house, nor had the master in his, although he often talked about him. Not in complimentary terms. They were rival collectors — I think I told you about the master’s hobby? I’m afraid I know no more about him than that.’

‘I was told they had a head-to-head over buying a figurine two months back, and that Baebius lost out. That right?’

Anthus nodded. ‘Perfectly correct, sir. A very fine Hellenistic bronze of a runner removing a thorn from his foot.’

‘You think I could see it?’

‘Of course. It’s in the study. If you’d like to come through?’

I followed him. He opened the door and went over to one of the display shelves, then stopped.

‘Something wrong?’ I said.

He was looking blank. ‘Now that is very curious. Very curious indeed. It isn’t there.’

‘What?’

He pointed to an empty space on the shelf. ‘That’s where it was, sir. But it’s gone.’

‘When did you last see it?’

‘The day of the master’s death. In the morning, when I did the dusting. I haven’t been in here since, except when we had our talk. And then I can’t say whether it was here or not.’

‘Would someone have taken it since?’

‘Not to my knowledge, sir. The room hasn’t been entered. It’s a mystery, I’m afraid.’

Yeah, I’d agree with him there. ‘OK, pal,’ I said. ‘Leave it for now. Thanks again for your help. I’ll see myself out.’ I paused. ‘Oh, incidentally. Brother Lucius. When does he move in?’

‘The day after tomorrow, sir, or so I understand. I’ll be staying on until then, but one of the other members of the household staff will be taking on my duties. Temporarily, at least.’

‘You going to stay with your baker girlfriend?’

‘That’s right. We’re being married straight away.’

‘Good luck, then. Oh’ — I took out my purse and removed a gold piece — ‘maybe you can buy yourself a wedding present.’

‘That’s very generous of you, Valerius Corvinus. And good luck to you. I’ll sleep easier when my master’s killer is found. He was a decent man, at heart.’

Yeah, well, I’d heard worse obituaries. And coming from a guy like Anthus, short as it was, it had weight, more so than Manlius’s public eulogy.

I left.