Trade Secrets

NINE

Bathyllus opened the front door for me as I mounted the steps.

‘Hi, pal,’ I said. ‘Not late for dinner, am I?’ I’d cut it fine, I knew: the sun was just on the point of setting, and where Meton was concerned that practically constituted a dinner gong.

He handed me the obligatory cup of wine. ‘Not at all, sir. In fact, dinner will be slightly later this evening.’

‘Oh? Why’s that?’ I took my first restorative swallow.

He cleared his throat. ‘We had a little fracas, sir, which has somewhat disrupted the domestic arrangements.’

Oh, shit. ‘Don’t tell me,’ I said. ‘Involving next door, right?’

‘Indeed, sir. The mistress will explain. She’s in the atrium.’

I went through. Perilla was lying on her couch with an open book-roll. She looked up, and I gave her the usual back-home kiss.

‘OK, lady,’ I said. ‘Tell me the worst.’

‘Nothing very drastic, dear.’ She set the book aside. ‘Just a small contretemps at the fruit market.’ Jupiter! First a fracas, now a contretemps! ‘There was no actual blood spilled, and Paullus will be perfectly all right when the concussion wears off.’

‘Concussion? And who the hell is Paullus?’

‘Next door’s chef. Meton hit him with a melon. Quite a large one, I understand.’

‘He did what?’

‘Of course, next door aren’t too happy about it, but from what Meton says it was largely the man’s own fault.’

Gods! I put the wine-cup down on the table and yelled: ‘Bathyllus!’

He soft-sandalled in. ‘Yes, sir?’

‘Tell Meton I want to see him! Now!’

‘Yes, sir.’ He soft-sandalled out.

I turned back to Perilla. ‘How much not happy would this be, then?’ I said. ‘On a scale, say, of one to ten?’

‘That would be ten. At least.’

‘Ah.’ Bugger! This we could do without!

‘I did go round to apologize to Tyndaris personally as soon as Marilla and I got back. She said it was bad enough living next door to cat-killers without having their staff launch murderous attacks on her own domestics. Also that Appropriate Steps would be Taken; the emphasis is hers. Then she threw me out. Very politely, of course.’

Fuck. Double fuck. ‘Did she say-?’

‘You wanted to see me?’

I turned to find Meton doing his usual looming act and wearing his customary put-upon expression.

‘Only I’ve got a delicate sauce on the simmer, so it’ll have to be quick.’

‘Just tell me what happened, sunshine.’

‘I was unduly provoked.’

I sighed: in Meton’s book, undue provocation might be a raised eyebrow or a cough out of turn. Or even minor eyeballing. ‘In what way, exactly?’

‘I was at Mama Silvia’s stall in the market, like, buyin’ pears, an’ he, that’s that bastard Paullus, was standin’ behind me in the queue. I says to Mama, “I’ll take some of them Dolabellians for a compote, love,” an’ Paullus says, “Nah, you want Laterans for that, pal,” then I turns round and says, “Rubbish, Laterans’re too moist for a compote,” then he says, “Moist? The way you cook, your lot wouldn’t notice if you used bloody Falernians.” So I picked up a melon and belted him with it.’

I winced. ‘Ah … right. Right.’

‘The bastard had it coming.’

‘No doubt. But still-’

‘I mean – Falernians! For a sodding compote? Give me a fucking break! An’ he claims to be a chef!’

‘Yeah, well, I can see why you’d find that shocking, pal, but perhaps your response was just a smidgeon-’

‘Anicians, OK, they’re on the tart side, sure, particularly if they’re picked too early, but I could’ve taken Anicians in my stride. Falernians, now, that is just fucking insulting!’

I closed my eyes for a moment. ‘Thank you, Meton. Very concisely and graphically explained. You can go.’

He went. I picked up my wine-cup, took a long swallow, and lay down on the second couch. ‘Gods!’

‘It was deliberate provocation, Marcus,’ Perilla said.

‘Yeah. Yeah, I know that.’ Pushing Meton’s button was simplicity itself, and these feuds tend to spread to the bought help pretty quickly. ‘Even so-’

‘Well, what’s done is done.’

True. ‘Where’re the kids?’ I said. ‘Out gallivanting again? I thought you were all going shopping together?’

‘Marilla and I did. Clarus said he had a doctor friend of his father’s to see, over in Transtiber. He isn’t back yet, and Marilla is upstairs playing with little Marcus.’ A friend of his father’s, eh? Maybe the boy was learning after all. I grinned. ‘How was your day? Profitable?’

I gave her the rundown. ‘So it looks like Festus is out of it,’ I said. ‘Vecilius is still the front runner, easy, but I’d risk a hefty side-bet on Poetelius.’

‘The partner?’ Her eyes widened in surprise. ‘Is he the murdering type?’

‘No. Or not especially. But the guy in the wineshop was right. Given a connection with Annia, he’s got motivation in spades.’

‘Namely?’

I ticked the points off. ‘Tullius wouldn’t agree to a divorce. If the affair’s serious – and I’d guess that it is – getting rid of the husband’s the only way forward.’

‘You think it’s that serious? After all, why should Poetelius bother? Tullius had no real interest in his wife, he had his own affairs which he took no great pains to keep secret, and he knew about the relationship already.’

‘Poetelius told me he and Annia had been friends since they were kids. The impression I got when I talked to him was that he’d carried a candle for her from the start but that Tullius had sweet-talked her into marrying him instead. Which sounds like Tullius all over. And I’d’ve put Poetelius down as pretty conventional.’

‘Not conventional enough to draw the line at adultery.’

‘Come on, Perilla! The marriage was a sham, and he wasn’t breaking up any happy households. Unlike his partner.’

‘Hmm.’ She was twisting a lock of her hair.

‘Besides – second point – there’s the financial aspect. Tullius was running the firm into the ground, making policy decisions for personal rather than business reasons. On the other side, Annia was providing the money that kept things going and Poetelius had the expertise. In the business sense, Tullius was nothing but dead weight. Worse, he was a liability. All in all, like a lot of people seem to be saying, the guy was a complete waste of space. Poetelius – and Annia – will be far better off without him.’

‘It’s still not necessarily a good enough reason for killing him.’

‘Jupiter, lady, how much more do you want?’ I took an exasperated swallow of the wine. ‘OK, it’s all provisional, I grant you. But it’s a valid theory. And Poetelius sure as hell lied about being in the neighbourhood of Trigemina Gate Street the day of the murder.’

‘No, he didn’t. He simply didn’t tell you that he was.’

‘Yeah, well, that amounts to the same thing, doesn’t it? Besides, what excuse did he have? He wasn’t there on business seeing Vecilius or Festus, because liaising with the suppliers was Tullius’s job, and if for some reason he had been they would’ve mentioned it. Plus it was a public holiday. And that part of town’s on the way to nowhere except the Emporium and Pottery Mountain.’

‘So what do you do now?’

I shrugged. ‘Face him with it. See what he says. And have another talk with Annia. That lady has beans to spill.’ The front door banged. ‘That sounds like Clarus back.’

It was.

‘Hi, Corvinus. Perilla,’ he said when he came in. ‘Sorry, I got held up. Old Theo got to reminiscing. Not late, am I?’

‘No, no, you’re fine, pal,’ I said. ‘Meton and next door’s chef had a contretemps involving a melon, so things are a bit behind.’

He frowned. ‘What?’

‘Perilla’ll explain.’

Bathyllus shimmied in. ‘The chef says to inform you that dinner is ready whenever you are, sir. Finally.’

‘I’ll go and tell Marilla, Marcus,’ Perilla said. ‘You and Clarus go straight through.’

She went upstairs.

‘“Theo”?’ I said to Clarus.

He was looking shifty. ‘Aemilius Theodorus,’ he said. ‘A friend of Dad’s. I thought I’d look him up while we were here. While the women were off shopping.’

‘Yeah. Right.’ I waited. ‘So, uh, where were you really?’

He grinned. ‘I went back to the Pollio. I said: they’ve got a lot of stuff by Erasistratus there, and I didn’t have time to see all of it I wanted.’

‘Nothing to do with the guy who was stabbed? Marcus Correllius?’

He gave me a look of genuine puzzlement. ‘No, of course not! Why the hell should it be?’

Right; right: we moved in different worlds, Clarus and me, except when they overlapped occasionally. And I knew it wouldn’t’ve been a wineshop.

I turned to Bathyllus, who was still hovering.

‘The dessert isn’t pear compote, is it, sunshine?’ I said.

‘No.’ He sniffed. ‘Pear compote will not be featuring this evening, sir.’

‘How about slightly damaged melon?’

Not a flicker: Bathyllus moved in a different world as well, and humour played a very small part in it.

‘Not that either,’ he said. ‘I understand Meton has decided on a preserved fruit and honey pudding.’

Well, no doubt things would get back to normal when our socially disadvantaged chef had repaired his bridges with the local suppliers. Or just found one who didn’t mind him using their produce as an offensive weapon.

‘Fine,’ I said.

We went through.