Caveat emptor

48

To his surprise he did not need to ask where to find the housekeeper. She was already standing over the kitchen table with her hair scraped back from her face and an old tunic flung over her dress, pounding a pungent mix of garlic and coriander with a pestle.

This was not the time to discuss Tilla’s behavior at the funeral. Instead he exchanged good news with the women: on his side the fact that the Council would deal with Caratius, and on theirs the return of Grata and the fact that Camma had found forty-seven denarii and some bronze hidden in a box upstairs. Tilla, perhaps trying to make up for her performance earlier, meekly agreed to be ready to leave in the morning. He did not even need to tell her about the anonymous note. For once, everything seemed to be fitting into place.

The way Camma flung her arms around his wife and cried that she had saved her life left him feeling guilty for all his dire predictions about the folly of getting too involved. To his surprise Camma then flung her arms around him as well. Somewhere beyond his embarrassment and his desire to stop her hair from tickling his nose, he felt a warm glow of satisfaction.

“It was nothing,” he assured her, disentangling himself after a suitable interval. “Actually, it’s not quite over. There’s one last thing I need to check before I’m finished. Grata, the Council are bound to ask you to identify the person who brought the message from Caratius.”

Grata crushed a clove of garlic into submission against the grits in the surface of the bowl. “One of his slaves,” she said, not looking up. “I don’t know his name.”

“Could you pick him out?”

“Whoever it is will deny it,” said Camma. “You will have to beat him to get the truth.”

“I don’t suppose the message was written down?”

All three women eyed him with varying levels of scorn. “We don’t bother with all that here,” explained Grata. “We remember things.”

It was a speech he had heard before from his wife, when he had assured her that she would have no trouble learning to read. “So what was the wording, exactly?”

She shrugged. “Just asking him to visit later that day to talk.”

“Did it say what about?”

The scornful expression returned. “No, but I think he could guess.”

When Ruso did not reply, she turned to Tilla. “So, now your man has asked all his questions, when are you leaving?”

Ruso did not listen to Tilla’s response. So, now your man has asked all his questions…

Seen from the outside, his trip had been remarkably successful.

Extraordinarily successful.

Unbelievably successful.

The vague doubts that had been drifting around the edges of his mind had finally reached the front. He had not asked nearly enough questions.

What were the chances of a man stumbling across a body in the woods on the very evening that the investigator was visiting?

Come to that, why had it been possible to stumble across it at all? If it had been buried by the landowner, why had it not been properly hidden? There would have been plenty of time. Moreover, surely a murderer who lived near the scene of his crime would have wanted to dispose of his victim thoroughly lest he rise up and haunt him?

Camma was talking now, holding something out to him and looking as though she was waiting for an answer.

It appeared to be a badly formed burned tile with holes stamped into one side. Camma said, “I thought it might be a doctor’s mold for drying out pills in an oven, but Tilla says no.”

He took it from her with a sense of foreboding. As the only man in a house full of women, he seemed to be expected to know instinctively what this piece of equipment was. “It looks more like something to do with the kitchen,” he offered. He turned it over, exploring the pocked surface with a forefinger that would not fit into the holes. “Some sort of fire brick?” he suggested. “Something to set hot dishes on?”

“It was in the box with the money,” explained Tilla.

“If it is of no use to you,” said Camma, “I will throw it away.”

He turned it over and held it toward the window, squinting along the edges for some sort of clue. Whatever it was, if Asper had hidden it in the box with his savings, it must be significant. He peered again at the side with the holes, then poked at a small green speck with one finger. “Is that copper?”

Camma had lost interest in it. She picked up the baby, wrinkling her nose at the smell. “Another cloth!”

Tilla was silent. He knew she could tell from his expression that something had changed. “The bronzesmiths next door,” he said, slapping the clay tile against the palm of his hand. “Can they be trusted?”

Grata shrugged. “As much as any man can be trusted.”

“Good,” he said, ignoring the insult. “Tilla, come with me. We’re going next door for a chat.”