In at the Death

19

Well, that’d been short and sweet. I got home in plenty of time for a leisurely bath, a second-of-the-day shave and a less-than-hurried change into a decent lounging-tunic. Lippillus wouldn’t’ve minded if I’d got in on two wheels as usual, and neither would Marcina, who was a very nice lady indeed, but Perilla would’ve had my guts for sandal-straps. They arrived just short of sunset: bang on time, in other words, but then Lippillus knew and loved our Meton. Fifteen pre-dinner-drink minutes before zero hour was allowed; give it twenty and you were pushing things. Once, we’d had a couple of Perilla’s poetry-klatch cronies over for a meal and they were an hour late. We were having soles, and soles were what we got. In a way. How the surly bugger managed it I’ve no idea, but you could’ve walked on them to Puteoli.

‘Hey, pal!’ I said as the door-slave brought them through the peristyle into the garden; luckily, the rain had passed off and we had a fine evening. ‘Bathyllus, a drink for the Watch commander.’ I’d got in a jar of Signinan, special: Signinan’s mostly medicinal, but the top vintage — and this one was top, ten years old if it was a day — was something else, dry as a bone and when it was chilled sheer perfection. Lippillus was no wine expert, but he knew good stuff when he tasted it, and on a Watch commander’s pay that didn’t happen all that often. ‘Marcina. You want wine or are you having one of Perilla’s fruit juices?’

‘Wine, please, Marcus.’

No ordinary Roman matron, Marcina Paullina. She’s North African, a good foot taller than Lippillus, and a total stunner.

‘Do it, little guy,’ I said. Bathyllus soft-shoed off.

‘How’s the dog?’ Lippillus said.

‘Oh, Placida’s settling in very well.’ Perilla smiled. ‘Isn’t she, Marcus?’

‘Uh…yeah. Yeah, she is. In a manner of speaking.’

Lippillus was grinning. ‘You’re lucky, then,’ he said. ‘I was talking to Quintus Pilius earlier. He’s Watch commander for the Fifth and Sixth, says there’s this thing up on the Viminal belonging to a woman called Sestia Calvina, and you would not believe — ’ He stopped. ‘Have I said something wrong?’

I was grinning too. Perilla had coloured up to her earlobes. ‘No, pal, not at all,’ I said. ‘We’re fascinated. Carry on.’

‘Ah…there’s not much to tell, really.’ Lippillus shot Perilla a nervous sideways glance. You could’ve used the set of her lips to draw lines. ‘Pilius was probably exaggerating.’

‘That so, now?’

‘I mean, nothing could possibly — ’

‘Wine, sir.’ Bathyllus had come up with the tray. Saved by the butler. Never mind, I’d get the whole story later.

Lippillus took a cup, and while Perilla’s and Marcina’s attention was on their own drinks he turned away and said quietly: ‘You got a moment, Marcus? In private, before we start?’

Uh-oh. He might be wearing his best party mantle, but currently the guy had his Watch commander’s face on. Also, I hadn’t missed the fact that Marcina had taken Perilla’s arm and was leading her out of earshot like she and Lippillus had arranged things in advance. Which, I would bet, they had.

So. Business.

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Yeah, of course I have.’

‘Lucceius Caepio hanged himself last night.’

Oh, shit. ‘He did what?’

‘Titus Mescinius sent to tell me just before we left. He thought you might be interested.’

I glanced over at Perilla. Her head was turned in our direction, but Marcina was keeping her busy. So; arrangement was right, and very sensible: to Perilla, a dinner party was a dinner party, and if she caught us talking murder there’d be hell to pay later. ‘You have any details, pal?’

‘Not many. His wife found him when she came home this morning. You know she was in Capua, visiting her sister?’

‘Yeah. Yeah, Caepio told me.’ My brain had gone numb. Bugger, what a mess! ‘Was the suicide genuine?’

Lippillus gave me a sharp look. ‘As far as I know. Or at least, as far as Mescinius does. There any reason why it shouldn’t be?’

I was thinking back to how the guy had looked and acted the day before. It was possible, sure. Caepio had been desperate enough, and frightened enough — the gods knew why, or what of — to have taken his own life, but another suicide was too coincidental for comfort. ‘No,’ I said slowly. ‘Or at least nothing definite. Even so — ’

‘There were no suspicious circumstances. At least that’s what Mescinius says.’ Hah! ‘Suicide note, the lot.’

‘Did Caepio’s wife identify the handwriting?’

That got me another sharp look. ‘Not as such. When she talked to Mescinius the lady wasn’t in any fit state to swear to her own name, and anyway he didn’t think to — ’

‘- ask.’ I banged the flat of my hand against the portico pillar. ‘Right, par for the fucking course! Jupiter bloody God Almighty!’

Lippillus shrugged. ‘Mescinius may not be the greatest brain in the world, Marcus, but he’s a good Watchman. And at least he let me know. He didn’t have to do that.’

‘No. I suppose not.’ I took a swallow of the Signinan. Hell!

‘Besides, I haven’t finished. One thing he did do, with you in mind, was have a quick poke around. He found this in Caepio’s desk. Just the one, which was why he noticed it.’ He reached into a fold in his mantle and brought out a key.

I took it, and the hairs stirred on the back of my neck: keys; this whole thing came down to keys. ‘It fits the top flat, right?’ I said.

‘Right. It didn’t come from Caepio’s bunch of duplicates, either, that was one thing Mescinius did check. And it isn’t the one the kid had on him when he died, because Mescinius never got round to sending that back. Interesting again?’

‘Yeah.’ I was still staring at the key. ‘Very.’

‘Want to tell me why?’

‘You really want to know?’

He grinned and shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Perhaps I don’t, at that. I told you at the start, the Thirteenth’s not my patch. Now. Duty done.’ We’d been speaking almost in whispers. He raised his voice. ‘What’s for dinner?’

‘Meton’s been slaving his little socks off. Listen and drool. Poached eels in a nut-and-onion sauce, baked bluegill with quinces and a shellfish ragout. Plus — ta-daaa! — a small sturgeon slow-cooked in saffron and wine must. That do you?’

‘Great! Let’s — ’

— at which point Perilla screamed:

‘Placida!’

I whipped round, just in time to see a familiar grey-black figure streak towards me through the peristyle with what looked like an oversize book-roll in its mouth. Close behind was Meton, armed with a cleaver, and three or four assorted kitchen skivvies…

Oh, fuck! The sturgeon!

I grabbed Meton by the scruff of the tunic as he passed. Stopping him wasn’t easy — me, I’d back a chef who’s just lost a sturgeon slow-cooked with saffron and wine must against a qef-stoned German berserker any day of the month — but I managed it somehow. Then I spun him round and kneed him hard in the balls.

‘Marcus!’ Perilla put hand to mouth in horror as our prize chef sank groaning onto the path.

‘Shock tactics, lady,’ I said. If he’d caught up with Placida she’d definitely have rustled her last larder, and total fucking menace though she was I didn’t want that on my conscience.

Besides, sinking Meton was worth a sturgeon any day of the year.

The skivvies were milling. ‘It’s okay, lads,’ I said. ‘We’ll take it from here. Anyone see where she went?’

‘Ah…that was the dog, wasn’t it?’ Lippillus said.

‘Yeah.’ I was scanning the garden. No sign: she’d gone to ground with the sturgeon attached. Bugger. Double bugger. Well, that was that, then. It’d be inedible now in any case.

‘Sestia Calvina’s dog?’ Lippillus said.

‘That’s the bunny.’ I told you he was quick. ‘We’ll just have to make do with the sundries. Sorry about this, pal.’

He was grinning.

‘Don’t be. Best dinner party I’ve been to in years.’

‘I thought Meton took it very well, all things considered,’ Perilla said as we were getting ready for bed.

‘Yeah, well, after I explained to him that he’d run into the stone Priapus by the flower bed — ’

‘Marcus, you didn’t!’ She was laughing.

‘The guy was completely out of it, lady. He’d’ve believed anything I told him. And anyway the whole thing was his fault: she’d been planning it from the start, and if he hadn’t encouraged her she’d never have been near the kitchen.’ I stripped off my tunic. ‘He was just grateful that when he hit the statue he was facing forwards.’

She pulled back the blanket. ‘What was Lippillus talking to you about?’

‘Hmm?’

‘Oh, come on, Marcus! You managed that very well between you, not to mention Marcina, but I’m not entirely gormless. It had to do with Papinius’s murder, didn’t it?’

I grinned and moved across to the bed: gormless she mightn’t be, but the lady had a streak of curiosity a yard wide, and I knew she’d been itching to ask me all evening. ‘Yeah. Lucceius Caepio hanged himself yesterday.’

‘Oh, no!’ She frowned. Then she said, hesitantly: ‘I suppose he genuinely did hang himself? I mean — ’

‘Yeah. Yeah, that’s what I thought.’ I blew out the lamp and got in beside her. ‘Jury’s still out. Not that it matters all that much in the long run. The really odd thing was that Mescinius found a key in the guy’s desk that fits the lock of the top-floor flat.’

Perilla sat up. ‘But that’s — ’

‘Really odd. Right. I just said so.’

‘Marcus, there wasn’t another key to the flat! Not one that Caepio should’ve had, anyway.’

‘Check. Even slow-as-paint-drying Mescinius noticed that. There was the one on the board, that Papinius took, that was found on the body and that Mescinius still has, and a second that was on Caepio’s duplicate bunch; I know that for a fact, because I used it myself when I was inspecting the flat. So where did the third come from? And why did Caepio have it?’

Long silence. Then she said slowly: ‘Of course, if it was the one the murderers used to get in — ’

‘Then Caepio must’ve given them it. In which case he knew who they were, and he was involved after all up to his eyeballs. Yeah, I’d got that far myself. But it doesn’t make sense. Caepio wasn’t lying; no way was he lying! So why did he have that extra key?’

‘Unless he didn’t. The same people who killed Papinius could’ve murdered Caepio and put it in the desk themselves.’

‘Why the hell would they do that?’

‘To implicate Caepio? I mean, if a third key were found — ’

I punched the mattress. ‘Perilla, that is crazy! It’d be a wasted effort! Caepio was no killer, not even by proxy! I’d swear to that myself!’

‘All right. Then where did the key come from? Look, what are the options? Either Caepio had the key originally and gave it to the murderers who gave it back when they were finished, or they had their own key and slipped it into the desk when they faked Caepio’s suicide. There isn’t any other explanation.’

‘Fine. So let’s take them one at a time.’ I leaned back on the pillow and closed my eyes. ‘Scenario one. It assumes premeditation on the part of Caepio and/or his boss Carsidius. Right?’

‘Why?’

‘Perilla, it’s a third key. Tenement flats only have two on-site, one for the tenant and one for the factor, and where the top flat’s concerned they’re accounted for. Either Caepio had to have it specially made, or he had to get the already-existing third from Carsidius’s bailiff on some pretext or other, or Carsidius had to get it from his bailiff himself. Which means that either the one or the both of them decoyed Papinius to the tenement, which means that they’re individually or jointly the murderers, or at least they instigated the killing. You follow?’

‘Of course I follow. I told you, I’m not gormless.’

‘Good. Don’t sniff. Motive’s fine, or possibly fine: Carsidius was working some scam to do with compensation for property lost or damaged in the Aventine fire, the kid found out and threatened to report it. Opportunity, too: it was Carsidius’s tenement, and getting Papinius there at a suitable time would’ve been easy-peasie. There’re only two flies in the ointment, but they’re biggies. One, both Caepio and Carsidius swore they’d nothing to do with Papinius’s death, and for different reasons I believe them. Two, why should the actual killers return the key at all? It’s served its purpose. Why not chuck it in the Tiber or something similar and get rid of the incriminating evidence?’

‘So you think the second theory’s the more likely? That the murderers — double murderers — planted it to implicate Caepio, and through him Carsidius?’

‘Gods, lady, I don’t know! If they weren’t in Carsidius’s pay then how did they get their hands on a key in the first place? Whose pay were they in, if anyone’s? And why target a respectable senator and his factor? Besides, there was no guarantee lamebrain Mescinius would even find it, quite the reverse. The second scenario’s just too fucking complicated.’

‘Marcus — ’

‘Yeah. Yeah, I know. But I just feel where this case is concerned that I’m bashing my head against a brick wall.’ I put an arm round her. ‘Whichever way you turn it, it doesn’t make any sense. One thing, though. Caepio had beans to spill, and so does his boss. Carsidius may be no killer, or not of Papinius anyway, but he’s in something, somewhere, up to his neck, and he’s covering like crazy.’

She snuggled against me. ‘Don’t worry. It’ll work out eventually.’

Yeah. Right. When pigs sprouted wings and looped the loop above Capitol Hill.