In at the Death

5

I was out of luck: when I found it, Vestorius’s office was closed. Too early to shut up shop for the afternoon, so this looked bad. Damn. I shoved my head round the door of the silversmith’s next booth along where a little bald-headed guy was doing delicate things to a bracelet with a pair of pliers.

‘Excuse me, pal,’ I said.

The guy glanced up. When he saw Placida the pliers slipped and he winced.

‘Uh…I was looking for Publius Vestorius,’ I said.

He was staring at the dog and sucking the back of his hand where the pliers had caught him. ‘Then you’ve just missed him. He left half an hour ago.’

Bugger. ‘You happen to know when he’ll be back?’

‘Not today. He said he had business in Ostia. You could try again tomorrow, but I can’t guarantee it.’ He was still staring. ‘What is that thing?’

‘Gallic boarhound.’ Shakeshakeshake. Splattersplattersplatter. ‘Ah…sorry, friend. She forgets herself sometimes.’

‘That so, now?’ He reached for a piece of rag and wiped himself off, glaring. I beat a hasty retreat.

Hell. Well, for what it was worth — not a lot, to tell the truth — I’d got plenty to be going on with, and Vestorius, like Balbus at the aediles’ office, could wait for another time. In any case, the rain had slackened off and I might just make it back to the Caelian before Jupiter decided on another cloudburst. I called in at my banker’s to lodge Natalis’s draft, feeling guilty as hell in the process — the case, if you can call it that, was practically stitched up already, and it had been money for jam — and then headed for home.

Perilla was in her study indexing her book collection, and the place looked like the Pollio library on a bad hair day. Me, I can’t see the point in filling your study up with books — these things only sit there sneering at you — but the lady has some queer ideas about what constitutes comfort and entertainment. Ah, well. It takes all sorts.

‘Oh, hello, Marcus,’ she said, turning round. ‘You’re back. Where’s Placida?’

‘In the garden moored to the fountain. Unless she’s half way to Ostia dragging it behind her.’

‘Did you have a nice walk?’

I threw myself onto the couch. ‘Lady, watch my lips. That is the last time I take that fucking brute anywhere.’

‘Nonsense, dear.’ She kissed me, tasting of ink and gum. ‘She just needs a little getting used to, that’s all.’

‘Believe it.’ I took a slug of the wine Bathyllus had given me.

She finished tying a tag to a book’s roller, made a note on the sheet of paper on the desk, and slipped the book itself into a cubby. ‘So. How’s the case coming? Do you know yet why Papinius killed himself?’

‘No. But I’d guess the usual. Money, or lack of it, rather. Gambling debts. He’d got himself mixed up with Mucius Soranus.’

‘Oh, Marcus!’ Perilla looked at me with wide eyes. She’d heard of Soranus too: we don’t go in for gossip, Perilla and me, but you pick up the occasional nugget here and there, and Mucius Soranus was one of the nastier lumps.

‘According to his friend Atratinus he’d borrowed from a loans shark to pay Soranus off.’

‘How much?’

I shrugged. ‘Exactly, I don’t know, but Atratinus said it was a lot. Too much for him, that’s for sure.’

‘He hadn’t told his parents?’

‘They’re divorced. There’s just the mother, practically speaking, and although she seems okay financially I get the impression that actual cash is pretty tight. Certainly she knew nothing about the loan, or she’d’ve mentioned it when we talked. Natalis neither. My guess is Papinius was too embarrassed to tell anyone at the time and just let the thing get on top of him. You know how kids’ minds work at that age.’

Perilla bit her lip. ‘The silly, silly boy!’ She sat down. ‘He didn’t leave a note? A suicide note, I mean.’

‘No; not that I’m aware of. But again if he had Rupilia — that’s the mother — would’ve mentioned it. Her or Natalis.’

‘Don’t you think that’s strange?’

‘Not necessarily. He didn’t kill himself at home, so it could’ve been a snap decision.’

‘What was he doing in an Aventine tenement in the first place?’

‘Interviewing the factor. At least, I assume that was the reason. He worked with the fire commission investigating damage claims, remember.’

‘So he’d probably have had a set of tablets and a stylus with him. To take notes if necessary.’

‘Uh…yeah.’ I hadn’t thought of that. ‘Yeah, I suppose he would.’

‘How about the work aspect of things? As a reason for suicide?’

I shifted on the couch. ‘That seems okay. Atratinus was a colleague as well as a friend, and he says Papinius was well up to the job. I’ve still to talk to the aedile in charge, but there don’t seem to be any problems there.’

‘So it comes down to money, pure and simple.’

‘Uh-huh. He had a girlfriend, too. Not a real gold-digger, according to Atratinus, but a pretty fast model all the same. Paying her running costs can’t’ve helped.’ Shit; this was depressing. I’d seen it before, a thousand times: kid from a good family gets into a fast lifestyle, finds he can’t afford to pick up all the tabs and gets into debt, then before he knows where he is he’s out of his depth and struggling to keep his head above water. In most cases, when things get really bad he forgets his pride and bawls for help; at which point daddy steps in, pays the creditors and tears enough strips off the son and heir to make him think twice, if he has any sense, about making the same mistake again. It’s a lesson in life nine-tenths of the blue bloods in Rome go through, and have been doing since Romulus ploughed the first furrow. Only with Papinius it hadn’t happened that way, had it?

Bugger!

‘So what do you do now?’ Perilla said.

‘Hmm?’ I sank another quarter-pint of wine. ‘Go through the motions. I owe Natalis that much, at least. Talk to Lippillus down at Public Pond, clear up that side of things. Have a word with that bastard Soranus, check how much was involved. Not that I’d bet he’ll give a toss because if Papinius borrowed the cash from a money-lender the debt’ll’ve been paid already. Cross-reference with the money-lender himself, maybe drop in on Papinius’s boss at the aediles’ office just for form’s sake. Then — well — report back to Rupilia and Natalis. I don’t reckon I’ve earned that fifty thousand, anyway. Natalis can use it to pay back the loan.’

‘You’re absolutely certain? That it was suicide, and for financial reasons?’ Perilla was watching me closely. ‘Marcus, you aren’t, are you?’

‘Sure I am.’

‘Then why are you scowling?’

‘I’m not. It had to be suicide. I told you.’ She was right, though: something was niggling, and in spite of all the facts it wouldn’t let go. ‘Okay, Aristotle. I won’t say they’re actually points against — they aren’t, because I could explain them away myself — but some things don’t add up.’

‘Namely?’

‘First off, Papinius doesn’t sound the suicidal type. Sure, he was moody at times, but show me the teenager who isn’t. And Atratinus couldn’t believe he’d killed himself when he heard. The last time they saw each other — the morning of the day it happened — Papinius was completely normal and making plans to go to a birthday party.’

‘There’s the lack of a suicide note, too. I would’ve expected one, even if it had been unpremeditated. And as I said he probably had a tablet and pen with him.’

‘Yeah.’ I took a swallow of wine. ‘Second, the debt. Natalis said he was no gambler. Add to that, from what Atratinus and his mother told me about him he wasn’t your usual fast set cheese-brained idiot. Oh, sure, Soranus might’ve rooked him, but I’d bet he was too sensible to lose much more than he could afford. Unless he was drunk, and from what Atratinus said that doesn’t seem too likely either.’

‘But he did borrow money from that money-lender. What was his name?’

‘Vestorius. Yeah.’ I sighed. ‘Perilla, I know, all right? It’s stupid. I’m playing devil’s advocate here against my own theories. And Atratinus said, quote, that he’d borrowed “quite a lot”. If that doesn’t square up completely then I’m sorry, it’s the best I can do. Besides, I can check with Vestorius himself. In a way, the amount’s the clincher. No one from Papinius’s bracket commits suicide over a debt of a few thousand silver pieces, unless there’re reasons over and above, and if that’s all it was then sure, there’d be a chance we might be into a completely different ball-game, but on present evidence that doesn’t seem all that likely.’

‘Also, if — ’ Perilla stopped, and shook her head. ‘No. I’m sorry, Marcus; you’re quite right, this is pointless. All the same, dear, there’s no sense in jumping to a single conclusion this early on, even if it is the obvious one. Get your proof first. You’ll feel much better if you can go to Minicius Natalis with your mind completely at rest about things.’

Yeah. I reached over and topped up my wine-cup. Putting minds at rest. That was the nub of the business: Natalis’s mind, Rupilia’s, Atratinus’s and now mine. No one was asking for anything more, no one was suggesting anything more, and on the face of it the simplest explanation was also the most likely. Papinius had topped himself. Full stop, end of story, close the book.

So why the niggle? Because — and I had to admit it — niggle there was…

Hell. Leave it for now. Tomorrow I’d do the rounds, like Perilla had said drum up the proof that I knew would be there. Sextus Papinius had died because of a gambling debt he couldn’t pay and had borrowed over the score to cover. Sure he had.

Maybe.

‘So how was your..?’ I began.

‘Ow-ooo!Owoo-woo-woo!’

‘Oh, shit!’ I jumped up and ran to the window, spilling my wine. Perilla was about two seconds behind me.

Down below in the garden things were happening, largely involving a ballistic Gallic boarhound, a streak of white fur and what had up until five minutes ago been our gardener Alexis’s prized rose-trellis.

‘It’s next-door’s Alcestis!’ Perilla screamed. ‘Marcus, I thought you told me you’d tied Placida up!’

‘I did.’ Hell, the knot must’ve slipped, or maybe she’d broken the rope. In any case it was trailing behind her. As I watched she clambered up the ruins of the trellis ladder and disappeared after the fleeing cat into our neighbour’s garden. ‘Fuck, she’s gone over the wall!’

We raced each other for the stairs. This was serious. We got on okay with old Titus Petillius, sure, but largely because our household and his avoided each other like each had a separate and very contagious disease; a situation that dated back two years or so to when Mrs Petillius had been the guy’s housekeeper and — the thought still made me shudder — the love of our Bathyllus’s life. Petillius and Tyndaris didn’t have kids. What they had was Alcestis: a pure-bred silky-haired green-eyed puffball bought at enormous expense from a Damascene trader and hand-reared to a pampered life of fully-indulged luxury.

A situation which, judging by Placida’s single-minded pursuit of the beast, was shortly to be revised.

I hit the ground-floor tiles at a run, heading for the front door with Perilla a good second. No sign of Bathyllus, but then this was a job for the master of the house in person: grovelling would be called for, at the very least. I just hoped we weren’t too late and Placida had moved Alcestis into the fur mittens category.

We could hear the screaming even before we reached next door’s porch. And several loud thumps.

‘Oh, bugger!’ I turned the doorhandle.

‘Shouldn’t you knock, dear?’ Perilla said. ‘It isn’t very polite just to — ’

‘Look, lady,’ I snapped. ‘I’d say the household was pretty preoccupied at the moment, wouldn’t you?’ Hell. Locked. I’d have to knock after all. I hammered away on Petillius’s chichi Egyptian-cat knocker.

Eventually, the door was opened by the major-domo. I didn’t know his name — he postdated the wedding — but the guy gave me a stare right off a Riphaean glacier.

‘Yes, sir? Madam?’

‘Uh…can we have our dog back, please?’ I said.

‘Marcus!’

He stepped aside; Bathyllus couldn’t’ve done it better. ‘Come in. The mistress is expecting you, she’s having hysterics in the atrium. If you’d care to follow me?’

Tyndaris — Mrs Petillius — was lying on one of the atrium couches with her maid trying vainly to bathe her temples with rosewater and getting most of it on the upholstery because the lady was drumming the couch-end with her heels. Hysterics was right. Yeah, well, that explained the screaming, okay. Not the thumping, though: there seemed to be a lot of that, coming from upstairs, like there was some sort of wild-beast hunt going on. Which was probably the case.

A big woman, Tyndaris. Powerful lungs, too. The couch was beginning to buckle.

‘Ah…hi,’ I said.

The screaming stopped like it’d been switched off. Tyndaris hauled herself erect and glared at me like an enraged hippo.

‘Get that…that THING out of here! This minute! And if it’s touched one hair of Alcestis’s head my Titus will — !’

‘Yeah. Yeah, right. Got you.’ I backed away.

‘We’re terribly sorry,’ Perilla said.

‘So you bloody well will be!’

‘She’s, ah, upstairs, is she?’ I said. ‘Placida, I mean?’

‘Placida?’

‘Yes.’ Perilla said brightly. ‘That’s her name.’

‘Hah!’

‘I’ll show you the way, sir,’ the major-domo said.

‘Don’t worry, pal, I think we can manage.’ I headed at speed towards the staircase at the far end of the atrium, with Perilla trailing like a pale wraith, and took the steps two at a time.

She was in the main bedroom, on the bed, although there wasn’t a lot left of that and what there was looked distinctly chewed. Half a dozen kitchen skivvies with assorted brooms and culinary equipment were cowering in the doorway. There was no sign of the cat, which was probably good news; although on the other hand…

‘Oh, shit,’ I muttered. Obviously the brute had had the time of her life because she was looking as pleased as hell and the room was something out of the stage set for the sack of Corinth. ‘Come on, Placida. Home.’

I pushed through the massed minions, grabbed her by the collar and lugged her towards the exit. Half way there, she pulled away, bent her back, spread her rear paws, squatted and strained…

‘Placida!’

That was Perilla. Too late. Yeah, well, after all the excitement it was only natural, I supposed. Even so, it was the icing on the cake. As it were.

I looked at the goggling skivvies. ‘Uh…any of you lads have a shovel?’

We went back downstairs and grovelled. You don’t want to know the next part. You really don’t. Suffice it to say that the upshot was the financial equivalent of Cannae. When the bill hit my banker’s desk we’d be living on boiled beets for a month.

‘Just needs a little getting used to, eh?’ I said to Perilla as we walked back with Placida ambling good as gold between us; but the lady didn’t answer.

Fun, fun, fun.