One Virgin Too Many

LII

The scent of incense seemed stale today, like so many of the occupants' relationships.

Drawn magically by the hint of trouble to gawp at, the builders had returned, bringing even their project manager, that mythical figure who normally just fails to order materials on time and who can never be contacted because he is always at some other, more important site.

In order to justify watching and listening to everything, the men were busily finishing the shrine in the atrium. The lower two-thirds of the shrine took the form of a cupboard with double doors, which were now receiving their final polish; the top section represented a temple, with ornately carved Corinthian columns at each side. Already someone had placed there the dancing Lares and Penates, poor little bronze gods who would have their work cut out bringing good fortune to this miserable household. On the shelves of the cupboard below were kept lamps and vases, and a selection of religious implements: spare flaminical hats, sacrificial vessels, jugs and bowls. Together on one side were items which must have been kept as a memorial of the late Flaminica: her conical purple hat and her sacrificial knife.

I lifted out the knife. It had a thick handle, in the form of an eagle's head, and that special design, with a broad stumpy blade made of bronze, both sides of which were slightly curved, almost trowel-shaped.

"There is no sheath," commented Aelianus. I knew what he meant.

"Lost it," said one of the workmen. "Must have happened when they moved house. Terrible stink when they couldn't find it. Of course," he said, self-righteously, "we got the blame."

"But you had nothing to do with it?" I knew they had not.

Aelianus handled the knife, being extremely cautious. It was finely sharpened, as it had to be in use. "You would think cutting animals' throats was no job for a woman."

"Oh, you soon get used to it." We turned, startled, to see Statilia Laelia watching us. "My mother told me. She used to joke that you could tell a sacrificing priestess anywhere; they develop strong forearms."

"I had always assumed that an assistant actually slew the beasts for the Flaminica," I said.

Laelia smiled. "Women are far less squeamish than you think, Falco."

She turned away. Then she spun back. "Juno! Is that a dog?" Nux wagged her tail. "We cannot have that here, Falco!"

"I have brought this dog to conduct a further search for Gaia. Anyone who has a ritual objection can go out for the day. The dog stays."

Laelia bustled off, probably to complain to her husband or her father. Nux sat down on the atrium floor and scratched herself.

Aelianus gingerly replaced the knife. "Somebody has given this a splendidly good clean, Falco."

"Got it to come up nicely, haven't they?" the workman agreed.

Unlike us, he did not know that what had been cleaned off was probably the blood of the murdered Ventidius Silanus.

We took Nux to little Gaia's bedroom. I let her sniff around, then showed her one of the child's shoes. Nux lay down with her head between her paws, as if she was waiting for me to throw it.

"This won't work," scoffed my new assistant. He had a lot to learn. To start with: knowing when to shut up.

I gave Nux the shoe, which she agreed to carry while I led her downstairs and into the peristyle garden. The workmen were now mucking about with the pool, but they happily abandoned that and came to watch me. I led the dog around the colonnade. Nux liked that. She sniffed all the columns with interest. I turned her loose. She dropped the shoe and bounded off to explore the bags where the workmen were keeping their lunch.

I called her back. She came, sauntering reluctantly. "Nux, you are hopeless. Helena is a better sniffer dog than you. I wish I had brought her."

"You want a proper hunting hound for this," Aelianus said, sneering.

"Know anybody who owns one?"

"Plenty."

"Here in Rome?"

"Of course not. People hunt in the country."

"Well then, keep quiet until you can offer something useful."

I showed Nux the clump of twigs bound together that Gaia had played with while pretending to clean out the Temple of Vesta. Puzzled, Nux shook it about in her teeth, then let it fall, waiting for a different game.

One of the workmen remarked, "The little sprat had a better mop than that. I made her one with real horsehair, like those the Vestals really use."

Where was it?

I left Aelianus to talk to the men about the day Gaia disappeared. I could trust him with that. Presumably if they had anything useful to say, they would have offered it when the alarm was first raised.

I led my hopeless bloodhound to the other garden. Off the leash the scruffy bundle of fur wandered about, digging potholes, sniffing leaves, and looking back at me to see what behavior I wanted. I was still holding Gaia's shoe, so I hurled it as far as I could into the undergrowth in the distance. Nux ran off and vanished. I sat on a bench, waiting for her to get bored.

No gardeners were about today. I was completely alone. Sometimes you have no idea what progress you are making with a case. Sometimes it all seems to be sorted, yet you find yourself niggled by the feeling that what looks straightforward cannot be that simple. I kept wondering what I had missed here. There were gaps in the story, gaps so well disguised that I could not even see where they existed, let alone try to fill them. I knew I was on the wrong tack. I just could not see why I felt that way.

It was still early morning, but now much warmer than when I was hauled out of the Mamertine. Blue sky was gradually deepening in color above me. Bees explored what long strands of herbage remained. A blackbird foraged among upended pots, wildly tossing aside unwanted leaves. I took one of those moments when I ought to have been busy, but hoped letting the quietness seep into my spirit might refresh me and bring me a bright idea. What could I do, anyway? I had searched yesterday as thoroughly as I knew how.

A woman came out from the house to my right. Someone I had never seen before. She was alone. A tallish, slim, middle-aged female, wearing gray in several layers, long full skirts and a graceful stole. She came straight to me and joined me on the bench. I noticed she wore a wedding ring.

"You must be Falco." I made no reply, but glanced sideways uneasily, hoping for backup.

She had a face, bare of paint but probably well tended, which had gone past youth; her skin was still firm and her movements were easy. Gray eyes watched me with a bold, challenging air. She was unafraid of men. My guess was, she had never been afraid of anything. But then, courage is a form of lunacy. And of course, the woman who had killed Ventidius Silanus must have been both courageous and completely mad.