Ruso and the Root of All Evils

40

‘You again,’ observed the dark young man, pausing as he loaded the stack of snake boxes into the hand-cart. ‘Make it quick. We’re going.’

Ruso said, ‘Valgius?’

The man nestled the boxes into the straw and checked the fastening on the top lid before turning and fixing unblinking snake-eyes on Ruso. ‘I might be able to find him.’

‘Gnostus still doesn’t want to buy that snake.’

‘You’re from Gnostus?’ The furrows in the hard face spread around an unexpected grin. ‘Why didn’t you say so before?’

‘He said you might be able to help me with something.’

The young man glanced around to make sure nobody was listening. ‘Your poisoning?’

Ruso nodded.

‘My father said it sounded a bit like rhododendron honey.’

Ruso stared at him, vaguely recalling theoretical warnings about honey from bees that had fed on the wrong plants. He had never met it in practice.

‘How fast does it act?’

‘Depends how much you take. It tastes fine, so you could eat a fair bit and not know.’

‘I thought you could tell bad honey from the colour?’

‘Nah,’ said Valgius. ‘Not really.’

‘You mean it could have been an accident?’ An accident! Of course. It made perfect sense. The killers were the bees whose honey had been used to make Severus’ morning medicine. The investigators could simply trace the source of the rogue honey, and record the whole episode as a tragic accident. The lifting of a burden to which he had become so accustomed made Ruso feel positively light-headed. He had solved the mystery! He was free!

He was free for the fractional moment that passed between his question and Valgius replying, ‘Nah. Must have been done on purpose.’

‘But if you can’t tell …’

Valgius was shaking his head. ‘Ask yourself this,’ he said. ‘How many bees are there between Gaul, at one end of the sea, and Pontus, right up past the other? You wouldn’t end up with rhododendron honey here by accident. Mind you, I’ve not heard of anyone dying from it, but I suppose if you ate a lot …’

‘If a man with a weak heart,’ mused Ruso, ‘were to drink a large quantity of poisonous honey and rosewater on a hot day …’

‘It’s possible.’

‘So how would you get hold of the honey in a place like this?’

‘Ah,’ said Valgius, turning back to the cart. ‘That’s your problem. Me, I’ve got to get all the boys and girls loaded up before the old man gets back.’

Ruso peered at the boxes, curious. ‘Can you really tell the boys from the girls?’

‘You can sometimes get an idea from the tail,’ said the man. ‘But if you want to be sure you need two people, a blunt probe, and — ’

‘Never mind,’ said Ruso, backing away with a hand held out in surrender. ‘Another time.’

The man who had failed to sell Ruso the frankincense gave up pretending to be pleased to see him again when he found out why he had come. ‘I don’t know who’s been telling you that rubbish,’ he insisted. ‘I’m only a simple root-cutter. Remedies and cosmetics. I don’t sell food.’

‘That’s funny,’ said Ruso. ‘Because three of the people I’ve spoken to around here told me you were the man to ask.’

‘That lot?’ demanded the root-cutter, glancing round the other stallholders, who were beginning to pack up at the end of the afternoon’s trading. ‘What do they know? Like I tell them, if you want to sell as much as me, make the effort to invest in quality product. Walk the hills, find the best places, get out of bed before dawn every morning and get cracking. But oh, no. It’s easier to sit on your backside and gossip about other people.’

Ruso said, ‘I’m disappointed. I’d have thought with your range, exotic honeys would have been a good complement.’

The man upended the wooden tray on which he had displayed his produce and banged it to detach the mud and stray leaves. ‘Sorry.’

‘Pity,’ said Ruso. ‘It would have been fun. Ah well. I suppose it’ll be the old laxatives-in-the-soup routine, then. Unless you know anybody else I could try?’

The man wiped the rest of the dirt from the tray and said, ‘What is it you’re looking for, exactly?’

Ruso told him.

‘You don’t want to eat rhododendron honey. Send you silly.’

‘Exactly,’ said Ruso. ‘It’s my brother’s birthday coming up. We always play jokes on each other.’ He indicated his bandaged foot. ‘Look what he did to me.’

‘Funny kind of a joke.’

‘Family tradition,’ explained Ruso. ‘Point of honour.’

The man looked as though he had more to say, but had stifled it in the face of a prospective sale. ‘You’d have to order it at least ten days in advance,’ he said. ‘There’s not much call for it.’

Ruso muttered a curse in what he hoped was a disappointed tone, and explained that the birthday was the day after tomorrow. The root-cutter shrugged an apology and groped under the stall for an empty basket. He began to stack the unsold medicine pots in it.

‘What about your supplier?’ Ruso tried. ‘Could I go direct?’

The man carried on working, clearly not such a fool as to reveal the name of his source and sacrifice his profit. ‘Too much could make him ill anyway,’ he warned. ‘You’d be safer with the laxatives.’

Ruso wondered how much longer he could keep this up. Claudia’s voice floated into his mind, reminding him that he was a terrible liar. He was probably wasting his time. He should have gone back to ask Gnostus about local suppliers of dubious substances. Still, while he was here he might as well finish the job.

‘What about your last customer for it?’ he tried. ‘When did you last sell any? Would he have some left?’

‘She,’ corrected the man.

Ruso felt his stomach muscles tighten. Trying to keep his voice even, he said, ‘If I could find her, I’d make her a good offer.’

‘I didn’t ask her name.’

‘What does she look like? Perhaps she’s somebody I already know.’

The man’s eyes narrowed. ‘I don’t pass on my customers’ business. Now clear off. I’m an honest trader and I’m busy.’

The man bent down to heave up another basket. The knife-point pressed against his left kidney took him by surprise.

‘I was lying,’ said Ruso, ramming the tip of his forefinger harder into the man’s back and hoping he could not turn his head far enough to see the knife Ruso hadn’t had time to get out still slung on his belt. ‘It’s not my brother’s birthday. It’s about a murder investigation. And if you don’t tell me who bought that honey, you’re going to have much nastier people than me round here trying to help you remember.’

Ruso’s hands were shaking as he untethered the mule. It could not be true. It could not be …

The man had no reason to lie.

He had sold the poisonous honey several days ago to a respectable young woman who had known exactly what she wanted. A young woman with orange curls and lots of make-up. No, he couldn’t remember what she had been wearing, but he remembered what she had on her feet because she had trodden in something and blamed him for not keeping the pavement clean. So he had lent her a cloth to wipe the mess off her fancy sandals. Coral-pink sandals with pearls set in the front.