White murder marcus corv.., p.22
White Murder (Marcus Corvinus Book 7), page 22
His bovine face clouded. I’d forgotten that he didn’t approve of that lady, although maybe that was an advantage in the circumstances. ‘What about her?’
‘She was married before. To a builder, guy named Turranius.’
‘Right. So?’
‘He died.’
‘Right again.’
‘You happen to know how?’
‘No.’
Bugger. Well, maybe that had been expecting too much. ‘Any idea who would?’
He chewed that one over for a while. Finally he said: ‘You could try his place. It’s under new ownership now, of course, but there’ll be someone there who’ll remember him.’
‘Great!’ It seemed that I’d struck lucky after all. ‘Where would that be, exactly?’
‘Out beyond the Aventine, on the old Ostia Road.’
A fair hike, but I had the whole afternoon in front of me and under the circumstances I’d risk Meton’s displeasure for once. ‘And who’s the owner these days?’ I said.
‘Oh, now.’ Cascellius frowned. ‘You’ve got me there. I’ve no idea. But you can’t miss it. It’s on the right, just before Pottery Mountain.’
You can’t miss it. I groaned mentally. Shit; I’d heard that one before. The old Ostia Road ran next to the Tiber and its wharfage, and it was just bristling with builders’ yards, sawmills, cement works and small construction firms in general. It’d be like finding a needle in a haystack. Maybe an afternoon was optimistic. Still, it couldn’t be helped, and it was a lot better than nothing.
The waiter came with the wine and the food. Cascellius moved aside while he set it down. I poured the wine and sank half my cup in a oner. Beautiful.
‘All right.’ Cascellius chewed on a piece of bread. ‘Tell me what’s happening.’
He deserved that, at least. I gave him the highlights of the case so far, up to but not including the business with Felicula. That part was sub judice for the present: I could be doing the lady an injustice, although I doubted it, and until I had some definite proof I’d keep my suspicions to myself. Maybe he had some inkling from my question - there’s no way to make an enquiry about the manner of death of an ex-husband sound innocent - but if so he didn’t pursue the matter. He was interested in the curse, though. And in Eutacticus.
‘You watch that one, Corvinus,’ he said. ‘He’s bad, bad news.’
‘Yeah, I know.’
‘Maybe you don’t know well enough. Guy who used to come in to the Cat, hailed from over Gabii way, set himself up as a tout. Nothing big, wouldn’t take bets of any more than a silver piece and always paid out on the nail. Last his wife saw of him, he was being taken off between two of Eutacticus’s heavies. She found him the next day kicked to death in an alley next the Temple of the Sun.’
‘No sweat, pal,’ I said. ‘I’m not interested in his current betting scams. I just want to have a word about Pegasus.’
‘That might be one word too many. Eutacticus keeps his eyes open, and he doesn’t like people taking an interest in his business at all. Full stop.’ He bit on a slice of sausage. ‘Take it from me. Be warned.’
‘I’m a purple-striper. He won’t fool with the aristocracy.’
‘I wouldn’t count on that. The last I heard he was getting to be bosom friends with the senior consul.’
‘Vitellius?’ Yeah, that made sense. By reputation, our new co-first magistrate – under the Wart – was a big racing fan. He wasn’t too honest, either. Even for a consul.
‘Right. You watch the Blues next season. Vitellius is one of their biggest backers.’ Cascellius extracted a piece of gristle from between his teeth. ‘What’s the betting they make a sudden and miraculous recovery?’
I stared at him. ‘You serious?’
‘One hand washes the other, and friendships go two ways. Let’s just say I wouldn’t be surprised if the Blues started winning races again. In any case, take my advice with Eutacticus and don’t trust your purple stripe.’
I topped up the cups. Yeah, well; maybe he was right. After all, like Sopilys had said whatever scam Pegasus had had going it was history now. Maybe I’d give Eutacticus a miss unless I really had to see him.
I hadn’t missed the implications of that line on Vitellius and the Blues, either.
21.
I left Cascellius finishing off the wine and headed for the old Ostia Road. This wasn’t a part of the city I was familiar with. Like I say, the stretch of Tiber bank south-west of the Aventine is mostly industrial, or rather an area where bulk shipping plays a big part because it’s within easy reach of the barges that bring the heavy stuff up from the port: corn for the city granaries, building materials like brick, stone, cement and wood. The southern part serves as the city dump, particularly for the thousands of earthenware wine and oil jars the population get through in a year. That’s been going on for the last few centuries, and Pottery Mountain’s the result. It’s just what it says: a mountain of old jars that’ve been piling up, probably, since before Brutus threw out the Tarquins. Turranius’s yard might prove tricky to locate, but Pottery Mountain posed no problems.
Tricky was the operative word. Cascellius had said that Turranius’s old place was on the right just shy of the Mountain, but apart from a mega-large concern taking up two or three acres that looked like it would be a major government contractor all I could see were a line of timber yards, and they were on the other side of the road. I’d have to ask again.
Outside one of them was a tunic planing a length of plank. I went up to him.
‘Excuse me, friend,’ I said. ‘I’m looking for a builder’s yard that used to belong to a guy named Turranius. You happen to know where that might be?’
He stopped and wiped his brow. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘That’s Anterus’s across the street.’
I looked. Above the double gates of the mega-large concern was a sign that said in letters two feet high: Gaius Cornelius Anterus: Building Contractor. I did a double-take. ‘Uh...that’s Turranius’s yard?’
‘Up until five or six years ago it was. Only Turranius I know of around here.’
‘He have a wife called Felicula?’
‘Search me, pal. But if you’re looking for Turranius’s then that’s the place.’ He carried on planing.
‘Right. Thanks.’ I crossed the road, my brain whirling. This didn’t make sense; it didn’t make sense at all. Not as far as the scenario went, anyway.
There was a guy on the gate. He’d been watching me with interest – not a lot happens down by Pottery Mountain, and you have to make your own amusements – and he stood up.
‘Afternoon, sir,’ he said politely.
‘The boss in?’ I said.
‘No, sir. Just the manager. Can I ask your business?’
‘I wanted to talk to someone about the former owner.’ I was looking beyond him. The place was huge. ‘Name of Turranius, right?’
‘Yes, sir. Before my time, but Turranius it was. The manager should be able to help you. He was here before Cornelius Anterus bought the business.’
‘Fine. And where would I find this manager?’
‘In the office, sir. Just go straight ahead. His name’s Simo.’
I walked through the gate and down the central avenue. Huge was right, busy, too: the place positively hummed, and there were more slaves around than you could shake a stick at. Over to my left, a group of them were polishing coloured marble slabs; the stuff you see in those fancy houses on the Janiculan where the super-rich owners haven’t even heard the word veneer and wouldn’t’ve touched it with gloves on. Next on down was a guy chiselling the square holes into a matching set of column drums. Marble again, but white this time, and solid, not the usual cheapo variety with the marble-dust facing. Pricey as hell. Of course, Anterus, whoever he was – obviously, from the name, a freedman of the Cornelii, or more likely second or third generation – could’ve taken the firm into the luxury bracket himself, but I doubted it. This set-up had long-established class written all over it.
I found the office and knocked. Inside was a dapper little guy in a neat orange tunic sitting behind a desk studying what looked like architect’s plans. He looked up.
‘Yes?’
‘Simo, right?’ I said.
‘Indeed, sir.’ He smiled. ‘Don’t tell me. The Palatine library extension. Everything’s in hand. We should be able to begin work in –’
‘No. No. My name’s Marcus Valerius Corvinus. I came to ask about –’
‘Valerius Corvinus?’ The smile changed to a frown. ‘I don’t think we have anything on the schedule for a Valerius Corvinus, sir. Would this be a private contract? Or merely an enquiry? I’m afraid we’re fully committed for the next –’
‘No. It’s not business. I was told you might be able to help me with some information. About the former owner.’
‘Sextus Turranius? He’s dead, sir. Has been for several years.’
‘Right. Yeah. I knew that. In fact, that’s what I was hoping you could help me with.’
He was still frowning. ‘In what way?’
‘You happen to know how he died?’
‘Certainly. I was present at the time myself, as it happens.’ He stood up. The architect’s plan rolled itself back into a cylinder. ‘Forgive me, sir, but before we go any further can I ask what your interest is?’
‘I’m investigating a murder. Of a racing driver. Guy called Pegasus.’ I could see that the name didn’t mean anything to him; not a racegoer, then. ‘He was a...friend...of Turranius’s widow. At least, if I’ve got the right Turranius. Lady called Felicula.’
His mouth set in a line. ‘Felicula was certainly Sextus Turranius’s wife,’ he said, ‘but I can’t see what that has to do with –’
‘No hassle, pal,’ I said quickly. ‘I’m just checking angles. Filling in the background.’
‘Indeed.’ He sat down again, rolled out the plan and weighed it at the corners with four small blocks of marble. ‘And you want to know how her husband died. Surely it would be better, if you really think the information is important, and I cannot think why, to ask the lady herself?’
‘I didn’t want to do that.’
He stared at me for a long minute. Then he said, coldly: ‘Sextus Turranius died in a fall from some scaffolding. He was inspecting a repair to the pediment of the temple of Mars the Avenger, and he was alone at the time. The Lady Felicula was at home and had never to my certain knowledge visited the site. She and her husband were the happiest and most loving of couples, and I personally find your implications offensive. Now good day, sir.’
Ouch. Still, I couldn’t leave things there. ‘You say you were present. So he wasn’t alone.’
‘I meant alone on the scaffolding itself. And there were several people present at the time. Myself and at least five of the workers. On the ground. We were all witnesses, and it was a complete accident. The master leaned out too far and overbalanced.’ He hesitated. ‘Sextus Turranius was not a young man, sir, but unfortunately he insisted on taking a personal interest in any work in progress. He was extremely conscientious, a first-class craftsman in his own right, and I had nothing but admiration for him. Or for his wife.’
I sighed. Well, that was that. Not even Pegasus could make a case for blackmail out of an accidental fall from a set of scaffolding. ‘Right,’ I said. ‘Thanks a lot. Sorry to disturb you.’ I turned to go. Then another thought struck me. ‘Oh. By the way. I assume there were no kids from the marriage?’
‘No, sir. There was a considerable age difference, as I told you.’
‘And Felicula was the only heir?’
‘Yes. She was.’
This bit was tricky. However, although the guy obviously disapproved of me he was being helpful by his lights, so I asked the question anyway. ‘You have any idea what Turranius’s estate was worth? Once this place was sold?’
‘Not for certain. But I would guess somewhere in excess of two million.’
‘Two million?’ Gods! One million was the property qualification for a broad-striper!
‘Yes, sir. Sextus Turranius had other investments besides the firm. Two million would be a conservative estimate.’
‘Fine.’ My brain was buzzing. ‘Fine. Thanks, pal. You’ve been very helpful.’
‘Don’t mention it. But, Valerius Corvinus –’
‘Yeah?’ My hand was on the latch of the door.
‘Let me just say one thing before you go, in case what I’ve told you is at all unclear. I was privileged to know the Lady Felicula for several years, since her marriage, in fact. She is a very charming lady, and she certainly had no hand in the death of her husband.’
He didn’t wait for a reply, just turned back to his architect’s plans. I left.
So. Scratch any suspicious circumstances surrounding Turranius’s death. If there had been any other workmen with him on the scaffolding, or if it’d collapsed while he was up there, I might’ve had my doubts. With two million at stake Felicula could well have afforded to rope in one of the guy’s employees as her hit-man, but by all the evidence the fall had obviously been the silly old bugger’s own fault.
That was a point in itself, of course: Turranius had been a silly old bugger, and if this had happened six years ago then Felicula could only have been in her late twenties. Take that fact along with Pudens – another silly old bugger if I’d ever met one–- and we still had the familiar scenario of the hard-nosed little gold-digger. At her age, with a husband already more than half way into the urn, she could afford to wait. Especially with the fringe benefits. I didn’t know whether Turranius had been as accommodating over the lady’s extramural activities as her current husband, but if the guy was as wrapped up in his business as Simo implied then she’d certainly had enough free time on her hands. My guess was that history was simply repeating itself.
Which didn’t, of course, mean that Felicula was a murderess. Gold-digging’s no crime on its own, not even a moral one in my view, and from the sound of things, apart from the question mark over her sex life, she’d been a model wife to Turranius, too. I couldn’t get her there, not on present evidence, and if I couldn’t then neither could Pegasus.
I couldn’t get her in terms of the scenario, either. Forget the poor but beautiful widow, the first part anyway: when she’d married Pudens the lady had been seriously rich in her own right. Two million plus is a lot of gravy, and she hadn’t struck me as a particularly big spender. Of course, there were people – men and women – who could never have enough, and that might explain why she had chosen Pudens to marry when she’d doffed her widow’s whites, but still...
Hell’s teeth! There had to be something else. Pegasus had had some sort of hold over her, that I was sure of, he was that kind of person. But I couldn’t, now, think for the life of me what it was.
Unless, of course, there had been a husband before Turranius; one who’d also died. Simo’s last little speech had suggested the lady had been married for some time, but even so late twenties were late twenties; they left space for another old codger and to spare. And that one Pudens wouldn’t have known about. Any girl can lose one geriatric husband to bad luck, but two in a row’s pushing it. And if I discovered I was husband number three, I’d be watching what my very charming wife put in my gruel...
Maybe the scenario wasn’t all that far out after all. I just had to go a little further back.
The sun was well into its last quadrant as I approached the Arch of Drusus and Germanicus (why the Wart had let himself be persuaded to erect a monument to that bastard I didn’t know; cynicism, probably) and I put a bit of zip into my steps. I still had a long way to go to the Caelian, and I might’ve been blasé about missing dinner when I was back there at the wineshop but Meton wasn’t mocked; not with impunity, anyway. It was getting busier the closer I came to the Aventine: no wheeled traffic yet, naturally, but there were a lot of pedestrians and a few litters. One – a double one – was parked at the side of the road, with the four litter slaves and two outwalkers standing beside it. Maybe one of the chairmen had bust a sandal-strap.
I was almost on them when I realised something was wrong. The outwalkers looked familiar. They were big guys with the muscles bulging out of their tunics. I slowed.
Too late. One of the guys came forward, with the second close behind on my other side. They moved together with me between them like the two halves of a rock sandwich. My shoulders grated.
‘The boss wants to talk with you, Corvinus,’ the first guy said.
Oh, shit. No prizes for guessing who the boss was. And I recognised both of them now: the pair of gorilla-wrestlers who’d been stationed outside the gate of the house on the Pincian. I made a fist of my left hand and swung it hard and low at the first guy’s groin...
His own right hand moved down so fast it blurred, catching mine and holding it. ‘No need for that, pal,’ he said quietly. ‘We don’t want no trouble. Just get in the litter, okay?’
The second tunic had gripped my right arm with fingers you could’ve used to lift the column drum in Anterus’s yard. I couldn’t’ve moved if I tried. Yeah, well; if I was beat, which I certainly was, we might as well be civilised about things.
‘Fair enough,’ I said.
‘That’s good. Keep up the co-operation and you won’t get hurt.’ He let go and moved aside.
The litter was empty. I sat down on one set of cushions and Laughing George squeezed in opposite, shutting the curtains behind him. The four litter lads took the strain and we were off. Strain it must’ve been: I’m not light myself, and the guy must’ve weighed half as much again. If we reached the Pincian without one of them doing himself a permanent injury they could count themselves lucky.
‘We’re going to see Eutacticus, right?’ I said.
No answer. Laughing George had obviously shot his conversational bolt and he was sitting there with a face that was pure granite. Hell; so much for planning. When –if – I talked to the cartel boss I’d envisaged a lot more backup than I actually had at present, which was zero. Perilla didn’t know where I was. She didn’t –and something cold touched my spine – even know about Eutacticus, because I’d been careful not to mention him. The lady would only have worried.
