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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…