The jet salesman made a feeble attempt to interest us, indicating that I should buy a trinket for Helena. He could see what a mistake that was. She herself rebuffed him. I waved him away more gently. "Sorry, pal; left my purse in the bedroom." He knew I was lying, but he strolled off happily with his profits from the lawyer.
Popillius was a clean-cut sandy type. Thirties, maybe. Not quite too young to carry professional weight, but giving the impression he had energy and ambition, as well as his cynical greed for fees. He had a light, upper-crust voice, which was hard to place. A new man quite recently, I would say, maybe with grandparents who made it into the middle class, provincials even. Close enough for infant Popillius to have heard their tales of backwoods life, and to be sufficiently enthralled to tackle a remote province himself. Either that, or he absconded with a client's funds and had needed to leave Rome fast.
"This is my husband, Didius Falco," Helena said. "I mentioned him last night." She had not told me I had been discussed. Now I was stuck, not knowing what role she had assigned me. I grinned sheepishly.
"Greetings, Falco." Thank goodness, Popillius himself had no recollection of his chat at dinner with Helena. He was desperately trying to remember who and what I was, though he did remember Helena. Jealousy works two ways: I hoped he did not remember her too well. Lawyers womanize almost as hard as they drink. I knew; I had met plenty in my work.
We talked a bit about what Popillius hoped for in Britain. I suggested he was a slave-chaser, suing people for the return of runaways or for seducing someone else's human property. He reckoned British society was insufficiently slave-oriented to bring in much business of that type. "There are slaves condemned to hard labor; they simply slog until they die, in remote locations. Domestically, if a household owns a couple of little kitchen workers, that's it. They are far too well treated-they end up marrying the master or the mistress. No incentive to run away, and they don't even seem to get laid by the neighbors much."
"Ah, what you need are big estates where the labor force is money; if a body goes missing, it's a commercial loss."
"Better still, I need to be able to demand compensation for expensive Greek accountants, masseurs, and musicians!" Popillius laughed.
"You have looked into the prospects, then?" I asked.
"Only joking," he fibbed. "Bringing a high-class legal service to the province is my mission. I want to do commercial and maritime casework."
I told him that was highly commendable. He seemed unused to irony.
"Sorry, Falco-I don't recall what your wife said you do?"
Sometimes I cannot be bothered to bluff. "Government work. I'm looking into a suspicious death that seems to be gangster-related."
Popillius raised his light-colored eyebrows. "That is surely not why you have come to visit me?" If he was offended, he was working out just how wronged, financially, he intended to be.
"I am looking at everyone," I assured him gently. "I hate to disappoint you, but letting me eliminate you from my inquiry won't lead to slander fees!"
Popillius gave me a level, warning stare. "I don't bother with slander claims, Falco."
The implication was that if I upset him, he would do for me in much more dangerous ways.
I smiled. "How long have you been in the province?"
"Just a couple of days." Not enough to be my suspect-if it was the truth.
"Ever found your way to a drinking dive called the Shower of Gold?"
"Never. I prefer to entertain myself at home, with a well-aged amphora."
"Very wise," I said. "You can buy a good Italian variety, even this far north. Let it settle well. Then dribble it through a wine-strainer two or three times-and pour it down a drain. Table wines from Germany and Gaul seem to survive the route march better."
"Thank you for your advice," he replied.
"It's no trouble," I said.
There was no point hanging around just to discuss his gustation habits. Lawyers are snobs. He was bound to believe in more expensive vintages than I ever thought worthwhile for home consumption with a pan-fried mullet. The grand wines of the Empire stood no chance of traveling well so far as this, but I deduced it would be hard to shake his prejudice.
I could see no sign that he had companions staying here, and if he had only just arrived, what new friends could he possibly have made? So the big question was, when Popillius poured the precious grape of an evening, who shared it with him?
We left, no better and no worse informed than when we came. Slowly we walked back toward the residence. Both Helena and I were mulling over what kind of man this lawyer seemed to be, and what his real quality was. I was paying little attention to our surroundings and less to passersby.
But I was all there when a familiar voice hissed at me from a doorway: "Marcus darling, come over here! I must have a little word with you-" Chloris!
XXVIII
She was leaning on a doorframe as if she had been there a long time waiting for me.
"Olympus, you made me jump, you fiend! Are you watching the lawyer's house?"
"What lawyer? I was looking for you, darling." Chloris ignored Helena. Helena's gaze was fixed on me. "What's it about, Chloris?"
"The Briton in the well."
Anything else could have been brushed aside. This I had to pursue. I turned to Helena, giving her the choice. With an angry shrug, she left me to it. As she strode off alone, a fool might have taken her departure for a sign of trust. Not me.
Chloris looked pleased with herself. "That was easy!"
"Wrong. Make it quick."
"We can't talk in the street."
"Find a bar then."
"My house is nearby."
It was not that near. "We'll go to a bar," I said tersely. We walked to a foodshop, fairly neat and tidy, called the Cradle in the Tree. I obtained the usual unappetizing British cold snacks.
We sat on a bench in the street. This was some way from the wharves so I felt we were probably out of the extortionists' patch. Even so, by instinct I checked to see if the proprietor was leaning on the counter above, listening. He had gone inside.
"You look tired," commented Chloris, who looked immaculate. Arena performers are fit and they know how to present themselves. "Is your snooty goddess a goer? Rumpled bedclothes all night, was it?"
"Chloris, get on with it."
"This is no way to approach a witness."
"Witness to what?"
"The death scene."
"Oh yes? Look, don't mess me about on this."
"You just assume I know nothing," she complained. She could have been nagging me for not paying her enough attention. Well, perhaps she was.
"Right." I would do this properly. "I am investigating the death of a Briton called Verovolcus, a visitor to Londinium from a tribe on the south coast. His body was discovered headfirst down a well at a filthy mead kennel down towards the river, four days ago. It looks as if he was robbed. There could be more to it. So, do you, Chloris, know anything that might help me find his killers?"
"How about, I know who did it?"
"Who?"
"Ask me questions. I'm a witness."
"You'll be a suspect at this rate-and the questioning will be done by the governor's horrible torture squad."
"I won't talk to them."
I opened my mouth to say everyone talked to the quaestiones. Then I stopped. She was not boasting.
"They could even kill me," sneered Chloris. "But you know all I would say to them would be, Stuff you!"
"So charming. In that case, they certainly would kill you… Tell me then. Were you there that night?"
"Close enough."
"In the bar?"
"No, but right outside looking in." There were windows, though I remembered they were small and barred. "What brought you there?"