I know, the first note had read.
I know. I just cannot decide who to tell, said the second.
And now: No secret can ever be safe.
At first she'd thought the note was left by someone who knew about Clytie and was tortured inside by that knowledge. Someone who, in their second message, was wondering if it was safe to confide in Claudia, a stranger, a foreigner and a Roman. That suspicion had been reinforced by the fact that someone had been through her belongings. A slipper out of place here, a gem out of place there, and the stopper on her perfume phial had been pressed down too hard. Little things that gave the searcher away.
And even when she'd found that third note, it seemed that the author was worried. Not so much that the secret about Clytie would have to come out. More the way it would be exposed. But now, reading this — Ill seed begets ill reed — and knowing it wasn't the first twig Sarra had found on her pillow, Claudia was reminded of an incident that took place the day she arrived. A mile or so outside Santonum, the gig had passed a Gaulish funeral which was so unlike anything she was used to — I mean why enclose the dead inside a moated cemetery? Were they worried they'd try to get out? And what was this ridiculous preoccupation with burying the deceased with all their belongings? If they believed in an afterlife, she could understand it, but they didn't. They believed in the reincarnation of souls. Captivated by their obscure rites and shadowy customs, and curious why the Aquitani denounced gravestones to mark their dead in fear of malevolent spirits rooting them out, Claudia had asked Junius to pull over.
At first she'd imagined it to be another part of the ritual when a young urchin thrust a note into the distraught widow's hand — until the poor woman collapsed. Someone, her brother judging from the resemblance, snatched at the note and read it aloud, prompting every mourner in the group into a frenzy of anger, outrage and/or indignation. Intrigued, Claudia asked Junius to translate and it appeared that the widow had just received a note to the effect: Are you sure it was the sea that claimed your husband, not the wine?
Even when that young mother-to-be had been brought to the edge of reason with that malicious note, Claudia had paid it little attention. While you let your horse starve, someone else is bringing him oats. Babies can engender a tremendous amount of spite and resentment. A spurned lover, a barren neighbour, even a jealous mother-in-law can be vicious when her nose is put out of joint. But put those notes together, add in Claudia's missives and the notched twigs on Sarra's pillow and this was no longer coincidence.
Whoever left those messages for Claudia hadn't been owning up to knowing about Clytie. The author was out to make mischief. The question was, how many others had received those invidious notes? And how much damage had that poison inflicted?
Fifteen
Anything?'
The figure that stepped out from the alder grove startled her, and her first thought was, It's Orbilio playing the fool. But since when had the Security Police taken to practical jokes? Since when had his baritone carried an Andalusian accent, no matter how faint? Since when had he ever deliberately set out to scare her?
'G-Gabali.'
Claudia's nerves were still jangling, her voice still ragged as she took in this lean, unadorned, unassuming assassin. For a man who earned his living killing people, she thought, he seemed exceptionally composed and she realized that the only thing that separated him from a bookbinder, say, or a banker were those penetrating brown eyes. Despite the oppressive heat, goose pimples rose on her arm.
'What are you doing out here? Checking up on your investment?'
The Spaniard bowed. 'It would be foolish not to, don't you agree?'
She didn't imagine she and Gabali would agree on anything, frankly, but this wasn't the time, much less the place, to say so.
'It's foolish to trespass on College soil,' she replied instead. 'The penalty if you're caught is the Pit of Reflection — although, silly me, you're already familiar with that sweet little hidey-hole.'
A muscle contracted in his cheek. She wasn't convinced its cause was humour.
'Si. I am acquainted with the Pit, but as repugnant as you obviously believe the practice to be, Merchant Seferius, I assure you I would have no qualms about despatching my daughter's killer to its protracted embrace.'
Once again, she was struck by his thin pointed face and hair which, dammit, she could still only describe as longer than a Roman's but shorter than a Gaul's, and with a shine you could kohl your eyes in. Claudia glanced at the rock she was still standing on. The place where Clytie had died.
'Since I'm a wine merchant,' she said, 'a trade in which the solving of murders is not normally part of the remit, I'm sure you'll sympathize' — wrong word, but too late — 'when I tell you that I have absolutely no idea whether I'm making progress in this investigation or not, and that I'm still no closer to giving you her killer's name.'
Spaniard cracked his knuckles. 'It's early days yet.'
'Suppose I never discover the culprit's identity?'
It was a distinct possibility.
'Let's not involve ourselves in negatives or start playing the "what if game,' he murmured, and the goose pimples crept up to her shoulders. 'Why don't you tell me what you have discovered instead.'
'Very well, but I should warn you, it's precious little.' Claudia's gaze fixed on the ominous stains in the rock. 'Although it appears the killer knew where Clytie used to come with her friends, suggesting' — she held back from using the word 'she' — 'it's somebody local.'
He steepled his fingers against his lip and studied her through hooded eyelids the same way he had in her garden. 'It is as I thought,' he said, nodding. 'What else?'
She debated whether to tell him or not, then decided she owed this cold-hearted son-of-a-bitch nothing.
'Your daughter was a conscientious and well-meaning young lady,' she said, drawing a deep breath. 'But equally she was a lonely child, which made her extremely garrulous, suggesting her killer might have wanted to ensure she didn't repeat something she had overheard, and, if you're interested, she died on this very rock.'
For several minutes Gabali said nothing, and his face said even less. With anyone else she'd have wondered whether he'd even heard her, because he certainly didn't dip his gaze to the stone, which was the reaction she'd have expected from a bereaved father.
'Anything else?' he asked eventually.
'The Hundred-Handed are hiding something. Do you know what it is?'
His mouth twisted sideways. 'They're a secretive society, guarding their mysteries in the way all cults and sects do.'
Wrong. There was something else, something deeper, that the College was desperate to keep a lid on.
'They're frightened,' she said. 'No one has admitted it and there's no solid evidence, but stop, look and listen. Fear floats around this place like a cloud.'
He ran his tongue round the inside of his lip. 'That'll be the threat of the Druids,' he said. 'Rumours have been circulating to the effect that they're witches. That the HundredHanded — what was it? — "suck clean the minds of men" and various other nonsense.'
'If it's nonsense, why should they be scared?'
'Just because a mirror is a two-dimensional surface doesn't mean the reflection is make-believe as well. What else have you found out during your stay?'