Chummie had been taking a bit of a risk, mind, all the same. Once inside the gate, he’d have no problems, sure, but the before and after of the murder were another thing entirely. The place’s very isolation could work against him, because despite the day being a public holiday and the area round about being pretty much deserted as a result, if there had been anyone to see him going in and out he might well’ve been remembered. Maybe in the event someone had seen him, at that; but, given that any potential witness would quite understandably have thought no more about it, the chances were we’d never know.
I shivered. Some of these holy places – the ones that’ve been set aside as holy – have an atmosphere of calm cheerfulness about them that you can feel straight away as soon as you go in. This one didn’t: it was just sad. Sad, sunless, uncared for, and deserted. The atmosphere had nothing to do with the murder, either; that was just how things were. I wondered why the nymph was here in the first place – after all, we were well away from the coast, and she was a Daughter of Ocean – but no doubt whoever had been originally responsible for setting up her altar had had their reasons. Still, it seemed a shame she’d come so far just to be ignored.
There were a few wild flowers growing by one of the side walls. I picked them, laid them beside the oil lamp, and went back outside, closing the gate behind me.
So. Time to interview the suspects. I came out of the alleyway onto the main drag and stopped the first guy I met, a slave wheeling a barrowful of sandals.
‘Excuse me, pal,’ I said. ‘You happen to know where I can find Lucilius Festus’s place? The pottery? Or failing that Titus Vecilius’s glassworks?’
‘Yes, sir, of course. Both.’ He grounded the barrow and pointed. ‘Festus has his yard up by the Gate, Vecilius’s is the other direction, halfway between here and the Emporium. Left-hand side, you can’t miss it.’
‘Thanks.’
‘No problem.’ He trundled off.
Not far away, then, either of them: the Trigemina Gate was only a couple of hundred yards to the right, while the Emporium was a scant half-mile further down the road. Six of one, half a dozen of the other. OK. We’d start with the least likely candidate. Festus.
There was only one pottery on offer before the Gate, so that had to be the one. I negotiated my way through the stacked pots in the yard and went into the building behind it where a dozen or so slaves were working the wheels, turning out what looked like everyday low-grade tableware.
‘Any chance I can see the boss?’ I said to the nearest one.
‘Who wants him?’ A big guy in a tunic was coming towards me, wiping his hands on a towel. Festus, obviously.
‘Name’s Valerius Corvinus,’ I said.
‘Customer? Only we’re working on a big order at present, I’m afraid, so we’re fully committed. We may be able to supply you from stock, mind, if you’d like to take a look around. Depends on what you need.’
‘The order would be for Gaius Tullius, would it?’ I said.
The hand-wiping stopped. Pause; definite pause, and the polite manner went down a notch.
‘For his partner,’ he said shortly. ‘Tullius is dead.’
‘Yeah, I know,’ I said easily. ‘That’s why I’m here. I’m representing the widow.’ I paused, myself. ‘So, ah, how come you do? Know that the guy’s dead, I mean.’
He shrugged. ‘No big deal; it’s fairly common knowledge round here. Someone shoved a knife into him in Melobosis Alley, right?’
Fair enough. At least we were through the preliminaries stage and I could go straight for the throat.
‘I understand you had a run-in with him the day before he died,’ I said.
‘Really? Then you understand wrong, friend. I never saw him, more’s the pity, not then, anyway. The last time I talked with that bastard was about a month ago. And that was about pots.’
‘You sure about that?’
He glared at me. Then he grunted and turned away. ‘Come into the office,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘I don’t discuss my private business in front of the bought help.’
‘Office’ was dignifying things: the cubbyhole was even smaller than Poetelius’s, a few square yards of floor space at the rear of the shop separated off by lath-and-plaster walls and a curtain. Festus pulled it aside and stood back.
‘Sit down,’ he said. ‘I’ll stand.’
I sat on the only stool next to the little folding table that served as a desk. He pulled the curtain shut behind him.
‘Now,’ he said. ‘If you’ve got any accusations to make you go ahead, make them to my face and I’ll spit in your eye.’
‘Calm down, pal,’ I said. ‘No one’s accusing you of anything. All I want is your side of the story.’
‘What you want and what you’ll get are two different things. Let’s have one thing clear from the start. Whoever killed Gaius Tullius did me and the rest of the world a favour.’
‘Yeah, that seems to be the general opinion, so no argument from me. And I’m including his wife in this.’
That got me another long look – a surprised one, this time – and another grunt. ‘OK,’ he said at last. ‘I’m sorry. Maybe I was a bit sharp, and I’ve nothing to hide or be ashamed of. Ask away.’
‘First off. You went round to his office the day before the murder. How long had you known he was’ – I hesitated, but there was no way round this – ‘seeing your wife?’
‘I only found out that morning. There was a letter shoved under the door when I came down. It was addressed to her, but I didn’t know that until I opened it.’
‘A letter from who?’
He shrugged. ‘It wasn’t signed. It just said that Tullius was dropping her and taking up with some woman called Hermia.’
‘Third person?’
His face clouded. ‘Come again?’
‘I mean, the letter wasn’t from Tullius. Whoever wrote it said he was dropping her, not I am, and gave the guy’s name.’
‘Uh … yeah.’ There’d been a pause while he worked that one out; obviously not the sharpest knife in the box, Lucilius Festus. ‘Yeah, that’s right.’
‘OK.’ Well, unless Tullius was idiot enough to do his dumping in writing and deliver the note in a way that was just asking for trouble, the alternative explanation wouldn’t’ve made much sense, particularly since it named the other lady. Still, it was just as well to check. ‘You knew who Hermia was?’
‘No. I said. She was just a name.’
‘So what happened then?’
‘What do you think? I got Marcia downstairs and showed her the thing, let her read it for herself. There were … words. I told her I was going to see Tullius, and she’d better not be in the house when I got back. Then I left.’
‘She didn’t deny having an affair with the guy?’
‘She didn’t bother trying. The truth was plain on her face.’
‘So where is she now?’
‘Her mother has a cookshop by the Capenan Gate. She went there with the kids. At least, I assume she did.’
‘Uh-huh.’ Well, I could trace the lady later, if need be. Meanwhile: ‘What about the day of the murder itself? Tullius was in this part of town. You didn’t see him?’
‘You kidding? If I’d known he was sniffing around and seen him, I’d’ve broken the bastard’s face for him.’
‘So where were you, exactly?’
‘Where would I be? I told you: we’ve a big order to fill. I was here in the yard working.’
‘All day?’
‘Sure all day, barring a couple of hours in the afternoon when I went to pay my respects at the Temple of Mercury.’
Oh, yeah; the festival. Mercury’s the god of business, so it’s usual on his feast day for anybody with commercial interests to visit his temple near the Circus, give the guy his annual pinch of incense, and offer up a prayer or two to keep him sweet for the coming year. Convenient. Festus could be lying, sure, but if so it was a plausible lie. Unfortunately, given that about half the working population of Rome were doing the same and Mercury’s temple was about as packed as the Circus itself on a race day, it was also virtually impossible to check. Bugger.