Deadly Election (11 page)

Relieved of gavel duties, I went up to the negotiator as he made payment. He wanted to give us a banker’s draft, which needed family authorisation. ‘That’s acceptable,’ I instructed our finance clerk. ‘Sir, we need your note by tomorrow. We keep the goods until the payment arrives.’ I congratulated the man on his purchase, making my remarks sound routine. Then I slipped in, ‘I am told that you act for the owners?’

He scowled but did not deny it. As he finished the formalities, I leaned in, letting him see me read his signature. He was a lanky strip of wind who went by the name of Titus Niger. I drew him to a quiet corner. ‘If you work for the Callisti, Niger, was it you who went to that storeroom they use and prepared the inventory for sale?’

‘Yes, I did that.’

‘I’ve been hoping to talk to you. At the store, did you look inside the strongbox?’

‘No.’ The tall skinny man was very sure of that.

‘Did you notice anything odd in the room where it was kept?’

‘No.’ Despite his brief replies the negotiator was keeping a polite manner. He had a weaker voice than his trusted position and confident air suggested. I put the squeak down to nerves. The Callisti had warned him I was trouble and that he must watch what he said.

‘Footsteps in the dust on the floor, for instance? Or a nasty smell?’ I prodded.

‘Nothing that caught my attention. The light was poor. I had a lamp to write my list by, but it was dim. Everything smelt musty, but that was to be expected. Stuff had been in store for years.’

I said I presumed he knew I had discussed the chest with Callistus Primus. ‘He will have told you what our people found inside?’ Beige Tunic nodded. He was probably fifty, long in experience. ‘So may I ask what your principals were thinking when they made you bid for the old chest?’

‘They changed their minds. It is allowed.’

‘Of course! But if they want to keep it, why not ask us to cancel the sale? People have second thoughts. My father is always obliging. I assure you there would have been no comeback.’

Looking uncomfortable over his strange buy, the negotiator gave in. ‘Primus decided not to let the strongbox go to some inquisitive ghoul who wanted the thrill of finding bloodstains.’

‘There was nothing left to find inside,’ I said. ‘There never had been blood. The poor victim suffocated.’

‘Primus thought people wouldn’t know that. And he feels whoever killed that person and dumped him in their storeroom gave them responsibility.’ That was certainly not how Primus had reacted when I talked to him. His brother and perhaps his cousin may have persuaded him have a rethink, but they looked similar types, all unsentimental. ‘I was told to buy it incognito. When it comes home, someone will burn it and make a proper end of the thing, rather than let it become some ghastly souvenir.’

‘Well, that will be respectful to the dead.’ I kept my face neutral. ‘So why did the Callisti come here today, when it might have been better not to draw attention?’

Niger gave me a look. ‘They wanted to watch and see who else was interested in their box.’

I, too, was pinch-mouthed. ‘You should tell them that even if the killer hoped nobody had found the body he would never buy the chest himself – too dangerous.’

‘So you don’t think he was here?’

‘Oh, certainly! He was here – or someone acting for him was.’

‘And wanted to buy the body back?’

‘They probably realise we found the corpse. No, I think any culprits will have wanted to discover today what is known about the dead man. After all, if somebody identifies him, the finger of suspicion may point at them.’

The Callistus agent gazed around the audience. Most were intent on Gornia selling Father’s carpets. ‘So who is it, Flavia Albia?’

‘My guess is he or they have already left.’

The negotiator went off, too, without another word.

I felt Niger had no connection with the killing. Mind you, being plausible was his job.

My next task was to move casually about the audience, making a closer inspection of everyone who had bid on the chest unsuccessfully. I took one of the porters to introduce me to them. I still thought the killer would have been crazy to attempt to purchase the box, but you never know. Killers can be stupid.

I found that those who had shown interest were all regular dealers and bidding for themselves, apart from one shipper we had not dealt with before, but he had only arrived in Rome two days ago, giving him an alibi.

Out of politeness I went and said hello to Faustus and company. They were still fingering goods and making themselves agreeable to all and sundry.

None bothered with warm greetings for me. Laia Gratiana applied an expression of austere distaste. ‘Do you often do that, Flavia Albia?’

‘Take an auction? Not often – but, as you saw, I know how.’

‘Quite a skill!’ blared Trebonius Fulvo, not bothering to introduce himself – a man who assumed everyone knew him. He was the one with the odd eye and knucklefuls of self-promoting jewellery. He came and stood too close.

‘It just requires a little theatre work,’ I murmured, with an unobtrusive sidestep.

‘I like a girl who does Priapus jokes!’ Trebonius trowelled on lewd insinuation.

‘As she said, acting for the punters,’ said Faustus, moving in to support me. ‘Flavia Albia is perfectly modest by nature.’ Somehow he sounded as if he meant that.

Laia snorted.

I shot Faustus a grateful look. ‘We have some superb items still to come. I hope you will all stay and enjoy more of the auction – maybe you would like to buy something!’ I spun on one heel, my sensible shoe staying on firmly, as I moved off to continue my circuit.

I strolled around representing my father: shaking hands, smiling, enquiring about business, asking after families. ‘We were all very sorry to hear about your wife, such a lovely woman and far too young to go … Your youngest must be walking now … How is your brother getting on with his new business?’ Occasionally with newcomers I introduced myself, ‘Hello, I am Didius Falco’s daughter. I hope you are enjoying the sale. Do talk to any of our staff if we can help at all …’

I was ‘going about’ like the candidates. The only difference was, I paid for no favours and made no fake promises.

I returned to the dolphin-ended bench. The catalogue boy had been there but he moved off when Manlius Faustus approached, clearly about to speak to me.

‘So this is a big-earrings day!’ Manlius Faustus could be a man of surprises; he seemed to like my jewellery.

He sat down with me but the bench had reached its turn for bids. As we rose from it, Faustus must have seen my rueful glance and how I stroked the worn head of one of the dolphins. ‘You like it?’

‘Nowhere to keep it.’

‘You may have, one day. Put it in the courtyard of your building until then.’

Gornia called a starting bid; Faustus raised his hand. It was a firm gesture; no auctioneer would miss it or wonder if he was just waving to a friend. Gornia saw that Faustus was with me and did not seek more offers. Nobody was keen; even Gornia had said the piece had been ‘well used’, which can be auction shorthand for falling to bits. Faustus secured it.

‘Lucky I can afford the money!’ I mumbled.

‘Not you. Albiola, this is a welcome-home present. You just have to promise to let me come and sit on it.’

‘You should not give me presents,’ I half complained, but I really liked that bench.

‘Yes, I should.’ With no explanation of that cryptic remark, he breezed off to formalise his purchase, then returned to report, ‘It’s coming to you this evening. I shall try to be there to oversee delivery.’

Faustus waved goodbye, before leaving with Vibius and others.

Coming in the other direction, an unmistakable figure rolled up, signalling to me: Fundanus the funeral director.

‘What, Fundanus – you here? Hoping to see the famous wooden tomb? Thank you for cleaning it for us.’

Fundanus was an awkward character to deal with, big-bellied and full of his own ghastly opinions. His face was disfigured with pustules that suggested he had much too close contact with bodies that had been infected with plague. I had never seen any evidence that he practised necrophilia, but it would not have surprised me.

His opinion of the living was low. ‘Which of the disgusting types you have lured here today is the killer? I suppose he came. Couldn’t stay away. Might be anyone, by the look of their ugly faces. I wouldn’t want to plug any of their nasty arses. Your father needs to bring in a better crowd, then he’d make more money.’

I wished he would speak more softly, but Fundanus always boomed as if he were the only man on the planet.

I ran through with him what his pyre-builder had told me yesterday about the corpse. Fundanus sniffed at his lad’s effrontery in helping me behind his back − a member of the public, one who paid him money − though I noticed he made no corrections.

He was the worst kind of witness. He had no further facts, yet plenty of stupid ideas. ‘This boxed-up stiff has got to be a cheating husband who shagged one bloody-meat-stained floozy too many in the Cattle Market.’ Fundanus was inventing this so vividly he convinced himself it was all true. People in his line of business always think they have a special understanding of human nature, despite the fact most humans they encounter are incapable of self-expression due to death. Even the living, the bereaved, are in crisis so not themselves. ‘He was found out. The wife got her lover to suffocate him, and now those lovebirds are enjoying his money together. That lover wants to watch out. As soon as he runs through her cash, he’ll be in for exactly the same treatment.’

‘Well, that will give us a lead,’ I managed to interject. ‘Two deaths the same is always helpful. We could leave a chest with its lid up helpfully, somewhere in that granary storage place.’

Fundanus beamed with patronising approval. ‘Well, that’s better, girl. You’re learning!’

I was glad to see the back of him.

I lie: his padded rear, swaggering across the porticus as his fat legs bore him off to lunch, was a foul spectacle.

The thought of a man who had such intimate dealings with the dead eating lunch always made me queasy. He prodded human offal, then looked as if he never washed his hands.

The Boy Taking a Thorn out of His Foot
came up on offer again. Most of the punters were wandering away by now and took no interest. The man in the puce tunic plucked up his courage and bought the statue. That was all he had wanted, all along.

Apparently.

T
he sun was high overhead. In the post-noon bake, I began to flag. The marble-clad porticus buildings sweated heat from every stone, until my heart was pattering uneasily.

Gornia noticed me looking flushed. His ninety-year-old frame was exhausted too. We conferred, carrying out an inventory by eye: there was enough stock to continue the sale tomorrow when staff and buyers would be fresh, rather than struggling on when everyone was past caring. So we finished for today.

I made Gornia ride Patchy back to the Saepta. Our people stayed in the porticus to guard the lots overnight. I left and walked wearily towards the Aventine. After passing the civilised Porticus of Octavia, the closed Theatre of Marcellus, the teeming vegetable and meat markets, I came level with the Circus Maximus and faced a choice. Maturity struck me. Instead of forcing myself to make a suicidal climb up the steep hill, I went gently along the Embankment to my parents’ house and rested there.

A slave let me in, then left me to myself; they all knew me as the peculiar one, often reclusive. With my family still away, the empty house felt melancholy but I made good use of the coolness and peace. Reflecting on the auction, I wondered again about the interested parties, those I had spotted and others who might have escaped my attention. I mulled over the two idlers who had parked their stupid bodies by the armoured chest while I was selling it: were they not so stupid as they looked? I considered other faces. I even paid attention mentally to the man in the puce tunic, the strange loafer who had bought the thorn-in-foot statue.

Getting nowhere with that, I chewed over Manlius Faustus bidding for the bench. I failed to solve that puzzle either – or not in a way where it felt safe to venture.

Early in the pleasant summer evening, I went home. No one I knew was at Fountain Court. I tidied my apartment and carried out chores. I collected old food scraps to feed to a fox who visited a local enclosure, gathered laundry, went down the alley to leave it, carried on to Prisca’s Baths and asked Prisca’s trainer to give me a few exercises, steamed myself, bought fresh provisions, then swore at Rodan on my way back in, just so he knew life with me at home was back to normal.

‘Something came for you,’ he grouched. My new bench. Anyone would think there had been no delivery man or any competent person to supervise. Of course there was: he was still here, out on the bench, working on a scroll. I could tell Rodan had never lifted a finger when the stoneware was lugged into the courtyard. He was moaning because he hated change. ‘We never had to have a seat before! We’ll get people sitting on it.’

‘Juno, that would be terrible! It’s only for me. I don’t want anybody else parking their dirty bums on it.’

‘Tell him, then!’

‘We’ll allow him. It’s his bench.’

The slave, Dromo, had been taking his ease alongside Faustus, but he was turfed off when I walked out into the courtyard. They had positioned the bench where the old teasel-carding racks had once stood when this was Lenia’s laundry, famous for its owner’s drinking habits and for losing people’s best belongings; the two were directly connected. Now nothing occupied the deserted yard except my cheeky-looking dolphins, the generous man who had bought them and his awful slave. ‘Where am I supposed to go now?’

‘Quit moaning, Dromo. Sit over there quietly, in the porch.’

‘Oh, no! Master, don’t do that to me, not with smelly Rodan!’ Dromo knew he had to go, but made his way as slowly as possible, dragging his feet in their scruffy sandals and glaring back balefully. He shouted out, ‘At least from here I don’t have to look at you two mooning over each other.’