A Bitter Chill (32 page)

“If you please, my lady,” Diogenes spoke up, “I don’t know what happened tonight, but I’m fairly sure that Margarita must have been involved with the earlier attempts to kill the master.”

I glanced quickly around. Everyone else looked as astonished as I was, even Sempronia.
“Margarita?”
we all exclaimed.

The Weasel said, “I may be wrong of course. Perhaps I shouldn’t say any more, now that Margarita is gone anyway.”

“Stop rambling, Mustela,” Sempronia barked, “and tell us what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, my lady. Young Gaius told me he’d seen a bloodstained cloak hidden away in the woods. A blue cloak, belonging to one of our slaves. He was reluctant to tell me, because he thought the owner would get into trouble for dirtying his uniform, and I didn’t want to press him too hard. He’s so easily frightened.” I didn’t like the gloating expression in those weasel eyes. “So I asked Margarita about it. She denied all knowledge of it, which made me suspicious. After all, if Gaius was speaking the truth, I can’t believe he wouldn’t tell his mother of something like that. More likely he was only giving me part of the story, and it was Margarita who hid the cloak in the first place.”

I was both angry and alarmed. How had he managed to get that choice bit of information out of Gaius? Surely the boy wouldn’t willingly have given away the secret, so what had Diogenes done, or threatened, to make him tell? Or maybe the Weasel knew about the cloak anyway, because he was the one wearing it when the bloodstains were made?

But Sempronia was convinced. “You think, Diogenes, that this blue cloak the child saw was worn by whoever tried to kill your master?”

He nodded. “It grieves me to say so, my lady, but yes, I do. And it was also worn by whoever killed the guard Leander. There was a good deal of blood, according to the child.”

“What do you mean, whoever killed Leander?” she snapped. “Leander killed himself, and left a note confessing to attempted murder.”

Diogenes shook his head. “With the greatest respect, my lady, I don’t think he did. The note was a forgery.”

“Forgery?” Sempronia pounced on the word like a cat on a rat.

“I only found out today,” he said meekly, “and I haven’t had time to tell your ladyship. Leander didn’t know how to write.”

“Indeed?” She sat thinking for a few heartbeats, and then turned to me. “If we needed additional proof of your sister’s guilt, we have it. With or without help from Margarita, she committed two murders while at the mansio. She failed to kill Gnaeus then, so she made another attempt tonight. And perhaps she had assistance from you also. Well? What have you to say to that?”

“What I have to say to that isn’t fit for polite company.” I looked at the Weasel, determined to wipe that gloating smile from his face. “Diogenes, you seem to know a great deal. How did
you
come by the information about the bloodstained cloak?”

But Sempronia ignored my question. “Don’t attempt to change the subject. There’s no doubt in my mind that both you and your precious sister are murderers. Antonius, kindly arrest Aurelia now, and send men to find Albia and bring her here. What are you waiting for?”

“Arresting Aurelia would be a waste of time,” Quintus countered. “Time which we should be spending apprehending the real murderer.”

“So you consider,” Sempronia demanded, “that Albia acted alone? Or even with help from Decimus?”

Quintus faced her calmly. “It has to be a possibility, I admit, but not a strong one, to my mind. Plautius told me he’d been worried about his personal safety for some time.
For some time,
” he repeated with emphasis. “I took that to mean, before you ever came to the Oak Tree.”

“He told me the same,” I put in. “On the first night that you stayed with us. And Albia proved to his satisfaction that she couldn’t have killed either Idmon or Leander. If she’d killed Idmon, she’d have had traces of his blood on her person, and she had none. And on the evening Leander was killed, she and I were both under surveillance.”

“By Margarita!” Diogenes crowed triumphantly, “who was in possession of a bloodstained blue cloak. I said she was involved, my lady! Perhaps she didn’t wear the cloak herself, but she was helping Albia and Aurelia by hiding it.”

I couldn’t fault his reasoning, though it must have a flaw somewhere. Whatever the provocation, Albia wouldn’t have killed anyone. I knew she wouldn’t—but I also knew that was hardly a convincing argument.

Sempronia was smiling at the Weasel. “Good, Diogenes! That’s well argued. Antonius, do you agree now that Albia has a case to answer?”

“Ye-es, I think she has,” he said slowly. “And Decimus too. I’ll bring them here for questioning tomorrow. It’s snowing now, so we can’t do anything tonight.”

“But they could be miles away by tomorrow,” she objected.

“I doubt that. The snow will stop them travelling far. I imagine they’ll stay the night at Decimus’ house, don’t you think, Aurelia?”

“Albia told me that’s what they were intending to do.”

“Very well then. Now, Sempronia, you must put aside your personal prejudices, at least where Aurelia is concerned. I know her, and I personally vouch for her innocence. And her accuracy—she’s given you a correct account of events. Plautius told me that he’d asked both her and Albia to investigate the murders. They have some useful experience in this sort of thing, so it wasn’t an unreasonable idea.”

He glanced at me, but I said nothing.
“Some useful experience”
indeed!

“When I arrived here,” he went on, “Plautius asked me to help in the investigation myself, and I agreed. I said it was better nobody was told, so I could ask questions without arousing the killer’s suspicion. I made a start, but what with the kidnapping, rescuing Aurelia and trying to find Margarita and Gaius, I regret I haven’t had much time.”

Sempronia considered, and at last said grudgingly, “Very well, Antonius. If you vouch for Aurelia, y
our
word is good enough, of course.” She looked at Priscus. “Isn’t it, Aulus?”

“I suppose so. I mean, yes, I take your word about Aurelia. But Albia? My brother and Albia resented Father’s attitude to them very much, you know. They could have been driven to violence.”

“They could. But resenting isn’t the same as killing.” Quintus gave a profound sigh. “I’m a professional investigator, as you know. I’d like nothing better than to capture the murderer, present him or her to the Governor, and hear you all say, well done, Antonius, you haven’t lost your touch when it comes to solving crimes. I’ll try my best to do it. But it’s not as simple as it looks, I’m convinced of that. There’s a lot of work to be done before I can be sure. To begin with, I must question everybody.”

“Everybody? You mean
all
of us?” Sempronia didn’t like that.

“Everybody,” he repeated firmly. “Starting with the obvious people, that is the servants who handled the food tonight. The kitchen staff, and the slaves who waited at table. Have I your permission, Clarus?”

“Certainly, Antonius. But you’re not planning to torture them tonight, are you?” From his troubled expression, I guessed poor Clarus was wondering how he could protect his valuable chef.

“Torture’s the only way to get admissible evidence out of slaves, legally speaking,” Horatius put in.

“I know that, but I’ll stick to straightforward questioning to begin with.”

“If you seriously think any of the slaves are implicated,” Sempronia said icily, “you have probably left it too late. Anyone with a guilty conscience has had ample time to make his escape from the house, snow or no snow.”

“I’ve posted my man Rufus outside, with some of your bodyguards,” Quintus said. “No one will leave the house.”

“That was well done,” Clarus said, and even Sempronia looked impressed.

“One more thing,” Quintus said. “I’d like Aurelia to help me in my investigations. She’s worked as my assistant in the past, and an extra pair of hands will be useful now, in fact essential, if we’re to make any real progress. I trust nobody objects to that?”

Nobody did, though one or two of them appeared less than ecstatic. I probably didn’t look overjoyed myself.
She’s worked as my assistant
…
an extra pair of hands…
oh, really? We’d been a partnership of equals, and I opened my mouth to tell him what I thought of his patronising, arrogant manner. Then it struck me that his public coldness towards me was to my advantage. They’d all seen how he treated me over the last few days, and nobody could possibly argue that he was defending me out of friendship, let alone affection.

Yet he
was
defending me, that was the crucial point, and I must give him all the help and information I could. To do that, I needed to get him alone. And that was exactly what he was suggesting. Gods, sometimes I’m so slow, I’d have trouble catching a tortoise.

“If you’ll excuse us, we’d better begin straight away,” Quintus said. “We’ve half a legion of slaves to interview. The quicker we start, the quicker we’ll finish.”

“I’ll find you a room to use as an office,” Clarus offered. We followed him out.

C
HAPTER
XXIII

“Before we talk to anyone, I’d like you to tell me as much as you can about the Plautius household.” Quintus and I were sitting together in the small room that Clarus had lent us, and now that we were by ourselves, Quintus was as relaxed and friendly as in the old days.

“Of course. But I must ask you first, you don’t believe Albia is involved in this, do you?”

“No, I don’t, nor Candidus either. But you must see I can’t refuse to investigate the possibility. And now there’s this evidence from Diogenes about the blue cloak.”

“I knew about the cloak. Titch’s dog dug it up, and Gaius saw her with it. I was there.”

“You
knew
about it?” He didn’t hide his exasperation.

“Yes. Gaius agreed to keep it a secret, because he said whoever had got his cloak dirty would get into trouble. I don’t like to think how the Weasel got the information out of him—scared the poor little brat somehow, I suppose.”

“Why didn’t you tell someone you’d found it? Me, for instance?”

“I didn’t see any need to. I told Plautius at the time.”

“Look, Aurelia.” He reached out to take my hand. “Promise me there’ll be no more secrets from now on. You and I have to combine our resources if we’re going to get through this.”

“I promise. No more secrets.”

“Good.” He let go my hand and sat back on his chair. “That’s the first thing we need to be clear about. The second is: are we sure this murder tonight and the killings at the Oak Tree were all the work of the same person?”

“I’m certain of it. It’s too far-fetched otherwise—I can’t believe in two people in the household trying to murder the old man. Now if we were talking about Sempronia…but we’re not.”

Quintus rubbed his cheek thoughtfully. “I agree. And are we certain that the murderer
is
somebody in Plautius’ household—either servant or relative?”

“Whoever planned the murders must be. But he or she could well have used a second person to carry them out. Tonight, for instance, if I’d wanted to poison someone’s dinner, I’d have got one of the food servers or kitchen slaves to do it—as Sempronia suggested.”

“Again I agree. Now, of the people in Plautius’ entourage who might have murdered him, Timaeus had by far the greatest opportunity. He was with him most of the time, and tonight he was the one who chose and served his food.”

“Perhaps. But I’m sure it wasn’t Timaeus.”

Quintus smiled wryly. “Why? Because of his bedside manner?”

“Why else?” I smiled back. “But I have got two other good reasons. First, if he’d wanted to kill Plautius, there were a hundred ways he could have done it discreetly and made it look like a natural death. Everyone knew how ill Plautius was, and nobody would have been very surprised if he’d died quietly in his sleep one night. Why take the risk of poisoning him in front of a roomful of people? And when they stayed at the Oak Tree, why cut his throat instead of slipping something into his food? Wait, that makes it three good reasons. Timaeus was one of the few people who knew Plautius wasn’t sleeping in his own bed that night.”

“Yes,” Quintus said. “I’m with you so far. Your other reason?”

“The most likely cause of this murder, in my view, is the proposed alterations to Plautius’ will. And Timaeus wasn’t expecting any legacy at all.”

“The will,” Quintus repeated. “I wondered when we’d get to that.”

“Several people had good reasons for wanting, or not wanting, the will to be changed. Timaeus told me he wasn’t concerned, because he wouldn’t get a bequest whatever happened. He joked about how people shouldn’t make wills in favour of their doctors.”

“Perhaps he was lying. If his lordship had promised him a bequest in a new will, Timaeus might have thought it wisest not to mention the fact. Do you think Timaeus is carrying a torch for Margarita? Could he have been so angry with Plautius for handing her over to the kidnappers that he decided the old man deserved to die?”

“It’s not impossible, but I doubt if Margarita has given him any encouragement. She’s keen on Priscus, she said so.”

“We should regard him as a possibility.”

“Fair enough. But if we’re considering men who are keen on Margarita, we mustn’t forget Horatius. He becomes her master under the existing will. I suppose that’s one of the reasons he was glad that Plautius didn’t want to make any major changes.” I thought back to the previous evening’s conversation round the bar-room fire. “Wait now, Priscus made some remark about Horatius possibly having his debts paid off. Does he owe much, I wonder?”

“Yes. The sort of sum the governor of a province might use to start a medium-sized war. From gambling at the races, mostly.”

“Oh? I didn’t know you moved in those circles.”

“No, but Fabia does. She gave me some entertaining snippets of gossip while we were travelling north. Horatius owes so much money these days that he has trouble even getting credit with the tradesmen. He might have decided to cultivate a wealthy relative who’s not long for this world.”