A Bitter Chill (17 page)

“All right, girl, quiet now. She’s a bit jumpy, and no wonder. There, Mistress, look.” He pointed to the window.

A man was lying beneath it—a man’s body, I should say, because even from a distance I could tell he was dead.

I made myself walk over and look at him. He was a well-built brown-haired man in his twenties, with a pleasant face and wide-set brown eyes staring up at the ceiling. His pale features stood out starkly against his blue tunic, and the layer of snow that had floated in through the window couldn’t quite hide the blood that stained the cloth. There was a lot of blood, because he’d been stabbed in the neck, not very neatly. I assumed he’d done this himself, because his right hand lay across his chest, his fingers loosely curled round the hilt of a sword. His left was at his side, touching a folded piece of papyrus on the floor.

Gods, two dead bodies in less than twenty-four hours! I swallowed hard and managed to turn away only briefly, then I looked again more closely. “One of Sempronia’s bodyguards, wasn’t he?”

Titch nodded. “Aye. His name was Leander.”

“Poor lad. I saw him helping groom their horses yesterday. And you found him here—when?”

“First thing, before it was even light. I came in to feed the dogs, and there he was.”

“And he was dead when you found him? You’re certain?”

“No doubt of it. Stone cold and stiff.”

I reached down and felt his face. It was like ice. “And you haven’t touched anything?”

He shook his head. “I didn’t like to.”

“I suppose nobody uses this place now. When did you move the pups in here?”

“Last night, just before dark. He wasn’t here then, and neither was anyone else. And see, there’s some snow on him. It’s blown in through the window.”

“Yes. So he’s been lying in that spot since before it stopped snowing, which means about—what time did it stop? Somewhere round the third hour after dark?”

“I think so. It was clear and still when me and Castor went to Oak Bridges.”

I gently brushed the snow from the dead slave’s tunic, then gingerly tried to release the sword-hilt from his fingers, but I couldn’t. The stiffness of death held him fast. Another fact that pointed to early last night as the time when he’d been killed.

I straightened up again. “I don’t recognise the sword. It must belong to one of the visitors.”

“Aye, it does.” Titch indicated the hilt. “All their weapons have the letter P on them, for Plautius. Their lads were telling us about it, boasting that nobody could steal their gear and get away with it. But I’d say poor Leander wasn’t all that used to handling one. It’s not a very clean wound, is it?”

We heard footsteps outside, and then Albia’s voice spoke from the doorway.

“Relia, here you are! We’ve been looking everywhere. Margarita was getting quite worried—I think she thought you’d run off. Gods, what’s happened here?” She came into the old building and stopped short. Poppaea jumped to her feet and growled.

“Don’t worry, girl.” Titch went over and stroked his dog. “Saturn’s balls, something’s given her a real scare. I can’t leave her in here if she’s this upset.”

Albia gazed at the dead slave. “How dreadful! Leander, isn’t it—one of the bodyguards?” She came to stand beside me and examined him carefully, without touching. “He must have been here all night. And it looks as if he took his own life. Poor man!”

“Why, I wonder?” Titch said. “Just before the holiday, and all.”

“What’s that in the dogs’ box?” I walked very gently across to their corner. Poppaea eyed me warily, and then relaxed as I began to stroke her. I reached my hand down into the hay, but she growled again and bared her teeth. “This isn’t like her, Titch. Whatever happened here last night must have frightened her. Look, can you reach into this pile of hay? There’s something half buried in it, something blue.”

The dog made no objection as Titch plunged his hand into the hay and brought out a piece of blue woollen cloth.

“That’s come from one of Sempronia’s slaves,” Albia said. “Their cloaks and tunics are all that colour. The edge is frayed, look, so it’s been torn off somehow.”

“Bitten off by Poppaea, I reckon.” Titch patted the dog’s head. “Leander came too close to the pups and you went for him, didn’t you, girl?”

Albia took the cloth and held it rigid between her hands. “Yes, there are holes in it, and blood on it too.”

“Victor! Victor! Are you there, Victor?” a shrill childish voice called from outside.

“Gods,” Albia exclaimed, “it’s Gaius. He mustn’t see this. Make sure he stays out of here, Titch, won’t you?”

The lad nodded. “I’ll be glad to be out meself, now Mistress Aurelia has some company. I’m going to move the dogs out too. They’ll have to go back in the main stable block.”

“Victor! Where are you?” The child was closer, and Titch hurried out.

I went over again to where Leander lay, and examined his cloak. As far as I could see it was undamaged. “That’s odd.” I pulled the cloak back, but there were no bruises or bites on his legs or arms. “If she didn’t bite this poor man, then somebody else was in here last night.”

“Have you had a look at that piece of papyrus yet?” Albia asked.

“No.” I reached down and picked it up. “I assume it’s a note explaining why he killed himself.” I unfolded the paper, which was oddly-shaped, a small uneven scrap torn from a larger sheet. It had a few Latin words scrawled on it. The letters were crudely formed but legible enough.

I’M SORRY FOR DOING SUCH A WICKED THING. PLEASE FORGIVE ME.

I handed it to Albia. “Does that give us the answer? He took his life in a fit of remorse?”

She stared at it doubtfully, pushing a loose strand of hair out of her eyes. “He doesn’t name the ‘wicked thing’ he’s done, but he doesn’t need to.”

“I’m not so sure. Did he mean it was wicked to try to kill Plautius, or to murder Idmon by mistake? I’d say that’s two wicked things.”

“Stop being pedantic. We’re discussing a suicide note, not a work of literature.”

“Yes, I suppose so.” Suddenly a new thought struck me. “If Leander killed himself and admits trying to kill his master, then Plautius will have to accept that we’re innocent. This poor man’s death puts us in the clear.”

“By the gods, so it does!” We turned and hugged one another, taking in the relief of knowing we were no longer under suspicion. I realise this must sound horribly unkind, but after the tensions of the last day, all I could think of was that the slave’s suicide must put our innocence beyond a shadow of doubt.

I was impatient to tell Plautius, but it was too early yet to go calling on a sick man, so I snatched a hurried breakfast and then went outside to do my morning rounds. Everything was in order in the stables, and Ursulus told me he’d set some of the farm boys to carting hay from the rick-yard into the barns and store-rooms closer to the house. “Can’t be too careful, with these young scamps about.”

“You’re right, we must be on our guard. By the way, I met the man Otus last night, the boss of the lads who helped us put the fire out. He asked me if a few of his men could sleep in that old roundhouse near the rick-yard now and then. In exchange for keeping an eye out for fire-raisers, he said.”

Ursulus raised an eyebrow. “Oh aye? And what did you say to him?”

“No.”

“You did right. Give people like that an inch, they’ll take a mile. I’ll warn my lads to keep their eyes open. I know, how about if I tell a couple of them to sleep in the old house themselves, just till we’re sure the gang have moved on?”

“Good idea, Ursulus, yes. And I’ll go and tell Secundus and the horse-boys.”

Secundus’ reaction was almost word for word the same as Ursulus’. “You did right. We can’t be doing favours for people like that. I’ll tell everyone to keep their eyes open.”

Titch and Gaius came out of the tack-room just then. When he saw me Titch said something swiftly to the boy, and came running over to me alone.

“I’ve been thinking, Mistress. About that note that was lying next to Leander in the shed. What did it say? Can I see it?”

I showed it to him. He read the words aloud slowly: “‘I’m sorry for doing such a wicked thing. Please forgive me.’ Aye, I thought so!” He tossed the papyrus in the air and caught it neatly. “Meant to look like a confession, as if he was doing away with hisself because he tried to kill his master.”

“Meant to? You don’t think that’s what it is?”

“Nah.” He shook his head emphatically. “Leander didn’t write that note. He couldn’t read nor write.”

“How do you know?”

“I found out yesterday, but I didn’t think anything about it till now. Several of their boys came round to the stables to play dice after dark, when it was snowing and we hadn’t any work to do outside. We cleaned ’em out good and proper.” He grinned. “We all got on well, and afterwards some of them stayed for a beaker of beer. Then they all went, except this Leander, and he asked me if I’d write a message for him, to go with a Saturnalia present that he’d got for one of Sempronia’s maids. She can read a bit, seemingly, and he wanted to impress her. So I wrote it out nicely for him.”

“You’re sure he literally couldn’t write at all? Maybe his writing was very bad, or he couldn’t spell his words properly.”

“Mebbe. But this note is spelt right.”

“It is, and the writing’s not much worse than mine. But I need to be sure about this, Victor. He could have got someone else to write it for him, just as he asked you to do the Saturnalia message.”

“Dictate a suicide note? I don’t reckon so, do you?”

“No, you’re right. In fact the whole idea of Leander committing suicide seems pretty unlikely, when you stop to think about it. Nobody suspected him, they were all too busy accusing Albia and me. So if Leander really was the murderer, all he’d need to do was lie low, keep quiet, and let me and Albia take the blame. Unless he truly was overcome by guilt, of course.”

“You can get overcome by guilt and not do away with yourself,” Titch commented. “If he felt badly, or thought he was going to be found out, why didn’t he just run away? Or steal a mule and ride away, more like.”

“So then,” I said slowly, “if Leander was murdered, that means the murderer is still alive. And Albia and I will be under suspicion again. Plautius will say we killed the slave, to cover up the fact that we tried to kill the master. He’s bound to.”

“Why then; tell him it was suicide.”

His words shocked me. “Conceal a murder? I couldn’t do that.”

“
I
could. If I was in the mess you’re in, I definitely could. Now
I
won’t tell anyone, and you don’t need to, neither. It’d only be for a while, after all, till you’ve caught the real killer. But if you go and blab to everyone that Leander was murdered, you won’t be given the chance. Like you say, you and Miss Albia will be the main suspects, and they’ll keep you guarded all the time, even if they don’t actually lock you up.”

“That’s true, but still—to know about a murder, and not tell anyone?”

He nodded seriously. “Either way, the murderer is still free. If you keep quiet, you’ll be free too.”

I thought about it, and there was no doubt he was right. Perhaps not morally, and certainly not legally, but by all the laws of common sense, he was right. If I wanted to catch this murderer, I must keep my own counsel for a while, tell nobody, not even Albia. It wouldn’t be easy, but it could be done. It
must
be done.

“Victor! Victor!” Gaius’ shrill cry brought me out of my pondering. I couldn’t see him, but his voice came from among the trees on the far side of the paddock. “Come and look at what Poppaea’s dug up!”

“Saturn’s balls,” Titch said, “what now? I hope she’s not found anything too disgusting.”

We hurried across the paddock and found Gaius standing on the edge of the trees a couple of yards from the dog. Poppaea was under a scrubby bush, crouched down and guarding a long blue shape that lay on the ground. For a few heartbeats I thought it was another body, but as I got closer, I realised it was just a rolled-up cloak, bulky and nearly the length of a man, but with nothing inside it.

“She dug it out of the snow,” Gaius shouted excitedly. “I think it must belong to one of our boys. But she won’t let me go near and look.”

Titch strode to the dog, which didn’t make a murmur as he picked up the bundle and brought it into the open. He began to spread it out, then stopped, but not quickly enough.

“Yes, it’s a cloak!” Gaius squeaked. “It’s got all red and brown marks on it! Is it blood? Ooh, yes, how horrid!” He crouched down eagerly to take a closer look. “Lady Sempronia will be very cross. She hates it when we get our clothes dirty.”

“Then don’t you get messy yourself,” Titch said, quickly rolling the cloak up again. “Leave it for now.”

“But what’s it doing out here under a bush?” the child persisted.

I caught Titch’s eye, and he gave an almost imperceptible nod. We both knew the answer: it had been hidden by the man who killed Leander. But that wasn’t for the child’s ears. “I expect one of the boys cut himself while he was shaving,” I suggested.

Titch, who’d only recently begun to shave, rubbed his chin and nodded. “Aye, it’s very easy done. And then the poor lad knew his mistress would play war about it, so he hid the cloak out of the way.” He grinned at the child. “Let’s keep it a secret, shall we? Just between us three. Then he won’t get into bother.”

“Good idea,” I agreed. “Our own special secret. All right, Gaius?”

“All right. I don’t want anyone to get into trouble.” Gaius smiled, then lost interest. “Shouldn’t Poppaea be with her pups? They must be getting cold without her.”

“She needs to get out of there sometimes, and they’ll keep each other warm for a while,” Titch said. “But why don’t you run along and make sure they’re all safe and sound? I’ll be there in no time.”

“Well done,” I murmured, as the child trotted off happily. “And getting him to keep it a secret—a nice touch, that.”

He spread out the blue cloak, and we could see that the front of it was well and truly splattered with blood. Some was brown and dry, but other patches were still sticky and reddish. Near the hem of the garment on the right side the cloth was torn and frayed, and there was another patch of reddish blood.