A Bitter Chill (33 page)

“But surely then he’d have tried to include a bequest to himself in the will. And I was with Horatius for the whole banquet, don’t forget. He was relaxed, happily half-drunk, and I’d swear he was as surprised by Plautius’ death as I was. I don’t believe he’s a good enough actor to have behaved so calmly for a whole evening, if he’d organised a murder.”

“Perhaps not.” He gave me a half-smile. “Fabia is about the only member of the party who I’d say can’t have anything whatever to do with Plautius’ death. She wasn’t even in Brigantia when the first two murders happened, and as for tonight, she wanted Plautius alive and well, to compel Candidus to marry her.”

“Or perhaps she didn’t.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Maybe she doesn’t want Candidus any more than he wants her. She’s been pretending to love him, or she’s stopped loving him because of the way he’s behaved. Perhaps she killed Plautius because he was determined to force Candidus to marry her. She saw his death as her only way of escape.”

“Rubbish! It wasn’t any such thing. Candidus has made it clear he won’t marry her under any circumstances. If she doesn’t want the marriage either, all she has to do is sit tight. If she does want it, why murder the one man who might help her to achieve it?”

That was logical, and I managed to admit as much with reasonably good grace. “Then let’s get back to the matter of Plautius’ will. Who else had an interest in keeping it as it is, not making any changes?”

“Diogenes did. He gets his freedom now, doesn’t he?”

“I’m afraid so.” It was a depressing thought. “He’s been odious enough as a slave. When he’s free he’ll be unbearable.”

“He will. But wanting his freedom could give him a very strong reason for wishing Plautius dead. Nobody else had the power to free him while Plautius lived, and if Sempronia managed to get the will changed, he wouldn’t be freed after Plautius died. It had to come through the existing will.”

“He was an inveterate eavesdropper,” I pointed out. “Suppose he overheard some snatch of conversation which made him think Plautius was going to add a codicil to disinherit Candidus,
and also
put in some of the changes Sempronia wanted? If he was afraid he could lose his chance of freedom forever, he might panic and decide to murder Plautius before the changes could be made. And he had plenty of opportunity to poison Plautius tonight. He was serving Sempronia at the next couch, and going in and out of the kitchen as he liked. He’s a nasty piece of work. Unfortunately, the mere fact that I dislike him doesn’t mean he’s a murderer.”

“It doesn’t mean he isn’t,” Quintus answered grimly. “Now, can we work out how the poison was given to Plautius? To start with the obvious first, I think we can assume it was in food rather than wine or water.”

I pictured the big dining-room in my mind. “The drinks were served from large jugs, taken round by the slaves from table to table and poured out as the diners wanted more. I don’t see how just one person could have been given poisoned wine or water. We all drank the same.”

“I suppose it could have been done using sleight-of-hand,” he suggested. “You could slip a little powder or liquid into a glass, if you were clever enough.”

“Not easily, with Timaeus keeping such a close watch. No, we can forget the drinks.”

“By the same reasoning we can rule out all the various meats that were carved from large joints, and the big bowls of vegetables, and the cheeses. Too difficult to tamper with only one portion.”

“Surely the poisoned food was part of the dessert course?” I said. “After all, the desserts were the last thing Plautius ate.”

Quintus nodded. “And there were so many individual dishes, custards and pastries and sweets—those imitation-fruit things, and the dates. Somebody could have poisoned any of those small items, either in the kitchen or when they were on the central table, while the servers were hurrying round among the couches.”

“Plautius ate half a custard. The remains of it were on his table. And Sempronia persuaded him to have some of those stuffed dates.”

“So she did.” Quintus’ blue-purple eyes flashed. “Yes, so she did.”

“Quintus, you’re not seriously suggesting that
Sempronia
poisoned him?”

“We can’t rule her out. She wouldn’t be the first wife who murdered her husband to get her own way. She’s strong-willed enough, and intelligent, and there wasn’t much love between them. And if she wanted a willing helper, she could have called on the devoted Diogenes.”

“But she had ample opportunity to do away with him quietly and make it look like an accident. Her precious nephew the Governor would have helped keep it quiet, to protect the grieving widow, that sort of thing. She’d have much more of a problem hushing up a poisoning at a grand banquet given by an important Roman citizen.”

He smiled. “If people committing murders always chose the most rational course of action, an investigator’s life would be very much easier.”

“I think Priscus is at least as likely as Sempronia. He’s another man who was angry over Margarita’s betrayal. He loves her enough to want to live with her, and he told me he wants to adopt Gaius as his son.”

“His
son!
Is he in fact the boy’s father, then?”

“I don’t know. But you can see how he loves Margarita, and she says she loves him too. When we were all at the Oak Bridges market, they were like a charming little family together.”

“In the proposed new will, Margarita was to get her freedom,” he mused.

“Yes. Provided she left Sempronia’s service.”

“So wouldn’t Priscus want to keep Plautius alive till the new will was made, or the old one changed? As things are now, Margarita and Gaius are bequeathed to Horatius.”

“If they’re ever found.”

That sad thought made us both pause for a while. Eventually Quintus said, “I think we’ve cleared the ground as far as we can for now. It’s time to start interviewing the slaves.”

We talked to more than forty slaves, but we got very little out of them. The kitchen contingent were all frightened, and either drunk, or sobering up at the prospect of being blamed for Plautius’ death. The dining-room slaves were simply frightened.

The chef was a tall Athenian, with greying hair and a long nose, down which he looked in a manner at least as haughty as Sempronia’s. He couldn’t escape answering our questions, but he made it clear that he and his cooks were above suspicion, and he certainly wouldn’t demean himself to volunteer any extra titbits of information. I suppose he was allowed to get away with this sort of insolence because he was supremely good at his job.

Yes, he said, he had prepared or supervised all the food. No, he hadn’t poisoned any of it. No, he didn’t know who had. Yes, his staff, though a pack of incompetent cretins, had performed well enough, and he trusted them all completely.

He added just one small point of interest, and then only because he could make it into a complaint. “The visitors’ slaves were a nuisance, coming in and out of my kitchen all night. And one of them hung about the whole time, looking after the special diet for the sick old lord. They kept getting under our feet. I don’t like strangers in the way when I’m working.”

“Which slaves kept coming in and out?” Quintus asked.

“I don’t know their names,” the chef retorted. “There was the physician, and he was at least polite enough to ask my permission. But the others wandered around without a by-your-leave.”

“Would you recognise them again?” I prompted.

“I doubt it. They all look alike in that ridiculous blue livery.”

The assistant chef, Florus, was a welcome contrast, a round, jolly man, and disposed to be helpful. When we asked him to describe what went on during the banquet, he grinned. “Chef was going mad and throwing things, but he often does, when there’s an important dinner. Dimitrius kept threatening all sorts if we made a cock-up, but he often does that too, and in the end Chef bawled him out and he left us alone. Big banquets are always chaos. We just get used to coping.”

“What about the lad who was elected King of the Kitchen?” I asked. “Someone told us he was ordering everyone about. That must have made things even more chaotic.”

He laughed. “Gito? No, it was all just harmless fun. The only orders he gave were that we should all eat and drink as much as we could. He had a bet with another boy that he could eat something from every single dish and drink at least a beaker of each wine, without being sick.” He laughed again. “I don’t know if he managed it. He passed out just after we’d finished clearing the desserts. He’s under a table now, sleeping it off.”

“We’ll talk to him later,” Quintus said. “Thanks for your help.”

The interviews went on, and it felt as if we were trying to piece together a mosaic floor, where we had a lot of small tiles and only a hazy idea of the final picture they would make. The kitchen slaves could tell us fairly clearly who had prepared and cooked which foods, or assembled the dishes that didn’t need cooking. They all confirmed that Timaeus had been adamant about preparing his master’s food, and that Hector had remained on guard and hadn’t allowed himself to be distracted. Well they would, wouldn’t they? I’m sure they were all praying to their gods that we’d find the guilty person among the visitors’ household, and quickly too, before anyone took the more drastic measure of torturing them for their evidence.

The boys and girls who’d waited on us in the dining-room seemed genuinely to have trouble recalling details of who had served the many different items. Each one knew which dishes he or she had taken to the big central table, but when we asked who had served a particular delicacy to a specific guest, we got mostly blank looks. None of the servers were assigned to wait on particular couches or tables, except that Timaeus served Plautius, and Diogenes looked after Sempronia. Otherwise the boys and girls simply took plates and dishes wherever they were needed or requested. They’d all had plenty of experience of large banquets, and they just got on with it.

Finally we decided we should go and inspect the kitchen complex and interview its temporary King. We found the place busy, as the lower-ranking slaves were still cleaning dishes and polishing silver. The chef was nowhere in sight, but his cheerful assistant greeted us with a smile.

“Have you come for a word with His Majesty? He’s under there, taking his ease like the King of the Persians.” He nodded towards a large table, which was piled high with mountains of left-over food. Gito, having sampled its contents, had crawled into the corner under it, and all we could see of him was his sandaled feet. “Here, I’ll pull him out for you. Come on, Gito boy, you’ve got visitors. Somebody get a bowl over here, he’ll probably want to throw up.” He bent and hauled the slave out feet first.

Gito was perhaps eighteen, a handsome boy with glossy black hair and a full mouth. He was wearing a gaudy red cloak that looked like a piece of curtain, and on his head was an elaborate crown made out of an old bit of papyrus decorated with red and blue daubs of ink.

He didn’t throw up. He didn’t move at all. As we looked down on his bluish-grey face and staring eyes, we both went rigid with horror. He wasn’t sleeping off his excesses now.

“Poor boy,” I said, but my voice was drowned in a scream, as one of the girls dropped the bowl she was fetching him and ran to crouch by his head. She was a pretty blonde, one of the table slaves we’d already seen, but now her face was twisted with fear.

“Gito! Oh, no, no, my Gito!” She began to cry. “I said you shouldn’t have had the extra dates. I told you you’d gone far enough! Who cares about the stupid bet, I said, you’ll make yourself ill with all this nonsense.”

“Extra dates?” Quintus asked sharply. “What extra dates?”

The girl was sobbing hysterically, so I turned to the assistant chef. “What’s this about extra dates, Florus? Were those the dates with almond paste stuffing?”

“That’s right. We got a good batch of them ready this afternoon, stuffed with paste and decorated with slivers of almond. Then wouldn’t you know it, just before the main course, when everyone was flat out, an order came through from the old lady, saying they were one of her favourites, and one of her husband’s favourites too, but he didn’t like almond pieces, and would we do some more with cherry decorations for him. I suggested we just whip the almond slivers out of some of the ones we’d prepared and bung the cherries on instead, but Chef’s such a perfectionist. He said no, if the lady had asked specially, we’d best make some more. She’s got quite a temper on her, that old—Lady Sempronia. So I gave it to Gito to do. He’d had several beakers by then, it was about the only thing I thought he couldn’t mess up. We had plenty of dates and paste, and I fetched him a jar of preserved cherries. No great problem, just a nuisance. The dinner went on so long, we could probably have gone all the way to Africa for more dates, if we’d had to.”

“And Gito ate some of this second batch, just before he died?”

“Don’t ask me. His girlfriend seems to think so.” Florus bent and touched the weeping girl’s shoulder. “You’ve got to help us now, lass. Dry your tears and answer the lady and gentleman’s questions.”

She raised her head and wiped her eyes on her sleeve. “I’ll try.”

I knelt down beside her and examined Gito’s face carefully. Yes, there were traces of foam around his mouth. “I’m so sorry,” I said as gently as I could. “This is a dreadful thing. You see we don’t think that your Gito died from eating too much. I’m afraid that he was poisoned by something in the food. Like the old lord at the banquet. So it’s important we know what exactly he ate. Now, this second batch of stuffed dates. Did he eat any while he was getting them ready?”

“Oh, no, ma’am! Chef never lets us eat any of the food before it goes through. Leftovers only, we’re allowed.” She sniffed. “Gito’d been stuffing himself like a pig all night. He had this silly bet.” She started to sob.

“So when the dishes were brought back in here, he had some of the original batch with the almonds on them, and then some of the extra special ones with the cherries?”

She nodded. “Just showing off—stupid, stupid! He said, well, after all the trouble I had to make them, the old man hasn’t even finished them all up! And he grabbed a few—maybe three or four, I don’t know. And then he said he felt sick, and his belly hurt him. I’m afraid we all just laughed and told him it served him right, and to lay down somewhere and keep out of everyone’s way. Oh, poor Gito!”