genuine, it isn’t relevant. In fact, it could have put the idea of murder into Tarquitia’s head in the first place. Marcus, you’re not being reasonable about this. Just because you’re smitten with the girl—’
‘Come on, lady!’
‘That doesn’t mean you can throw common sense out the window. For the present, she’s the obvious candidate. Admit it.’
I grinned. ‘OK. Fair enough. Admitted. Even so, it’s early days yet.’
‘Certainly it is.’ Perilla picked up the knife and the apple again. ‘No argument. But what do you actually
know
about her and her relationship with Surdinus? Apart from what she told you?’
‘Not a lot. Before she took up with him she worked at a club called the Five Poppies, near the vegetable market. Or at least so she said, and there was no reason for her to lie because she volunteered the information herself. I was thinking of going over there tomorrow, having a talk with the owner. See if he or she can fill in a bit of the lady’s background. Then there’s Surdinus’s ex, Cornelia Sullana. I got an address for her out of Junior when I gave him the news that his father’s death was no accident. Pretty smartly, too, with no griping.’ I took another spoonful of the custard. ‘In fact, I’d say he was more pleased than not that I might be sniffing around in that direction, just like he was over the significance of Tarquitia being mentioned in the will. Not much love lost there either, I’d imagine, which is interesting.’
‘I wouldn’t say that Sullana seemed a very likely possibility, dear. I mean, what possible reason would she have for wanting her ex-husband dead? Not a desire for revenge because he’d divorced her and taken a mistress, surely. From what you told me, they’d been virtually estranged for years, and she knew all about Tarquitia long before the divorce happened.’
I shrugged. ‘She’d no reason that I know of. But then nobody does have one, not an obvious one, as far as I can see – barring your front-runner, Tarquitia. I’ll just have to dig around, see what comes up. There’s the other son, too. Marcus. Hellenus, whatever. That’s another possible angle. Oh, sure, Postuma said he hadn’t had any contact with his father for years, but if he wasn’t formally disinherited he’ll have a share of the estate. We don’t know his circumstances, and maybe he suddenly needed a large amount of cash urgently enough to tempt him to cut corners.’
‘That is pure speculation, dear.’
‘Sure it is, no arguments. But I have to start somewhere.’
‘What about the actual killer? The freedman?’
‘Lady, Rome is full of freedmen, and whoever used the guy as the perp isn’t exactly going to advertise their relationship, particularly if he owes his cap to them, which would point the finger pretty effectively. Me, if he was one of my dependants and the fact meant I could be traced through him, I’d make damn sure he got himself well and truly lost for the duration. Get him out of the city altogether, for preference, certainly put the bugger in strict quarantine. Oh, I’ll ask around for a shortish forty-plus-year-old freedman with a mark on his cheek, sure, but I don’t think I’ll get any joy.’ Sad but true: most of the time, unless of course they come specifically to his attention for some reason, to your average middle- or upper-class Roman another man’s (or woman’s) freedmen dependants, like their slaves, are non-people, featureless nonentities. They just don’t get noticed, because they’re of no importance. Ask any three-namer to describe his next-door neighbour’s major-domo to you and the chances are you’ll just get a blank look. Ask some of the more pukkah-sahib types to describe their own and four times out of five you’ll get the same.
‘You might be lucky,’ Perilla said.
‘Yeah, well, just don’t hold your breath, that’s all.’ I finished off the custard. ‘You don’t want yours?’
She shuddered.