“Ah,” said Ruso, wishing he had remembered to warn Firmus about the reward.
“But even if the body is one of our men, it seems he didn’t have the money with him.”
“I see,” said Ruso, wondering whether Firmus had really imagined that the finder might hand over the cash.
“Let’s hope the other one turns up soon,” said Firmus cheerfully. “Verulamium will have to talk to the procurator about the money, but at least our problem will be solved.”
“That depends on how he died,” said Ruso, hoping it was not Asper at all. No matter what Tilla said, the wife clearly did not think she would be better off without him.
“Does it matter how he died?”
“I’ll let you know,” promised Ruso.
The body was in a narrow and vile-smelling alleyway that ran up from the docks between the yard of the Blue Moon-the inn he had seen from the ship yesterday-and the back wall of a stable block. It was indeed that of a tallish, thirtyish, brown-haired man who was graying at the temples and had a crescent-shaped scar under his right eye. Apart from a flushed complexion and the awkward angle of his head, he looked as though he had chosen this soft patch of mud at the foot of a damp wall to settle down, close his eyes, and worry about his problems. After shooing off a gaggle of curious children, Ruso crouched beside him and slid two fingers behind the jaw in what he knew would be a futile hunt for a pulse. The chill of the clammy skin and the stiffness of the corpse suggested the man had been dead for hours. Despite that, neither his cloak nor his sturdy new boots had been stolen.
“Is that him, then, boss?” The innkeeper who had reported the find was one of the people Ruso had approached during yesterday’s search: a round-shouldered optimist who seemed to think that combing the remains of his hair forward would hide its retreat underneath.
Ruso pulled the thin blanket up again so that only the head was showing. He beckoned to one of the procurator’s income clerks, who was standing in the sunshine at the foot of the alley with a couple of porters. The man picked his way through the mud with obvious reluctance, gave a quick look, and confirmed that this was the man who had delivered taxes from Verulamium. Moments later Ruso watched him hurry away with orders to tell Firmus that Asper had been found, and that a full report would arrive later. He would give the wife the bad news himself. Then he would have to resume the hunt for Bericus.
“Glad to be of service, sir,” said the innkeeper. “I thought he was a drunk to start off with, but he looks too good, don’t he?”
Good was a relative term. “It was you who found him?”
“First thing this morning, when I come out to empty the slops.”
No wonder the alley smelled so bad.
“We sent a message straight off, in case it was your man.”
Instead of replying, Ruso bent to examine the pattern of nails in the victim’s boots. Then he checked to remind himself what his own footprints looked like and surveyed the mud of the alleyway. “Show me your shoes.”
“Very clever, sir,” observed the innkeeper. “I can tell you’re an investigator. Looking for footprints, eh?”
Ruso walked the short distance to the top of the alley, looked both ways along the street, and strolled back again.
“Any luck, sir?”
“Can’t say,” lied Ruso. Any footprints that might have led to a villain had been obscured, either by himself, the procurator’s man, the curious children, or the innkeeper. The innkeeper seemed to have circled the body several times to view it from different angles and run up and down the alleyway, perhaps in search of help.
“Can you get him moved, sir? I got work to do and the wife don’t like cooking with a body around the back.”
Ruso got to his feet and beckoned to the slaves he had borrowed from the procurator’s office. They were carrying one of the builder’s ladders, pressed into service as a stretcher. “You found him first thing this morning? So he’d been out here all night?”
“I wouldn’t know, sir.”
“Did you hear anything out here after dark?”
“Not a thing, sir. Well, no more than usual. Usually something or other sets the dog going, but they clear off once he starts.”
“And you’ve never seen him before?”
“Never, boss. I’d have told you yesterday.”
“I see,” said Ruso, reaching up to trail one finger along the soft moss growing on the high wall of the inn yard. As he did so, a furious deep-throated barking erupted. He withdrew the hand as something began to scrabble at the wall from the other side.
“It’s all right, Cerberus!” shouted the innkeeper. “Settle down!”
The din subsided and Ruso turned to help his stretcher bearers. “Doctor Valens’s house,” he ordered them. “Go straight to the surgery entrance, not the main door. Tell whoever answers that it’s from Ruso and not to say a word to the rest of the house. I’ll sort everything out when I get there.”
The slaves set off to carry the remains of Julius Asper down the alleyway. Ruso examined the area where he had been lying. It was just as wet as the ground around it.
“Now that you’ve found him, sir,” prompted the innkeeper, “who do I see about the reward?”
Ruso leaned back against the wall and checked that his knife was in place before folding his arms in a deliberately casual stance. “You won’t be getting the reward,” he said. “It’s more likely you’ll be tried for murdering him.”
“Me, sir? Oh no, you’ve got that all wrong!”
“What was he doing in your yard?”
The innkeeper opened his mouth to protest further. The only sound that came out was a faint squeak. He gestured toward the mud as if expecting it to answer for him. Finally he exhaled. “It’s not how it looks, sir. I swear.”
“I hope not.”
“It’s the wife, sir. I told her not to get involved, but she’s softhearted. Three-legged dogs, pigeons with broken wings-you name it, she takes it in. She’s soft, see? I keep telling her, it’s no good being too soft. Now look what’s happened.”
“I’ll need to talk to both of you.”
“Me, I said we should tell you the truth straight off. It was her what said nobody would believe us. And we was only trying to help him, poor bugger.”
Whatever their intentions, Asper was beyond help now.
The innkeeper was shaking his head. “I knew it would never work,” he continued. “I told her, we don’t know nothing about this sort of thing. Footprints and so on. We never thought about footprints.”
Ruso said nothing. They had not thought about the man’s clothes, either, which had been dry despite the rain in the early hours of the morning. Nor had they noticed that the efforts to heave Julius Asper over their yard wall had scraped off some of the moss, which had landed in the mud beneath him. Since nobody else could have got past the dog, they were the only plausible culprits.
The man ran one hand through his hair, then hastily smoothed it forward over the bald patch. “How much trouble are we in, sir?”
“That depends on what you’ve done,” said Ruso. “And don’t waste my time with any more tales, because you’re an even worse liar than I am.”
11
Since coming back to Britannia, Ruso seemed to have discovered an ability to frighten people. Yesterday he had scared off two small boys in the street, and today he had managed to terrify an innkeeper’s wife. She now sat opposite him, weeping over a kitchen table still scattered with vegetable peelings and cat hair. The husband sat next to her, grimfaced. His defense for dumping a dead man and then pretending to find him again seemed to be that they were only trying to help and, “We didn’t know what else to do.”
Privately Ruso felt that this sentence would have been more honest if it had ended, “We didn’t know what else to do to get the procurator’s reward,” but for the moment he was more interested in finding out what the elusive Julius Asper had been doing here all alone in the first place.