Lydia whimpered into her handkerchief. ‘But what about the man who came in through the window and slashed her arm?’
‘My dear Lydia,’ Annia Augusta said severely, ‘do try to concentrate. Of course there never was a man. Fulvia invented the whole story, and no doubt damaged her own arm to make it look convincing. I always thought there was something strange in that. Why should a man who strangled twice suddenly resort to using a knife, and run away just because a woman screamed? Naturally, I assumed that the intruder was Fortunatus, and she had let him in. But I can see she might have done it all herself — though I am surprised she had the courage to cut herself. When did you first suspect her, citizen?’
‘From the very first. Monnius was murdered in his bed, while the servants who were on duty were all drugged. I thought at the time that Fulvia had best access to their wine — and she had that sleeping potion too. She was cunning there — she deliberately bought a draught that Lydia had made, in case suspicion was ever aroused, and then made sure that everyone knew that the liquid in her phial had been exchanged for water. I began to think that my first suspicions were wrong.’
‘Dear Minerva! My sleeping draught would not have drugged those slaves so deeply,’ Lydia cried.
‘Of course not,’ I agreed. ‘But that was not the potion that she used. We know that she had skills with herbs herself. What she put in the servants’ wine was far, far stronger — the same potion that she doubtless used to make sure that everyone was sound asleep whenever Fortunatus came to visit her over the garden wall. Don’t argue, Fortunatus — it is clear you knew the route.’
He coloured, mumbled something indistinct, and fell silent again.
‘Of course,’ Annia said, ‘the slaves who were not on duty that night would not have drunk the potion — or very little of it — so they would waken when she screamed. Wicked, but clever. I always knew she was a schemer! But would Monnius listen to his mother? Doted on her completely, foolish man!’
I nodded. ‘Up to the very end, I think. He was killed, after all, by someone who managed to put a necklace round his neck. He was a big man, and even in a drunken stupor he would never have succumbed to that without a struggle. But if his wife came in — whom, as you say, he worshipped — and put a playful hand under his neck. .’
Lydia looked appalled. ‘You mean she went in to his bed, uninvited?’
‘He often summoned her to him. We have the old nurse’s word for that. If he was as drunk as people say that night, I doubt he even stopped to question why she came. She put the necklace round his neck and pulled it tight. But she was not certain of killing him — he was not like the little slave-boy in the corridor. It seems he struggled. She had to kneel on him and hold the pillow over him to make sure that he was dead. Again, that did not sound like our supposed intruder. Fulvia talked about a “big man”, but any fit male — like Fortunatus here — could have throttled a drunken Monnius with own two hands. Certainly he would not need to finish off the victim by holding down the pillow until it split its seam. And why bother with the necklace? Why not use the knife?’
‘Because it was my necklace,’ Annia Augusta said. ‘Just as the sleeping draught was Lydia’s. Fulvia had one just like it of her own, but she could produce that with a flourish, and look innocent.’
‘Exactly, madam citizen,’ I said. ‘That was the way throughout — everything would point to Fulvia, but then another explanation raised its head. A kind of double-bluff. Your Glaucus would approve of that, Fortunatus. Like the chariots of Calyx, you should not bet on what you think you see.’
‘More clever than I took her for,’ Fortunatus said, and there was admiration in his voice.
‘Not as clever as all that,’ I said. ‘That necklace had been with the silversmith for mending. If anybody asked Annia about it, as I did, she would reply that it was not in the house. That would raise all kinds of suspicions, naturally. But that was Fulvia’s mistake — the necklace was returned that evening at the feast, and only she and Monnius were there. No one else could even know it was back.’
‘Someone could have found it, I suppose,’ Fortunatus said. He seemed disposed to argue for his erstwhile lover suddenly. ‘No doubt Monnius took it to his room. Just as they must have found the knife.’
‘Do not be absurd, young man. You think they found the necklace first, and then went into the corridor and throttled the pageboy with it before returning to Monnius?’ Annia Augusta’s mind was sharp. I was beginning to have a certain respect for it.
Fortunatus shook his head. ‘I suppose you’re right. And throttling the pageboy first suggested that the killer came from the corridor.’ He frowned. ‘But she didn’t come from the corridor. How did she come to kill the pageboy first?’
I smiled. ‘But she did come from the corridor. She had been here, in the librarium, hiding the money from the chest — another ploy to allay suspicion, suggesting that there had been a theft. It was her nurse, Prisca, who alerted me to that possibility — her mistress often paced the corridors, she said. Fulvia tried to shut her up at the time. I did not see the importance of her words. But I have thought about it since. And there was something else. There was something peculiar in the wine, Prisca said. She tried to warn the boy, but said he was asleep before his head had touched the floor. That suggests that she was not asleep. And when the servants rushed downstairs to help, there was Prisca, tending Fulvia. Clearly she didn’t drink the stuff herself.’
‘So you think that she was awake all the time? She witnessed what Fulvia was doing?’
‘I believe so. Fulvia didn’t realise that, of course — until the old nurse began to babble on to me. I think she often feigned sleep when Fulvia thought her drugged. Of course, Prisca would have faced the lions for Fulvia — she was finding excuses for her even then. Monnius was a monster, a brute — she was telling her mistress that she understood. But she was a danger all the same. She let slip to me that Fortunatus was Fulvia’s lover — not intentionally, perhaps, but that was worse. She could not be relied on to be discreet. She sealed her own death warrant with that mistake.’
‘Fulvia killed her too?’ Lydia’s question was a yelp. ‘But she loved Prisca.’
‘Fulvia loved no one but herself,’ Annia Augusta snapped. ‘I always said so, even to Monnius.’
‘But see how she had the body anointed and prepared,’ Lydia insisted.
‘She was playing the part of the distraught mistress. Ruthless,’ I put in. ‘I knew she had a heartless streak — I once saw her force her page to taste a potion. Of course, she knew that it was only water — she put it there herself — but the poor little lad did not know that. Yet he drank it for her. She seems to have inspired that kind of loyalty. And by making Prisca taste her food thereafter, of course she made it easier to poison her — and claim Prisca’s death as proof that she was in danger herself.’
‘Poor Prisca,’ Lydia lamented. ‘All that poison-tasting too. I’ll sacrifice a pigeon for her tomorrow.’
‘And there’s another thing. Why should a woman who has been attacked with a knife seek to defend herself by installing a poison-taster, rather than, say, a bodyguard? But Fulvia contrived to make it seem quite logical. Like that arm of hers — scratched just enough to make a lot of blood. We never saw the wound. And it was her left arm — most people raise their right hand to defend themselves. She was right-handed; I saw her tie her belt. I should have noticed at the time, but somehow she charmed me too.’
Annia’s maidservant chose that moment to return with her handful of salt and her little bowl of coals. She stopped at the doorway, while the undertaker’s assistant hovered behind her with a bowl of water and a bunch of herbs. Annia Augusta looked at me. I nodded.
‘Go to the lady Fulvia’s cubiculum,’ she said. ‘Purify the room and prepare her for burial at once — she will accompany her husband to the pyre.’