‘Gaius’s partner. Publius Poetelius.’
Shit. My spine went cold. ‘He told you that? Tullius himself?’
‘Yes. Right at the start. It was a loveless marriage on both sides, he said, but a divorce wasn’t possible because his wife controlled the purse strings, and in any case they had their separate lives. That suited me. I wouldn’t’ve wanted anything permanent anyway. All I wanted was a bit of excitement.’ She sounded bitter as hell. ‘Stupid, you see?’
I didn’t comment. ‘So who do you think sent the letter?’
She shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’
‘OK. One more thing. You said that when your husband went round to Tullius’s office he didn’t actually see him. How do you know that? I mean, if the last time you saw him was when he walked out the door on his way there-’
Her face clouded. ‘But it wasn’t. Of course it wasn’t. You’ve talked to Lucilius, you must’ve done or you wouldn’t’ve known where to find me.’
‘You’ve seen him since?’
‘Of course I have. He came round here the next day. In the afternoon.’
‘He did what?’
‘He wanted to make sure that I was all right. Me and the kids.’ There were tears in her eyes. ‘Just that. I thought he might ask me to come back, but he didn’t. I wanted to, but he said it was too soon, he needed time to think things over. Didn’t he tell you that?’
So Festus had an alibi for the whole day of the murder after all. Or on the face of it he did anyway, because the Capenan Gate and Trigemina Gate Street were on opposite sides of the city, and if he’d come all the way across here, he wouldn’t’ve had time in a couple of hours to have done the murder as well. ‘No,’ I said. ‘He didn’t tell me. He said he’d gone to pay his respects at the Temple of Mercury. Now why the hell would he lie about that?’
She looked away. ‘Because he’s a proud man whose wife’s been unfaithful to him for no reason at all,’ she said. ‘What cuckolded husband would admit going all the way across Rome just to make sure his wife was safely with her mother the day after he’s told her to get out of the house and not come back? Of course he lied to you. He’d’ve lied to anyone.’
Yeah, well; I supposed it made sense, or some sort of sense, anyway. And at least, barring Vecilius as being responsible, I could draw a line through Festus as the killer.
‘Fine, lady,’ I said. ‘Thanks for your help. It’s been very useful.’
I turned to go.
‘Corvinus?’
I turned back. ‘Yeah?’
‘If you see Lucilius, tell him I’m sorry. Just that.’
‘I’ll tell him,’ I said, and left.
Gods! There’d been a couple of eye-openers there, and no mistake. Particularly the business about Annia and Poetelius. That opened a whole new can of worms, and it needed thinking about.
I set off towards Trigemina Gate Street and a possible interview with Hermia.
When I knocked on the door of the house next to the glass workshop I was keeping a leery eye out: judging by what had happened the last time our paths had crossed, Vecilius wouldn’t exactly be overjoyed if he found me paying a visit to his wife, and I valued my teeth too much to take any risks. Eventually, the door was opened by a woman about Marcia’s age. The gossipy owner of the wineshop hadn’t been exaggerating, because she was a honey: small, plump, curvy, with jet-black hair and a heart-shaped face, currently disfigured by a beaut of a shiner the colour of an overripe plum.
‘Yes?’ she said.
I was staring at her eye. ‘Uh … my name’s Corvinus,’ I said. ‘Could I have a word with you, do you think? It’s about Gaius Tullius.’
‘Tullius is dead.’ She made to shut the door.
I put out my hand to stop it closing. ‘Yeah, I know. That’s the point. I’m representing his widow, and I need to ask you a few questions. No hassle. It won’t take long.’
For an instant, she looked frightened. She glanced past me towards the door of the workshop, hesitated, then shrugged and stepped back.
‘Please yourself,’ she murmured. ‘Come in.’
I followed her inside: another two-up, two-down property with the public rooms either side of a central corridor. She opened one of the doors.
‘In here. Make yourself comfortable.’
There were a couple of couches, two or three stools, and a dresser with crockery on it, plus a scattering of ornaments and a small family altar in the corner. Not exactly tidy, in fact the dresser and the altar showed distinct traces of dust. Clearly not the house-proud type, sweet little Hermia. I pulled up one of the stools and sat down, while she sat on one of the couches.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘Let’s have the questions.’
Cool enough, but her hands were clasped tightly together in her lap. I noticed they were trembling.
‘You were having an affair with him, right?’ I said.
‘“Affair” is the wrong word. We were seeing each other, yes, but it hadn’t gone beyond that.’
‘OK. So when did things start?’
‘Just under a month ago.’ Black eye aside, she looked and sounded like a schoolgirl reciting a lesson to the teacher. ‘Gaius had been at the workshop on business. When he came out, I was unlocking the house door. I was carrying some vegetables from the market, and I dropped a cabbage on the doorstep. He picked it up and brought it inside for me, so I asked him if he’d like a cup of wine before he went back to his office. Just politeness, you know?’
I nodded, but said nothing.
‘Anyway, we chatted for about an hour, and the next day he came round again. To see me, not Titus, he made that clear at the start. The third time, a few days later, he was back, this time with a present – nothing big, just a trinket – and … well … he kissed me when he left. The fourth time-’ she hesitated and lowered her eyes demurely – ‘the fourth time he suggested we go to bed together. I refused point blank, of course, he apologized, and that was that. At least, I thought it was.’ She raised her eyes again and gave me a straight look. ‘In any case, that’s all that ever happened between us as far as I was concerned. I swear it.’
‘Fine.’ Yeah, well, whatever the truth of it – and, oath or not, I wouldn’t’ve trusted this little lady to give me the right time of day – the modus operandi fitted: bored young housewife left on her own, good-looking admirer from a couple of notches above her in the social scale with a smooth line in chat that left the husband nowhere. Tullius had had it all worked out. ‘The day before he died. You had a spat with his actual mistress, Marcia, right?’
She nodded. ‘It was horrible. I’ve known Marcia for years, practically since she moved here, but I didn’t know she was involved with Gaius. She came round to the house that morning and accused me of stealing him off her. Then Titus walked in. We had a blazing row after she left.’ She lowered her eyes. ‘I managed to convince him there was nothing to it, that Gaius had only been trying it on, but I couldn’t stop him going to the office to have things out. In the event he never saw him, because Gaius was away on business, so he came straight back.’
‘So what happened the next day? The day of the murder?’ I waited, but there was no answer. ‘Come on, lady,’ I said finally. ‘If you don’t tell me I’ll just get it eventually from elsewhere. And playing coy might not be too hot an idea at this stage.’
She took a deep breath. ‘We’d … Titus hadn’t spoken a word to me since he got back from Gaius’s office. When I woke up the next morning he’d already gone out. I had breakfast, then did the shopping. Titus usually comes home for lunch at midday, but that day he didn’t, so I thought I’d make a special effort for dinner. Stuffed vegetables in a wine and onion sauce. They’re his favourite. Anyway, I’d done the vegetables and I was just putting the pot on the stove when Gaius walked into the kitchen.’
I blinked, but said nothing.
‘I never thought he’d come back. I wasn’t expecting him, I swear it. The front door was open as usual, and he’d just let himself in. Before I could say or do anything, he grabbed me and started … pulling at my tunic, trying to kiss me. I was fighting him off when Titus came in, reeling drunk. He pulled Gaius away, and Gaius ran for the door. Titus started after him, but he tripped over a stool. I went to help him up and he hit me.’ She touched her eye. ‘Then he ran out after Gaius. That was the last I saw of him until two of his wineshop cronies carried him in drunk just before sunset.’