Pandora's Boy Page 7

  “All the same, I would like to know,” I attempted. “I will be discreet; that is my job. But when I come to make my assessment, it will help if I understand this.”

  I watched her think about it. She clasped and unclasped her small fat fingers as if that assisted with challenging decisions. I noticed she wore many rings. Some must have grown too tight to take off. The dramatic bijouterie was in contrast to her rooms, which were furnished in the same easy style as her son’s, nowhere near as heavily formal as the apartment where his wife’s mother lived.

  “Let me consider that, Flavia Albia.” Then, impulsively, she leaned toward me again, unable to resist saying, “It was political!”

  A man would have winked; in other company I might have winked back. Too refined for that, Volumnia Paulla screwed up her whole face to include me in a knowing look. I nodded back as if I took the point. Instead I added it to the queries I needed to follow up another time, with more dependable witnesses.

  “Not for money reasons, then?” It was worth one more try.

  “Oh, no, the Cestii are well off.” I could see Volumnia Paulla being torn between some need to be discreet and the lovely allure of gossip. “They had a big inheritance. And, in their way, you know, they are extremely decent people.”

  “The father writes? He is a historian?”

  “I don’t know about that!” Volumnia Paulla came close to a shudder, which confirmed for me that women in this family were unlettered.

  It meant that when Clodia was heartbroken, she could not lock herself in her bedroom composing tragic poetry. Still, that would have saved her one day having to go through her scroll boxes, weeding out ghastly odes in case some new husband poked into her mementos … just as I had a few weeks ago. Some of mine were horrible.

  I moved aside the silver tot my tiny drink came in, and placed it neatly upon its companion, the dinky little silver sweetmeat dish. I then positioned them dead center on a mat on a goat-legged table. I set my note-tablet aside, next to the metalware.

  Sighing quietly, I too folded my hands together, though I had no big jewels to play with, only a simple wedding ring. My hand went to my throat to loosen the cord that held my husband’s two rings.

  “Volumnia Paulla, I am sorry to do this, but I must question you about the story that there was a love-potion.”

  Immediately defensive, she demanded, “What do they say?”

  “Sentia and her mother? That they only ever patronize the supplier, Pandora, for innocent cosmetics. Tell me, do you buy her stuff? Do you know her?”

  “No.” Volumnia Paulla’s demure reply suggested she was a woman who never needed artificial beauty aids. But her wide round face had skin like a child’s. If emollient balms were not applied at least twice daily here to achieve that look, I was a Batavian’s auntie.

  I thought she could more wisely have been put on a regimen of vomiting after lunch to slim down. Still, it does not do to give clients advice. Stick to your remit.

  “They assured me many people go to Pandora for creams,” I said neutrally, “but nothing else was ever bought…” I could have mentioned the maternal grandma’s hemorrhoid pills, but was too discreet. “No love-potion. So Clodia, they are certain, could not have been killed that way.”

  “Pig’s pizzle!” screeched Clodia’s paternal granny at the top of her voice.

  I was startled. She was a nice woman, in her really nice apartment, refusing to gossip and serving polite edibles. A phrase that would be used by plebeian men on the Aventine seemed out of place. Uttered in her little-girl voice, it was doubly shocking.

  “You think they are lying?” I managed to ask, as I wondered if she had learned the phrase from her supposedly difficult husband.

  “They got it for her.”

  “But at the time, you could not discover evidence that any potion ever existed?”

  “No. But it did.”

  “No trace was found? No proof?”

  “Marcia Sentilla took away the container and disposed of it.” Volumnia Paulla was so bitter I began to see how the two women had come to blows.

  “You know that for sure?”

  “That is what she would do.” It rang true; I could see Marcia Sentilla as a fixer. She had been determined to manipulate me when I visited. I easily envisaged her palming incriminating evidence.

  “You and she were friends once.”

  “I was deluded then, now I see through her wiles.” Volumnia spoke baldly. Nothing would alter her opinion of Marcia Sentilla. Even if I went on to find some other cause for their granddaughter’s death, I would have my work cut out to convince this one.

  She rounded on me. “Do you believe what they say?”

  I made an appeasing gesture. “It is only my first day. Still, my inquiries are already leading me to think something disagreed with Clodia. Illness does sometimes flare up very fast. It could be as simple as bad meat or rotten fish—”

  “It could not!” Her grandmother was vehement. I had to be careful or her scorn would lead to Firmus ending my commission. Clients’ mothers can be a nightmare. Only worse are clients’ children who are hoping for legacies. “We all ate together. As we often did. We all had the same. No one else was affected. Do you think my son and I are idiots? We ascertained that straight away. Who ate what. It was the first thing we did.”

  Again I tried to calm her. “That’s good. Very far-sighted. I am delighted you did so. Time has gone by since the poor girl was found; it is vital that such questions were asked immediately…” I managed to change the topic, relieving some tension: “So Clodia was at home with her family? Was she here all day?”

  “I took her out with me in the afternoon. Her father was going to buy her a present, so we went and looked at vanity boxes—we chose one, in fact.”

  “Her father thinks Clodia knew nothing about the present!” I was amused to hear this was untrue. The Volumnius women were an organized bunch on both sides. “And didn’t he ask her mother to suggest something suitable?”

  “Yes, but, typical Clodia, she was very good at outflanking people.” Volumnia Paulla got to her feet with a struggle. She waddled to a closed cupboard, from which she brought out a wrapped parcel, big enough for her to carry it with her arms wide, though it looked almost too heavy to manage. I moved the items on my side table, so she could set it down and open it to reveal a stunning makeup box. It was new. To me it looked like traditional Campanian work; rectangular in shape, the beautiful thing was decorated with carved ivory corner pieces and plaques showing female figures.

  “It is fully fitted.”

  Of course it was: only the best for sweet little Clodia. She had taste! Inside was a shallow lift-out tray that held a chased silver hand mirror, a comb and a saucer, plus a full range of cosmetic spatulas and mixers, tweezers and nail gadgets. Under the tray was a space big enough for a pair of casual slippers, with several exquisite glass perfume bottles, probably Syrian, decorated with mixed trails of buttercup yellow, white and deep blue.

  “I know two teenage girls who would be entranced by this!”

  Volumnia Paulla wiped away a tear. “My Clodia loved it. As soon as she saw it she squealed out loud and wanted it. We bought it on the spot. In case the man sold it elsewhere. He wouldn’t let me reserve it. Oh dear…”

  As the memory affected her, I gave the sad grandmother time to recover. I myself closed up the box. I gently refolded the wrappings, then carried it back to the cupboard.

  “She had wanted to go out to meet her friends that evening,” Volumnia Paulla said, managing to rally. Without prompting, she picked up the story of Clodia’s last day. “Her father refused, while there was still so much trouble with her. All those young people ever do is hang around in groups, talking about their romances. Most of them were older; Clodia was still only fifteen. The rest may be ready to think about marriage, but she had more time. Constantly speculating about who would end up with whom was unhealthy for Clodia.”

  “Still, I don’t imagine she
was happy about being kept in that night?”

  “She ran off to her room, telling us to leave her alone,” Volumnia Paulla confirmed. “She fastened the door and stayed there. I admit we were going through a difficult period. Ructions were not unusual. I came back to my apartment while my son went out; he had to meet someone who needed his help with a business problem. He is always so generous with his time … Now I wish I had gone to Clodia. If she was swallowing poison, even if she thought it was something harmless, I would have stopped her.”

  “Was this still early in the evening?”

  “I suppose so. It was still light.”

  I sat quietly thinking. What does an unhappy fifteen-year-old girl do by herself in her room, when she has argued with her relatives? What does she do if she is not writing poetry?

  I could think of one answer.

  They all think she stays alone moping for hours, but they are wrong. She secretly does a runner.

  XII

  Leaving the dumpy dowager, I went along the balcony back to her son’s apartment. I asked the old door porter to show me Clodia’s room again. “I need another quick look to check something. No need to disturb your master.”

  Volumnius Firmus must still think I was closeted with his mother, so for once he failed to bounce out to see what I was doing. The porter, who was inquisitive about how an informer worked, came with me. “Your job must be very interesting, Flavia Albia.”

  “I’d like it more if it paid the rent! I would tell you the secrets of my trade, but if they exist I haven’t discovered them. It’s all routine, really. Thank goodness for decent people like you who help me out.”

  The porter basked in this chit-chat. He cannot have met many smart-talking freelance women. He was a long-faced slave who must have guarded the same door for years. He and the hinges had gathered rust together. The Volumnii probably called him the salt of the earth yet gave their creaky retainer a very small handout each Saturnalia. I imagined that for decades he had hoped in vain for a bigger bonus. Disappointment hung on him like spider’s webs on a cornice.

  All the rooms in this apartment suite were situated in a line, with one long access corridor running behind them. We walked down; I conducted a discreet survey. Each room had a door from the corridor, with one or more windows on the opposite side, looking out to the balcony. It was more private than homes where you passed through each room to reach the next, though it had a communal quality because, unless you fastened your shutters very tight, anyone on the veranda could squint in to see what you were up to. I would not have lived that way.

  It is a fact of life that shutter-fixings never work. This is partly because shutters warp. Building managers love that. They have an excuse to invade your room on the pretense that they are oiling the catches; some will even bring a bowl of oil and a feather, as if genuinely doing so. It’s camouflage. If you are out they will pinch any money you foolishly left, or if you are at home they will suggest you sleep with them. Just thinking about it made me queasy. Tiberius might have run us close to bankruptcy with our new house, but how glad I was that we now owned our own.

  Again, I wondered where he was, and if he ever thought of me.

  *

  There was no lock on the door to Clodia Volumnia’s bedroom. My parents would approve. They refuse to have children able to deny them entrance; they call it a safety measure. “What if there was a fire, darling, while you were fast asleep?”

  Clodia’s mother had said she “fastened” the door. Keeping my voice low, I said to the porter, “I don’t suppose you know how Clodia kept people out when she wanted to hide away undisturbed?”

  Everybody must have known. “Oh, she used to push her bed against the door.” The door opened inward from the corridor.

  “Had she done that on the night she died? Did Chryse have to batter her way in next morning?”

  “Not as far as I know. Times when she had to, Chryse usually stood outside with her head by the crack and talked her out of it. Once I gave her a leg-up so she could clamber in at the window. Chryse’s not exactly acrobatic. But the young mistress was a good girl really. Even if she was upset, she normally let Chryse in. Chryse only had to call out, Sweetheart, I’ve brought you a nice bowl of walnut dates! Those were her favorite.”

  The bed that sometimes served as a barricade now stood with its headboard against a side wall, looking innocent, just as it had when I came in here with Chryse. That was its usual intended position, for the simple mosaic floor had a pattern with borders to outline its space. The bed was single size, though wider than the one Dorotheus had found for me. I gave it a nudge with my knee. It moved. Clodia could have swung it around and across the room if she was set on wedging the door.

  I murmured, as if still thinking this through, “But on the crucial morning, the maid was able to go in. Even if Clodia kept people out on the evening before, she must have put the bed back to normal when she went to sleep…”

  “Yes, she must have done,” the porter agreed. “I saw Chryse trot along the corridor, like she always did, with the bowl of warm water for washing her face in. The first sound, I remember,” he said, “was the bowl jangling on the floor when Chryse dropped it, then her screaming her head off when she found what she found.”

  “Poor Clodia dead?” I hoped he might let slip more details of the scene.

  He only nodded. I guessed he had been warned to say no more. Since door porters lead a thankless life, I did not push him. At this stage, I was trying not to get him into trouble.

  Mind you, I was not trying hard. “Do you stay on duty by the front door all the time, until you lock up everything at night?” He said yes. “So, tell me honestly: that evening, did you see Clodia sneak out?” He said no. He seemed unsurprised by my question. That told me she had done it on other occasions. The staff knew she went, and how she managed to do it, even if her parents did not.

  The defiant girl must have waited until her father had gone to his meeting, her grandmother had returned to her own rooms and there was no one outside on the balcony. Then Clodia had shinned out of her window. If a much older nursemaid could get in that way, a determined fifteen-year-old would easily get out. She would have left her bed against the room door, moving it back quietly once she eventually came home.

  XIII

  I left quickly, before anybody else noticed what the porter and I were doing. I went back to the room they had given me. I spent some time going over my notes, before I ate an early supper. The lettuce from Min the fertility god’s stall oozed sap in a way I found far from erotic. Where the hell was Tiberius?

  I had a cold collation to go with the invigorating greens. The informer’s code says look after yourself. For most of the men this means a takeaway Chicken Vardana slathered in fish-pickle sauce; for me it meant decent Lucanian sausage with salad. At home, I would have topped off my home-concocted side with toasted pine nuts.

  I toast them myself in a pannikin. It’s the only way to be sure they are browned uniformly but not burned. Some things are worth that little extra trouble.

  This is not irrelevant. A patient attitude makes me a good informer.

  *

  Evening had arrived but in October twilight lingers, so I decided to go out. I had met all the Volumnii; I was ready to seek more background material. I would track down one or other of the customers whose names my father had given me. Any lead from him would be useful; besides, next time I saw Falco, he would nag me about what his contacts had come up with. I might as well do it.

  The first, some kind of lawyer, lived near the Temple of Jupiter the Victor. He was not at home. This was no surprise. Those who could afford to buy antiques, especially from the price-hiking Didius firm, would be cultured people with concerts and dramas to attend, recipients of many social invitations. The rich hardly have time to enjoy being leisured.

  The next man’s name was Iucundus. He had run a transport business, though was now retired on the proceeds. He lived in an apartment in a street named
after the Pila Tiburtina, a column commemorating some ancient victory. He must have an interest in history because there was an equally old Temple of Flora nearby.

  My father had given flawless directions. Laia could have learned from him. As an informer, Falco spent many hours dismally searching for locations. This had produced his theory that when you are worn out and lost, just go into a bar. Sometimes serendipitously the barman will know the place you want; if not, give up and get drunk.

  No daughter of Didius Falco was allowed to go tippling in taverns, or so he said—at least, not without him to share the wine. To avoid it, he had made sure I had enough details to walk straight to the fine abode of Iucundus, without a wrong turn.

  Iucundus had fended off social pleasure and snatched an evening to himself. Nevertheless he welcomed me. “Anyone sent by Falco! I am only surprised he didn’t come himself, bearing his usual convivial flagon. Your father and I have passed many a wonderful evening, at the end of which I have discovered that I owed him a lot of money for some gorgeous thing I had not even known I wanted.”

  “He does sell nice objects,” I replied demurely. To be honest, our family business shifts wagonloads of trash as well. But the many shelves of Greek black-figure vases that lined the rooms in this handsome masculine apartment told their own story. For Iucundus, collecting was an unstoppable addiction. Falco, and my roguish grandfather Geminus before him, supplied his needs as if prescribing medical pick-me-ups. They appeared kindly; he was happy. I admired his hoard, among which, it is true to say, I spotted no ludicrous fakes.

  Iucundus was a portly man of at least sixty, with a red face and a rolling gait. He enjoyed life in all its aspects. This would kill him but, as he said with a roar of laughter, we all must die. One day—soon, I reckoned—his huge collection would come back to the auction house for a rather good estate sale. He admitted this himself, undaunted by what others might view as a tragedy. He had taken pleasure in every pot. He was perfectly content that when his time was up, someone else would have the chance to love these things as he did.