to escort him to Londinium. This time, he left himself free to disappear with the money.”
“The woman says he didn’t have the money,” put in Ruso.
Caratius cleared his throat. “I’m afraid the woman is not reliable, investigator.” He turned to Firmus. “As I said before, I must apologize for the unfortunate way in which you were informed about the problem.”
Ruso pulled the writing tablet from his belt and offered it to Firmus. “I found this under Asper’s bed at the inn, sir,” he said. “It’s addressed to a Room Twenty-seven, but we don’t know where, and the content doesn’t appear to make any sense.”
Firmus held the wax close to his nose, frowned at it, and angled it to catch more light from the window. As he ran one finger along the squiggles and muttered to himself, Caratius’s pale eyes were fixed on the tablet with the gleam of a dog waiting to snatch someone’s dinner. Finally Firmus confessed that he could make no sense of it, and handed it over. Caratius held it at arm’s length, then turned it upside down. Ruso had been hoping for enlightenment, but all Caratius had to offer was, “It must be a coded message.”
Firmus said, “Wouldn’t a code be legible numbers and letters?”
“I’ll have it looked at,” Ruso promised, not wanting to admit his ignorance of spying techniques.
Caratius said, “When you find out what it says, I want to be told straightaway.” He swiveled on the couch to address Firmus. “As I said earlier, sir, it’s a great relief to know that the procurator’s office is already looking into this. If we can help in any way, the Council and the people of Verulamium are at your service.”
“And as I said,” put in Firmus, tactfully refraining from pointing out that the most helpful thing they could do was to send more cash, “our investigator’s already found your missing tax collector for you.”
“But not his accomplice, and not the procurator’s money.”
Ruso got to his feet. He had more important things to do than listen to them sparring over who was going to pay up if the money could not be found. Tilla was right: He should have told Camma about the death straightaway. “Excuse me a moment, will you? I’ll go and see if the doctor’s found any—”
He stopped. There was a living statue blocking his path. He heard a wine cup shatter on the tiles as the statue glided farther into the room, its long red hair flowing over white drapery. Firmus gave a squeak and dodged around to the far side of the couch. The native guard drew his dagger.
The realization that the statue was Camma and the drapery was a sheet did not lessen Ruso’s alarm. This was exactly what he had wanted to avoid. Where was Tilla?
The magistrate was demanding to know what this woman was doing here. The guard stepped between them, dagger leveled at Camma’s throat.
Caratius motioned him back. “It’s all right, Gavo.”
Camma pushed past the guard to stand over the couch. “Where is he?”
The magistrate placed both hands on the couch and got slowly to his feet without taking his eyes off her. Middle-aged man and pale young woman faced each other, their noses almost touching.
“This is a private meeting,” he told her. “You have no right to be here.”
“I know your voice when I hear it. What have you done to him?”
“What have I done? I have done less than I should, woman!”
Only when Ruso seized her by the arm did he realize she was trembling. “Come with me,” he urged. “There’s something we need to tell you.”
Camma looked at him as if she had only just noticed there were other people in the room. “What have they done to him?”
“Come,” he repeated.
“What have they done?”
He managed to persuade her to the doorway, where she spun around and stabbed a finger toward the magistrate. “You will be sorry!”
Tilla was hurrying down the stairs, a bundle of swaddled baby clasped against one shoulder and her spare hand reaching for
“The woman says he didn’t have the money,” put in Ruso.
Caratius cleared his throat. “I’m afraid the woman is not reliable, investigator.” He turned to Firmus. “As I said before, I must apologize for the unfortunate way in which you were informed about the problem.”
Ruso pulled the writing tablet from his belt and offered it to Firmus. “I found this under Asper’s bed at the inn, sir,” he said. “It’s addressed to a Room Twenty-seven, but we don’t know where, and the content doesn’t appear to make any sense.”
Firmus held the wax close to his nose, frowned at it, and angled it to catch more light from the window. As he ran one finger along the squiggles and muttered to himself, Caratius’s pale eyes were fixed on the tablet with the gleam of a dog waiting to snatch someone’s dinner. Finally Firmus confessed that he could make no sense of it, and handed it over. Caratius held it at arm’s length, then turned it upside down. Ruso had been hoping for enlightenment, but all Caratius had to offer was, “It must be a coded message.”
Firmus said, “Wouldn’t a code be legible numbers and letters?”
“I’ll have it looked at,” Ruso promised, not wanting to admit his ignorance of spying techniques.
Caratius said, “When you find out what it says, I want to be told straightaway.” He swiveled on the couch to address Firmus. “As I said earlier, sir, it’s a great relief to know that the procurator’s office is already looking into this. If we can help in any way, the Council and the people of Verulamium are at your service.”
“And as I said,” put in Firmus, tactfully refraining from pointing out that the most helpful thing they could do was to send more cash, “our investigator’s already found your missing tax collector for you.”
“But not his accomplice, and not the procurator’s money.”
Ruso got to his feet. He had more important things to do than listen to them sparring over who was going to pay up if the money could not be found. Tilla was right: He should have told Camma about the death straightaway. “Excuse me a moment, will you? I’ll go and see if the doctor’s found any—”
He stopped. There was a living statue blocking his path. He heard a wine cup shatter on the tiles as the statue glided farther into the room, its long red hair flowing over white drapery. Firmus gave a squeak and dodged around to the far side of the couch. The native guard drew his dagger.
The realization that the statue was Camma and the drapery was a sheet did not lessen Ruso’s alarm. This was exactly what he had wanted to avoid. Where was Tilla?
The magistrate was demanding to know what this woman was doing here. The guard stepped between them, dagger leveled at Camma’s throat.
Caratius motioned him back. “It’s all right, Gavo.”
Camma pushed past the guard to stand over the couch. “Where is he?”
The magistrate placed both hands on the couch and got slowly to his feet without taking his eyes off her. Middle-aged man and pale young woman faced each other, their noses almost touching.
“This is a private meeting,” he told her. “You have no right to be here.”
“I know your voice when I hear it. What have you done to him?”
“What have I done? I have done less than I should, woman!”
Only when Ruso seized her by the arm did he realize she was trembling. “Come with me,” he urged. “There’s something we need to tell you.”
Camma looked at him as if she had only just noticed there were other people in the room. “What have they done to him?”
“Come,” he repeated.
“What have they done?”
He managed to persuade her to the doorway, where she spun around and stabbed a finger toward the magistrate. “You will be sorry!”
Tilla was hurrying down the stairs, a bundle of swaddled baby clasped against one shoulder and her spare hand reaching for
Similar Books
