Read Online The Ides of April by Lindsey Davis - Free Book Online Page A

circle. I identified the stepson’s wife, younger than him and about six months pregnant; she stood among a small group of women of a similar age, probably her own friends coming to support her, rather than people showing respect to the dead woman. They talked inanely of their houses and children, until I moved away.
    I ended up alongside one of those old ladies who loves going to funerals. She could have been my grandma. A tiny, frail figure wrapped in swathes of black, she had had her mourning garments out of the clothes-chest regularly and knew how to keep a head-veil in place, even on a breezy day. She looked vague, and as sweet as honeycake, but without doubt had a vicious tongue when it suited her. I hoped she would be better value than the young housewives.
    ‘Nothing like a good funeral to get you out of the house!’ I said, striking up conversation. She looked interested in my frank attitude. ‘I am Flavia Albia; I had business dealings with the deceased. Did you know Salvidia well?’ There was a chance this treasure had not known Salvidia at all, but just hung around the necropolis every day, attaching herself to any procession that came by; she could gloat at having herself outlived the corpse, whoever it was, and I bet she was adept at tagging along when the chosen few went back to the house for refreshments. Nobody ever likes to challenge an old lady. Gran managed to look inside plenty of strangers’ houses that way.
    ‘Oh I knew her for years. You’re the investigator, aren’t you?’ That told me she did have prior connections, or she would not have known what I did. And as I expected, she took a nosy interest.
    ‘Neighbour?’ I guessed. I wanted to place her before I gave too much away myself.
    She wasn’t having it. She ignored my question with the selective deafness old ladies apply so readily. ‘Such a good son. It’s right that he asked you.’
    I gave up on the first question and lightly posed another. ‘So do
you
think something odd happened?’
    ‘Ooh, I couldn’t say!’ That’s a trick they like to use. None of them are self-effacing really. She pursed her lips to show there was much she
could
say, but she clung on to pretending she was too insignificant to comment. ‘Nobody wants my opinion.’
    ‘I do,’ I challenged her, looking earnest. ‘It doesn’t seem I will be able to do much more than reassure Metellus Nepos, but I’ll try my best. I would welcome the views of someone with your common sense.’
    The old dame gave me a half-reproving look, to say she recognised blatant flattery and it would not work on an owl-wise being like her. I grinned, unfazed.
    I knew she was assessing me. Trying to decide whether she condemned me as a flighty piece, or could just about concede that I was experienced and capable. Clearly, she did not mind me working. She came from low enough in society to accept that many women had to help their husbands earn a living in the family shop, bakery or forge; she understood how some of us had no male head of family, so must find our own way to avoid prostitution yet to bring in money for rent and food. I guessed I would be categorised with manicurists and hairdressers, women who knew about herbal creams and traditional medicines, freed slaves who were literate enough to read or write letters and documents for other people. And yes, the local abortionist.
    I categorised her as a widow of course. Women either die young in childbirth or they tough it out for decades and long survive their husbands.
    The undertaker’s musicians broke into a burst of determined fluting and wailing, so we had to stay silent for a while.
    Afterwards, the moment was lost. I extracted no more from the old lady, who then had to leave early. As she went, she patted my hand and encouraged me. ‘You do what you can for her, dearie.’ She definitely implied that Salvidia had gone before her time.
    As the ancient one departed, someone who must know her remarked that she could not