In the Shadow of Vesuvius Read online

  “His work doesn’t always take him there,” I said. “If he was painting, he could have been anywhere in the excavations, including the House of the Tragic Poet.”

  “You’ve gone completely off the rails with this one,” Kat said. “Benjamin—Mr. Carter—would never hurt me. I believe I’m on safe ground claiming to know him better than either of you.”

  “Be that as it may, I’d prefer to see you spend less time with him,” Colin said.

  “Now you’ll tell me better safe than sorry, I suppose.” Kat was fuming, but for once, her ire was directed at her father instead of me.

  AD 79

  20

  Oh, that I had ignored those words uttered by Silvanus as I sat in his litter, ready to go home after the banquet! But I did not. Nor did I refuse to see him the next morning, when he appeared at my father’s house. I’m ashamed to admit that every noble virtue I possessed flew out the window when I saw him standing in our modest atrium.

  “Your presence last night took me by surprise,” he said. He greeted my father like an old friend and, after ordering copies of three books, pulled me aside, into our tiny garden that struggled to let even an insufficient amount of natural light into the house. “You look content, which pleases me. I know you’ve always meant a great deal to my wife and I’m glad to see you so happily settled in a lovely home.”

  “More like a suitable home,” I said, scowling. “Don’t pretend it’s more. It’s small, but serves its purpose.”

  “The wall paintings are of the finest quality. Your father was right to ask me to secure Melas for him.”

  “I don’t imagine you’ve come here to discuss a Greek artist,” I said, suddenly feeling ill at ease.

  “No, I did not. I find myself missing your poetry, Kassandra.”

  “Did you hire someone to do the graffiti?” I asked. “I’ve seen it throughout the city.”

  “Yes, I wanted to share your words with the world. They’re already wildly popular—your work resonates with everyone in the city—and now I’m hoping to persuade you to write more for me.”

  I shrugged. “There’s no reason I wouldn’t. You only need ask.”

  “It’s not so simple. I should like to keep our connection private at present.” He was standing close to me—a habit, apparently—and held his hand up to my cheek, but did not touch it. I could feel his heat, and my skin prickled.

  “Why?” I asked. “It’s not as if reading poetry is scandalous. Especially not mine.” He wasn’t looking at me, but instead gave a decent impression of having a serious interest in the unremarkable fountain that took up most of one end of the garden.

  “There are some things, Kassandra, that must be kept between two people.” Now he stared into my eyes.

  My heart pounded. Was he trying to seduce me? It wouldn’t have been so unexpected when I’d been a slave—and would’ve, in fact, been expected, had I been a slave in his house. Not even Lepida would have given it a second thought. Such is the oddness of the Romans. But now? Circumstances had changed too much. Did this explain his desire for secrecy?

  “No, Silvanus,” I said, my voice trembling. “Lepida is my friend. I can’t do that to her.”

  “She has no love of poetry.”

  “She has a great love for you and she trusts me. I will not betray her.”

  “I’d never ask you to do that. I’m speaking of poetry, Kassandra, and nothing more. Perhaps I wasn’t clear enough.” His words did not mirror his tone, which, to my inexperienced mind, sounded heavy with desire.

  “She wouldn’t care if you read my verse. Why would you think it necessary to hide such a thing?”

  “My bride is young and I will not give her any cause—even an unsubstantiated one—to worry. All I ask is that you agree to meet with me and share with me what you’ve written. I’ll come to you, in the tavern of your choice, a place where no one knows us. What harm could come from that?”

  I couldn’t think of any, which serves only to reveal the limitations of my imagination. I could offer no defense beyond my youth. I agreed. Melas, who was working in the atrium, glowered as he watched Silvanus depart. I tossed my head and ignored his impertinence. It only strengthened my resolve to do what Silvanus asked.

  And so it started and so it grew, for there is little more infectious than clandestine acts. A hard lesson for any of us to learn. The evil truths of such deceptions, small though they may seem, are never revealed until it’s too late to stop what they have set in motion.

  1902

  21

  Colin and I sequestered ourselves in our room after returning to the villa. Kat had gone off in a huff, muttering that she knew Benjamin better than we did. “The coroner was unable to determine whether Mr. Jackson’s death was deliberate or accidental,” Colin said. “The landslide could have been catalyzed by rain, but also by someone pushing the boulder over the unstable pile of debris. Stirling claims he went directly back to his digs after he left dinner, but that he found himself too agitated to sleep, and went for a walk. No one saw him.”

  “He’s staying in the same place as the Carters. Wouldn’t he have had to collect his key from the desk?”

  “He’s moved from there into a rooming house. Hence no desk and no one to notice his comings and goings.”

  “And Benjamin?” I asked.

  “He admits to having been in a rage—we all saw as much, so there’d be no point denying it—and went to a tavern not far from the train station. The owner confirms he was there, but wasn’t sure about the time. I also spoke to Taylor’s servants. He did go home, but could have left again without anyone noticing. His dressing room has direct access to the garden at the back of the house.”

  “What do we know about Mr. Jackson?”

  “He’d worked at Pompeii for the past five seasons. Studied at Harvard, has published several well-received articles, and is a respected scholar. Got along well with all of his colleagues. No one had a word to say against him. He was a shy sort, spending more time on his own than socializing, but was never awkward about it. He was to be married this winter in Connecticut.”

  “His poor fiancée,” I said.

  “Quite.” Colin blew out a long breath. “His father is coming to collect the body. Doesn’t want his son taking this final journey alone.”

  “It’s heartbreaking.”

  “The only discrepant thing I could uncover about him concerns Stirling. He told me Jackson loaned him a not insignificant amount of money, enough to cover the rent on his rooms for three months.”

  “Might he have murdered Mr. Jackson to escape the debt?”

  “Money is a powerful motivator,” Colin said.

  “But we don’t know if we’re dealing with a murder.”

  “No, we don’t. If someone killed Jackson, the murderer pushed the boulder down the debris pile. When Kat was attacked, she was pushed.”

  “You suspect the same person was responsible for both incidents?” I asked.

  “I do, and I’d very much like to lock her up to keep her safe.”

  “She won’t tolerate it. You’d do better keeping her at your side. She’ll adore the attention.”

  He shot me a quizzical look, but said nothing.

  * * *

  The next morning, I set off for Mr. Taylor’s dig, leaving father and daughter safely ensconced at the villa. Benjamin waved at me as I approached, then bowed his head and offered an apology for his behavior the night of Mr. Jackson’s death.

  “My temper occasionally gets the better of me,” he said. “I know I must learn to master it.”

  “I would encourage you to do just that,” I said. “In the meantime, could you please account for your time the day before the incident? Were you here, at the dig?”

  “I believe so…” His voice trailed. “As I recall, I took a few photographs here and then spent the rest of the day painting in the main excavations.”

  “Where, exactly?”

  “The House of the Vettii. I was copying one
of the frescoes of cupids.”

  “What time did you get there?”

  His cheeks colored. “I don’t remember exactly. Fairly early, well before noon.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “Of course.”

  “Ivy and I were at the House of the Vettii that morning. You weren’t there. Why are you lying to me?”

  “I’m not! I can show you the painting. I must be confused about the day … let’s see … the day before Jackson died. That’s right, I’d already finished in the House of the Vettii. After that I moved on to the Forum Baths, in a room with a vaulted ceiling. I can’t remember what it’s called.”

  The Forum Baths stood almost directly across from the House of the Tragic Poet, the site of Kat’s attack.

  “Did you see Kat?” I asked. “She was near there all morning.”

  “No, I didn’t, but I was quite focused on my work. Which I ought to get back to now.”

  “Before you go, what do you know about Felix Morgan?”

  “Morgan?” He shook his head and turned on his heel. “Never heard of the man.” He stalked away.

  I turned my attention next to Mr. Stirling, whom I found cataloging a collection of small objects discovered at the site. Rather than repeat the questions Colin had posed the previous day, I instead tried to draw out more information about his background. Why did the director of an important excavation need a loan to pay his rent?

  “How do you find working for Mr. Taylor?” I asked. “Does he take good care of his staff?”

  A sad smile crept onto his face. “There’s no need to be subtle, Lady Emily. You want to know why I couldn’t afford my rent. As I told your husband, I’m a disaster with money. Always spend more than I make. No matter how hard I try to reform, I get myself into predicament after predicament. There’s no one to blame but myself.”

  “How bad is your situation at present?”

  “I’ll be able to pay off my debt to Jackson by the end of the season. I moved into cheaper digs a few days ago.”

  “Mr. Jackson worked under you, so presumably his salary was smaller than yours.”

  “It was, but Jackson had family money.”

  “Where did you work before you came to Pompeii?”

  “I was in the States, digging up native burial mounds in Illinois and Missouri. Incalculably different from Pompeii. We know so little about the culture of the tribes that built them. I was always a classicist, fascinated by Latin literature, so quite the fish out of water, but I managed to enjoy it well enough. I was able to further hone my archaeological skills. Sometimes, we must take the job that is offered rather than the one of which we’ve dreamed.”

  “How did you come to work for Mr. Taylor?”

  “Pompeii was always my dream. There’s no site comparable to it,” he said. “I did my best to keep current on all the work being done here—I memorized Mau’s excavation reports and attended every academic lecture I could on the subject. It was at one of those that I met Taylor. He shares my love for this place, and we hit it off immediately. He asked me to join his team the following season.”

  “How do you feel about working for a nonprofessional? I’m aware that they often prefer methods that aren’t the best, scientifically speaking.”

  “Taylor’s a decent man. He’s no treasure hunter and wants things done properly. He’s hired a top-notch staff, doesn’t try to impose his own agenda on us, and thinks conversation is more important than racing through an excavation. Exposure to the elements takes its toll on ancient paintings from the moment they’re uncovered. As Ovid tells us, the workmanship excelled the materials.”

  “Is he aware of your financial difficulties?”

  “No. I prefer to keep those close to my chest.”

  “I was not the one who interviewed Mr. Jackson about Mr. Walker,” I said. “Do you know if the two were acquainted?”

  “He didn’t recognize the sketch, if that’s what you mean, but he was working here when Walker was researching his article.”

  “Are you acquainted with a man called Felix Morgan?”

  “Morgan?” He frowned and looked toward the horizon. “The name is vaguely familiar. Is he an archaeologist?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “If so, Taylor’s more likely to know him. He’s been here longer than I.” He shouted for his employer, who was nearby—spade in hand, but not working on the trench he was standing by—to join us. “Felix Morgan. Do you know him?”

  Mr. Taylor cocked his head as he approached. “Sturdy fellow, red hair? He was here for part of a season some years back. Can’t recall who he was working for—the Italians, most likely. Definitely not the Germans. Didn’t take to it, but seemed a decent sort.”

  “Can you recall exactly when he was here?” I asked.

  “Golly, Lady Emily, I don’t know. There are an awful lot of people who come through Pompeii.”

  “Could it have been about the same time Mr. Walker was researching his article?”

  He removed his hat, wiped his brow with the back of his hand, and shook his head. “I wish I could tell you for sure, but the best I can guess, it was before that.”

  “Why did he leave before the end of the season?” I asked.

  “That’s a question for him,” Mr. Taylor said. “I didn’t know him well. Wanted to try his hand at archaeology but discovered it was more dust than treasure and lost interest.”

  “How did he get hired if he had no background?”

  “We occasionally get young men in the midst of a Grand Tour who are convinced archaeology is for them. Sometimes they’re persuasive enough to worm their way into a dig. It’s harmless enough, and they’re generally bored within a week.”

  “So Mr. Morgan had been on his Grand Tour?”

  Mr. Taylor shrugged. “I couldn’t swear to it. You might ask the Italians if they remember him. You’ve never met him, Stirling?”

  “Not that I can recall. I’ve heard the name, but couldn’t say more than that.”

  “I could swear you were both from St. Louis, but maybe I’m wrong.”

  “I have no memory of him,” Mr. Stirling said. Something in his voice tugged at me and the way his eyes darted made me question his sincerity. I wanted to talk to him more, but away from the dig and his colleagues.

  “You told me you don’t work on Sundays,” I asked.

  “That’s right,” Mr. Taylor said.

  “Then you won’t mind if I steal your director for the day.” I smiled broadly. “Ivy and I have been hoping he’d give us a tour of the ruins.”

  “A capital idea, Lady Emily,” Mr. Taylor said. “You couldn’t find yourself in better hands.”

  “Only if you’ve no other plans, of course, Mr. Stirling,” I said.

  “I’d be delighted.”

  After we’d arranged the details, I went back through the city walls to speak to the Italian excavation team. None of them remembered Felix Morgan, so I asked their director if I could see the records of employees over the past ten years. The name was not listed.

  “Perhaps, Lady Emily, he worked for the Germans,” the director said. “More likely he was a dilettante tourist who spent a week or so amusing himself by playing archaeologist. It happens sometimes. We humor them, let them dig a trench, and hardly notice when they go. Whatever his story, I can assure you he is not an archaeologist who specializes in the ancient Romans. I’d recognize his name from the literature, if nothing else.”

  To be thorough, I checked with the Germans, but they had no memories or records of him either. Felix Morgan seemed more ghost than man.

  * * *

  Sunday morning, the carriage dropped Ivy and me at the ticket office by the Porta Marina, and we walked toward Pompeii’s basilica, on the southwest edge of the Forum, where we were to meet Mr. Stirling. Once there, we saw a crowd of tourists congregated near one of the walls. A lady of a certain age staggered from its midst and collapsed in an inglorious heap on the dusty ground. No one appeared to take e
ven the slightest notice of this, so Ivy and I rushed to her assistance, my friend pulling smelling salts from her reticule. One whiff and the lady blinked her eyes and shambled back to consciousness.

  “Too horrible—too horrible!” She threw one arm over her face. “Don’t make me look at it again!”

  Mario stepped out of the crowd, grinning. “Tourists, eh?”

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  He whistled and shouted “Luigi! Your client!” Another guide emerged, looking irritated to be pulled from the excitement. He nodded at Mario, gave himself a little shake, and knelt beside the woman.

  “Come, come, it’s not so bad. We will sit in the shade for a little before we continue. My friend will collect your husband.” He got her to her feet and led her away. Mario shrugged and went back to the crowd, evidently in search of the woman’s woefully unconcerned spouse. I followed him, pushing my way to the front, where I saw eight dead ravens, arranged in a circle around a beautifully rendered chalk drawing of a man and a woman, dressed in contemporary clothes, the spitting image of Colin and me.

  Ivy, close on my heels, started and turned away. I was as disturbed as she by the sight, but forced myself to take a closer look, only to feel Mr. Stirling take me firmly by the arm and pull me away.

  “What a dreadful thing. I should’ve intercepted you so you might have been spared horror instead of standing here gaping.” His face colored and beads of perspiration dotted his forehead.

  “I would’ve looked, no matter what you did to intervene,” I said. “Ivy, I know it’s unpleasant, but could you please make a copy of the drawing so we have a record of it?” I shouted for those gathered to be quiet and asked if anyone had noticed the grisly scene being arranged, but got no sensible answer. Two guards were standing away from the crowd, amusement on their faces. They, too, denied having seen anything. I rounded up the guides in the vicinity, who pled ignorance as well. Useless, the lot of them. I suggested to the guards that they ought to clear up the mess. They didn’t hide their distaste at being ordered around by a lady, but set about the task and shooed the tourists away while I tried to decipher the graffito scrawled in the wall above the ravens.