In the Shadow of Vesuvius Page 8

  “I’m grateful to know you, Kassandra,” she said. “You’ve worked hard and have always been a wonderful companion to my daughter. You’ll always be welcome in this house. I’ll miss not seeing you every day.”

  I could hardly speak, taken aback by her generous gift. I’d never owned something so valuable or so beautiful. I thanked her, again and again, and clutched the box to my chest, determined not to let it out of my sight until it was safe in our new home.

  My father did not seek me out that evening, but I would see him on the morrow. No doubt he would chastise me for my behavior, but I hoped that the chaos of relocating would mitigate his words. Regardless, I was not looking forward to any of it.

  1902

  13

  Mr. Taylor’s acknowledgment of Benjamin’s temper, coupled with my own observations, prompted me to invite the young man to accompany Ivy and me to Naples, ostensibly to help us procure supplies for her Roman banquet. Admittedly, his artist’s eye would be useful when searching for period appropriate decorative objects, but I was more interested in getting him away from Pompeii and from his sister so that I might further question him about Mr. Walker. But no matter how I approached the subject, he revealed nothing.

  Naples was not the city I expected it to be. Teeming with people, dirty, and chaotic, it felt—though didn’t look—more like some Eastern marketplace than part of Italy. There were beautiful bits, to be sure, but Benjamin’s constant reminders that we must remain vigilant to avoid pickpockets and, then, nearly getting run down by three separate people on bicycles did not endear the place to me. The sun beat down relentlessly, making us unbearably hot.

  Our first official task was to scour antique shops for couches that Benjamin could transform into reasonable facsimiles of their ancient counterparts. This took nearly half the day, but was worth the effort. Although the wood on the ones we found was shabby, their dimensions were perfect, and our friend was confident he could dress them up enough that they would’ve been welcome in any ancient villa.

  “A wealthy family would’ve had them made from solid silver,” he said, after we’d entered an art store to buy supplies to decorate them, “but metallic paint will do the job for us.”

  “Solid silver is far too soft to be used in furniture construction,” the clerk behind the counter said. “Bronze, maybe. If you’re set on silver, the Romans sometimes covered wood with foil, but elaborate inlays were more fashionable. I’d suggest—”

  “I don’t appreciate your interference,” Benjamin snapped, “and would thank you for leaving us alone.”

  “Forgive me,” the man said. “I meant no—”

  “Perhaps we’ll take our business elsewhere.” He stormed out of the shop, leaving Ivy and me to apologize for his ludicrous behavior.

  “I didn’t realize paint was such a volatile subject,” Ivy said when we came out.

  “Forgive me,” he said. “I have a tendency to overreact, particularly when my expertise is questioned. It’s a disgraceful failing. Let me make it right.” He went back inside, emerging a quarter of an hour later with a large parcel.

  As quick as he was to anger, he was equally fast to return to high spirits, apologizing again and again and thanking us for our understanding. I couldn’t riddle out his character. It was as if he was trying to adopt what he believed was an artistic temperament, but not doing a very good job of it. For the rest of the afternoon, he was a perfect companion, helping us select silk for tunics and convincing Ivy to have a wig made in appropriate Roman style. He’d gleaned an impressive amount of information about trends in fashion and hair from wall paintings and done an admirable job of internalizing the sensibilities of the city’s ancient residents.

  Once we’d found every item on Ivy’s exhaustive list, we stopped at a café, where Benjamin pulled out a notebook and started making sketches of his ideas for how to decorate for her soirée. Seeing a bookshop across the piazza, I excused myself, wanting to find copies of Dante’s Divine Comedy and Virgil’s Aeneid. When I returned, with those and many more—it is impossible to leave a bookshop with only what one planned to purchase—my friends were still engrossed in their plans. I had to tear them away so that we didn’t miss our train.

  Back in Pompeii, Ivy and I planned to hire a cab to take us home, but the young American refused our offer to drop him at his hotel. “Look, there! I see Stirling at the far end of the platform,” he said. He shouted to his colleague, who turned and gave a halfhearted wave, but did not come over to greet us. Instead, he increased his pace and rushed away. “I’ll catch up with him and we can walk together—we’re both at the same hotel. Hope to see you both soon at the dig.”

  “Mr. Taylor doesn’t seem too concerned with his employees being on site,” Ivy said after Benjamin had rushed off. “Do any of them work when they’re supposed to?”

  “He might have sent Mr. Stirling to Naples. The museum is there, after all. He might have needed to consult with a colleague. Or he could have been collecting supplies.”

  “I suppose,” Ivy said, wrinkling her nose, unconvinced. “More likely he was off in search of books of poetry. But it’s wrong of me to think uncharitably of him. He’s never anything but kind to us.”

  When we reached the villa, the sun had started to sink into the sea, splashing gold and pink into the water below, and the air had grown chilly. Ivy retreated to freshen up and dress for dinner, while I opened my parcels from the bookshop.

  “Books, Em?” Jeremy asked. “You brought half your library with you. Surely you can’t need more?”

  “All thinking people are in constant need of more books. Where are you off to?” He was wearing evening kit.

  “A midnight excursion through the ruins.”

  “I’m not sure that’s the best choice of dress,” I said. “I presume you’re going with Callie?”

  “I am,” he said, a shocking tone of mischief in his voice.

  “Would I also be correct to presume that, when you stayed out all night, you were with her as well?”

  He grinned. “Your intuition is at once appalling and a wonder.”

  “But with her all night? Where were you?”

  “A gentleman never kisses and tells.”

  “I’m not asking for details,” I said, “and would sooner push you off a cliff than listen if you tried to share them. But all night?”

  “Too scandalous for you?” His eyes danced. “It wasn’t quite that bad, Em, so you needn’t fear for my reputation. We sat in a tavern until it closed and then walked around town talking until the sun rose. I escorted her back to her digs, where she assured me she would be able to slip inside and change her clothes without disturbing her brother. She came back down, we took breakfast at the perfectly respectable Hȏtel Suisse, and she went to work. Soon thereafter I stumbled upon you, Hargreaves, and his abominable daughter in the ruins, where I believe my contribution to the investigation of the plaster shed was critical to the enterprise.”

  “Callie changed her clothes but you didn’t.”

  “A lady has to be more careful with her reputation.”

  “I wouldn’t have expected her to care about that,” I said.

  “She doesn’t, but she does care about her job, very much. Taylor might not look kindly on her having stayed out all night. A duke, on the other hand, can come and go as he pleases.”

  I studied his face. There was a certain glow about him, a brightness in his complexion that suggested he was falling in love, and while the logistics of their relationship might prove daunting, I liked Callie for him. More than that, I rejoiced at seeing him happy and was about to say so when I noticed something I hadn’t purchased mixed in with my packages of books: a small wooden case. Inside was a thin sheet of soft metal—lead—rolled into a tube, a single nail stuck all the way through. I carefully pulled out the nail and started to unroll it. The metal was in dire condition. It looked as if someone had attacked it before impaling the cylinder with the nail. Visible beneath these marks of violen
ce was a short passage of text:

  I curse Lady Emily Hargreaves and her life and mind and memory and liver and lungs mixed up together, and her words, thoughts and memory; thus may she be unable to speak what things are concealed, nor be able to communicate anything she finds. I bind her tongue, so that it will be twisted and devoid of success.

  “Blimey, Em, bringing down the wrath of the gods, are you?”

  “What’s the commotion?” Colin asked, entering the room, dressed for dinner, his tousled curls still damp from the bath. “You’re not trying to get Bainbridge to read, are you?”

  “This is far more interesting than any old book, Hargreaves,” Jeremy said. “Emily’s been cursed.”

  My husband did not look surprised; he was used to me attracting unusual attention. I handed him the message. “Lead, fashioned in the style of a Roman defixio,” he said. “A curse tablet. They were quite common in the ancient world. The nail pushed through was meant to strengthen the potency of the words. Most of these other marks were made by a jab of the nail, but some are symbols.”

  “Magic symbols, I presume,” I said. “This is quite encouraging.”

  “Encouraging?” Jeremy pulled a face.

  “If I’ve managed to inspire someone to put a curse on me in an effort to stop my tongue, I must be doing something right.”

  “What’s this about a curse?” Ivy, in a divine dinner gown of crimson silk, entered the room, Colin’s daughter following. My friend gasped when she read the tablet; Jeremy took her arm to steady her. Kat, on the other hand, whooped. I can only conclude the idea of my being cursed delighted her.

  “This is brilliant, Lady Emily, and if you don’t mind my saying, I agree that it’s a positive sign. Maybe the questions you’ve asked the archaeologists have set someone on edge.”

  Perhaps I had misjudged the girl.

  “This is very serious, Kat,” Ivy said.

  “No, no, it really isn’t,” I said. “First off, I don’t believe in whatever pagan god is being appealed to. Second, curses do not work. The tablet, like the ostraca, may be a sign we’ve caught the attention of our murderer, but surely that’s a good thing. It tells us he’s worried we may be onto him.”

  “Whoever penned this—scratched it, I should say—has a fair knowledge of both the cultures of ancient Greece and Rome,” Colin said. “I believe I’m on safe ground suggesting that this delicate attention comes from the same person who put our surname on the ostraca.”

  “And I believe I’m on safe ground suggesting that we are looking for someone who prefers scratching to writing,” Jeremy said. “Must be an eccentric bloke.”

  “Must be a murderer, Jeremy,” Ivy said, concern writ on her pretty face.

  “Possibly,” Colin said. “The text doesn’t threaten physical harm, only that Emily will be silenced. Similarly, being ostracized meant exile, not injury. Perhaps it’s not the murderer sending these messages, but an associate. Someone who knows what the villain is capable of and wishes to advise us to stop searching for him.”

  “He’s cursing her organs, Hargreaves,” Jeremy said. “How is that not a physical threat?”

  “There are many examples of ancient curses that specifically call for bodily harm. The falling off of limbs, the shriveling of … never mind,” Colin said. “It’s most likely nothing more than an attempt to warn us off the investigation.”

  “I like your idea of two villains,” I said. “One, the master, the other a mere accomplice, someone who is not altogether comfortable with what has occurred. Feeling guilty about Mr. Walker’s death and terrified that we may bring violence upon ourselves if we cross his colleague, he is trying to stop our pursuit of justice.”

  “An excellent fiction, my dear, and also a theory worth consideration. Either way, I agree it’s encouraging.”

  Ivy regarded him with astonishment as he went off to collect the ostraca so we could compare the handwriting with that on the defixio. When he returned, we could see at a glance they were both penned—scratched—by the same individual.

  “Are you going to stand by and let them go on like this?” Ivy asked, turning to Jeremy.

  “Nothing else to do,” he replied. “Can’t stop them. As you see, they’re excited by curses and threats and all sorts of other untoward things. Part and parcel of the work, or so I’m told. Don’t try to dissuade them. They won’t be distracted by anything else.”

  He wasn’t entirely correct in this observation. I was distracted by Kat staring at her father and me, her eyes narrowed.

  “Who knew you were going to be in Naples today?” she asked.

  “All of you,” I said, “and Benjamin, obviously. He could’ve told any number of people.”

  “He would have had to ask for time off work, so Mr. Taylor would know, too,” Kat said. “Unless the request would have gone through Mr. Stirling. I’ve spent a great deal of time with Mr. Carter, working on photography, and know him well enough to say he doesn’t have sufficient knowledge of ancient history to have made this.”

  “I can’t share your opinion,” I said. “He’s demonstrated a decent grasp of ancient culture.” She glared at me.

  “He did have ample opportunity to slip the tablet in with the books,” Colin said.

  “He wasn’t with me in the shop,” I said, “but he could’ve done it on the train.”

  “Did you not hear me, Lady Emily?” Kat scowled. “He couldn’t have made it.”

  “Making it and delivering it are two separate things,” Ivy said.

  “Quite,” Colin said. “Did you notice anyone following you today, Emily?”

  “No, and I was careful to keep an eye out,” I said. “I’m not infallible, though.”

  My husband nodded. “No one is. Where were your parcels on the train?”

  “On the luggage rack across from our seats,” I said. “The one directly above was already full when we boarded. The car was horrendously crowded. People were standing in the aisle. It wouldn’t have been difficult to insert something into our things without us noticing. We saw Mr. Stirling at the station in Pompeii. Benjamin rushed off to catch up with him so they could walk back to their digs together. He must have been on the train, as well.”

  “He certainly would be aware of defixiones,” my husband said.

  “Wouldn’t all of the archaeologists?” Ivy asked. “We’re surrounded by classically educated individuals who possess the knowledge, background, and means to commit the murder as well as to send these messages of warning. How do we begin eliminating suspects?”

  “You can start with Callie,” Jeremy said. “Walker was strangled, correct? She wouldn’t have had the strength to do that. She’s little more than five feet tall. Would have had trouble even reaching his neck.”

  Kat, to no one in particular, muttered something about men in love.

  “I’m inclined to agree with you, Bainbridge,” Colin said.

  Jeremy grinned. “Glad to hear that, Hargreaves. Wouldn’t want to make the mistake of falling in love with a second murderess.”

  “Love, did you say?” I asked.

  “I only suggest it as a possibility,” Jeremy replied. “Stay focused on the crime, please, not my romantic life.”

  “With pleasure, my dear boy,” I said. “It will be a relief not having to worry about you anymore.”

  “You worry about me, Em, do you? How very sweet. I shall have to bring you flowers tomorrow. For now, though, it doesn’t appear there’s anything left for me to do here. I’m off. See you in the morning.”

  “Planning to be out all night?” Colin asked.

  Jeremy grinned. “Of course not. But I do expect you all to be snug in your beds by the time I come home. You, especially, Miss von Lange. You’re far too young to be embroiled in any of this nonsense.”

  AD 79

  14

  Arguing with my father always proved futile. I had expected him to chastise me in the morning, but he did not so much as mention the furious abuse I had hurled at him the
previous day, leaving me feeling worse than if he had criticized my behavior. I stayed silent for the duration of our move. As we walked to the new house (Plautus had sent our few possessions over during the night, as carts, with only a few exceptions, were not allowed on the streets during the day), I spotted seven more walls on which lines of my poetry had been scratched. If I weren’t so full of guilt over my appalling performance yesterday, I would have pointed them out to my father. As it was, I let them pass unnoticed.

  Our new home had been cut from the domus of a wealthy family. It faced one of the busiest streets in Pompeii and was little more than a block from the elegant Stabian Baths. We had two entrances in the front, the doors nearly on top of one another. The first led into our modest atrium, the other into a tiny room that might have been suitable for a doorman. Instead, my father planned to use it as the business entrance to the house. He had become a bookseller, although he did still take responsibility for our former master’s library, a duty that would provide a small income. He also offered his services as a tutor, and that task kept him busiest of all, as wealthy Romans always insisted upon a Greek education for their children.

  I assisted him, working as a copyist, a job I found tedious because most of his clients were interested in books of rhetoric, law, and bad poetry. I had hoped we could be discerning when it came to our customers, but if we wanted to eat, that was not to be. Even so, the quality of our meals had declined substantially since our elevation from slavery. We purchased most of them from the thermopolium across the street, and even if we hadn’t, our senses still would have been constantly assaulted by the odor it produced. No more delicate perfumes wafting through the air like at Plautus’s villa, only grease and old beans.

  I did, however, have my own room—and a bed—for the first time in my life. Father encouraged me to have the space decorated any way I liked. He had hired a well-respected artist, a Greek called Melas, who had a business supplying skilled painters of interiors throughout the city. I disliked him the instant he started criticizing the plans I had for my walls, which I wanted covered with scenes from the Aeneid.