Five for Silver: A John, the Lord Chamberlain Mystery by Mary Reed, Eric Mayer Page A

tin from a stream.
    “Well,” Anatolius said, thinking flattery might work and drawing on the few comments John had made about his sojourn in that distant land. “I have never been to Bretania, although a friend of mine was there many years ago. He described it as wild but beautiful.”
    “He was correct,” Cador replied, his gaze never wavering. “Too cold, though. But that is enough reminiscing. There is too much work and too few hands. I have my own tasks and all the tasks my superiors left undone besides.” He pulled another amphora off the back of the wagon. The brilliant sun glistened off rivulets of perspiration running down his sides.
    “We just want to ask a few questions about your master’s final hours,” said Crinagoras. He was sweating too, or perhaps, more correctly, stewing. Swathed in his heavy toga, he didn’t appear to be enjoying the heat as much as Cador. “What exactly happened?”
    Cador set the amphora down. As he looked up at Crinagoras his eyes narrowed. “My apologies, sir. Now I recall, you were at the master’s bedside. I did not recognize you in that strange garb.”
    Crinagoras bit his lip and flapped the folds of his toga sorrowfully.
    When Cador didn’t deign to actually answer the query, Anatolius took the chance of asking again. For a moment, caught in Cador’s insolent glare, he was sorry he had.
    Then, however, perhaps remembering his station, Cador nodded and spoke. “I can’t tell you much about it, sir. The master was sinking fast, but insisted on seeing all his callers. There was a seller of antiquities and oracles. The master had done business with him before. This time Aristotle arrived with a very large oracular head.”
    Anatolius expressed surprise.
    Cador allowed himself a slight smile and then continued. “The master asked it what course his illness would take. He was told, ‘By tomorrow it will be forgotten.’”
    “A delightful bit of ambiguity,” pointed out Crinagoras. “How did this strange oracle make its predictions?”
    “It was a hollow brass head of hideous visage,” Cador replied. “The method used was placing a lantern inside the head and then interpreting the shadows it cast on the wall.”
    “An interesting notion,” Anatolius put in. “What happened next?”
    “Less than an hour later, the master took a turn for the worse.”
    “That was when he decided to execute an oral will?”
    Cador nodded. “First he asked for Calligenes, the house steward, but he was ill also. We couldn’t rouse him, so I served in his stead.”
    Crinagoras looked puzzled. “Calligenes was the first witness your master specifically requested?”
    “Actually, sir, as you know from being present, there were already—”
    “He must have trusted this Calligenes fellow then,” Crinagoras mused. “Unduly, perhaps. What do you make of that, Anatolius? Something doesn’t seem quite right. A fascinating problem, one to consider carefully, over a few cups of wine, in the shade of my garden.”
    “Excuse me,” Cador interrupted, “but Calligenes was a loyal employee who had served Nereus well for many years. There’s nothing more to it than that.”
    Crinagoras glanced at Anatolius and raised his eyebrows meaningfully.
    “I know how valuable he was to the master,” Cador went on. “I’ve been trying to complete all the work he left unfinished. The correspondence alone…well, before traveling here I trudged around half the city, delivering missives Calligenes had drawn up. He left a mountain of them on his desk, sirs. Letters, contracts, who knows what, all addressed in the fine hand on which he prided himself so much. In the course of carrying this out, I met bakers and bankers, importers and exporters, shopkeepers of various sorts, a perfumer, a lawyer, a bookseller—”
    Anatolius broke in. “A lawyer? Can you tell us who this was?”
    “Well…if I can remember…yes, it was one Prudentius to whom I delivered a letter.”
    Crinagoras clapped his