Murder in Megara by Eric Mayer

considering how the rest of the estate has been neglected.”
    â€œI gather the ruin is of interest as a monument to former beliefs. Apparently the former owner was interested in antiquities and after all, who can fathom the reasons for the fancies of rich men? They swim in a different sea from the poor, as they say.”
    Senator Vinius interested in antiquities? So far as John knew, the late senator hadn’t taken an interest in anything older than race horses and nubile prostitutes. Then again, perhaps the gossips underestimated the range of his tastes.
    John finished his wine, stood, and placed the cup on the bench.
    Petrus rose also, somewhat unsteadily since he had drunk most of the contents of the jug. “Dusk is creeping in. May I respectfully suggest, sir, given recent events it may be folly on your part to be wandering around in the dark?”
    â€œYou are of the opinion I am not safe here?”
    â€œYou may not be, sir. Theophilus wasn’t.”

Chapter Sixteen
    John sat in the temple, contemplating the broad silver finger the moon had laid across the sea.
    Strange to contemplate the earthly road that had led him from Megara as far as Bretania and Egypt, to Persia and Constantinople, and then back again to his starting point.
    Unfortunately, the silver road did not point to any solution to his difficulty in grasping the thread that would ultimately lead to useful information. He sensed those on the estate he had interviewed were concealing knowledge. But how could he be surprised? They would be anxious about being punished for their blatant robbery of the absent former owner more than assisting him with anything they might know of Theophilus, even though to do so might serve to soften whatever justice was to be meted out. Meantime he was little further along in his investigation.
    He saw very little likelihood of gaining any help from anyone in Megara, even assuming they had knowledge of an event that had happened away from the city.
    He listened to the ratcheting of insects, the occasional distant barking of a dog, and tried to get his thoughts to march in order. It had been less difficult in Constantinople, where at this time of night he would be sitting in his study, sharing his cogitations with the girl in the wall mosaic and drinking what his friends termed his “foul Egyptian wine.”
    He thought back to his conversation with Cornelia before she fell asleep and, restless, he had come to the temple to attempt to think of a plan of campaign.
    â€œI am so sorry we came here of all places. If I had known—” she had said wistfully.
    â€œIt was inevitable,” he had replied. “After ordering the books for all my estates examined, this was the one place Justinian would not expect to be able to sell for a high price. And given it was Theophilus who sold the family farm, he must have inherited it from my mother. So with both of them dead, that closes another avenue to possible enlightenment to me.”
    There was certainly light, and to spare, out here. The cold clear moonlight washed a landscape sculpted of marble. Trees and bushes might have been monuments to the dying year.
    His thoughts wandered back to his mother. Was there anyone left on her side of the family whom he could consult?
    It was unlikely, what with the passage of time, and given she was her parents’ only child. She had belonged to the curial class, one formed from respectable, well-to-do townspeople. Not that it had been as comfortable as it seemed, for over the years the class accumulated too many responsibilities for civic works, administration, and tax collection, though admittedly, Justinian had sought to lift the burden from them with officials such as the City Defender.
    John’s tutor, Antigenes, had once informed his students that, in the old days, if a person was of this class, they had a choice of fattening their finances in various ways—not spoken about too loudly—or