An everyday tale of village life and vampires…

Saturday morning, and Em was in the box seat in the window of Lillian’s house on the edge of the Brownfield Estate watching, and awaiting her moment to bring DumpCorp’s farrago of lies and half truths crashing down about the ears of its founder.
It wasn’t often she took actual pleasure in the possible discomfiture of a fellow human being, but this looked as if it might be one of those times. She rubbed her hands together and smiled what Agnes called her alligator smile.
Everything was in place and all they had to do now was wait. Tristram and his camera crew were drinking coffee and scoffing chocolate digestives in the kitchen of one of the trim little houses, while she and Ishmael sat in Lillian’s front window. The rest of her seven, having been fortified with blood tea against the sunlight – and with the exception of Ginny who was part of the ‘official’ reception committee – waited in the village hall with what Agnes referred to as ‘rent a mob’ complete with banners, flour bombs and air horns.
Ishmael smiled his smooth practiced smile. “I’m rather looking forward to this,” he said in a voice whose very mildness was a threat to whoever might be foolish enough to get in his way.
Em supposed she should have been lecturing him about civilised behaviour, but this was a special occasion so she just shrugged.
For a while, the cul de sac dreamed quietly in the morning sun but the quiet was broken by the sound of marching feet.
“What the hell?” Em craned her neck to see a bagpipe band, in full kilt regalia, marching down the road towards the simple farm gate at the end of the road, with their skirts swinging in the wind. She sniggered. “Can’t they tell Dorset from Dumbartonshire?” “It would seem not.” It was less amusing when the pipers started to tune up, as the noise stung the ears and made Em, at least, feel quite queasy. It seemed she wasn’t the only one unamused by the racket. The front door of the nearest house to the squealing, skirling pipes flew open and a large young man wearing only a pair of baggy tracksuit trousers ran into the tidy driveway. “Shut that effing noise,” he bellowed.
Needless to say nobody took any notice, but he was a determined fellow and he dashed over to where a man in a strange furry hat was waving a baton. Ishmael opened the window with the evident intention of missing none of the fun.
“Oy, you. What the bloody hell is all the noise about?”
The conductor didn’t deign to answer. He looked down his nose at the barely dressed young man in his carpet slippers and smiled a supercilious smile.
Before Em had leisure to think what a bad idea that was, the conductor felt the full weight of his own stupidity in the form of the large fist that landed somewhere in the region of his midriff. He folded in the middle like a half deflated balloon and the noise of the pipes began to draw to an untidy close.
One of the pipers said something to his mates in a dialect Em found incomprehensible and they dropped their instruments and made a concerted dash for the lad who had dropped their conductor.
It should have been simple murder, but the faultless instincts of Saturday night fighters everywhere brought hefty young men out of every front door.
As the two groups met head on, Em glanced up the road to where Tristram and his cameraman were just about capering with delight. She frowned, then shrugged her shoulders. A couple of dozen young men attacking each other with fists, feet and teeth, would probably make very good television.
One of the locals had a smallish man by the neck and was holding him about six inches off the ground.
“What d’you think you’re bloody doing waking me up on a Sat’day morning making that bloody awful noise?”
His captive seemed just about apoplectic with rage.
“Awfu’ noise is it. Ye jest put me doon and I s’ll give ye awfu’ noise.”
The fight was going quite nicely when Ishmael prodded Em.
“Oops,” he said.
Two men were coming purposefully down the road, and each led a pair of slavering German Shepherds.
“Do we think that swings the odds in favour of the Caledonian contingent?”
Of course that is what should have happened. But this was Little Botheringham and unpredictable at the best of times. The previously quiet houses up and down the cul de sac erupted into action as the women took a hand. Or rather a paw. The two men and four German Shepherds were faced by upwards of a dozen women valiantly holding the collars of a number of dogs, anything from ferocious Jack Russels upwards in size to several of a variety that made the shepherds look like chihuahuas. The GSDs didn’t fancy the odds one bit and slammed on the brakes – dragging their handlers to a halt then making a sharp about face. They fled the scene, still dragging the uniformed ‘security’ men, protesting loudly at ‘Killer’ and ‘Fang’ for unwarranted cowardice, behind them.
One of the pipers stopped stamping on the gonads of the man he was matched with long enough to whistle.
“Them,” he said reverently, “is whit ye call dogs.”
He ducked a blow aimed at his unprotected stomach and dived headfirst back into the fray.
“What happens now?” Em hissed.
Ishmael grinned. “This.” The sound of a police siren acted like magic and the fighting horde rapidly sorted itself into two groups, with the odd crossparty backslap and nod of respect and appreciation. The local men then disappeared as if they had never been outside their front doors, and the pipe band swiftly wiped each other down and collected their instruments. They marched smartly out of the cul de sac just as the police car came in….

Part Twenty-Eight of Much Dithering in Little Botheringham by Jane Jago and Eleanor Swift-Hook, will be here next week.

Because life happens…

Exploring the mysteries of life through the versatile medium of limerick poetry.

Honesty

It is wise to be honest and true
As surely we all try to do
Til your friend wears that dress
They love, though ‘it’s’tis a mess
And says “I think this so suits me, don’t you?”

Eleanor Swift-Hook

In a modern-day Britain where the Roman Empire never left, Dai and Julia solve murder mysteries, whilst still having to manage family, friendship and domestic crises…

Ante Diem Nonum Kalendas Aprilis MDCCLXXIX Anno Diocletiani

I

The working office of the Magistratus had changed considerably since Sextus Catus Bestia had taken over the role in Demetae and Cornovii six months previously. Dai Llewellyn, Submagistratus for the same area, still fondly recalled the simple and yet tasteful decor the previous incumbent had preferred. Bestia, by contrast, favoured opulence over simplicity and substituted extravagance for good taste. But then, unlike his predecessor who had risen through the administrative ranks, Bestia had transferred into the state sector after enjoying a successful career as a commercial lawyer. Dai assumed that impressing business clients required such an ostentatious display of wealth, but the same sat ill with the kind of civic dignity expected of Bestia’s present role.
Not that the man couldn’t easily afford the expensive artwork lining the walls, the rarewood furniture, the bejewelled and gilded bust of the Divine Diocletian and the elaborate full-length golden-framed painting of himself and his wife of a few weeks. That marriage had surely made him one of the wealthiest men in all of Viriconium.
Which was why this present meeting was beginning to make Dai move from frustration into anger. Bestia was sitting in his throne-like desk chair, hands resting on the carved lions that adorned the arms. The late afternoon sun had painted the window behind him with glowing light, adding to the regal impression. He also looked regally bored, as if he found the whole business of overseeing the administration tedious in the extreme.
“I see no reason to bend the rules just because your Senior Investigator has a gut-instinct about something. Cartivel must be close to retirement age and is probably just dyspeptic.” He smiled as if inviting Dai to share the joke.
“I’m not asking you to bend any rules. I’m asking you to sign-off further resources to investigate properly. I would if I could, but have already authorised this case to the limit of my authority.”
Bestia glanced down at the file on his desk. “Indeed. I see you granted SI Cartivel and his team an entire day in man hours. Time they have used to ascertain little more than that this woman was known to be a lupa and known to be willing to take money from clients who wanted more extreme practices than the usual. But there are no grounds that I can see here for me to extend the investigation any further. It would be a waste of public money.”
“If Malina Tesni was a Roman Citizen…”
For the first time, Bestia sounded annoyed.
“If the woman was a Roman Citizen, she would not have been a common British puta who was paid well by an over-vigorous client.”
“Over-vigorous?” For a moment Dai saw the start of a red haze clouding on the edges of his vision and with a supreme effort of will he fought it down, drawing a deep breath and counting silently.
“Distasteful as it is, there was nothing to suggest she had been abused against her will. She was also found with what I am assured would be a substantial payment for a street woman. No doubt an incentive to allow her client more leeway in his behaviour.”
“She was beaten half to death. The autopsy said she died of those injuries having caused severe internal bruising and swelling.”
“It was not murder. There was clearly no intent to kill or why pay the woman and let her go home? At very best it was an accidental death. No one has denied that she was a prostitute and that is a profession that we all know carries certain occupational hazards.” His expression softened suddenly and his voice shifted to something more like friendly cajoling. “You are a good man, a good Citizen and a good administrator, Llewellyn. I do understand why you feel so strongly about this, but you must let it go. It’s for the best.”
Dai had been sitting but now he shot to his feet.
“Let it go? Dominus, the man who did this is somewhere in Viriconium and he could do the same to another woman.”
Bestia lifted one hand from its lion’s head resting place.
“Stop right there. Firstly, I already said that I completely understand where you are coming from with this. Who could not be appalled at by it? But where is the crime? There is no law against prostitution.” He leaned back and shook his head, looking saddened. “If anything the dead woman is the criminal here. The only prosecutable offense I can see is failure on her part to have purchased a license to practice her trade. And, of course, the subsequent charges of tax evasion that would lead to, especially seeing how well she was being paid.”
Dai struggled to find some way to frame things in terms that could penetrate Bestia’s lawyer logic.
“If she was a Citizen there would be unlimited resources made available to uncover the man who did this whether it was deemed consensual or not. What if the man is local and his next victim is a Citizen?”
Bestia was frowning now.
“You should know better than that, Submagistratus. We can’t run the Vigiles on ‘what ifs’. There is no reason to think the man was local, indeed it is more likely someone passing through, staying the night and wanting some entertainment. And even if he was local, you have already spent public money on investigating something that is not a crime. Instead of asking me for more perhaps you should apologise and be grateful that I’m not going to mention that you did so on any official report.”
The red haze rose and this time Dai could do nothing to stop it. His last conscious act was to turn and start walking towards the door. Better to be rude to his superior than get arrested for attacking him.

You can keep find out how Dai manages to continue the murder investigation by reading Dying on the Streets by E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago

I saw a flight of dragons once
Across the sunset sky
And as they rode the thermals
I wished that I could fly
The dying sun turned skins to gold
And wings to every hue
I thought that I knew beauty
But I learned that wasn’t true
I saw a flight of dragons once
They’re printed on my brain
I think I’d give my sight away
To see that flight again

Jane Jago

Being a true shifter isn’t the blessing it may seem. But through pain and darkness Perdita seeks to find her own life despite the ambition of others…

Chapter Twelve – Plans

We went into the warmth of the biggest cabin and Purslane pounced on us.
“Well. Did it go well?”
“More or less. We left the Queen back in full charge with all her old councillors about her. And we now have a pretty good idea what all this has been about.”
She snarled at him. “Specifics please.”
I found myself laughing. “Feed him and he’ll talk.”
She relaxed a little and a dozen or so of us sat down to bread and cheese, while Mandrake talked – with his mouth full. I listened with half an ear while most of my mind was occupied with thoughts of the next day.
When the draconic swearing had died down I put my hand in Mandrake’s.
“What, love?”
“Tomorrow. There are things about the Legislature you need to know.”
Purslane leaned towards me. “Talk to us.”
“Okay. Firstly, no lycanthrope can Change inside the building and you are only allowed to enter in human form.”
“How? Why?” Purslane asked.
“Nobody knows how, but why is more straightforward. When the place was built, it was the practice to sort out quarrels with a duel. But that wasn’t practical if, say, a bear had a beef with a rat. The inability to make the change evened out the odds.”
“I see that. What else do we need to know?”
“Only token bearers are allowed into the chamber. Which means Mandrake and me.”
“You?”
“Oh yes. I am the representative of true shifters – as well as being the only one left alive.” There was an irony on that someplace but it wasn’t something I was ever going to waste any time thinking about.
“Anything else?”
“Yes. Weapons are not allowed in the Legislature. Although I’m sure there will be a few smuggled items.
Purslane frowned. “Sounds to me as if we are stuffed then.”
“So our enemies may think, but we have certain advantages.”
“And they are?”
“First of all, my sword, Death Day can conceal herself from any search.”
The dragon called Stinkwort pushed out his lower lip. “Is it the sword that drinks magic?”
“She does.”
“Then that is indeed an advantage, lady.”
“What else will aid us?” It was a muscular female who asked.
“Mandrake. They will not know him as a true fire lizard, so his ability to flame while in human form is of almost inestimable value.”
The female nodded. “Our erstwhile wing leader must hunt in the morning, then. If his dragon hungers he will not flame well.”
“I had not thought of that. Thank you Burdock.” Mandrake bumped fists with her.
I smiled at the assembled company. “The final advantage we have is you lot.”
“How so, if we cannot come inside?”
I showed them my teeth in my fiercest grin. “If – no, when – the shit hits the fan then it’s a case of bugger the restrictions.”
The dragons raised a ragged cheer.
“Shut up you lot and listen. My master told me that the only noise that can pass through the stones of the Legislature building is dragon whistling. About two hundred years ago I had occasion to test his theory. He was right. So. We can whistle up aid…”
“That’s all well and good,” Purslane said slowly, “but by the time we have fought our way through the guard, you could be done for.”
“I’m not suggesting you come in through the door. Behind the Law-Maker’s seat there is a huge window, made of hundreds of panes of glass. Held together with lead.”
The dragons got it almost at once. Lead melts very easily and they could be through the window in no time.
“Where is this window?” Purslane asked tautly.
You will be sent to wait in the Great Courtyard, where there are dragon stalls, and if you look up at the building the window is right in front of you.
Burdock nodded. “I have seen this. It is shaped as a pointed arch is it not?”
I nodded. “It is.”
Mandrake had obviously been thinking too. “The biggest problem I can see is if our enemies have fighters of their own awaiting summons into the chamber.”
“Yes. We need more dragons. Concealed in the woods. There before us. How may we get them in time?”
A hulking male at the end of the table showed his fangs. “I will go. I am a fast flier. If I leave now there is time, and my dragon fed only this morning.”
Purslane nodded. “Fly well, Hogweed.”
He bowed to us all and left.
She looked around the table at her trusted lieutenants. “I don’t think there is much left to decide. Those whose dragons did not feed today should gather for a dawn hunt. Otherwise there is little to be done except rest and husband our energies.”
Each got up and left the table, saluting their Wing Mistress as they went.
When we were alone, she gave us a straight look from beneath her brows. “So. Apart from half a hundred variables, including treachery and sorcery, we’re all set. Do try not to get yourselves killed.”
She got up and left us in the warm firelit room.
“We are,” I said, “as prepared as it is possible for us to be”.
“Save only one thing.”
“What is that?” I was sure I had forgotten nothing.
Mandrake laughed and stood up lifting me high against his chest. “I would like to experience making love with my soulmate.”
For a moment I couldn’t understand how this was any different from our other times together, but then I understood. There would be no Mothwing in this mating. For the first time in my life I would be intimate with a single soul. It might have been intimidating if it was anyone but Mandrake. But it wasn’t. It was exciting. I lifted my face for his kiss.
A long time later I lay in his arms and he made a draconic noise deep in his chest.
“What?”
“I’m wondering if you missed Mothwing, and not quite daring to ask.”
“On some level I can’t draw a breath without missing the person who has been my boon companion for all of my life. But if you are asking whether I missed her in our love-making. I did not.”
“Good. Because much though I love her it is you who are my soul.”
I had no answer for that, except to rub my face in his neck, and he was wise enough not to push it.
I fell asleep on his chest and the sound of his heartbeat kept me company in the dark vaults of sleep. I woke when he stirred and knew it to be approaching dawn.
“Stay in bed, love. I’m for the hunt.”
“No. I think I need to get up and do some meditation. I feel that I am going to need all my mental strength this afternoon.”
I looked into his loved face and saw a shadow of trouble. To my great shame I knew I had put it there because I had not been able to reply to his declaration of love.
I touched his cheek. “I will be waiting for you, heart of my heart.” Then I took my courage in both hands. “You are the very life of me, Mandrake. I love you.”
The shadow left his face and he went joyfully about his business.
When the hunt returned, we bathed in the heat of the bathhouse and Mandrake brushed my hair until it dried as smooth as silk. While he brushed he spoke very softly.
“I am ashamed, dear one.”
“Why?”
“Because I said things that it made you think I wished you would deny your love for Mothwing.” I made no reply, and he continued with his long, rhythmical brush strokes. He spoke again. “That wasn’t what I wanted really. I love her too. It was just that I needed to know you can love me as well as her.”
“Or as much?”
He nodded.
“You my darling dragon are many times a fool,” I said lovingly. “Do you think I would have fought for you like I did out there in the snow if you were not the beat of my heart?”
He came around in front of me and knelt down, pressing his face into my midriff. “Thank you, loved one,” he murmured and I stroked his hair.
Once we got ourselves together it was time to make ready.
I dressed in my own soft leather riding suit, with my sword belted at my hip and the evilly sharp Dagger of Death in my boot top. I bound my hair tightly and put the bag with my velvet overdress in it beside the door.
There was soup for those of us who had not hunted and I made myself eat a little bit.

Jane Jago

The black cat lay out across an overhanging tree branch. To the casual observer she appeared to be slumbering away the heat of the afternoon. Anyone wise in the way of felines, though, would have noticed the twitch in the very tip of her tail.

But the cruel teenage boys who had tied a firework to the tail of one of her crew weren’t wise. 

They swaggered along the pavement, stopping under her branch to pose and posture for the watching girls.

It’s very difficult to be cool and impressive with a cat attached by sixteen claws to your face…

Jane Jago

Some whimsical words on whimsical themes…

Big Bigger was up to something. He was digging a hole in the veggible patch and singing. The nomes were suspicious of cheerfulness in one so normally morose.
“Wossee up to?”
A whisper ran around the garden, and Chigger crept closer for a look.
“He’s planting a tree.”
“A tree?”
“There?”
Brenda went to look for herself. “That ain’t no tree you higgerant nome. It’s. It’s… summat else.”
Big finished his hole and unwrapped the thing. It was wide and hollow and he firmed it in carefully.
The empty box read. ‘Acme rocket launcher – for fireworks.’
The nomes all flinched…

Three hours later, when the hosepipe men in the big red lorry had gone, and the biggers with burns and contusions had been treated, peace broke out. The nomes crept towards the ruin of the games room and looked up towards the rest of the house which largely survived undamaged.
“They was lucky,” Granny said before reapplying herself to her knitting.
Movement from the front door stopped all nomely conversation as Big Bigger and his missus came out onto the lawn.
“Was that my fault?” he asked.
“I dunno. Anyway not too much harm done. But no more fireworks. Ever.”

Jane Jago

An everyday tale of village life and vampires…

The volume of chatter was all but deafening and even when Agnes brought in plates of cheese and crisp brown rolls and a crock of yellow butter the volume just seemed to go up.
Jamelia stuck a plate in her hand. “Grab some food and we’ll go sit in the window seat. You can observe the gruesome foursome from a safe distance.”
Ginny did as suggested and slowly began to sort out the characters in her head. The four who stood around the table and howled with laughter at their own jokes were, she thought, the extroverts of the family. They appeared to be having a whale of a time although most of the gags were filthy enough to have her blushing even from the other side of the room. She found Jamelia’s presence a comfort and when they finished eating it seemed perfectly natural to have their own quiet conversation about Ginny’s new status.
Jamelia finished with a smile. “So you see it’s not scary at all. And those four are as good as gold. They just need to let rip every now and again. They aren’t like us.”
“What do you mean, us?”
“You and me, Ginny. We’re used to hiding stuff. Those four live on the extreme outside of their skins so it comes hard to them. This is like a catharsis for them.”
“Yes. I can see that.” She took a breath and reminded herself that sharing was a good thing to do. “I used to hide behind the words I wrote on my lifestyle blog and the persona of Virginia Creeper. I guess I only really hit real problems when I couldn’t do that anymore. Not being able to write my blog meant I’d lost my place to hide. But you?”
Jamelia’s mouth twisted. “Oh me? Trained in law because all my cousins were doctors and my parents wanted to outdo them. Given in marriage to a man twenty years my senior with heavy fists. Widowed at forty. Expected to return to my father’s house and be my stepmother’s unpaid servant whilst working flat out to earn their keep. Met Em. Got Made. Told my father to find another fool. Alone now save for my nest sisters. It will be nice to have a sister of a more contemplative turn of mind.”
Ginny felt a rush of empathy and friendship for the proud beauty at her side but understood it behoved her to tread carefully. “I expect you will find me a sad trial. Most people seem to…”
Jamelia gave her arm a squeeze. “You are too hard on yourself, you know?”
The door opened quietly and Em came in. There was no fanfare nor noise nor anything, but the atmosphere changed immediately. What had seemed like a pissup now felt to have purpose and import.
“I don’t know how she does it, either,” Jamelia breathed.
Agnes took one look at Em’s face and stuck a glass in her hand. Em necked whatever it was in one go and sighed.
“I fragging well hate demons.”
“I guess we all do. But Ishmael is the best at what he does.” Lilian spike sturdily and Em smiled.
“I guess he is, but he stinks of hell and brimstone.”
Agnes handed her another drink. “You going to tell us then?”
“Yes. But nobody interrupts please.” She held up a hand to add visual impact to her request. “Alright, what we know is this. DumpCorp somehow thinks it is perfectly okay to turn people out of their homes in order to make an imposing entranceway to its latest ‘leisure facility’. According to the planning application it already owns all the land. I rather doubt the truth of that assertion. And even if it is true for Harmful-Galoshes’ land, the housing association does not have the power to sell the estate. According to a certain not particularly tame hotshot lawyer, the association runs the housing on behalf of a charitable trust. The trustees being the chair of the parish council, the bishop, and a representative of the tenants. Which means. With our lawyer friend nominated to represent the tenants, and the bishop on side even if HG has voted to sell he is outvoted. So actually they are stuffed. They just don’t know it.
“What we plan to do is confront DumpCorp’s earthly representative when he comes to gloat. Ginny is our parish council mole who will give us the details.”
Then bedlam broke out. Everyone seemed to be shouting at once. Only it wasn’t everyone. It was Agnes, Lilian, Ellen, and Petunia.
“They will shut up in a while,” Jamelia promised. “In the meantime I’m going out for a smoke. Are you coming? You can enjoy some fresh air or join me having a fag. Can’t do you any harm now.”
“Fresh air sounds good,” Ginny agreed, and still holding her drink she followed her new sister and friend into the garden.

Two days later the company Ginny was in was far less comfortable than that of her new nest sisters. Sitting in the plush conference room in the Bedchester Council offices which she had found following the directions of Major Harmsley-Gunn (“Can’t be slumming it in the village hall, what?”), she looked at her fellow Parish Councillors and realised they were all representatives of the extremely wealthy demographic of the village. They gave her odd, distant, smiles as if uncertain why she was even there and talked amongst themselves ignoring her completely.
Harmsley-Gunn arrived in company of a man whose face made Ginny’s guts cramp. The spiderlike, bespeckled Dominic Schilling. For a moment their gazes locked and she had a terrible dread that he might recognise her. But his look swept on and past, taking far more interest in the blonde sitting next to her who was wearing Versace and Dior and with a heavy diamond dripping from each earring.
The introductions were made quickly and no one objected when Harmsley-Gunn announced that they were being joined by new resident Virginia Cropper. Again no reaction from Schilling, but then he would only have known her by her married name.
“Right,” the Major said when the pre-meeting formalities and minute reading had all been done, recorded by the silent and capable parish clerk. “Now let’s make sure those crazy old bitches of the Ladies Association can’t stop us making this sale and bringing fresh blood and prosperity to the village. Mr. Schilling is here to tell us how to do it.”
Ginny sat back beside the Major, said nothing when his silver ferruled cane slipped off the table and landed unnoticed in her large canvas bag, and took many notes.

Part Twenty-Seven of Much Dithering in Little Botheringham by Jane Jago and Eleanor Swift-Hook, will be here next week.

Because life happens…

Exploring the mysteries of life through the versatile medium of limerick poetry.

Save

It is wise to save up and not spend
Or you’ll not have enough in the end
But while that is true
Savings only are due
If you have enough now, my dear friend

Eleanor Swift-Hook

In a modern-day Britain where the Roman Empire never left, Dai and Julia solve murder mysteries, whilst still having to manage family, friendship and domestic crises…

Ante Diem Septimum Idus September MDCCLXXVIII Anno Diocletiani

The body lay sprawled on the cold, mosaic floor of the Basilica Viriconia. Dai found irreverent and irrelevant thoughts going through his mind about how having a murder scene so close to the Vigiles House was so convenient and considerate of the killer. He recognised them for what they were. An instinctive protection against the horror.
And horror this was.
The headless corpse had been carefully arranged so its posture fitted to the Caput Deum, the head of the Divine Diocletian, picked out on the floor there as it was in every official building in the Empire. Haloed in tiny golden tiles, it replaced in two dimensions the murder victims own head. The body was naked, male, and the only obvious identifying mark was the silver ring of Citizenship. Whoever this was they were most-likely Romano-British.
“Same M.O. as the last one,” Senior Investigator Bryn Catrivel observed. “This is getting sick and creepy, Bard.”  
His familiar tone and form of address drew an odd look from the other man present, Sextus Catus Bestia who had recently taken up the role of Magistratus for Demetae and Cornovii. Recently enough, Dai knew that he had yet to realise Bryn and Dai were long time friends and work partners. That they had served together in the Vigiles in Londinium for eight years before Dai was appointed to be Submagistratus based here in Viriconium.
Dai looked around the broad expanse of the civic building’s portico and noticed the dead-eyed cameras.
“They even found a way to take the surveillance offline, I’m guessing.”
The Magistratus cleared his throat. His long face looking distinctly sallow beneath the carefully trimmed black hair. He lifted one hand, palm forward, the heavy gold patrician ring of Citizenship very obvious on his index finger.
“Um. I’m terribly afraid that might be my fault. I was testing it late yesterday afternoon and I told the disadattatus I would restore it to normal mode as it was the end of his working day, but I must have forgotten and I suppose it stayed down overnight. Mea culpa. Isn’t there a night watchman of some sort?”
“Used to be, dominus,” Bryn said heavily. “Until Aprilis. That was when the last man retired and as the automatic surveillance had been upgraded it wasn’t felt necessary to replace him.”
“Oh dear. That is not good, not good at all.” The Magistratus looked profoundly unhappy and shook his head. “The poor, poor man.”
Dai was wondering whether the ‘poor man’ in question was the retiring watchman, the disadattatus or the deceased when he caught the look Bryn sent him.
“Dominus, we should allow SI Cartivel to continue this murder investigation. As long as we are here it is getting in the way of what he needs to do.”
“Oh. Yes. Of course.” He started walking towards his office and Dai walked with him leaving Bryn giving clipped and efficient orders to his team. “Two Roman Citizens killed in this bizarre way.” He frowned heavily. “Wasn’t there some extreme Anti-Roman group operating in this area recently?”
“Yes, dominus. We had an unpleasant encounter with such a group last year. But they were dealt with conclusively.”
“Such evil can grow deep roots and spring up like mushrooms. But if you are certain, Llewellyn…” He trailed off as another thought clearly distracted him. “Considering how this is going I think I should take over the investigation myself.”
Dai felt his guts tighten. The new Magistratus had been in Viriconium for less than three weeks and in that time the impression he had made was not one to inspire any confidence in his ability to lead an investigation.
“Might I suggest, dominus that as you are still settling in and are not fully acquainted with the local circumstances, it might be better to let me do so.”
The Magistratus stopped on the spot.
“Well isn’t that the point? How am I ever going to get to know how things are here if I don’t jump in and get my hands dirty? Oh, don’t worry. I won’t be breathing down the neck of the local Vigiles – I’m sure they know what they need to do, I’ll just be overseeing not interfering. This is the kind of thing that can echo all the way to Augusta Trevorum and even Rome, you know. I just want to keep across it so if there is any come back I am the one who gets to do the testudu and your Vigiles won’t have to worry about taking any flak.”
Dai stifled the urge to snap that the Vigiles wouldn’t need any protecting if they were just left to do their job, but clearly the Magistratus meant well and was trying to show care and consideration for his subordinates.
The Magistratus placed a heavy hand on Dai’s shoulder.
“I know I have a very large set of sandals to fill to be able to measure up to Magistratus Ambrosius, but I want my people to know I have their backs. So I’ll have my primus secretarius – what’s his name again? Turtle? Turnbull? Terfel. That’s it – arrange for SI Cartivel to brief me twice daily and on any key developments. I can provide any support and resources as the investigation might require.” He nodded as if well satisfied by his own solution to the issue then smiled encouragingly at Dai. “It’ll be for the best.”
Having seen the Magistratus to his office, Dai was heading for his own office on the first floor of the building and had reached the door when he got a call from Bryn, his voice heavy.
“We got an ID. It’s Manius Terfel.”
“Having just heard the name spoken a few minutes before in such a different context, Dai struggled for a moment.
“But he’s the Magistratus’ primus secretarius. He was with Caudinus for years. He was…” Realising how he sounded Dai stopped talking and drew quick breath. “He was a good man.”
“I was wondering if you wanted to be the one to tell the Magistratus. He might be…”
“Yeah. I’ll do it. And you ought to know he’s planning to perch on your shoulder for this investigation. I tried to talk him out of it but he seems to think it’s his duty to do so in order to protect you lot from any chance of getting blamed for missing something since he says this could make it all the way to Rome.”
“Merda.”
“Exactly.”
“It’s like the man has his heart in the right place but not always his brain. I’m not going to leave you on the sidelines with this even if Dominus Sextus Catus is. Meet for prandium, usual taberna?”
Dai agreed and finished the call.

You can find out how the investigation of the headless corpse proceeds if you keep reading Dying on the Mosaics by E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago.