Free Second Act by Marilyn Todd Page B

satisfied himself that he had done everything within his power and had at least some gratification in knowing that the case was closed. Dogged wasn’t the word, and that was why Claudia walked on eggshells around him. She hadn’t dragged herself out of the gutter to watch everything she’d worked for washed out to sea. Upright, conscientious and thorough, if Orbilio had nailed the Halcyon Rapist, then the Halcyon Rapist was nailed.
    ‘This has to be a copycat crime,’ she said.
    ‘That’s what my colleague, Dymas, thinks. That some arrogant bastard wants to prove himself smart enough to outwit the authorities.’ Orbilio tried for a smile and failed. ‘Well, my colleague is right on that score. I spoke to the girl who was attacked yesterday morning and I’ve just come from questioning the second victim now and it’s exactly the same as last year. Not similar,’ he said wearily. ‘Identical, Claudia, right down to the aniseed and the mask, and you know what that means.’
    The lamb she’d eaten as part of the sacrifice threatened to regurgitate itself over the cobbles. No wonder he hadn’t been able to face it.
    ‘Yes,’ she said softly, and something tightened inside. ‘I know what it means.’
    It meant Mr Conscientious-Upright-and-Thorough had made a mistake.
    As a result of that error, an innocent man had been sent to his death.

Te n
    O ut in the Alban Hills, a few miles from the bustling town of Frascati, a woodsman paused for lunch. The meal was humble—a hunk of cheese and a sweet chestnut scone—but he was glad to rest his weary bones, he’d been on the hoof since dawn. There was quite a nip in the air, but the woodsman was warm enough in his soft hide jerkin and leggings to brave untying the stout thongs of his leather cloak while he ate.
    ‘Xerxes!’ He whistled his dog. ‘Here, boy!’
    Daft mutt. Gone lolloping off on a scent. The woodsman shrugged. All the more for him. He broke off a chunk of the cheese, hand-churned by the best cheese maker in the Alban Hills, his own wife. Aye, she knew how to make cheese, did his missus. One denarius of lamb’s rennet to every pail of milk, then she’d toss in a few wild thistle flowers and leave nature to take its course. Once it had thickened, she’d transfer the curds into a wicker basket to be moulded and pressed, salted then pressed again, before she added yet more salt and left it to mature under weights. This particular specimen had been hardened in brine and left smoking over the hearth through the summer until the rind had turned a rich, oaky brown, but his wife turned out everything from soft pungent goat’s cheese to fresh curds to ewe’s cheese which she made only in March when milk was at its most plentiful.
    She sold many of her cheeses in the market in town and was a treasure house of gossip when she got back. Sited at the junction of no fewer than three main routes in and out of Rome, Frascati saw everyone from bone workers to horse breakers, soothsayers to purveyors of fine linen towels for the nobility. Musicians passed through, auctioneers, freaks, tax collectors, viper tamers, midwives, wagoners, you name it, and each with a tale to tell. The evenings were never dull when his wife had been into market.
    There was that slave who had run away from Senator Cotta’s estate, what had been recaptured half a mile out of town. What a fight she put up, according to his missus. Kicking, biting, screaming as they carried her back to the house.
    Then there was that kerfuffle with the strolling players last autumn, when half of them (no, more than half) stormed off, leaving the original troupe well and truly in the doodah and taking on anyone stupid enough to sign up and not being too fussed about who they hired, either, because Saturnalia was coming up fast.
    The woodsman smiled as he chomped on his scone. All good fun, those stories, but none of them was a patch on the one where Senator Cotta’s old man blew himself up.
    What a hoot that