“Where do you wash yourselves in this house?”
Achilles said, “The men slaves douse themselves back of the slave quarters, sir. The women do the same only they have a large basin they sit in, and there’s a screen for them. The master liked to use the baths at the gymnasium, of course. The old mistress and the nurses had water carried to their quarters. I believe there’s a copper tub.”
Diotima nodded. She had a bit more color in her face. “The tub’s in the room beyond the bodies.”
“Did you look there?”
“This morning? No.”
I went first to the corner behind the slave quarters. It was as Achilles described it. There was not a drop of blood to be seen. Also, it was perfectly dry. Whoever had killed the women hadn’t washed themselves here. Next I went back up the stairs, took a deep breath, and opened the door. I stepped through as quickly and gingerly as I could, trying not to step in the mess. I had to jump over the largest pool. Fortunately it was almost dried. The room beyond held beds, three chests, a cupboard, and a tub. One of the beds had metal rings bolted to the wall above it. There was stout rope hanging from the rings. I guessed this was where Stratonike slept. She was probably tied when she was being particularly difficult. The other two beds would be for the nurses. All three had been slept in.
I looked closely at the tub and the floor between the tub and the door. Not a drop of blood to be seen, and these too, were dry. This was rapidly becoming irritating. My fine theory as to how the murderer managed to leave clean was being destroyed by lack of evidence.
I put that aside for the moment and considered another question: how had the bodies ended in the common room? Had they been dragged from their beds? No, that was inconceivable. There was no blood in the bedroom. Had they been knocked unconscious in bed and then dragged? But then why didn’t attacking the first woman wake the others?
So all three women had left their beds, and willingly walked to the common room to be murdered, like lambs to the slaughter. My imagination rebelled. I thought of the big, strong nurses with their muscled arms. I thought of the homicidal Stratonike. Any one of them would have scared me in a dark alley. All three together would be like facing the Furies. I shuddered to think what would happen to any man who took them on all at once.
Stratonike’s arms were bruised, but there was no telling if that was the work of the murderer or the nurses handling her during the funeral. I could see from the stains that the blood had poured from her throat down both sides of her neck. She must have been lying as she was now when she died.
How could the killer have persuaded her to lie still while he cut her throat? She might have been mad, but she wasn’t that far gone. Besides which, Stratonike was the homicidally inclined of the three. Why hadn’t she fought? The answer came to me immediately. Diotima had said the sleeping potion had put Stratonike out completely. Looking down at her now, I could see her face appeared calm and peaceful, possibly for the first time in many years.
So if Stratonike was unconscious, why would anyone bother to murder her? The two nurses might have been disturbed by an intruder and walked into the common room to investigate, but that didn’t explain the death of their mistress.
There was only one possible answer. The purpose of the intruder was to murder Stratonike. The nurses’ deaths were merely necessary because they’d been woken.
I was quite pleased with myself. I’d made quick progress on these murders, faster than I’d managed with Ephialtes. I had a simple picture in mind.
The murderer had crept into the bedroom, picked up the comatose Stratonike and carried her into the common room where he proceeded to open her throat. This woke at least one and possibly both nurses, who came out to investigate. They probably saw that Stratonike had left her bed, and thought she was making the noise. So they walked in unprepared for what was happening. The murderer took a swipe at the first nurse from his crouching position over Stratonike. That’s why the nurse was struck in the stomach. She fell to the side. The murderer, now standing, swung at the next nurse, taking her in the head. She was flung onto the couch where she quickly died, spurting blood up the wall.
The scene was perfect in my mind. It explained the state of every corpse.
Then the murderer, who must have been dripping in gore, walked out of the room leaving no trace, no track, no drops of blood on the stairs or on the ground floor.
No, it was impossible. Yet my theory fit so well, I felt I had the right basic idea. So the killer had cleaned himself before leaving. He must have. But there were only two ways he could have done that, and both were pristine dry.
I set that problem aside once again and considered who would want to murder Stratonike. The nurses sprang instantly to mind. I glanced at their mutilated bodies and decided I could eliminate them as suspects. Who else? Diotima. And she was the only one covered in gore. If Diotima killed the women, it would explain everything and eliminate the need for the killer to be clean. My mind rebelled at the thought and I had to force myself to stay on track. I’d thought at first only a man would have the strength, but could I be wrong? I recalled our race though the city. She was definitely fit. And she loathed Stratonike-with good reason. Would her hatred supply the strength and will to cut her throat? It might…maybe. But if Diotima was the murderer, where was the weapon?
I choked back my distaste and searched the women’s quarters thoroughly. I didn’t find a cleaver, nor a knife, nor a sword, nor any other weapon. There weren’t even the small knives anyone would have. I supposed that was to be expected, given the presence of Stratonike.
I returned to Diotima.
“What took you so long?” she demanded. “I don’t have to ask where you’ve been.”
My investigation had taken its toll. My sandals were red. I was spattered from my feet to my knees, and my palms were smeared.
I ignored her comments and asked, “Where’s the kitchen?”
“Hungry?” she asked sarcastically.
“Not particularly. I don’t think I’ll be eating meat for a while. I want to see the knives.”
“I’m coming with you this time,” Diotima said.
She led me to the kitchen, next to the slaves’ quarters. It looked much like the kitchen of my home, with the oven placed outside to avoid fires and the preparation bench and food stores inside. The knives were hung on hooks. Every hook had a knife.
Diotima frowned. “How strange.”
“What is?”
“The knives are all there.”
I nodded unhappily. “Yes, I was expecting one to be missing.”
“No, Nicolaos, you don’t understand, there was a knife missing.”
That startled me. “Say that again?”
“Last night, as I wandered the house, I came in here and I noticed there was a knife missing. That one.” She pointed to the meat cleaver.
I stepped close to the cleaver and stared. “I can see the slightest trace of blood on it, in the crack between the handle and the blade.”
“Of course you can, it’s a meat cleaver.”
Achilles coughed. “Excuse me, young mistress, but I think you must be mistaken. All the knives were there yesterday morning.”
“Nonsense,” Diotima said brusquely. “The cleaver wasn’t there last night.”
“It was there in the afternoon. I saw it.”
“Are you sure, Achilles?” I asked.
“Quite sure, sir. I looked over the kitchen especially because we all expected the new master to stay for the funeral feast.”
“Didn’t he?”
Diotima said, “He did. But being the only male family member, it was a depressing affair even by the usual standards. Stratonike was alternating between wailing a cacophony and hysterical laughter. Rizon shouted at the nurses and me to shut her up. He was in a foul mood after what happened at the funeral. He walked up to the nurses and shrieked at them that Stratonike was to be silent or he’d have them beaten.”
