Caveat Emptor by Ruth Downie

do.
    “So we went through his clothes,” said the man, “trying to find out where he come from, see? If he had any family.”
    Or if he had anything worth stealing. “And what did you find?”
    “Nothing, sir. He didn’t have a thing except what he was standing up in when he come.”
    “So, assuming for a moment that you’re telling the truth, whose idea was it to dump him in the alley and claim the reward as if you’d never lied to me?”
    “Hers,” said the husband, just as the wife said, “It was his.”
    Ruso got to his feet. “Show me his room.”
    The room was as drab and cramped as he had expected from the state of the kitchen. The door opened outward to avoid collision with the furniture. What looked like an old sail sagged between the rafters, presumably nailed up to keep out drafts but now giving the impression that a heavy shower of dirt would fall onto the guests below if it were moved. The bed itself filled most of the room and was wide enough to accommodate several sleepers huddled for warmth under the single blanket. There was only one pillow, with an unpleasant stain in the dent where a head would have been.
    On the floorboards next to the bed a chipped cup was still half full of water. Ruso sniffed it and was none the wiser. The rough wooden box crammed against the far wall contained only a broken comb.
    “We haven’t touched nothing, sir,” said the man.
    Ruso did not greatly want to touch anything, either, but forced himself to pick up the pillow and sniff the stain. The smell reminded him of work.
    The small window was open. He glanced down into the yard. Whoever had named that dog after the hound guardian of the Underworld—presumably not its owners—had a sense of humor. Unlike its namesake, the Cerberus now lumbering to its feet in the yard had only one head. However, to make up for this, it had a front leg missing. Another ailing stray taken in by the woman whose sniffling was starting to annoy him.
    Ruso ducked his head back before the dog decided to bark at him again and surveyed the room. Whatever Julius Asper’s reasons for being here, he felt sorry for him. This was a miserable place for a man to spend his final hours.
    There was nothing under the blanket, but when the innkeeper and his wife folded back the second half of the mattress for his inspection, he spotted something lying on the floor between the slats of the bed. He lay down on the floor, reached under the bed, and pulled out a writing tablet garnished with gray fluff.
    “Ah,” said the man. “He did ask for some writing things to do a message.”
    “Why didn’t you tell me that before?”
    “I forgot.”
    Evidently the innkeeper had been hoping to erase the writing tablet and reuse it.
    “He never gave us nothing to send, though.”
    “So you don’t know who he was writing to?”
    “No, sir.”
    Ruso turned it toward the light and saw “ROOM XXVII” inked on the outside. He flipped the leaves open. A couple of lines of script trailed over the wax in a gentle curve, as if the letters were running downhill. The straggly squiggles seemed to include parts of an alphabet Ruso had never met before. He snapped the letter shut. He would look at it later. In the meantime he followed the owners back down to the kitchen, reflecting that if they had needed to smuggle the body up these stairs instead of down them, they would have been forced to leave it where it was, treat it with respect, and cause him a lot less trouble.
    The thought of having to break the bad news to Camma took away any sense of satisfaction Ruso might have felt at finding the missing man. It seemed that after arriving in Londinium, Asper had made no attempt to deliver the money or to report its theft to the procurator. Perhaps Tilla was right: The man was himself a thief who had abandoned his family. Or perhaps he had been betrayed and murdered by a greedy brother. However he had ended up here, the sorry tale was unlikely to be of much comfort to