Later, I was glad I stayed in or I would have missed a visitor. Galla Simplicia had rushed to Rome, where the minute she had dumped her travelling hat in her cousin’s spare room, she came straight here to view the scene of the crime.

If the murder of Aviola and Mucia was her crime, as Hermes believed, this stupidly drew attention to herself. Still, any woman who does arrange to have her ex-husband violently taken out by professional robbers must have a touch of the brash.

I guessed who she was, though she looked a perfectly ordinary woman. That’s evil schemers for you. If all those who plotted had talons and Medusa snake hair, identifying them would be too easy.

I had heard voices; I emerged from my room unnoticed. I stood quiet in the colonnade and watched.

Myla must have let her in. They were now on the oppos-ite side of the courtyard with their backs to me. Myla was waiting while the visitor squared up and went into the bedroom where the couple had been killed. I read in Myla’s slumped stance that she was unhappy about the situation, but of course she made no objection. Myla was too lethargic. For her part, Galla Simplicia had an air of determined authority, even viewed from behind.

Some women neglect their back view, but this one was pert, cinched and ringletted. Her coiffure must have taken half a day. I wondered if she had it done specially to come to Rome legacy-hunting.

It struck me that if Myla had been in this household for a long time, then Galla Simplicia had once been her mistress, giving her orders – and possibly even forming a sympathetic bond.

I stepped forward to stand between the columns, so as soon as Galla re-emerged she saw me. Myla immediately took herself off; it was the first time I had seen her walking, which she did with a languorous sway. Galla shot a tetchy glance after her (so I could see no residual friendship), then came towards me across the courtyard as if she belonged here and meant to send me packing.

I got in first. ‘Excuse me! Can I help you?’ I called out, implying who let you in without permission, and what do you think you are doing? ‘My name is Flavia Albia; I am working for the aedile Manlius Faustus. This is a crime scene, if you don’t know. We are not permitting ghoulish viewings. I will have to ask you to leave.’

Galla Simplicia braved it out well. She pulled her stole over her head, modestly burying her face in the material as if genuinely horrified by the hideous events. I could see her assessing me as she peeked out. ‘I meant no offence. I wanted to see where my husband died.’ For someone supposedly vindictive, her voice was surprisingly weak. A high, decently-spoken but thin voice: I took against it.