I mentioned to Heracleides that sadly the staff he spoke of so highly had been involved in an incident last night. At once the operatives who had supposedly been with him for years became temporaries who must have come to him with false references, bad people whom he said he would never use again. I asked to see them. Hardly to my surprise, that was impossible. I stated calmly I would come back with the vigiles that evening and if the person I was looking for was not then present, Heracleides would be in trouble.

I spelled out the trouble: ‘Got a function tonight, have you? Lucky you don’t supervise in person or you’d be forced to cancel. Looks like you’ll be stuck here answering five hundred questions about the status of your boy and girl helpers until the moon comes out. Any of them got form? Past arrests for pinching clients’ pretty manicure boxes? Your women ever been on the vigiles’ prostitute lists?’ In the service industry that was inevitable. Waitresses were there to sleep with. ‘And what about you, Heracleides—what’s your citizen status? Did you answer your summons for the Census? Got any imported artwork you never paid port duty on? Where did all this charming ivory come from—would it be African?’

He tried to play tough. ‘What do you want, Falco?’

‘I want whichever of your staff picked up a fine cameo pendant at the spy’s house. If they talk to me today, I can promise no comeback.’

‘I wish I’d never taken that brief.’

‘Think of this as structured learning. Now, show me your managerial expertise: kindly produce my witness.’

He liked the jargon. He disappeared to ask the group which of them was guilty. He wasn’t long coming back. His minions must be curled up in the stable stalls downstairs.

‘It’s my chef. He’s not available. I sent him on a meat-carving course. Sorry—you’ve had a wasted journey.’

‘He slashed the Trojan hog with panache last night. He doesn’t need extra training. You’re lying. Let’s make a little trip downstairs, shall we?’

We made the trip. I walked at my favourite pace, steady but purposeful. Heracleides stumbled more jerkily. That was because I was holding him up by the back of his tunic, so he had to walk on tiptoe. Draught mules watched thoughtfully as we appeared together in the stable.

‘Call your chef.’

‘He’s not here, Falco.’

‘Call him!’

‘Nymphidias . . .’

‘Too quiet.’ I reinforced the request painfully. Heracleides yelled Nymphidias’ name with much more urgency and the chef crawled out from behind a barrel. He was the man who stole the miniature painting yesterday, I knew. In view of his expertise with knives, I kept my distance.