Ode to a Banker mdf-12 Page 8

  'Of course.'

  'At what?'

  'How should I know? Skipping through manuscripts, probably. Wewould go in and find him, scowling and grumbling – he has a stable of writers he encourages, but frankly, he does not think much of most of them.' Like the slave with the lunch tray, she still slipped into speaking as if the man were alive.

  'Could you, or someone on your staff, give me these writers' names?'

  'Ask Euschemon. He is -'

  'Thanks. I know Euschemon. He is waiting to be interviewed.' Did a flicker of nervousness cross the lady's face? 'And did Chrysippus work on manuscripts in his Greek library like that every day?' I asked, trying to ascertain if a murderer could have planned on finding him there.

  'If he was at home. He had numerous interests. He was a man of affairs. Some mornings he would be out, seeing clients or other people.'

  'Where did he go?'

  'The Forum, maybe.'

  'Do you know anything about his clients?'

  'I am afraid not.' She looked straight back at me. Was it a challenge?

  'Do you know if he had any enemies?'

  'Oh no. He was a much loved and respected man.'

  Dear gods. Why do they never realise that informers and the vigiles have heard that claim a hundred lying times before? I managed not to look at Fusculus and Passus, lest we all three collapsed with sidesplitting ridicule.

  I folded my arms.

  'So. You and Chrysippus lived here, blissfully married.' No reaction from the lady. Still, women rarely come straight out with complaints about men's habits at table or their mean dress allowances, not to a stranger. Well, not a stranger who has just seen the husband of the moment lying nastily dead. Women are less stupid than some investigators make out.

  'Children?' put in Fusculus.

  'Get away,' joshed Passus, playing a well-worn vigiles routine. 'She doesn't look old enough!'

  'Child bride.' Fusculus grinned back. It might work with a dim girl, but this one was too hard-bitten. Vibia Merulla decided for herself when she wanted to be flattered. She had probably done her share of encouraging men's banter, but now there was too much at stake. She endured the joking with a face like travertine.

  'Leave off, you two,' I intervened. I gazed at Vibia benignly. That did not fool her either, but she did not bother to react. Not until my next question: 'As the examining officer in this case, you appreciate that I need to look for a motive for your husband's murder. He was rich; somebody will inherit. Can you tell me the terms of his will?'

  'You heartless bastard!' shrieked the widow.

  Well, they usually do.

  She had been about to leap to her feet (very nice little feet, under the bloodstains and cedar oil). Fusculus and Passus were both ready for that. One either side of her, they leaned kindly on a shoulder each, pinning her down on her stool with lugubrious expressions of completely false sympathy. If she tried to break free forcibly, the bruises would last for weeks.

  'Oh, steady on, Falco!'

  'Poor lady; it's just his unfortunate manner. Please don't distress yourself -'

  'No offence!' I grinned heartlessly.

  Vibia wept, or pretended to, into a handkerchief, quite prettily.

  Fusculus went down in front of her on one knee, offering to dry the tears, which would be unfortunate if they were fake. 'Madam, Marcus Didius Falco is a notorious brute – but he is obliged to ask you these questions. A ghastly crime has been committed, and we all want to catch whoever was responsible, don't we?' Vibia nodded fervently. 'It would surprise you how many times people get themselves murdered, and we in the vigiles are then shocked to find out that their own closest relatives killed them. So just let Falco do his job: these are routine enquiries.'

  'If it upsets you,' I offered helpfully, 'I can soon discover what I need to know from your husband's will.'

  'Is there a will?' wondered Fusculus.

  'I expect so,' Vibia fluttered, as if the thought had never occurred to her.

  'And are you mentioned in it?' asked Passus, with an innocent smile.

  'I have no idea!' she proclaimed rather loudly. 'I have nothing to do with matters of money; whatever other women do, It is so unfeminine.' None of us commented. The remark seemed specific, and I for one filed it in my professional memory under unfinished business. 'I expect,' she declared, as suspects tend to do when blaming someone else, 'Diomedes is the main heir.'

  Fusculus, Passus, and I looked from one to another with knowing bright eyes. 'Diomedes!' said Passus to me, as if this solved a big question. Maybe he was right at that. 'Well, of course.'

  'Diomedes,' I responded. 'There you are then.'

  'Diomedes,' repeated Fusculus. 'Fancy us not thinking of him straight away!'

  We all stopped smiling.

  'Young lady,' I said – although the raw calculation in Vibia Merulla's azure- lidded eyes belonged to an efficient nymph who was as old as the cold dawn on the Sabine Hills – 'I don't want to press you unfairly, but if he is in the square for this killing I suggest you tell us rather speedily where we might find him – and who Diomedes is.'

  XIV

  'Diomedes is Chrysippus' son.' Passus was already consulting a list on his waxed tablets. He whistled a little tuneless phrase through his teeth.

  'If he lives here, he's not in,' he then told me in a low voice.

  'He lives with his mother,' announced Vibia coldly. So she was the second wife. With the first still alive, there must have been a divorce. Another nugget to file. None of us commented. No need. Even Vibia's expression showed she understood the implications.

  'This lad is an infant?' asked Fusculus, assuming that any older son would live with the father, in normal guardianship.

  'He's certainly a spoilt brat who needs looking after!' Vibia snapped. The first wife's boy had definitely upset her somehow. I saw Passus glance at Fusculus, both of them convinced that Vibia 'looked after' Diomedes in some sexual way. She failed to notice the innuendo, luckily. It was too soon to harass her in that way, even if we later came to suspect a dalliance.

  'He is an only child?' I kept it formal.

  'Yes.' She herself had borne none then. She did not appear to be pregnant. Always a good idea to check; many a violent death has been initiated by an impending birth.

  'How old is Diomedes exactly?' I had sensed what the scenario might be.

  'I'm not his mother; I cannot say exactly!' She looked up at me and stopped playing about. She shrugged. A gauzy stole slipped from her neat little shoulders. 'Early twenties.'

  'That's exact enough.' Of an age to become a suspect. 'When was the mother divorced by Chrysippus?'

  'About three years ago.'

  'After you came along?'

  Vibia Merulla simply smiled. Oh yes; I had got the picture.

  'So Diomedes went off to live with his mama. Did he continue to see his father?'

  'Of course.'

  'They are Greeks,' Fusculus reminded me. His loathing of the cultured folk from the cradle of philosophy was beginning to grate. 'Very close-knit families.'

  'It's a Roman ideal too,' I rebuked him. 'Does Diomedes come to this house to see Chrysippus, Vibia?'

  'Yes.'

  'Has he been here today?'

  'I have no idea.'

  'You don't normally see your husband's visitors?'

  'I do not involve myself in business.' This claim, too, was becoming repetitious.

  'But Diomedes is family.'

  'Not mine!'

  Too crisp. She felt she was defeating our questioning too well. Time to stop it. Better to continue later, when I would know more and might have edged a step ahead of her. I told Passus to obtain details of where the first wife lived, after which I suggested Vibia Merulla might like time to come to terms with her sudden bereavement in quiet female company.

  'Is there anybody we can send for, who would comfort you, my dear?'

  'I can manage,' she assured me, with an impressive stab at dignity. 'Friends will no dou
bt rush along when they hear what has happened.'

  'Oh, I'm sure you are right.' Widows of wealthy men rarely lack for sympathy. In fact, as we left her to her own devices, Fusculus was arranging to leave a 'courtesy' vigilis guard at the house; I heard him surreptitiously give the guard instructions to note the names of people, especially men, who rushed along to console Vibia.

  Before I left here, I wanted to interview Euschemon, the scriptorium manager. Meanwhile, I asked Fusculus to send a couple of men immediately to the house of the first wife and her son, to put them under close guard until I could get there. 'Prevent them changing their clothes or washing – if they have not already done so. Don't tell them what it is all about. Keep them quarantined. I'll be as quick as I can.'

  I checked one final time that no useful clues had been extracted from the slaves, then I walked back through the lobby to the library. On the way, I had a close look at the side table where the lunch trayhad been placed. Its two pediment feet were carved from that Phrygian marble that comes in basic white, with dark purple variegations. A couple of the wine-coloured streaks turned out to be surface only – dried bloodstains that I rubbed off with a wet finger. It confirmed that the killer might well have stopped here on his way out, in order to pinch that piece of nettle flan.

  Unpleasant though it was, I had a last look at the dead man, memorising the ghastly scene in case I needed to recall some detail later. Passus brought me the address of the first wife; I would have liked to be the first to report what had happened – although I bet she would have heard of her ex-husband's death by now.

  I picked up the short end of the scroll rod that had been wielded so revoltingly against the victim. 'Ask your evidence officer to label that and keep it, Passus. We may find the matching finial somewhere, if we have any real luck.'

  'So, what do you think, Falco?'

  'I hate cases where the first person you interview looks as guilty as all Hades.'

  'The wife did not kill him?'

  'Not in person. Both she and her clothes would show damage And although I can imagine she can wind herself into quite a frenzy when she wants to, I doubt if she is strong enough to inflict this.' We forced ourselves to resurvey the corpse at our feet. 'Of course she could have hired someone.'

  'She virtually fingered this son, Diomedes.'

  'Too convenient. No, it's too early to accuse anyone, Passus.'

  Passus looked pleased. He was curious to know the answers – but he did not want Petronius' pet private informer to be the outsider who provided them.

  His hostility was a cliche, one I was well used to, yet it annoyed me. I told him to give orders for the corpse to be removed to an undertaker's. Spitefully, I added, 'Get this room cleared, not by the household slaves but by your own men, please. Keep an eye out for any clues we may have missed under the mess. And before they are flung out in a basket, I shall need a list of what all these unrolled scrolls on the floor contain, by subject and author.'

  'Oh shit, Falco!'

  'Sorry.' I smiled pleasantly. 'You may have to do that yourself, I suppose, if your rankers can't read. But what Chrysippus was working on today may turn out to have some relevance.'

  Passus said nothing. Maybe Petronius would have wanted the scrolls listed, had he been in charge. Maybe not.

  I went back to the scriptorium, where I told the guard maintaining quarantine for Euschemon that he could be released into my custody. I could see he was not the killer; he was wearing the same clothes as when he came to see me at home this morning, with not a bloodstain on them.

  There were too many scribes within earshot, and I reckoned it would inhibit him when he talked to me. I took him away for a drink. He looked relieved to be out of there.

  'Think nothing of it,' I said cheerfully. After a grisly corpse and a flagrant wifelet, I was feeling dry myself.

  XV

  There was a popina on the next street corner, one of those grim stand-up foodshops with crude mock marble countertops on which to bruise your elbows. All but one of the big pots were uncovered and empty, and the other had a cloth over it to discourage orders. The grumbling proprietor took great pleasure in telling us he could not serve eatables. Apparently the vigiles had given him a bollocking for selling hot stews. The Emperor had banned them. It was dressed up as some sort of public health move; more likely a subtle plan to get workers off the streets and back in their workshops – and to deter people from sitting down and discussing the government.

  'Everything's banned except pulses.'

  'Ugh!' muttered I, being no lover of lentils. I had spent too much time on suveillance, gloomily leaning against a caupona counter and toying with a lukewarm bowl of pallid slush while I waited for some suspect to emerge from his comfortable lair – not to mention too many hours afterwards picking leguminous grains from my teeth.

  Privately I made a note that this ban might affect business at Flora's – so Maia might not want to take on Pa's caupona after all.

  'I gather you had the red tunics here, just when the alarin was raised about the death at the scriptorium?'

  'Too right. The bastards put the block on today's menu right at lunchtime. I was furious, but it's an edict so I couldn't say much. A woman started screaming her head off. Then the vigiles rushed off to investigate the excitement and by the time I had finished clearing the counters, there was nothing to see. I missed all the fun. My counter-hand ran down there; he said it was gruesome -'

  'That's enough!' I gave a tactful nod towards Euschemon, whom he probably knew. The popina owner subsided with a grouse. His counter-hand was absent now; perhaps sent home when the hot food was cleared away.

  Euschemon had shambled after me from the house in silence. I bought him a cup of pressed fruitjuice, which seemed the only thingon offer. It was not bad, though the fruit used was debatable. The bill, written out for me with unusual formality, cancelled any pleasure in the taste. We leaned on the counter; I glared at the owner until he slunk into the back room.

  'I'm Falco; you remember?' He managed half a nod. 'I called at the scriptorium this morning, Euschemon. You were out; I saw Chrysippus.' I did not mention my disagreement with him. It seemed a long time ago. 'That must have been just before he went in to work in his library. Now I have been appointed the official investigator for vigiles. I'll have to ask you some questions.'

  He just held his cup. He seemed in a daze, malleable – but perhaps unreliable too.

  'Let's do some scene setting – at what point did you arrive back?'

  He had to search for breath to answer me. He dragged out his words: 'I came back at midday. During the fuss, but I did not realise that at first.'

  I swigged some juice and tried to pep him up. 'How far had things got – were the vigiles already at the house?'

  'Yes; they must have been indoors. I thought there was rather a crowd outside, but I must have been preoccupied.

  'With what?' I grilled him sternly.

  'Oh… the meaning of life and the price of ink.' Sensing he might be in trouble, Euschemon woke up a bit. 'How hot was the weather, what colour olives had I chosen for my lunchpack, whose damned dog had left us a message on the pavement right outside the shop. Intellectual pursuits.' He had more of a sense of humour than I had previously realised.

  'Surely your staff knew what was going on indoors?'

  'No. In fact, nobody had heard any noise. They would have noticed the fracas in the street from the shop, but they were all in the scriptorium. The lads were battened down, you see, just having their lunchbreak.'

  'Was the scroll-shop closed then?'

  'Yes. We always pull the rolling door across and shut light down. The scribes have to concentrate so hard when they are copying, they need a complete full stop. They get their food. Some play dice, or they have a nap in the heat of the day.'

  'Is the shutter actually locked in place?'

  'Have to do it, or people try to force their way in even though they can see we have packed up for lunch. No considerat
ion-'

  'So nobody could have come in that way – or gone out?'

  He realised I meant the killer. 'No,' he said sombrely.

  'Would the shop have closed pretty early?'

  'If I know the scribes, and given that I myself was not there, yes.'

  'Hmm. So around the time of the death, that exit was blocked off…' If the killer made no attempt to use that route, maybe he knew the scriptorium routine. 'So how did you get indoors when you returned?'

  'I banged on the shutter.'

  'They unlocked again?'

  'Only because it was me. I ducked in, and we jammed it back.'

  'And when you arrived, the staff did not seem at all disturbed?'

  'No. They were surprised when I asked if they knew what was going on in the street. I had realised the crowd was outside the master's house door -'

  'Where's that?'

  'Further down. Past the bootmender. You can see the portico.' I squinted round; beyond the scriptorium and another shop entrance, I noted important stonework intruding onto the pavement. 'I was going to go and speak to Chrysippus about it when one of the vigiles burst in, from the house corridor.'

  'By that time he was well dead. So all the previous action had been muffled? You were out, and the scribes missed everything until after the body's discovery?' Euschemon nodded again, still like a man dreaming. 'It have to check that nobody came through the scriptorium after Chrysippus went indoors,' I mused.

  'The vigiles asked us that,' Euschemon told me. 'The scribes all said they saw nobody.'

  'You believe them?'

  He nodded. 'They would have been glad to be left in peace.'

  'Not happy workers?'

  'Ordinary ones.' He realised why I was probing. 'They do the job, but they like it best with no supervisor on their backs. It's natural.'