Ode To A Banker Part 6

I said nothing, but that was interesting. I don't only mean that their cook served a rather eggy type of lunch. n.o.body breaks off from work, investigates his tray, eats the one thing he dislikes, then abandons the rest. Somebody else must have been in that lobby. Maybe the killer himself pa.s.sed that way when he left. Coolly grabbing a handful of his victim's meal? That would take nerve. Or else he was brutally callous.

Mind you, if anybody spotted him on the way out, having a fistful of pastry and a mouthful of crumbs would have made him look casual.

Fusculus approached, followed by one of his men.

'This is Pa.s.sus, Falco. You probably don't know him. Joined our team recently.'

Pa.s.sus looked at me with suspicion. He was a short, shock-haired neat type with a belt he was proud of and stubby hands. He had a quiet manner and was no raw recruit; I guessed he had been seconded from some other cohort. His air was competent but not too pushy. He was carrying a set of waxed tablets, with a bone stylus bending his right ear forward, for taking notes.

'Didius Falco,' I introduced myself politely. I had always respected the men Petro gathered around him. He was a good judge and they responded well to him. 'Petronius Longus has called me in to a.s.sist on a consultancy basis.'

Pa.s.sus still said nothing, glancing sideways at Fusculus. He had been told, or had deduced, that I was an informer; he did not like it. 'Yes, it stinks,' I agreed. 'I'm no happier than you are. I have better things to do. But Petro knows I'm sound. I gather your squad is floundering in summer crime and needs to farin out the surplus.' I had had enough of justifying myself. 'Either that, or my dear friend Lucius has his hands full with a new girlfriend.'

Fusculus jumped. Petro's love life fascinated his men. 'He's after a new one?'

'Guesswork. He's said nix. You know how close he is. We'll only be sure when the next outraged husband comes to ask if we know why his turtledove is always tired ... So, Pa.s.sus, what's the story from the staff here?'

The new enquiry officer gave his report slightly stiffly at first, warming to the task: 'Aurelius Chrysippus had been occupying himself in his normal business. There were morning visitors; I took names. But he had been seen alive - when he asked for his lunch - after the last one is thought to have left.'

'Thought?' I queried. 'Are visitors not monitored?'

'The regime seems rather informal,' said Fusculus. 'There is a door porter but he doubles up as a water-carrier. If he is not at his post, people come and go as if the house was an extension of the shop.'

'Casual.'

'Greeks!' Apparently Fusculus harboured some old Roman prejudice against our cultured neighbours.

'I thought they like to protect their womenfolk?'

'No, they're just all over other peoples' women,' Fusculus sneered bitterly. A personal beef, no doubt of it. Find the female? I didn't even know that Fusculus had a girlfriend, let alone that he had had her pinched by some Piraeus skirt pirate.

'They have plenty of staff about.' Pa.s.sus wanted to continue with his notes. 'It was a normal day. Chrysippus did not seem out of sorts. Thealarin was raised by slaves just after midday. Most of them fled, terrified.'

'Terrified of being blamed,' commented Fusculus. Well, the vigiles, with their usual light-handed tactics, were making sure the slaves' terror was justified.

'Any of them touch the body?'

'No, Falco.' Fusculus, as senior officer present, was quick to let me know the vigiles had checked that aspect. 'They say they only looked in and then ran - well, it's pretty repellent.'

Pa.s.sus took over again: 'We listened to their stories, then we carried out a hands and clothing check. No bloodstains on most of their tunics. One did have that spilt stuff from the library all up his backside, but that was because his feet had slipped from under him on the oil in there and he landed in the stuff; it's clear he has not been in a fight. Those with blood on their footwear match those who admitted they went in to gawp.'

'Arms and legs?'

'Clean.'

'Untoward bruising? Signs of a tussle?'

'Nothing new. A few bangs and cuts. All readily explained as natural wear and tear.' In most households a survey of the slaves would produce a fair set of black eyes, cuts, burns, knocks and sores.

'What do they say about the way they are handled here?'

'Routine. Smacked ears for making themselves unpopular, meagre servings in their food-bowls, hard beds, not enough women to go round.'

'So the slaves are affectionately-treated adjuncts to a normal family?'

'Model behaviour by the paterfamilias.'

'Did he extract s.e.xual favours?'

'Probably. n.o.body mentioned it.'

So far, this was not helping. 'I am still unclear how the alarm spread to the street,' I said. That niggled me. 'Who was it who ran out of the house making a noise?'

'I did!' announced a woman's voice.

We turned around and looked her up and down, which was what her rich dress and finely applied cosmetics intended us to do. Fusculus leaned one fist against his hip, considering this vision. Pa.s.sus pursed his lips, not letting on whether he liked what he saw or thought the effect too flash.

'Ah! Now we're getting somewhere, boys!' I cried. It was a waggish response, which was possibly ill-mannered - but instinct told me to do it, even though this looked like the mistress of the house.

XIII.

SHE WAS a good-looking piece. She knew all about it too. She did have a mouth so wide it looked as if it ran past her ears and met behind her head, but that was part of her style. The style was also extremely expensive. She wanted everyone to notice that.

The wide, red-dyed mouth was not smiling. The voice that had come from it was somehow slightly uncultured, yet I would have placed her social origins as Roman, and higher than those of Chrysippus. The dark eyes that went with the mouth and the voice were too close together for me, but men with less demanding tastes would have thought them appealing, and much had been made of them with plucked brows, deep outlines and startling tinted pastes. They had a hard expression, but so what? Women in the Thirteenth Sector were p.r.o.ne to that. According to the ones I knew, it was caused by men.

This was a young, confident female who had oodles of money and time on her hands. She thought that made her something special. For most peoples it would have done. I was old-fas.h.i.+oned. I liked women with a dash of moral fibre; well, women whose flirting was honest, anyway.

'And who are you?' I kept it level, not admitting whether I was impressed by the externals. Fusculus and Pa.s.sus were watching how I handled this. I could have managed better without their open curiosity, but I knew I had to show them my quality. I was up to it. Well, probably. Helena Justina would have recommended that I handle this beauty with tongs, from behind a fireproof s.h.i.+eld.

'Vibia Merulla '

'Lady of the house?'

'Correct. Chrysippus' wife.' Perhaps this was slightly too emphatic.

'And dear light of his life?' I made it gallant, if she chose to take my wry tone that way.

'Certainly.' The wide mouth set in a straight line.

I saw no reason to doubt her, actually. He must have been approaching sixty; she was in her late twenties. He was an unprepossessing squit and she was a spanking little artefact. It fitted. Married for a couple of years now, and both parties still pretending to like the situation, I would guess. Standing in their luxurious home and inspecting the ranks of jewelled necklaces that burdened a fine bosom, I could imagine what might have been in it for her, while that half- revealed bust hinted at what had been in it for him.

Nevertheless, it is always worth pressing the questions. 'Were you happy together?'

'Of course we were. Ask anyone!' She may not have realised, I would do just that.

We shepherded the voluptuous Vibia to one side of the grand hall out of earshot of the slaves who were still being processed. Her glance flickered over them anxiously, yet she made no attempt to intervene; as their mistress she would have been ent.i.tled to sit in on the questioning.

'Nice place!' commented Fusculus. Apparently this was his method of setting a wealthy householder's widow at her ease.

It worked. Vibia paid no more attention to the interrogated slaves. 'This is our Corinthian Oecus.'

'Very nice!' He smirked. 'Is that some Greek sort of thing?'

'Only in the best kind of houses.'

'But Greek?' insisted Fusculus.

He achieved his answer the second time: 'My husband's family came from Athens originally.'

'Was that recent?'

'This generation. But they are perfectly Romanised.' She, I reckoned, came straight off a true Roman trash-heap - though it might have social pretensions.

Fusculus managed not to sneer. Well, not at this stage. It was plain what he thought, and how raucous the conversation would be when the vigiles talked Vibia Merulla over later in the day.

Pa.s.sus had found her a stool, so we could fuss round, ending up as if by accident in a group looming over her.

'We are very sorry for your loss.' I was examining the lady for signs of genuine grief; she knew that. She looked pale. The kohl-etched eyes were perfect and unsmudged. If she had wept, she had been neatly and expertly mopped up; still, there would be maids here employed specifically to keep her looking presentable, even in the present circ.u.mstances.

She produced a wail: 'It's horrible! Just horrible -'

'Chin up, darling,' soothed Pa.s.sus. He was cruder than Fusculus. She looked annoyed, but women who carry a hint of the fish market yet lacquer themselves so expensively have to expect to be patronised.

I addressed her like a kind uncle, though I would have dumped responsibility for any niece like this. 'Forgive me for distressing you, but if we are to catch your poor husband's killer we must ascertain the full course of events today.' There were blood and oilstains on the glittering hem of her full-skirted gown, on her narrow-strapped, white leather sandals, and on the perfectly-trimmed toes visible through the dainty straps. 'You must have run in to the body when the alarm was raised?' I had let her see me inspecting her feet for evidence. Instinctively, she drew them back beneath her gown. A modest move. Embarra.s.sed, perhaps, that they were no longer quite clean.

'I did,' she said, though for a second I thought she had to think about it.

'What you found must have been a terrible shock. I am sorry to have to remind you, but I need to be quite clear what happened next. You told us you ran into the street screaming - was that immediately after you saw what had happened?'

Vibia gazed at me. 'Do you imagine I sat down and polished my nails first?'

Her tone was fairly level. It was impossible to tell whether this was a straightforward sarcastic reaction from a wife irritated by officialdom, or the kind of fighting rejoinder I had sometimes met from culprits defending themselves.

'Why did you run outside?' I continued patiently.

'I thought whoever killed my husband might still be on the premises. I rushed out and screamed and screamed for help.'

'Excuse me, but you do have a large staff here. Were you not confident that they would protect you?' I wondered whether she was unpopular with the household slaves.

For half a breath, she did not answer. Even when she spoke, it avoided the question. 'I just wanted to get away from that horrible sight.'

'I have to ask - did it cross your mind that one of the slaves might have done it?'

'Nothing crossed my mind. I did not think.'

'Oh, quite understandable,' I a.s.sured her gently. At least this made a change from the frequent scenario where a guilty wife blames a slave to cover herself. 'Do you mind if I ask, what had you been doing that morning?'

'I was with my maids.'

And a mirror. And a shopful of gla.s.s powder containers. It must have taken some time just to a.s.semble the jewellery collection, dominated by a clanking strand of gold half moons and by earrings so heavy with hard gemstones they must be torture on her lobes. You wouldn't nibble those ears. You might put an eye out, if madam tossed her head and the bank-breaking bijoux swung your way unexpectedly.

'Where's your room, la.s.s?' growled Pa.s.sus.

'On the second floor.'

'Same as your husband?' he demanded intrusively.

Vibia looked him straight in the eye. 'We are a devoted couple,' she reminded him.

'Oh, of course,' Pa.s.sus returned, still being offensive as he pretended to apologise. 'But we see some terrible things in the vigiles. Some of the places we go, the first thing I'd be looking at was whether, while the husband was scribbling in his Greek library, there was a boyfriend creeping up a back stairway to visit the pretty young wife.'

Vibia Merulla seethed in silence. She may have coloured up. Under the layers of sheep-fat foundation, ochre rouge and foam of red nitre face powder, it was difficult to distinguish real effects of flesh and blood.

I took over again- 'Would you have any idea what your husband's movements were today?'

'The same as usual. He was a businessman; you must know that. He attended to his business.'

'That's rather vague, you know.' She ignored my mild reproof. Next time I would be rude like Pa.s.sus. 'Part of the time he was in the scriptorium, streetside. I know that, Vibia. Then, I'm told, he came into the library. To read for his own pleasure?'

'What?'

'Reading,' I said. 'You know: words written on scrolls. Expressions of thought; depictions of action; inspiration and uplift - or for a publisher, the means to cash.' She looked offended again. Still, I knew her type; she thought plays were where you went to flirt with your girlfriends' husbands and poems were junk verses sent to you in secret packs of sweets by oily gigolos. 'He was working?' I insisted.

'Of course.'

'At what?'

'How should I know? Skipping through ma.n.u.scripts, 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 ma.n.u.scripts 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?'