Ode to a Banker

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 prone 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-fashioned. 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 Passus 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 shield.

'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 entitled 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.

Passus 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 circumstances.

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

'Chin up, darling,' soothed Passus. 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. Embarrassed, 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 assured 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 glass powder containers. It must have taken some time just to assemble 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, lass?' growled Passus.

'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,' Passus 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 Passus. '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 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.'