ODE TO A BANKER

I turned to the benches behind me and found Helena Justina beaming with delight. I pushed Philomelus down to his seat with one hand on his shoulder. `Stop shouting,' I said gently. I glanced over to Helena. `What's the verdict?'

She was thrilled for the young man. `A shining new talent. A breathtaking story, written with mystical intensity. An author who will sell and sell.'

I grinned briefly at the shipper and his startled son. `Sit quiet, and contemplate your talent and your good fortune: Philomelus, my assessors reckon you are good.'

LXIII

THERE was a certain amount of extraneous activity. The room was humming with noise like a banquet when they let in the naked dancers. As I walked back to the centre of the room, Euschemon scuttled past me. He ensconced himself alongside Philomelus and they started muttering in undertones. Then Helena gathered up part of her scroll collection and beetled down the row to return his lost manuscript to the excited young author. She sat down with him and Euschemon and I saw her shaking her finger. If I knew her, she was advising Philomelus to obtain a reliable business adviser before he signed away his contractual rights.

Fusculus appeared through the dividing door, looking pleased with himself. He gave me a vigiles nod. I interpreted as best I could. With the vigiles it might only mean a take-out lunch box had arrived. I mimed that he was to bring in the old lady who walked about the Clivus Publicius. Fusculus winced. She must have given him the hard basket treatment.

Lysa was head-to-head with Diomedes. Time to stop her little games.

`Attention, please – and quiet!' I shouted in a commanding tone.

Fusculus brought in the grandma, leading her gingerly by one arm. He walked her slowly around the room for me. I asked her to point out anyone she remembered seeing the day of the murder.

Enjoying her role at the centre of things, the aged dame fastidiously stared at everyone, while they looked back in a state of nervous tension – even those who I was certain had nothing to fear. My star witness then indicated all the authors except Urbanus (a good test of reliability), followed in turn by Philomelus, and even Fusculus, Passus, Petronius, and me. Really thorough – and useless for my purposes.

Taking her free arm, I made her stand in front of Diomedes. `Did you leave one out?'

`Oh, I have seen him such a lot of times… I'm sorry, Falco, I really can't say.'

Diomedes laughed; it was brittle and overconfident. Fusculus caught my eye above the old lady's head, and I could sense his hostility. All his antipathy to Greeks was now focussed on this one. He grinned nastily at Diomedes and Lysa, then guided the nosy old woman to a seat among the vigiles, so she could watch the fun.

`Worth a try,' I said ruefully. `You're a lucky fellow!' I told Diomedes. `I really was convinced you were lying. I thought you had been here. The way I saw it, you killed your father, Vibia discovered you at the scene covered in blood, then she helped you cover up your tracks – literally in the case of some bloody footprints. It might even have been the lady who thought of sending you on your way casually chewing nettle flan. Once you were cleaned up and had left the house, she rushed outside screaming as though she had only that moment found the body.

People heard me out in hushed silence. They could see how well the story fitted the facts. Vibia Merulla remained expressionless.

`In return for Vibia's silence about your guilt – I thought – your mother gave up this house to her. Vibia herself was so horrified by finding you at the crime scene, Diomedes, she started avoiding you… And that was why she disliked the thought of you marrying one of her relatives. Still!' I exclaimed brightly. `How wrong can I be?'

I spun round to the resolute widow.

`Nothing to say, Vibia? If you're hiding your husband's murderer to get it, you really do hunger for possession of this house! Still, a Corinthian Oecus is a rare feature. And of course, the property came fully furnished – the furnishings are beautiful, aren't they? So lush. Every cushion stuffed to bursting point.'

I faced Diomedes.

`I am not intending to call that priest of yours as a witness. I believe he lied about you making offerings all day. You do go to the Temple of Minerva, but you don't go there to pray. There are other reasons for hanging about there on a regular basis – the writers' group, primarily. Tell us: do you write, Diomedes?'

He looked shifty, but he sat tight and glared at, me. His mother's face was also blank.

'Blitis!' I called out. `Does Diomedes write?'

`Yes,' said Blitis. `He wrote Zisimilla and Magarone.'

`Truly! A secret scribbler?' I went on relentlessly. `Do you lurk in your room dreaming up and honing your creative masterpiece, young fellow? And, Diomedes, do you persist with it, even when all around you describe it as no good?'

I spun back towards the vigiles. I asked Petronius swiftly, `Did he have the flan?'