ODE TO A BANKER

`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. We would 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.'