ODE TO A BANKER

While I sat thinking, Helena contributed another question: `Falco is looking at motives, of course. You seem more fortunate than the

others. Even so, there are jealous murmurs against you, Urbanus.' `And what would those be?' If he knew, he was not showing it. Helena looked him in the eye. `You are suspected of not writing your plays yourself.'

It was Anna, the wife, who growled angrily at that.

Urbanus leaned back. There was no visible annoyance; he must have heard this accusation before. `People are strange – luckily for playwrights, or we would have no inspiration.' He glanced at his wife; this time she ventured a pale half-smile. `The charge is of the worst kind – possible to prove, if true, yet if untrue, quite impossible to refute.'

`A matter of faith,' I said.

Urbanus showed a flash of anger now. `Why are mad ideas taken so seriously? Oh of course! Certain types will never accept that literate and humane writing with inventive language and depth of emotion can come from the provinces – let alone from the middle of Britain.'

`You're not in the secret society. "Oh only an educated Roman could produce this"

`No; we are not supposed to have anything to say, or to be capable of expressing it… Who do they say writes for me?' he roared scornfully.

`Various improbable suggestions,' Helena said. Maybe Scrutator had told her; maybe she had pursued the gossip herself. `Not all of them even alive.'

`So who am I- this man before you – then supposed to be?'

`The lucky dog who counts in the ticket money,' I grinned. `While the mighty authors you are "impersonating" let you spend their royalties.'

`Well, they are missing all the fun,' Urbanus responded dryly, suddenly able to let the subject rest.

`Let's get back to my problem. It could be argued,' I put to him quietly, `that this is a malicious rumour, which Chrysippus began spreading because he knew he was losing you. Say you were so affronted by the rumour you went to his house to remonstrate, then the two of you argued and you lost your cool.'

`Far too drastic. I am a working author,' the playwright protested in a mild way. `I have nothing to prove and I would not throw away my position. And as for literary feuds – Falco, I don't have the time.'

I grinned and decided to try a literary approach: `Help us, Urbanus. If you were writing about the death of Chrysippus, what would you say had happened? Was his money a motive? Was it sex? Is a frustrated author behind it, or a jealous woman, or the son perhaps?'

`Sons never rise to action.' Urbanus smiled. `They live with the anger for too long.' From personal experience, I agreed with him. `Sons brood, and fester, and permanently tolerate their indignities. Of course, daughters can be furies!'

Neither woman present took him up on that. His wife, Anna, had not contributed to the discussion, but Urbanus now asked her the question: whom would she accuse?

`I would have to think about it,' Anna said cautiously and with some interest. Some people say that as a put-off, she sounded as if she meant she really would mull it over. `Of course,' she put to me, with a teasing glint, `I may have killed Chrysippus, for my husband's sake.' Before I could ask if she did it, she added crisply, `However, I am too busy with my young children, as you see.'

I was satisfied that Urbanus would have been stupid to kill Chrysippus. He was in the clear, but he interested me. The conversation drifted into more general matters. I confessed to having experience as a working playwright in a theatre troupe myself. We talked about our travels. I even asked advice on The Spook Who Spoke, my best effort at drama. From my description, Urbanus thought this brilliant farce ought to be turned into a tragedy. That was rubbish; perhaps he was not such an incisive master of theatre after all.

While we chatted, Anna was still holding the small baby on her shoulder, smoothing its gown over its back when it grew fractious. Both Helena and I noticed that she had inky fingers. Helena told me afterwards that she thought it might be significant. `Have the rumourmongers picked up something genuine? Is it Anna who has the way with words?'

Nice thought. You could make a play about a woman taking on a man's identity. If it turned out to be a woman who actually wrote Urbanus' plays, now that really would be a piece of theatre!

XXXI

LAST NIGHT Petro and I had summoned Lucrio to an interview today. Although Petro had given him an hour at which to arrive, we were prepared for him not to show, or at least to turn up late. To our surprise, he was there.

We all became extremely friendly by the light of day. We had all had time to adjust our positions.

Petro and I had, in the Roman way, appropriated the only chairs as the persons in authority. Lucrio did not care. He walked about and calmly waited to be put through the grinding-mill. He was constantly masticating nuts of some sort; he chewed with his mouth open.