Ode To A Banker Part 5

I moved nearer. To do so I had to wade through a carpet of blood-spotted papyrus - scrolls that were still rolled, and others that had shot open as they fell, unravelling and then tearing as the fight progressed. These scrolls must have been out that morning, in position to be worked on in some way. There was no sign that they had been wrenched from the pigeonholes, which all looked well ordered, and anyway the wreckage lay too far from the walls of this immensely s.p.a.cious room for that to have happened. They must have come from the tables that stood at intervals, one still containing a stacked pile of unboxed doc.u.ments.

'You can see it was a face-to-face issue at some point,' Fusculus said. 'Some of the punches were landed from in front.' Quietly he added, And the other business.'

The 'other business' was both inventive and horrible.

Avoiding various viscous pools, I stepped carefully right up to the corpse. Kneeling beside it, I agreed with Fusculus. One cheek had been jellied. Fusculus waited for me to comment on the rest. 'Ouch! Very creative...'

Jammed up one of the dead man's nostrils was a wooden rod, the kind that scrolls are wound on. When it was shoved up his nose, the pain must have been appalling, though I did not think it would have killed him. Not unless it broke the skull bones and punctured the brain cavity. Somebody who loathed him would have felt better for doing this - but afterwards he would have been left with an opponent who was in agony and furious, yet still alive and able to identify whoever had struck him in this vicious way.

I took hold of the blood-drenched rod, with distaste, and tugged it free. Blood came with it, but no brain. No; this had not been fatal.

'This peculiar pile driving would have been most easily accomplished from the rear, Fusculus. Grab him with one arm, then ram him. Your free fist has the rod and jerks. The blow is towards you, and upwards.'

'Hard.'

'Hard!'

The end of the scroll rod now had no finial; I knew there had been one at some stage, because beneath the bright gore at the rod's tip was a short white area, its wood cleaner than the rest. The dowel had snapped, and the shorter part was tangled in the dead man's tunic folds, held by splinters on the ripped fibres of the tunic neck from which a long tear ran almost to the waist. When I laid the two broken parts side by side on the tesserae, the short end had a gilded k.n.o.b inthe shape of a dolphin on a tiny plinth. There was no sign anywhere of the missing finial from the longer end.

'A man,' I decided, to the unspoken but inevitable question.

'Almost certainly,' said Fusculus. Working on the Aventine, he must have met some tough women. He never discounted any possibility.

'Oh, a man,' I a.s.sured him gently, looking at the bruising from the fistfight that had battered Chrysippus into oblivion. Fist, and probably boot. And elbow. And knee. Headb.u.t.ts. Hands clawing at clothing, which was ripped to shreds.

I stood up, groaning. I flexed my spine. I looked around at the mess. Kicking up some of the papyrus, I saw blood under it. It seemed that at least some of the wreckage had been hurled on the floor after the man was dead. Scrolls flung everywhere. The ink thrown from its dark scriptorium-quant.i.ty flagon. The other substance furiously splashed around. Gingerly I took some up on one forefinger and sniffed.

Fusculus pulled a face. 'What in Hades is the stinky muck, Falco?'

'Cedar oil. Used to deter bookworms. They paint it over the scrolls. That's what gives them that faint yellow colouring. And the wonderful scent that rises from well-kept books. Librarians never have moths in their clothes, you know.'

'Hmm.' Fusculus was not a reader for pleasure and he rightly suspected I had made up the statement about moths. 'He may look ugly, but he's going to smell really nice on his pyre when he goes to the G.o.ds!'

Killing Chrysippus had not been enough. With the corpse at his feet, the killer had risked staying here while he threw scrolls, ink and oil all over the room. His frustration and anger had continued. Whatever he wanted had remained unaccomplished. The death solved nothing.

'One person?' asked Fusculus, watching me.

'Jove, I don't know. What do you think?'

He shrugged.

'Motive then?' I asked him.

'Primary motive: sheer b.l.o.o.d.y anger.'

'Underlying motive?'

'Business or pleasure, Falco.'

'The usual pretty excuses. Still, at this juncture, we cannot tell which.'

We walked around, bemused and slightly aimless.

I could see why Petronius Longus had told Helena that this was the Greek library; a room divider, formed from two huge folding doors that stood open, perhaps permanently, separated the part where Chrysippus had died from an extension in the same style which seemed to contain Latin works. Well, I recognised old Virgil amongst the dusty busts anyway.

'Can they take away the body?' Fusculus was fidgeting. The vigiles like to see scenes of crime returning to normal. That way, people imagine that something has been achieved by the law's presence.

'Once I hear what the household people say. Then they can clear the mess. Mind you, the grout in the lovely mosaic is going to hold those stains.'

'Regrouting with a wash is the answer,' said Fusculus, matching my reflective tone. 'Clean the marble pieces thoroughly, then new cement sluiced all over the lot in a thin mixture, and sponged down.'

'Expensive.'

'Oh, but worth it. They'll be looking at the fellow's gore for ever otherwise.'

'True. But, Tiberius Fusculus, whoever they are, they will probably not thank us for these careful household tips... So!' I was ready now for the next unpleasantness. 'Who are we talking about, I wonder? Ask your men if they have discovered anything from the household staff, will you? I'll try to find out who's who in the next of kin.'

'I gave orders that n.o.body here was to be allowed a change of clothing before interview. The killer would have been carrying evidence of that enforced nosebleed, Falco, if nothing else.'

'Great G.o.ds, yes; the murderer would have been covered in blood. You arranged a premises search?'

'Of course. What kind of amateurs do you take us for, Falco?'

Fusculus was well aware that murders most often happen for domestic reasons. He was right. Whoever lived here would be the first suspect or suspects, and they may not have had time or opportunity to conceal any evidence of their involvement. So I was high on the alert as I set out to discover who the dead man's domestic a.s.sociates might have been.

XII.

THE TWINNED library had had grandiose proportions but an austere atmosphere. Outside was a small lobby which contained a fancy wooden shelf system, displaying a half-hearted Athenian pottery collection, and an empty side table with marble supports. The far exit door was guarded by two Egyptian pink granite miniature obelisks. Right across this lobby led a wide trail of sticky footprints, in various sizes, all well smudged.

'Too many sightseers trampled the scene, Fusculus.'

'Happened before I got here,' he a.s.sured me righteously.

'Well, thanks for clearing the mob out.'

'That was the boss.'

I could imagine what Petro's full reaction to a milling crowd had been.

We emerged onto what must be the main axis of the house. The libraries and lobby had followed the line of the street outside; this suite crossed that line at right angles, coming in from the main entrance door which was to my left. An impressive set of lofty halls ran away to the right.

The style changed. We were amongst walls painted in repeating patterns, warm gold and crimson mock-tapestries, their divisions formed by trails of foliate filigree and filled with roundels or small dancing figures. Ahead and to either side stretched superb floors in a.s.sorted cutwork marbles, endless circles and triangles of elegant greys, blacks and reds. More inky footsteps marred the gorgeous stones, of course. The formal entrance to the house was nearby to the left, as I said. Prominent on the right, forming the central vista in this series of formal public s.p.a.ces, was a huge hall like a private basilica.

The vigiles were finalising their staff interviews there. Slaves were holding their hands out for inspection, picking up their feet to show the soles of their sandals like horses with a farrier, quaking as they were spun on the spot by large rough men who intended to check their garments and generally terrorise them. We walked down to join this group.

'What a place!' exclaimed Fusculus.

Within the enormous dimensions of the hall interior columns supported a canopied roof. It made a kind of mock-pavilion at the centre of the room. Decoration on the outer walls was dark and dramatic - friezes, fields and dados in formal proportions and expensive paints, depicting tense battle scenes. The colonnades made it all feel like some eastern king's audience chamber. There ought to be obsequious flunkeys moving constantly in the side aisles on slippered feet. There ought to be a throne.

'Was this where Chrysippus was intending to munch his hard-boiled eggs, Falco?' Fusculus was caught between admiration and plebeian contempt. 'Not what my granny brought me up with! It was bread rolls on a lumpy cushion in a yard at our house. First-comers got the shady bit. I always seemed to be stuck out in full sun.'

Curiously, the bronze tray with what must be the uneaten lunch was still clutched by a distraught slave. He was being closely guarded. Others, who had submitted to interview already, now cl.u.s.tered in frightened groups while the few last specimens were put through the vigiles' notoriously sensitive questioning technique: 'So where were you? Cut out the lies! What did you see? Nothing? Why didn't you keep an eye out? Are you fooling me, or plain stupid? Why would you want to kill your master then?' And to the weeping plea that the poor souls had no wish to do Chrysippus harm, came the harsh answer: 'Stop messing about. Slaves are the prime suspects, you know that!'

While Fusculus consulted to see what gems this sophisticated system had produced, I walked up to the slave with the tray. I signalled his guard to stand off.

'You the one who found the body?'

He was a thin, Gallic-looking scrag-end, of around fifty. He was in shock, but managed to respond to a civilised approach. I soon persuaded him to tell me it had been his daily duty to deliver a snack for Chrysippus. If Chrysippus wanted to work, he would order a tray from the kitchen, which this fellow would place on a side table in the lobby of the Latin library; the master would break off and clear the victuals, then go back to his reading. Today the tray had been untouched when the slave went to retrieve it, so he had carried it through to the Greek library to enquire if Chrysippus was so absorbed he had forgotten it. Rare, but not unheard of, I was told.

'When you saw what had happened, exactly what did you do?'

'Stood.'

'Transfixed?'

'I could not believe it. Besides, I was carrying the tray -' He blushed, aware now how irrelevant that sounded, wishing he had simply put it down. 'I backed out. Another lad took a look and rushed off shouting. People came running. Next minute they were haring about in all directions. I was in a daze. The soldiers burst in, and I was told to stay here and wait.'

Thinking about how silent the library had been, I was puzzled.

Sound would never carry from indoors to the street. 'The men in red were very quickly on the scene. Someone ran out from the house?' He looked vague.

'I think so.'

'Do you know who it was?'

'No. Once the alarin was raised, it all happened in a blur -'

'Was anybody in either area of the library when you first went in?'

'No.'

'n.o.body leaving as you arrived?'

'No.'

'Anybody there the first time you went? I mean, when you first delivered the tray?'

'I only went in the lobby. I couldn't hear anyone talking.'

'Oh?' I eyed him suspiciously. 'Were you listening out for conversation?'

'Only politely.' He kept his cool at the suggestion that he eavesdropped. 'Often the master has somebody with him. That's why I leave the meal outside for him to collect when they have gone.'

'So go back a step for me: today you delivered his lunch as usual; you put down the tray on the side table, then what - did you call out or go in to tell your master it was there?'

'No. I never disturb him. He was expecting it. He normally comes out for it soon after.'

'And once you had delivered the tray, how long elapsed before you returned for the empties?'

'I had my own food, that's all.'

'What did you have?'

'Bread and mulsum, a little slice of goat's cheese.' He said this without much enthusiasm.

'That didn't take you long?'

'No.'

I removed the tray from his resisting fingers and laid it aside. The master's lunch had been more varied and tasty than his own, yet not enough for an epicure: salad leaves beneath a cold fish in marinade, big green olives, two eggs in wooden cups; red wine in a gla.s.s jug. 'It's over now. Try to forget what you saw.'

He started trembling. Belated shock set in. 'The soldiers say the slaves will get the blame.'

'They always say that. Did you attack your master?'

'No.'

'Do you know who did?'

'No.'

'No need to worry then.'

I was about to check with Fusculus what else had turned up, but something made me pause. The waiting slave seemed to be staring at the luncheon tray. I peered at him, querying. 'He's had one thing,' he told me.

'What do you mean?'

The slave looked slightly guilty, and certainly troubled, as though there was something he could not understand.

I waited, keeping my face neutral. He seemed intrigued. 'There was a little slice of nettle flan.' He sketched out the size with his thumb and one finger, a couple of digits of finger buffet savoury, cut as a triangle; I could imagine it. We both surveyed the food. No flan slice.

'Could it have dropped on the floor when you panicked and ran out?'

'It was not there when I went for the tray. I noticed specially.'

'How can you be sure?'

'He doesn't like pastry. I had seen it when I took the tray in. I thought he would leave it.'

'You were hoping to eat it yourself?'

'He wouldn't have minded,' he muttered defensively.