Lindsey Davis - Last Act In Palmyra

'Thanks for warning me! Unfortunately, I've just developed a terrible whitlow on my needle finger,' said Helena, making up the excuse smoothly. 'I shall have to back out.'

'You're a character!'

'Thanks again.'

I could tell from her voice Helena had now decided that she had sufficient details of my writing commission. The signs were slight, but I knew the way she bent to toss a piece of kindling on the fire, then sat back tidying her hair under one of its combs. For her, the actions marked a pause. She was probably unaware of it.

Musa understood the change of atmosphere. I noticed him silently shrink deeper into his headcloth, leaving Helena to interrogate the suspect.

'How long have you been with Chremes and the company, Congrio?'

'I dunno… a few seasons. Since they were in Italy.'

'Have you always done the same job?'

Congrio, who could sometimes appear taciturn, now seemed blissfully keen to talk: 'I always do the posters.'

'That requires some skill?'

'Right! It's important too. If I don't do it, nobody comes to see the stuff, and none of us earns. The whole lot depends on me.'

'That's wonderful! What do you have to do?'

'Fool the opposition. I know how to get through the streets without anybody spotting me. You have to get around and write the notices real quick – before the locals see you and start complaining about you ruining their white walls. All they want is space to advertise their pet gladiators and draw rude signs for brothels. You have to dodge in secretly. I know the methods.' He knew how to boast like an expert too. Carried away by Helena's interest, he then confided, 'I have done acting once. I was in this play The Birds, as it happens.'

'That's how you remember it?'

'I'll say! That was an experience. I was an owl.'

'Goodness! What did that entail?'

'In this play, The Birds,' Congrio expounded gravely, 'there are some scenes – probably the most important ones – where all the birds from the heavens come on the stage. So I was the owl.' In case Helena had missed the full picture, he added, 'I hooted.'

I buried my face in my pillow. Helena managed to stifle the laughter that must be threatening to bubble up. 'The bird of wisdom! That was quite a part!'

'I was going to be one of the other birds, but Chremes took me off it because of the whistling.'

'Why was that?'

'Can't do it. Never could. Wrong teeth or something.'

He could have been lying, to give himself an alibi, but we had told nobody Musa had heard the playwright's killer whistling near the High Place at Petra.

'How did you get on with hooting?' Helena asked politely.

'I could hoot really well. It sounds like nothing difficult, but you have to have timing, and put feeling into it.' Congrio sounded full of himself. This had to be the truth. He had ruled himself right out of killing Heliodorus.

'Did you enjoy your part?'

'I'll say!'

In that short speech Congrio had revealed his heart. 'Would you like to become one of the actors, some day?' Helena asked him with gentle sympathy.

He was bursting to tell her: 'I could do it!'

'I'm sure you could.' Helena declared. 'When people really want something, they can usually manage it.'

Congrio sat up straighter, hopefully. It was the kind of remark that seemed to be addressed to all of us.

Once again I saw Helena push up the side comb above her right ear. The soft hair that grew back from her temples had a habit of slithering out of control and drooping, so it bothered her. But this time it was Musa who punctuated the scene by finding sticks to twiddle in the embers. A rogue spark flew out and he stamped on it with his bony sandalled foot.

Even though he was not talking, Musa had a way of staying silent that still kept him in the conversation. He pretended being foreign made him unable to take part, but I noticed how he listened. At such times my old doubts about him working for The Brother tended to sneak up again. There still could be more to Musa than we thought.

'All this trouble in the company is very sad,' Helena mused. 'Heliodorus, and now Ione…' I heard Congrio groan in agreement. Helena continued innocently, 'Heliodorus does seem to have asked for what happened to him. Everyone tells us he was a very unpleasant character. How did you get on with him, Congrio?'

The answer came out freely: 'I hated him. He knocked me about. And when he knew I wanted to be an actor he plagued me with it. I didn't kill him though!' Congrio inserted quickly.

'Of course not,' said Helena, her voice matter-of-fact. 'We know something about the person who killed him that eliminates you, Congrio.'

'What's that then?' came the sharp question, but Helena avoided telling him about the whistling fugitive. This brazen habit was still the only thing definite we knew about the killer.

'How did Heliodorus plague you about acting, Congrio?'

'Oh, he was always trumpeting on about me not being able to read. That's nothing; half the actors do their parts by guesswork anyway.'

'Have you ever tried to learn reading?' I saw Congrio shake his head: a big mistake. If I knew Helena Justina she was now planning to teach him, whether or not he wanted it. 'Someone might give you lessons one day…'

To my surprise, Musa suddenly leaned forward. 'Do you remember the night at Bostra when I fell into the reservoir?'

'Lost your footing?' chuckled Congrio.

Musa stayed cool. 'Someone helped me dive in.'

'Not me!' Congrio shouted hotly.

'We had been talking together,' Musa reminded him.

'You can't accuse me of anything. I was miles away from you when Davos heard you splashing and called out!'

'Did you see anyone else near me just before I fell?'

'I wasn't looking.'

As Musa fell silent, Helena took up the same incident. 'Congrio, do you remember hearing Marcus and me teasing Musa that we would tell people he had seen the murderer at Petra? I wonder if you told anyone about that?'

Once again Congrio appeared to answer frankly – and once again he was useless: 'Oh I reckon I told everyone!'

Evidently the kind of feeble weevil who liked to make himself big in the community by passing on scandal.

Helena betrayed none of the irritation she probably felt. 'Just to complete the picture,' she went on, 'on the night when Ione was killed in Gerasa, do you happen to have anyone who can vouch for where you were?'

Congrio thought about it. Then he chuckled. 'I should say so! Everyone who came to the theatre the next day.'

'How's that?'

'Easy. When you girls went off to the sacred pools for a splash, I was putting up the playbills for The Arbitration. Gerasa was a big place; it took all night. If I hadn't done my job like that, nobody would have come.'

'Ah but you could have done the bills the next morning,' Helena challenged.

Congrio laughed again. 'Oh I did that, lady! Ask Chremes. He can vouch for it. I wrote up bills everywhere in Gerasa the night Ione died. Chremes saw them first thing next morning and I had to go round to every one of them again. He knows how many I did and how long it must have taken. He came round with me the second time and stood over the job. Ask me why? Don't bother. The first time I did it, I spelt the word wrong.'

'The title? Arbitration?

'Right. So Chremes insisted that I had to sponge off every single one next day and do it again.'

Not long after that Helena stopped asking questions so, bored with no longer being the centre of attention, Congrio stood up and left.

For a while Musa and Helena sat in silence. Eventually Musa asked, 'Will Falco do the new play?'

'Is that a tactful way of asking what is up with him?' queried Helena. Musa shrugged. Helena answered the literal question first. 'I think Falco had better do it, Musa. We need to insist The Birds is performed, so you and I – and Falco if he ever returns to the conscious world – can sit beside the stage and listen out for who an whistle! Congrio seems to be ruled out as a suspect, but it leaves plenty of others. This slim clue is all we have.'