The Collected Short Stories (11 page)

Read The Collected Short Stories Online

Authors: Jeffrey Archer

BOOK: The Collected Short Stories
9.3Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
The train came to a halt at Sevenoaks. A triumphant Septimus, having struck his blow for the silent majority, retrieved his umbrella and briefcase from the rack above him and turned to leave.
As he picked up his briefcase it knocked against the armrest in front of him, and the lid sprang open. Everyone in the carriage stared at its contents. For there, on top of his Prudential documents, was a neatly folded copy of the
Evening Standard
and an unopened pack of ten Benson & Hedges cigarettes.
Sir Matthew Roberts, QC, closed the file and placed it on the desk in front of him. He was not a happy man. He was quite willing to defend Mary Banks, but he was not at all confident about her plea of not guilty.
Sir Matthew leaned back in his deep leather chair to consider the case while he awaited the arrival of the instructing solicitor, who had briefed him, and the junior counsel he had selected for the case. As he gazed out over the Middle Temple courtyard, he only hoped he had made the right decision.
On the face of it, the case of
Regina
v.
Banks
was a simple one of murder; but after what Bruce Banks had subjected his wife to during the eleven years of their marriage, Sir Matthew was confident not only that he could get the charge reduced to manslaughter, but that if the jury was packed with women, he might even secure an acquittal. There was, however, a complication.
He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply, something his wife had always chided him for. He looked at Victoria's photograph on the desk in front of him. It reminded him of his youth: But then, Victoria would always be young—death had ensured that.
Reluctantly he forced his mind back to his client and her plea of mitigation. He reopened the file. Mary Banks was claiming that she couldn't possibly have chopped her husband
up with an ax and buried him under the pigsty, because at the time of his death she was not only a patient in the local hospital, but was also blind. As Sir Matthew inhaled deeply once again, there was a knock on the door.
“Come in,” he bellowed—not because he liked the sound of his own voice, but because the doors of his chambers were so thick that if he didn't holler, no one would ever hear him.
Sir Matthew's clerk opened the door and announced Mr. Bernard Casson and Mr. Hugh Witherington. Two very different men, thought Sir Matthew as they entered the room, but each would serve the purpose he had planned for them in this particular case.
Bernard Casson was a solicitor of the old school—formal, punctilious, and always painstakingly correct. His conservatively tailored herringbone suit never seemed to change from one year to the next; Matthew often wondered if he had purchased half a dozen such suits in a closing-down sale and wore a different one every day of the week. He peered up at Casson over his half-moon spectacles. The solicitor's thin mustache and neatly parted hair gave him an old-fashioned look that had fooled many an opponent into thinking he had a second-class mind. Sir Matthew regularly gave thanks that his friend was no orator, because if Bernard had been a barrister, Matthew would not have relished the prospect of opposing him in court.
A pace behind Casson stood his junior counsel for this brief, Hugh Witherington. The Lord must have been feeling particularly ungenerous on the day Witherington entered the world, as he had given him neither looks nor brains. If he had bestowed any other talents on him, they were yet to be revealed. After several attempts Witherington had finally been called to the bar, but for the number of briefs he was offered, he would have had a more regular income had he signed on for welfare. Sir Matthew's clerk had raised an eyebrow when the name of Witherington had been mooted as junior counsel in the case, but Sir Matthew just smiled, and had not offered an explanation.
Sir Matthew rose, stubbed out his cigarette, and ushered
the two men toward the vacant chairs on the other side of his desk. He waited for both of them to settle before he proceeded.
“Kind of you to attend chambers, Mr. Casson,” he said, although they both knew that the solicitor was doing no more than holding with the traditions of the bar.
“My pleasure, Sir Matthew,” replied the elderly solicitor, nodding slightly to show that he still appreciated the old courtesies.
“I don't think you know Hugh Witherington, my junior in this case,” said Sir Matthew, gesturing toward the undistinguished young barrister.
Witherington nervously touched the silk handkerchief in his breast pocket.
“No. I hadn't had the pleasure of Mr. Witherington's acquaintance until we met in the corridor a few moments ago,” said Casson. “May I say how delighted I am that you have been willing to take on this case, Sir Matthew?”
Matthew smiled at his friend's formality. He knew Bernard would never dream of calling him by his first name while junior counsel was present. “I'm only too happy to be working with you again, Mr. Casson. Even if you have presented me on this occasion with something of a challenge.”
The conventional pleasantries over, the elderly solicitor removed a brown file from his battered Gladstone bag. “I have had a further consultation with my client since I last saw you,” he said as he opened the file, “and I took the opportunity to pass on your opinion. But I fear Mrs. Banks remains determined to plead not guilty.”
“So she is still protesting her innocence?”
“Yes, Sir Matthew. Mrs. Banks emphatically claims that she couldn't have committed the murder because she had been blinded by her husband some days before he died, and in any case, at the time of his death she was registered as a patient at the local hospital.”
“The pathologist's report is singularly vague about the time of death,” Sir Matthew reminded his old friend. “After all, they didn't discover the body for at least a couple of
weeks. As I understand it, the police feel the murder could have been committed twenty-four or even forty-eight hours before Mrs. Banks was taken to the hospital.”
“I have also read their report, Sir Matthew,” Casson replied, “and informed Mrs. Banks of its contents. But she remains adamant that she is innocent, and that the jury will be persuaded of it. ‘Especially with Sir Matthew Roberts as my defender,' were the exact words she used, if I remember correctly,” he added with a smile.
“I am not seduced, Mr. Casson,” said Sir Matthew, lighting another cigarette.
“You did promise Victoria—” interjected the solicitor, lowering his shield, but only for a moment.
“So, I have one last chance to convince her,” said Sir Matthew, ignoring his friend's comment.
“And Mrs. Banks has one last chance to convince you,” said Mr. Casson.
“Touché,” said Sir Matthew, nodding his appreciation of the solicitor's neat riposte as he stubbed out his almost untouched cigarette. He felt he was losing this fencing match with his old friend, and that the time had come to go on the attack.
He returned to the open file on his desk. “First,” he said, looking straight at Casson, as if his colleague were in the witness box, “when the body was dug up, there were traces of your client's blood on the collar of the dead man's shirt.”
“My client accepts that,” said Casson, calmly checking his own notes. “But—”
“Second,” said Sir Matthew before Casson had a chance to reply, “when the instrument that had been used to chop up the body, an ax, was found the following day, a hair from Mrs. Banks's head was discovered lodged in its handle.”
“We won't be denying that,” said Casson.
“We don't have a lot of choice,” said Sir Matthew, rising from his seat and beginning to pace around the room. “And third, when the spade that was used to dig the victim's grave was finally discovered, your client's fingerprints were found all over it.”
“We can explain that as well,” said Casson.
“But will the jury accept our explanation,” asked Sir Matthew, his voice rising, “when they learn that the murdered man had a long history of violence, that your client was regularly seen in the local village either bruised, or with a black eye, sometimes bleeding from cuts around the head—once even nursing a broken arm?”
“She has always stated that those injuries were sustained when working on the farm where her husband was manager.”
“That places a strain on my credulity which it's quite unable to withstand,” said, Sir Matthew, as he finished circling the room and returned to his chair. “And we are not helped by the fact that the only person known to have visited the farm regularly was the postman. Apparently everyone else in the village refused to venture beyond the front gate.” He flicked over another page of his notes.
“That might have made it easier for someone to come in and kill Banks,” suggested Witherington.
Sir Matthew was unable to hide his surprise as he looked across at his junior, having almost forgotten that he was in the room. “Interesting point,” he said, unwilling to stamp on Witherington while he still had it in his power to play the one trump card in this case.
“The next problem we face,” he went on, “is that your client claims that she went blind after her husband struck her with a hot frying pan. Rather convenient, Mr. Casson, wouldn't you say?”
“The scar can still be seen clearly on the side of my client's face,” said Casson. “And the doctor remains convinced that she is indeed blind.”
“Doctors are easier to convince than prosecuting counsels and world-weary judges, Mr. Casson,” said Sir Matthew, turning another page of his file. “Next, when samples from the body were examined—and God knows who was willing to carry out that particular task—the quantity of strychnine found in the blood would have felled a bull elephant.”
“That was only the opinion of the Crown's pathologists,” said Mr. Casson.
“And one I will find hard to refute in court,” said Sir Matthew, “because counsel for the prosecution will undoubtedly ask Mrs. Banks to explain why she purchased four grams of strychnine from an agricultural supplier in Reading shortly before her husband's death. If I were in his position, I would repeat that question over and over again.”
“Possibly,” said Casson, checking his notes, “but she has explained that they had been having a problem with rats, which had been killing the chickens, and she feared for the other animals on the farm, not to mention their nine-year-old son.”
“Ah, yes, Rupert. But he was away at boarding school at the time, was he not?” Sir Matthew paused. “You see, Mr. Casson, my problem is a simple one.” He closed his file. “I don't believe her.”
Casson raised an eyebrow.
“Unlike her husband, Mrs. Banks is a very clever woman. Witness the fact that she has already fooled several people into believing this incredible story. But I can tell you, Mr. Casson, that she isn't going to fool me.”
“But what can we do, Sir Matthew, if Mrs. Banks insists that this is her case, and asks us to defend her accordingly?” asked Casson.
Sir Matthew rose again and paced around the room silently, coming to a halt in front of the solicitor. “Not a lot, I agree,” he said, reverting to a more conciliatory tone. “But I do wish I could convince the dear lady to plead guilty to manslaughter. We'd be certain to gain the sympathy of any jury, after what she's been put through. And we can always rely on some women's group or other to picket the court throughout the hearing. Any judge who passed a harsh sentence on Mary Banks would be described as chauvinistic and sexually discriminatory by every newspaper editorial writer in the land. I'd have her out of prison in a matter of weeks. No, Mr. Casson, we
must
get her to change her plea.”
“But how can we hope to do that, when she remains so adamant that she is innocent?” asked Casson.
A smile flickered across Sir Matthew's face. “Mr. Witherington
and I have a plan, don't we, Hugh?” he said, turning to Witherington for a second time.
“Yes, Sir Matthew,” replied the young barrister, sounding pleased to at last have his opinion sought, even in this rudimentary way. As Sir Matthew volunteered no clue as to the plan, Casson did not press the point.
“So, when do I come face to face with our client?” asked Sir Matthew, turning his attention back to the solicitor.
“Would eleven o'clock on Monday morning be convenient?” asked Casson.
“Where is she at the moment?” asked Sir Matthew, thumbing through his diary.
“Holloway,” replied Casson.
“Then we will be at Holloway at eleven on Monday morning,” said Sir Matthew. “And to be honest with you, I can't wait to meet Mrs. Mary Banks. That woman must have real guts, not to mention imagination. Mark my words, Mr. Casson, she'll prove a worthy opponent for any counsel.”
When Sir Matthew entered the interviewing room of Holloway Prison and saw Mary Banks for the first time, he was momentarily taken aback. He knew from his file on the case that she was thirty-seven, but the frail, gray-haired woman who sat with her hands resting in her lap looked nearer fifty. Only when he studied her fine cheekbones and slim figure did he see that she might once have been a beautiful woman.
Sir Matthew allowed Casson to take the seat opposite her at a plain Formica table in the center of an otherwise empty, cream-painted brick room. There was a small, barred window halfway up the wall that threw a shaft of light onto their client. Sir Matthew and his junior took their places on either side of the instructing solicitor. Leading counsel noisily poured himself a cup of coffee.

Other books

Games Girls Play by B. A. Tortuga
Bright Lines by Tanwi Nandini Islam
The Mermaid's Secret by Katie Schickel
Hocus Pocus by Kurt Vonnegut
Lulu Bell and the Koala Joey by Belinda Murrell
Sabra Zoo by Mischa Hiller
To Brie or Not to Brie by Avery Aames