Collected Short Stories

by Jeffrey Archer

  “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.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Banks,” said Casson.

  “Good morning, Mr. Casson,” she replied, turning slightly to face the direction from which the voice had come. “You have brought someone with you.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Banks, I am accompanied by Sir Matthew Roberts, QC, who will be acting as your defense counsel.”

  She gave a slight bow of the head as Sir Matthew rose from his chair, took a pace forward, and said, “Good morning, Mrs. Banks,” then suddenly thrust out his right hand.

  “Good morning, Sir Matthew,” she replied, without moving a muscle, still looking in Casson’s direction. “I’m delighted that you will be representing me.”

  “Sir Matthew would like to ask you a few questions, Mrs. Banks,” said Casson, “so that he can decide what might be the best approach in your case. He will assume the role of counsel for the prosecution, so that you can get used to what it will be like when you go into the witness seat.”

  “I understand,” replied Mrs. Banks. “I shall be happy to answer any of Sir Matthew’s questions. I’m sure it won’t prove difficult for someone of his eminence to show that a frail, blind woman would be incapable of chopping up a vicious sixteen-stone man.”

  “Not if that vicious sixteen-stone man was poisoned before he was chopped up,” said Sir Matthew quietly.

  “Which would be quite an achievement for someone lying in a hospital bed five miles from where the crime was committed,” replied Mrs. Banks.

  “If indeed that was when the crime was committed,” responded Sir Matthew. “You claim your blindness was caused by a blow to the side of your head.”

  “Yes, Sir Matthew. My husband picked up the frying pan from the stove while I was cooking breakfast and struck me with it. I ducked, but the edge of the pan caught me on
the left side of my face.” She touched a scar above her left eye that looked as if it would remain with her for the rest of her life.

  “And then what happened?”

  “I passed out and collapsed onto the kitchen floor. When I came to, I could sense someone else was in the room. But I had no idea who it was until he spoke, when I recognized the voice of Jack Pembridge, our postman. He carried me to his van and drove me to the local hospital.”

  “And it was while you were in the hospital that the police discovered your husband’s body?”

  “That is correct, Sir Matthew. After I had been in Park-mead for nearly two weeks, I asked the vicar, who had been to visit me every day, to try and find out how Bruce was coping without me.”

  “Did you not think it surprising that your husband hadn’t been to see you once during the time you were in the hospital?” asked Sir Matthew, who began slowly pushing his cup of coffee toward the edge of the table.

  “No. I had threatened to leave him on several occasions, and I don’t think—” The cup fell off the table and shattered noisily on the stone floor. Sir Matthew’s eyes never left Mrs. Banks.

  She jumped nervously, but did not turn to look in the direction of the broken cup.

  “Are you all right, Mr. Casson?” she asked.

  “My fault,” said Sir Matthew. “How clumsy of me.”

  Casson suppressed a smile. Witherington remained unmoved.

  “Please continue,” said Sir Matthew as he bent down and began picking up the pieces of china scattered across the floor. “You were saying, ‘I don’t think …’”

  “Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Banks. “I don’t think Bruce would have cared whether I returned to the farm or not.”

  “Quite so,” said Sir Matthew after he had placed the broken pieces on the table. “But can you explain to me why the police found one of your hairs on the handle of the ax that was used to dismember your husband’s body?”

  “Yes, Sir Matthew, I can. I was chopping up some wood for the stove before I prepared his breakfast.”

  “Then I am bound to ask why there were no fingerprints on the handle of the ax, Mrs. Banks.”

  “Because I was wearing gloves, Sir Matthew. If you had ever worked on a farm in mid-October, you would know only too well how cold it can be at five in the morning.”

  This time Casson did allow himself to smile.

  “But what about the blood found on your husband’s collar? Blood that was shown by the Crown’s forensic scientist to match your own.”

  “You will find my blood on many things in that house, should you care to look closely, Sir Matthew.”

  “And the spade, the one with your fingerprints all over it? Had you also been doing some digging before breakfast that morning?”

  “No, but I would have had cause to use it every day the previous week.”

  “I see,” said Sir Matthew. “Let us now turn our attention to something I suspect you didn’t do every day, namely the purchase of strychnine. First, Mrs. Banks, why did you need such a large amount? And second, why did you have to travel twenty-seven miles to Reading to purchase it?”

  “I shop in Reading every other Thursday,” Mrs. Banks explained. “There isn’t an agricultural supplier any nearer.”

  Sir Matthew frowned and rose from his chair. He began slowly to circle Mrs. Banks, while Casson watched her eyes. They never moved.

  When Sir Matthew was directly behind his client, he checked his watch. It was 11:17. He knew his timing had to be exact, because he had become uncomfortably aware that he was dealing not only with a clever woman but also an extremely cunning one. Mind you, he reflected, anyone who had lived for eleven years with such a man as Bruce Banks would have had to be cunning simply to survive.

  “You still haven’t explained why you needed such a large amount of strychnine,” he said, remaining behind his client.

  “We had been losing a lot of chickens,” Mrs. Banks replied, still not moving her head. “My husband thought it was rats, so he told me to get a large quantity of strychnine to finish them off. ‘Once and for all’ were his exact words.”

  “But as it turned out, it was he who was finished off, once and for all—and undoubtedly with the same poison,” said Sir Matthew quietly.

  “I also feared for Rupert’s safety,” said Mrs. Banks, ignoring her counsel’s sarcasm.

  “But your son was away at school at the time, am I not correct?”

  “Yes, you are, Sir Matthew, but he was due back for half term that weekend.”

  “Have you ever used that supplier before?”

  “Regularly,” said Mrs. Banks, as Sir Matthew completed his circle and returned to face her once again. “I go there at least once a month, as I’m sure the manager will confirm.” She turned her head and faced a foot or so to his right.

  Sir Matthew remained silent, resisting the temptation to look at his watch. He knew it could only be a matter of seconds. A few moments later the door on the far side of the interview room swung open, and a boy of about nine years of age entered. The three of them watched their client closely as the child walked silently toward her. Rupert Banks came to a halt in front of his mother and smiled but received no response. He waited for a further ten seconds, then turned and walked back out, exactly as he had been instructed to do. Mrs. Banks’s eyes remained fixed somewhere between Sir Matthew and Mr. Casson.

  The smile on Casson’s face was now almost one of triumph.

  “Is there someone else in the room?” asked Mrs. Banks. “I thought I heard the door open.”

  “No,” said Sir Matthew. “Only Mr. Casson and I are in the room.” Witherington still hadn’t moved a muscle.

  Sir Matthew began to circle Mrs. Banks for what he knew had to be the last time. He had almost come to believe that he might have misjudged her. When he was directly behind her once again, he nodded to his junior, who remained seated in front of her.

  Witherington removed the silk handkerchief from his breast pocket, slowly unfolded it, and laid it out flat on the table in front of him. Mrs. Banks showed no reaction. Witherington stretched out the fingers of his right hand, bowed his head slightly, and paused before placing his right hand over his left eye. Without warning he plucked the eye out of its socket and placed it in the middle of the silk handkerchief. He left it on the table for a full thirty seconds, then began to polish it. Sir Matthew completed his circle, and observed beads of perspiration appearing on Mrs. Banks’s forehead as he sat down. When Witherington had finished cleaning the almond-shaped glass object, he slowly raised his head until he was staring directly at her, then eased the eye back into its socket. Mrs. Banks momentarily turned away. She quickly tried to compose herself, but it was too late.

  Sir Matthew rose from his chair and smiled at his client. She returned the smile.

  “I must confess, Mrs. Banks,” he said, “I would feel much more confident about a plea of guilty to manslaughter.”

  THE LUNCHEON

  She waved at me across a crowded room of the St. Regis Hotel in New York. I waved back, realizing I knew the face but unable to place it. She squeezed past waiters and guests and had reached me before I had a chance to ask anyone who she was. I racked that section of my brain that is meant to store people, but it transmitted no reply. I realized I would have to resort to the old party trick of carefully worded questions until her answers jogged my memory.

  “How are you, darling?” she cried, and threw her arms around me, an opening that didn’t help, since we were at a Literary Guild cocktail party, and anyone will throw their arms around you on such occasions, even the directors of the Book-of-the-Month Club. From her accent she was clearly American, and she looked to be approaching forty but thanks to the genius of modern makeup might even have overtaken it. She wore a long white cocktail dress and her blond hair was done up in one of those buns that looks like a brioche. The overall effect made her appear somewhat like a chess queen. Not that the cottage loaf helped, because she might have had dark hair fl
owing to her shoulders when we last met. I do wish women would realize that when they change their hairstyle they often achieve exactly what they set out to do: look completely different to any unsuspecting male.

  “I’m well, thank you,” I said to the white queen. “And you?” I inquired as my opening gambit.

  “I’m just fine, darling,” she replied, taking a glass of champagne from a passing waiter.

  “And how’s the family?” I asked, not sure if she even had one.

  “They’re all well,” she replied. No help there. “And how is Louise?” she enquired.

  “Blooming,” I said. So she knew my wife. But then, not necessarily, I thought. Most American women are experts at remembering the names of men’s wives. They have to be, when on the New York circuit they change so often it becomes a greater challenge than the Times crossword.

  “Have you been to London lately?” I roared above the babble. A brave question, as she might never have been to Europe.

  “Only once since we had lunch together.” She looked at me quizzically. “You don’t remember who I am, do you?” she asked as she devoured a cocktail sausage.

  I smiled.

  “Don’t be silly, Susan,” I said. “How could I ever forget?”

  She smiled.

  I confess that I remembered the white queen’s name in the nick of time. Although I still had only vague recollections of the lady, I certainly would never forget the lunch.

  I had just had my first book published, and the critics on both sides of the Atlantic had been complimentary, even if the checks from my publishers were less so. My agent had told me on several occasions that I shouldn’t write if I wanted to make money. This created a dilemma, because I couldn’t see how to make money if I didn’t write.

  It was around this time that the lady who was now facing me and chattering on, oblivious to my silence, telephoned from New York to heap lavish praise on my novel. There is no writer who does not enjoy receiving such calls, although I confess to having been less than captivated by an eleven-year-old girl who called me collect from California to say she had found a spelling mistake on page 47 and warned that she would call again if she discovered another. However, this particular lady might have ended her transatlantic congratulations with nothing more than good-bye if she had not dropped her own name. It was one of those names that can, on the spur of the moment, always book a table at a chic restaurant or a seat at the opera, which mere mortals like myself would have found impossible to attain given a month’s notice. To be fair, it was her husband’s name that had achieved the reputation, as one of the world’s most distinguished film producers.