Twelve Red Herrings (33 page)

“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.

“Touch,” 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 axe, 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 leader 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, grey-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 centre of an otherwise empty, creampainted 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
defence 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 box.”

“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 !
had
no
idea who it was until he spoke, when I recognised 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 hospital that the police discovered your husband’s body?”

“That is correct,
Sir Matthew. After I had been in Parkmead 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 hospital?” asked Sir Matthew, who began slowly pushing his cup
of coffee towards 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 axe
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 axe, 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 town’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 .7. 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.