Jeffrey Archer - Twelve Red Herrings

“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, 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 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 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.”