“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 thinkâ” 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, âI don't think â¦'”
“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. âOnce and for all' were his exact words.”
“But as it turned out, it was he who was finished off, once and for allâand 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.”
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 flowing 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.
“When I'm next in London you must have lunch with me,” came crackling down the phone.
“No,” said I gallantly, “you must have lunch with
me.
”
“How perfectly charming you English always are,” she said.
I have often wondered how much American women get away with when they say those few words to an Englishman. Nevertheless, the wife of an Oscar-winning producer does not phone one every day.
“I promise to call you when I'm next in London,” she said.
And indeed she did, for almost six months to the day she telephoned again, this time from the Connaught Hotel, to declare how much she was looking forward to our meeting.
“Where would you like to have lunch?” I said, realizing a second too late, when she replied with the name of one of the most exclusive restaurants in town, that I should have made sure it was I who chose the venue. I was glad she couldn't see my forlorn face as she added airily, “Monday, one o'clock. Leave the booking to meâI'm known there.”
On the day in question I donned my one respectable suit, a new shirt I had been saving for a special occasion since Christmas, and the only tie that looked as if it hadn't previously been used to hold up my trousers. I then strolled over to my bank and asked for a statement of my current account. The teller handed me a long piece of paper unworthy of its amount. I studied the figure as one who has to make a major financial decision. The bottom line stated in black lettering
that I was in credit to the sum of thirty-seven pounds and sixty-three pence. I wrote out a check for thirty-seven pounds. I feel that a gentleman should always leave his account in credit, and I might add it was a belief that my bank manager shared with me. I then walked up to Mayfair for my luncheon date.
As I entered the restaurant I observed too many waiters and plush seats for my liking. You can't eat either, but you can be charged for them. At a corner table for two sat a woman who, although not young, was elegant. She wore a blouse of powder blue crepe-de-chine, and her blond hair was rolled away from her face in a style that reminded me of the war years and had once again become fashionable. It was clearly my transatlantic admirer, and she greeted me in the same “I've known you all my life” fashion as she was to do at the Literary Guild cocktail party years later. Although she had a drink in front of her, I didn't order an apéritif, explaining that I never drank before lunchâand I would have liked to add, “but as soon as your husband makes a film of my novel, I will.”
She launched immediately into the latest Hollywood gossip, not so much dropping names as reciting them, while I ate my way through the potato chips from the bowl in front of me. A few minutes later a waiter materialized by the table and presented us with two large embossed leather menus, considerably better bound than my novel. The place positively reeked of unnecessary expense. I opened the menu and studied the first chapter with horror; it was eminently put-downable. I had no idea that simple food obtained from Covent Garden that morning could cost quite so much by merely being transported to Mayfair. I could have bought her the same dishes for a quarter of the price at my favorite bistro, a mere one hundred yards away, and to add to my discomfort I observed that it was one of those restaurants where the guest's menu made no mention of the prices. I settled down to study the long list of French dishes, which only served to remind me that I hadn't eaten well for more than a month, a state of affairs that was about to be prolonged by a
further day. I remembered my bank balance and morosely reflected that I would probably have to wait until my agent sold the Icelandic rights of my novel before I could afford a square meal again.
“What would you like?” I said gallantly.
“I always enjoy a light lunch,” she volunteered. I sighed with premature relief, only to find that “light” did not necessarily mean inexpensive.
She smiled sweetly up at the waiter, who looked as if
he
wouldn't be wondering where his next meal might be coming from, and ordered just a sliver of smoked salmon, followed by two tiny tender lamb cutlets. Then she hesitated, but only for a moment, before adding “and a side salad.”
I studied the menu with some caution, running my finger down the prices, not the dishes.
“I also eat lightly at lunch,” I said mendaciously. “The chef's salad will be quite enough for me.” The waiter was obviously affronted but left peaceably.
She chatted of Coppola and Preminger, of Pacino and Redford, and of Garbo as if she saw her all the time. She was kind enough to stop for a moment and ask what I was working on at present. I would have liked to have replied, “On how I'm going to explain to my wife that I only have sixty-three pence left in the bank,” but I actually discussed my ideas for another novel. She seemed impressed but still made no reference to her husband. Should I mention him? No. Mustn't sound pushy, or as though I needed the money.
The food arrived, or that is to say her smoked salmon did, and I sat silently watching her eat my bank account while I nibbled a roll. I looked up only to discover a wine waiter hovering by my side.
“Would you care for some wine?” said I, recklessly.
“No, I don't think so,” she said. I smiled a little too soon: “Well, perhaps a little something white and dry.”
The wine waiter handed over a second leather-bound book, this time with golden grapes embossed on the cover. I searched down the pages for half bottles, explaining to my guest that I never drank at lunch. I chose the cheapest. The
wine waiter reappeared a moment later with a large silver bucket full of ice in which the half bottle looked drowned, and, like me, completely out of its depth. A junior waiter cleared away the empty plate while another wheeled a large trolley to the side of our table and served the lamb cutlets and the chef's salad. At the same time a third waiter made up an exquisite side salad for my guest that ended up bigger than my complete order. I didn't feel I could ask her to swap.
To be fair, the chef's salad was superbâalthough I confess it was hard to appreciate such food fully while trying to work out a plot that would be convincing if I found the bill came to over thirty-seven pounds.
“How silly of me to ask for white wine with lamb,” she said, having nearly finished the half bottle. I ordered a half bottle of the house red without calling for the wine list.
She finished the white wine and then launched into the theater, music, and other authors. All those who were still alive she seemed to know, and those who were dead she hadn't read. I might have enjoyed the performance if it hadn't been for the fear of wondering if I would be able to afford it when the curtain came down. When the waiter cleared away the empty dishes he asked my guest if she would care for anything else.
“No, thank you,” she saidâI nearly applauded. “Unless you have one of your famous apple surprises.”
“I fear the last one may have gone, madam, but I'll go and see.”
“Don't hurry,” I wanted to say, but instead I just smiled as the rope tightened around my neck. A few moments later the waiter strode back in triumph, weaving between the tables holding the apple surprise in the palm of his hand, high above his head. I prayed to Newton that the apple would obey his law. It didn't.
“The last one, madam.”
“Oh, what luck,” she declared.
“Oh, what luck,” I repeated, unable to face the menu and discover the price. I was now attempting some mental arithmetic as I realized it was going to be a close-run thing.
“Anything else, madam?” the ingratiating waiter inquired.
I took a deep breath.
“Just coffee,” she said.
“And for you, sir?”
“No, no, not for me.” He left us. I couldn't think of an explanation for why I didn't drink coffee.
She then produced from the large Gucci bag by her side a copy of my novel, which I signed with a flourish, hoping the headwaiter would see, and feel I was the sort of man who should be allowed to sign the bill as well, but he resolutely remained at the far end of the room while I wrote the words “An unforgettable meeting” and appended my signature.
While the dear lady was drinking her coffee I picked at another roll and called for the bill, not because I was in any particular hurry, but like a guilty defendant at the Old Bailey, I preferred to wait no longer for the judge's sentence. A man in a smart green uniform whom I had never seen before appeared carrying a silver tray with a folded piece of paper on it, looking not unlike my bank statement. I pushed back the edge of the bill slowly and read the figure: thirty-six pounds and forty pence. I casually put my hand into my inside pocket and withdrew my life's possessions, then placed the crisp new notes on the silver tray. They were whisked away. The man in the green uniform returned a few moments later with my sixty pence change, which I pocketed, since it was the only way I was going to get a bus home. The waiter gave me a look that would have undoubtedly won him a character part in any film produced by the lady's distinguished husband.
My guest rose and walked across the restaurant, waving at, and occasionally kissing, people I had previously seen only in glossy magazines. When she reached the door she stopped to retrieve her coat, a mink. I helped her on with the fur, again failing to leave a tip. As we stood on the Curzon Street sidewalk, a dark blue Rolls-Royce drew up beside us and a liveried chauffeur leaped out and opened the rear door. She climbed in.