“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.”
“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 towards 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.”
One Man’s Meat…
