The Collected Short Stories - Jeffrey Archer [39]
Sir Matthew rose, stubbed out his cigarette, and ushered the two men toward the vacant chairs on the other side of his desk. He waited for both of them to settle before he proceeded.
“Kind of you to attend chambers, Mr. Casson,” he said, although they both knew that the solicitor was doing no more than holding with the traditions of the bar.
“My pleasure, Sir Matthew,” replied the elderly solicitor, nodding slightly to show that he still appreciated the old courtesies.
“I don’t think you know Hugh Witherington, my junior in this case,” said Sir Matthew, gesturing toward the undistinguished young barrister.
Witherington nervously touched the silk handkerchief in his breast pocket.
“No. I hadn’t had the pleasure of Mr. Witherington’s acquaintance until we met in the corridor a few moments ago,” said Casson. “May I say how delighted I am that you have been willing to take on this case, Sir Matthew?”
Matthew smiled at his friend’s formality. He knew Bernard would never dream of calling him by his first name while junior counsel was present. “I’m only too happy to be working with you again, Mr. Casson. Even if you have presented me on this occasion with something of a challenge.”
The conventional pleasantries over, the elderly solicitor removed a brown file from his battered Gladstone bag. “I have had a further consultation with my client since I last saw you,” he said as he opened the file, “and I took the opportunity to pass on your opinion. But I fear Mrs. Banks remains determined to plead not guilty.”
“So she is still protesting her innocence?”
“Yes, Sir Matthew. Mrs. Banks emphatically claims that she couldn’t have committed the murder because she had been blinded by her husband some days before he died, and in any case, at the time of his death she was registered as a patient at the local hospital.”
“The pathologist’s report is singularly vague about the time of death,” Sir Matthew reminded his old friend. “After all, they didn’t discover the body for at least a couple of weeks. As I understand it, the police feel the murder could have been committed twenty-four or even forty-eight hours before Mrs. Banks was taken to the hospital.”
“I have also read their report, Sir Matthew,” Casson replied, “and informed Mrs. Banks of its contents. But she remains adamant that she is innocent, and that the jury will be persuaded of it. ‘Especially with Sir Matthew Roberts as my defender,’ were the exact words she used, if I remember correctly,” he added with a smile.
“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.
“Touché,” 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 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