Twelve Red Herrings Read online

  “Come in,” he bellowed—not because he liked the sound of his own voice, but because the doors of his chambers were so thick that if he didn’t holler, no one would ever hear him.

  Sir Matthew’s clerk opened the door and announced Mr. Bernard Casson and Mr. Hugh Witherington. Two very different men, thought Sir Matthew as they entered the room, but each would serve the purpose he had planned for them in this particular case.

  Bernard Casson was a solicitor of the old school—formal, punctilious, and always painstakingly correct. His conservatively tailored herringbone suit never seemed to change from one year to the next; Matthew often wondered if he had purchased half a dozen such suits in a going-out-of-business sale and wore a different one every day of the week. He peered up at Casson over his half-moon spectacles. The solicitor’s thin mustache and neatly parted hair gave him an old-fashioned look that had fooled many an opponent into thinking he had a second-class mind. Sir Matthew regularly gave thanks that his friend was no orator, because if Bernard had been a barrister, Matthew would not have relished the prospect of opposing him in court.

  A pace behind Casson stood his junior counsel for this brief, Hugh Witherington. The Lord must have been feeling particularly ungenerous on the day Witherington entered the world, as He had given him neither looks nor brains. If He had bestowed any other talents on him, they were yet to be revealed. After several attempts, Witherington had finally been called to the Bar, but for the number of briefs he was offered, he would have had a more regular income had he signed on for the dole. Sir Matthew’s clerk had raised an eyebrow when the name of Witherington had been suggested as junior counsel in the case, but Sir Matthew just smiled and had not offered an explanation.

  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, bowing 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 Christian 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 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 that 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 come down 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