Twelve Red Herrings (32 page)

When he had
selected a bank, Arnold marched straight into the manager’s office and changed
everyone’s cheques at a minutely better rate than the one displayed on the
board in the window. Pleased with his saving of fifty drachmas, he headed back
to The House of Ptros.

He was
displeased to find the young man was still loitering on the pavement outside
the shop. Arnold refused to favour the unshaven ruffian with even a glance, but
he did catch the words, “You want to save money, Englishman?” Arnold stopped in
his tracks, as any born entrepreeur would, and turned to study more closely the
loutish youth who had addressed him. He was about to continue on his way when
the young man said, “I know where pottery is everything half price.” Arnold
hesitated once again, and looked through the shop window to see his companions
standing around waiting for his return; on the counter stood six large packages,
already wrapped up and awaiting payment.

Arnold turned
back to take a closer look at the inarticulate foreigner.

“Potter comes
from village called Kalafatis,” he said. “Bus journey only half hour, then
everything half price.” While Arnold was digesting this piece of information,
the young Greek’s hand shot out hopefully. Arnold extracted a fiftydrachma note
from the roll of money he had obtained at the bank, willing to speculate with
the profit he had made on that particular transaction in exchange for the
information he had just acquired – the act of a true entrepreneur, he thought
as he marched triumphantly into the shop.

“I have made an
important discovery,” he announced, and beckoned them all into a corner to
impart his inside information.

Deirdre did not
seem at all convinced, until Arnold suggested, “Perhaps we might even be able
to afford the “Delphi” set you hankered after, my dear. In any case, why pay
double, when the only sacrifice you need to make is a half-hour bus journey.’

Malcolm nodded
his agreement, as if listening to sage advice from senior counsel, and even the
Major, though grumbling a little, finally fell into line.

“As we set sail
for Athens early this evening,” declared the Major, ‘we ought to take the next
bus to Kalafatis.” Arnold nodded, and without another word led his little band
out of the shop, not even glancing towards the packages that were left behind
on the counter.

When they
stepped out onto the street, Arnold was relieved to find that the young man who
had given him the tip-off was no longer to be seen.

They came to a
halt at the bus stop, where Arnold was a little disappointed to discover
several passengers from the ship already standing in the queue, but he
persuaded himself that they would not be heading for the same destination. They
waited in the hot sun for another forty minutes before a bus eventually pulled
up.

When Arnold
first saw the vehicle, his heart sank. “Just think of how much money we’ll be
saving,” he said when he noticed the looks of despair on the faces of his
companions.

The journey
across the island to the east coast might well have taken thirty minutes had it
been in a Range Rover with no reason to slow down. But as the bus driver picked
up everybody he saw along the way, without regard to official stops, they
eventually arrived in Kalafatis an hour and twenty minutes later. Long before
they had clambered off the ancient vehicle Deirdre was exhausted, Joan was
exasperated, and the Major’s wife was developing a migraine.

“Bus goes no
further,” said the driver as Arnold and his companions filed off. “Leave for
return journey to Kh6ra one hour.

Last
bus of the day.”
The little band gazed up at the narrow, winding track that led to the potter’s
workplace.

“The journey was
worth it for the view alone,” gasped Arnold, as he came to a halt halfway along
the path and gazed out over the Aegean.

His companions
didn’t even bother to stop and look, let alone offer an opinion. It took them
another ten minutes of determined walking before they reached their destination,
and by then even Arnold had fallen silent.

As the six weary
tourists finally entered the pottery, what breath they had left was taken away.
They stood mesmerised by shelf after shelf of beautiful objects. Arnold felt a
warm glow of triumph.

Deirdre immediately
went about her business, and quickly located the “Delphi’ dinner service. It
looked even more magnificent than she remembered, but when she checked a little
label that hung from a soup tureen’s handle she was horrified to discover that
the cost was only a little less than it had been at The House of Ptros.

Deirdre came to
a decision. She turned to face her husband, who was toying with a pipe stand,
and declared in a clarion voice that all could hear, “As everything is at half
price, Arnold, presumably I can go ahead and buy the “Delphi”?” The other four
swung round to see how the great entrepreneur would react. Arnold seemed to
hesitate for a moment before he placed the pipe stand back on the shelf and
said, “Of course, my dear. Isn’t that why we came all this way in the first
place?” The three women immediately began selecting items from the shelves,
finally gathering between them one dinner service, two tea sets, one coffee
set, three vases, five ashtrays, two jugs and a toast rack. Arnold abandoned the
pipe stand.

When the bill
for Deirdre’s purchases was presented to her husband he hesitated once again,
but he was painfully aware that all five of his shipmates were glaring at him.
He reluctantly cashed his remaining travellers’ cheques, unwilling to bring
himself even to glance at the disadvantageous exchange rate that was displayed
in the window.

Deirdre made no
comment. Malcolm and the Major silently signed away their own travellers’
cheques, with little appearance of triumph showing on either of their faces.

The goods having
been paid for, the six tourists emerged from the workshop, laden down with
carrier bags. As they began to retrace their steps back down the winding track,
the door of the pottery was closed behind them.

“We’ll have to
get a move on if we’re not going to miss the last bus,” shouted Arnold as he
stepped into the centre of the path, avoiding a large cream Mercedes that was
parked outside the workshop.

“But what a worthwhile
excursion,” he added as they trundled off down the track. “You have to admit, I
saved you all a fortune.” Deirdre was the last to leave the shop. She paused to
rearrange her numerous bags, and was surprised to see a number of the pottery’s
staff forming a queue at a table by the side of the shop.

A handsome young
man in a grubby T-shirt and torn jeans was presenting each of them in turn with
a small brown envelope.

Deirdre couldn’t
take her eyes off the young man. Where had she seen him before? He looked up,
and for a moment she stared into those deep blue eyes. And then she remembered.
The young man shrugged his shoulders and smiled. Deirdre returned the smile,
picked up her bags and set off down the path after her companions.

As they
clambered onto the bus, Deirdre was just in time to hear Arnold declare: “You
know, Major, I should never have taken my father’s advice and settled for the
life of a banker. You see, I’m one of nature’s born entre...”
Deirdre
smiled again as she looked out of the window and
watched the good-looking young man speed past them in his large cream Mercedes.

He smiled and
waved to her as the last bus began its slow journey back to Mykonos.

SIR MATTHEW ROBERTS QC CLOSED THE FILE
and placed it on the desk in front of him. He was not a happy man. He was quite
willing to defend Mary Banks, but he was not at all confident about her plea of
not guilty.

Sir Matthew
leaned back in his deep leather chair to consider the case while he awaited the
arrival of the instructing solicitor who had briefed him, and the junior
counsel he had selected for the case. As he gazed out over the Middle Temple
courtyard, he only hoped he had made the right decision.

On the face of
it, the case of Regina v. Banks was a simple one of murder; but after what
Bruce Banks had subjected his wife to during the eleven years of their
marriage, Sir Matthew was confident not only that he could get the charge
reduced to manslaughter, but that if the jury was packed with women, he might
even secure an acquittal. There was, however, a complication.

He lit a
cigarette and inhaled deeply, something his wife had always chided him for. He
looked at Victoria’s photograph on the desk in front of him. It reminded him of
his youth: but then, Victoria would always be young – death had ensured that.

Reluctantly, he
forced his mind back to his client and her plea of mitigation. He reopened the
file. Mary Banks was claiming that she couldn’t possibly have chopped her
husband up with an axe and buried him under the pigsty, because at the time of
his death she was not only a patient in the local hospital, but was also blind.
As Sir Matthew inhaled deeply once again, there was a knock on the door.

“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 holier, 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 dosing-down 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 mooted 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 towards 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 towards 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.