"Good morning, Sir Matthew," she replied, without moving a muscle, still looking in Ca.s.son's direction. "I'm delighted that you will be representing me."

"Sir Matthew would like to ask you a few questions, Mrs. Banks," said Ca.s.son, 'so that he can decide what might be the best approach in your case. He will a.s.sume 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 box."

"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 pa.s.sed 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. Ca.s.son?" she asked.

"My fault," said Sir Matthew. "How clumsy of me." Ca.s.son 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 Ca.s.son did allow himself to smile.

"But what about the blood found on your husband's collar?

Blood that was shown by the rown'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 Ca.s.son watched her eyes. They never moved.

When Sir Matthew was directly behind his client, he checked his watch. It was .7. 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 ofstrychnine," 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 quant.i.ty 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 ! 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 silentlytowards 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. Ca.s.son.

The smile on Ca.s.son'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. Ca.s.son 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 observedbeads of perspiration appearing on Mrs. Banks's forehead as he sat down. When Witherington had finished cleaning the almond-shaped gla.s.s 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 ...

COULD ANYONE BE THAT BEAUTIFUL?

I was driving round the Aldwych on my way to work when I first saw her. She was walking up the steps of the Aldwych Theatre.

If I'd stared a moment longer I would have driven into the back of the car in front of me, but before I could confirm my fleeting impression she had disappeared into the throng of theatregoers.

I spotted a parking s.p.a.ce on my left-hand side and swung into it at the last possible moment, without indicating, causing the vehicle behind me to let out several appreciative blasts. I leapt out of my car and ran back towards the theatre, realising how unlikely it was that I'd be able to find her in such a mle, and that even if I did, she was probably meeting a boyfriend or husband who would turn out to beabout six feet tall and closely to resemble Harrison Ford.

Once I reached the foyer I scanned the chattering crowd. I slowly turned 360 degrees, but could see no sign of her. Should I try to buy a ticket? I wondered. But she could be seated anywhere - the stalls, the dress circle, even the upper circle. Perhaps I should walk up and down the aisles until I spotted her. But I realised I wouldn't be allowed into any part of the theatre unless I could produce a ticket.

And then I saw her. She was standing in a queue in front of the window marked "Tonight's Performance', and was just one away from being attended to. There were two other customers, a young woman and a middle-aged man, waiting in line behind her. I quickly joined the queue, by which time she had reached the front. I leant forward and tried to overhear what she was saying, but I could only catch the box office manager's reply: "Not much chance with the curtain going up in a few minutes' time, madam," he was saying. "But if you leave it with me, I'll see what I can do." She thanked him and walked off in the direction of the stalls.

My first impression was confirmed. It didn't matter if you looked from the ankles up or from the head down - she was perfection.

I couldn't take my eyes off her, and I noticed that she was having exactly the same effect on several other men in the foyer.

I wanted totell them all not to bother. Didn't they realise she was with me? Or rather, that she would be by the end of the evening.

After she had disappeared from view, I craned my neck to look into the booth. Her ticket had been placed to one side. I sighed with relief as the young woman two places ahead of me presented her credit card and picked up four tickets for the dress circle.

I began to pray that the man in front of me wasn't looking for a single.

"Do you have one ticket for tonight's performance?" he asked hopefully, as the three-minute bell sounded. The man in the booth smiled.

I scowled. Should I knife him in the back, kick him in the groin, or simply scream abuse at him?

"Where would you prefer to sit, sir? The dress circle or the stalls?"

"Don't say stalls," I willed. "Say Circle ... Circle ...

Circle ... ' "Stalls," he said.

"I have one on the aisle in row H," said the man in the box, checking the computer screen in front of him. I uttered a silent cheer as I realised that the theatre would be trying to sell off its remaining tickets before it bothered with returns handed in by members of the public. But then, I thought, how would I get around that problem?By the time the man in front of me had bought the ticket on the end of row H, I had my lines well rehea.r.s.ed, and just hoped I wouldn't need a prompt.

"Thank goodness. I thought I wasn't going to make it," I began, trying to sound out of breath. The man in the ticket booth looked up at me, but didn't seem all that impressed by my opening line.

"It was the traffic. And then I couldn't find a parking s.p.a.ce.

My girlfriend may have given up on me. Did she by any chance hand in my ticket for resale?" He looked unconvinced. My dialogue obviously wasn't gripping him. "Can you describe her?" he asked suspiciously.

"Short-cropped dark hair, hazel eyes, wearing a red silk dress that ... ' "Ah, yes. I remember her," he said, almost sighing. He picked up the ticket by his side and handed it to me.

"Thank you," I said, trying not to show my relief that he had come in so neatly on cue with the closing line from my first scene. As I hurried off in the direction of the stalls, I grabbed an envelope from a pile on the ledge beside the booth.

I checked the price of the ticket: twenty pounds. I extracted two ten-pound notes from my wallet, put them in the envelope, licked the flap and stuck it down.

The girl at the entrance to the stalls checked my ticket."F-s.

Six rows from the front, on the right-hand side." I walked slowly down the aisle until I spotted her. She was sitting next to an empty place in the middle of the row. As I made my way over the feet of those who were already seated, she turned and smiled, obviously pleased to see that someone had purchased her spare ticket.

I returned the smile, handed over the envelope containing my twenty pounds, and sat down beside her. "The man in the box office asked me to give you this."

"Thank you." She slipped the envelope into her evening bag. I was about to try the first line of my second scene on her, when the house lights faded and the curtain rose for Act One of the real performance. I suddenly realised that I had no idea what play I was about to see. I glanced across at the programme on her lap and read the words "An Inspector Calls, by J.B. Priestley'.

I remembered that the critics had been full of praise for the production when it had originally opened at the National Theatre, and had particularly singled out the performance of Kenneth Cranham. I tried to concentrate on what was taking place on stage.

The eponymous inspector was staring into a house in which an Edwardian family were preparing for a dinner to celebrate their daughter's engagement. "I was thinking of getting a new car," thefather was saying to his prospective son-in-law as he puffed away on his cigar.

At the mention of the word 'car', I suddenly remembered that I had abandoned mine outside the theatre. Was it on a double yellow line?

Or worse? To h.e.l.l with it. They could have it in part-exchange for the model sitting next to me. The audience laughed, so I joined in, if only to give the impression that I was following the plot.

But what about my original plans for the evening? By now everyone would be wondering why I hadn't turned up. I realised that I wouldn't be able to leave the theatre during the interval, either to check on my car or to make a phone call to explain my absence, as that would be my one chance of developing my own plot.

The play had the rest of the audience enthralled, but I had already begun rehearsing the lines from my own script, which would have to be performed during the interval between Acts One and Two. I was painfully aware that I would be restricted to fifteen minutes, and that there would be no second night.

By the time the curtain came down at the end of the first act, I was confident of my draft text. I waited for the applause to die down before I turned towards her.

"What an original production," I began. "Quite modernistic." I vaguely remembered that one of the critics had followedthat line. "I was lucky to get a seat at the last moment."

"I was just as lucky," she replied. I felt encouraged. "I mean, to find someone who was looking for a single ticket at such short notice. ' I nodded. "My name's Michael Whitaker."

"Anna Townsend," she said, giving me a warm smile.

"Would you like a drink?" I asked.

"Thank you," she replied, 'that would be nice." I stood up and led her through the packed scrum that was heading towards the stalls bar, occasionally glancing back to make sure she was still following me. I was somehow expecting her no longer to be there, but each time I turned to look she greeted me with the same radiant smile.

"What would you like?" I asked, once I could make out the bar through the crowd.

"A dry martini, please."

"Stay here, and I'll be back in a moment," I promised, wondering just how many precious minutes would be wasted while I had to wait at the bar. I took out a five-pound note and held it up conspicuously, in the hope that the prospect of a large tip might influence the harman's sense of direction. He spotted the money, but I still had to wait for another four customers to be served before I managed to secure the dry martini and a Scotch on the rocks for myself. The harman didn't deserve the tip I left him,but I hadn't any more time to waste waiting for the change.

I carried the drinks back to the far corner of the foyer, where Anna stood studying her programme. She was silhouetted against a window, and in that stylish red silk dress, the light emphasised her slim, elegant figure.

I handed her the dry martini, aware that my limited time had almost run out.

"Thank you," she said, giving me another disarming smile.

"How did you come to have a spare ticket?" I asked as she took a sip from her drink.