The Collected Short Stories

by Jeffrey Archer

  At one o’clock he would leave the “great Gothic cathedral” (another of his expressions) for one hour, which he passed at a pub called the Havelock, where he would drink a half pint of Carlsberg lager with a dash of lime and eat the dish of the day. After he finished his lunch, he would once again smoke two cigarettes. At 1:55 he returned to the insurance records until the fifteen-minute tea break at four o’clock, which was another ritual occasion for two more cigarettes. On the dot of 5:30, Septimus would pick up his umbrella and reinforced steel briefcase with the initials S.H.C. in silver on the side and leave, double-locking his glass cubicle. As he walked through the typing pool, he would announce with a mechanical jauntiness, “See you same time tomorrow, girls,” hum a few bars from The Sound of Music in the descending elevator, and then walk out into the torrent of office workers surging down High Holborn. He would stride purposefully toward Cannon Street station, umbrella tapping away on the pavement, while he rubbed shoulders with bankers, shippers, oil men, and brokers, not discontent to think himself part of the great City of London.

  Once he reached the station, Septimus would purchase a copy of the Evening Standard and a pack of ten Benson & Hedges cigarettes from Smith’s newsstand, placing both on the top of his Prudential documents already in the briefcase. He would board the fourth carriage of the train on platform five at 5:30, and secure his favored window seat in a closed compartment facing the engine, next to the balding gentleman with the inevitable Financial Times, and opposite the smartly dressed secretary who read long romantic novels to somewhere beyond Sevenoaks. Before sitting down he would extract the Evening Standard and the new pack of Benson & Hedges from his briefcase, put them both on the armrest of his seat, and place the briefcase and his rolled umbrella on the rack above him. Once settled, he would open the pack of cigarettes and smoke the first of the two allocated for the journey while reading the Evening Standard. This would leave him eight to be smoked before catching the 5:50 the following evening.

  As the train pulled into Sevenoaks station, he would mumble good night to his fellow passengers (the only word he ever spoke during the entire journey) and leave, making his way straight to the semidetached at 47 Palmerston Drive, arriving at the front door a little before 6:45. Between 6:45 and 7:30 he would finish reading his paper or check over his children’s homework with a tut-tut when he spotted a mistake, or a sigh when he couldn’t fathom the new math. At 7:30 his “good lady” (another of his favored expressions) would place on the kitchen table in front of him the Woman’s Own dish of the day or his favorite dinner of three fish fingers, peas, and french fries. He would then say, “If God had meant fish to have fingers, he would have given them hands,” laugh, and cover the oblong fish with tomato sauce, consuming the meal to the accompaniment of his wife’s recital of the day’s events. At 9:00 he watched the news on BBC 1 (he never watched ITV), and at 10:30 he retired to bed.

  This routine was adhered to year in year out with breaks only for holidays, for which Septimus naturally also had a routine. Alternate Christmases were spent with Norma’s parents in Watford, and the ones in between with Septimus’s sister and brother-in-law in Epsom, while in the summer, their high spot of the year, the family took a two-week vacation in the Olympic Hotel, Corfu.

  Septimus not only liked his lifestyle, but was distressed if for any reason his routine met with the slightest interference. This humdrum existence seemed certain to last him from womb to tomb, for Septimus was not the stuff on which authors base two-hundred-thousand-word sagas. Nevertheless, there was one occasion when Septimus’s routine was not merely interfered with, but frankly shattered.

  One evening at 5:27, when Septimus was closing the file on the last claim for the day, his immediate superior, the deputy manager, called him in for a consultation. Owing to this gross lack of consideration, Septimus did not manage to get away from the office until a few minutes after six. Although everyone had left the typing pool, still he saluted the empty desks and silent typewriters with the invariable “See you same time tomorrow, girls,” and hummed a few bars of “Edelweiss” to the descending elevator. As he stepped out of the great Gothic cathedral it started to rain. Septimus reluctantly undid his neatly rolled umbrella and, putting it up, dashed through the puddles, hoping that he would be in time to catch the 6:32. On arrival at Cannon Street, he lined up for his paper and cigarettes and put them in his briefcase before rushing on to platform five. To add to his annoyance, the loudspeaker was announcing with perfunctory apology that three trains had already been taken off that evening because of a go-slow.

  Septimus eventually fought his way through the dripping, bustling crowds to the sixth carriage of a train that was not scheduled on any timetable. He discovered that it was filled with people he had never seen before and, worse, almost every seat was already occupied. In fact, the only place he could find to sit was in the middle of the train with his back to the engine. He threw his briefcase and creased umbrella onto the rack above him and reluctantly squeezed himself into the seat before looking around the carriage. There was not a familiar face among the other six occupants. A woman with three children more than filled the seat opposite him, while an elderly man was sleeping soundly on his left. On the other side of him, leaning over and looking out of the window, was a young man of about twenty.

  When Septimus first laid eyes on the boy he couldn’t believe what he saw. The youth was clad in a black leather jacket and skin-tight jeans and was whistling to himself. His dark, creamed hair was combed up at the front and down at the sides, while the only two colors of the young man’s outfit that matched were his jacket and fingernails. But worst of all to one of Septimus’s sensitive nature was the slogan printed in boot studs on the back of his jacket. “Heil Hitler” it declared unashamedly over a white-painted Nazi sign and, as if that were not enough, below the swastika in gold shone the words: “Up yours.” What was the country coming to? thought Septimus. They ought to bring back National Service for delinquents like that. Septimus himself had not been eligible for National Service on account of his flat feet.

  Septimus decided to ignore the creature, and, picking up the pack of Benson & Hedges on the armrest by his side, he lit one and began to read the Evening Standard. He then replaced the pack of cigarettes on the armrest, as he always did, knowing he would smoke one more before reaching Sevenoaks. When the train eventually moved out of Cannon Street, the darkly clad youth turned toward Septimus and, glaring at him, picked up the pack of cigarettes, took one, lit it, and started to puff away. Septimus could not believe what was happening. He was about to protest when he realized that none of his regulars was in the carriage to back him up. He considered the situation for a moment and decided that “discretion was the better part of valor” (yet another of the sayings of Septimus).

  When the train stopped at Petts Wood, Septimus put down the newspaper although he had scarcely read a word, and as he nearly always did, took his second cigarette. He lit it, inhaled, and was about to retrieve the Evening Standard when the youth grabbed at the corner, and they ended up with half the paper each. This time Septimus did look around the carriage for support. The children opposite started giggling, while their mother consciously averted her eyes from what was taking place, obviously not wanting to become involved; the old man on Septimus’s left was now snoring. Septimus was about to secure the pack of cigarettes by putting them in his pocket when the youth pounced on them, removed another and lit it, inhaled deeply, and then blew the smoke quite deliberately across Septimus’s face before placing the cigarettes back on the armrest. Septimus’s answering glare expressed as much malevolence as he was able to project through the gray haze. Grinding his teeth in fury, he returned to the Evening Standard, only to discover that he had ended up with the help wanted, used cars, and sports sections, subjects in which he had absolutely no interest. His one compensation, however, was his certainty that sports was the only section the lout really wanted. Septimus was now, in any case, incapable of reading the paper,
trembling as he was at the outrages perpetrated by his neighbor.

  His thoughts were now turning to revenge, and gradually a plan began to form in his mind with which he was confident the youth would be left in no doubt that “virtue can sometimes be more than its own reward” (a variation on a saying of Septimus). He smiled thinly, and, breaking his routine, he took a third cigarette and defiantly placed the pack back on the armrest. The youth stubbed out his own cigarette and, as if taking up the challenge, picked up the pack, removed another one, and lit it. Septimus was by no means beaten; he puffed his way quickly through the weed, stubbed it out, a quarter unsmoked, took a fourth and lit it immediately. The race was on, for there were now only two cigarettes left. But Septimus, despite a great deal of puffing and coughing, managed to finish his fourth cigarette ahead of the youth. He leaned across the leather jacket and stubbed his cigarette out in the window ashtray. The carriage was now filled with smoke, but the youth was still puffing as fast as he could. The children opposite were coughing, and the woman was waving her arms around like a windmill. Septimus ignored her and kept his eye on the pack of cigarettes while pretending to read about Arsenal’s chances in the Football Association Cup.

  Septimus then recalled Montgomery’s maxim that surprise and timing in the final analysis are the weapons of victory. As the youth finished his fourth cigarette and was stubbing it out the train pulled slowly into Sevenoaks station. The youth’s hand was raised, but Septimus was quicker. He had anticipated the enemy’s next move and now seized the cigarette pack. He took out the ninth cigarette and, placing it between his lips, lit it slowly and luxuriously, inhaling as deeply as he could before blowing the smoke out straight into the face of the enemy. The youth stared up at him in dismay. Septimus then removed the last cigarette from the pack and crumpled the tobacco into shreds between his first finger and thumb, allowing the little flakes to fall back into the empty pack. Then he closed the pack neatly, and with a flourish replaced the little gold box on the armrest. In the section of the Evening Standard, tore the paper in half, in quarters, in eighths, and finally in sixteenths, placing the little squares in a neat pile on the youth’s lap.

  The train came to a halt at Sevenoaks. A triumphant Septimus, having struck his blow for the silent majority, retrieved his umbrella and briefcase from the rack above him and turned to leave.

  As he picked up his briefcase it knocked against the armrest in front of him, and the lid sprang open. Everyone in the carriage stared at its contents. For there, on top of his Prudential documents, was a neatly folded copy of the Evening Standard and an unopened pack of ten Benson & Hedges cigarettes.

  AN EYE FOR AN EYE

  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 ax 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 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 closing-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 welfare. 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 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.”
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  “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—”