The Mortdecai Trilogy (Charlie Mortdecai #1-3)(176)
I opened my mouth and shut it again. It was clear that I could do no right that morning.
The Chief Superintendent met us with a stony look. Like all good policemen who have received hints to lay off from people in high places, he was in an ugly mood. He studied us carefully, one by one – the time-honoured technique of policemen who wish you to understand that they will be Keeping an Eye on you in the future and that you’d better not be caught parking on a yellow line.
‘For some reason not confided in me,’ he began heavily, ‘it has been decided that this is to be treated as a silly prank which ended tragically. Most of the gravamen of the many charges will be laid to the account of the deceased Tichborne. I hope that will please you. You are only to be charged with Unlawfully Entering Private Premises, Unlawfully Causing Scandal and Distress, Failing to prevent a Breach of the Law Against Ill-treatment of Animals and you, Mr Breakspear, with Driving an Uninsured Vehicle and Failing to Sign a Driving Licence.’
I broke out in a sweat of relief. George grated his teeth audibly. Sam’s eyes seemed to be fixed on some distant and loathsome object.
‘I have been in touch informally,’ the policeman went on, ‘with the Société Jersaise. They are, quite rightly, shocked and furious, but you may find that a written apology and an offer to pay for a new padlock-chain and for the removal of the smoke-stains on the walls of the chapel will satisfy them. Say, three hundred pounds.’
Three cheque-books flashed in the dusty sunshine; three fountain pens scratched and squirted in unison.
‘The Police Court magistrate has sent up your case directly to the Royal Court. You are to appear before a special session at precisely two-thirty this afternoon, which gives you plenty of time to enjoy a large and expensive lunch. No, please do not ask me to join you. I am feeling a little sick. Good day to you.’
That man was wasted as a policeman: he should have been the headmaster of a High Anglican public school. We slunk out.
The desk sergeant offered no cups of tea this time; he viewed us coldly. He probably knew little of the matter but the scent of opprobrium must have clung to us: we were no longer gents as such but faces to memorize.
He asked me to identify, and sign for, my tape-recorder complete with one cassette. I did so.
‘There’s nothing on the cassette,’ he explained.
‘D’you want to bet?’ I asked.
My car was triumphantly displaying a parking-ticket, which the others gazed at with moody satisfaction.
‘Well, where are we lunching?’ asked George.
‘At the nearest rookery for me,’ I said, ‘it is my day for eating crow.’
In the event we were lucky enough to secure a table at the Borsalino, but we could do scant justice to the excellent fare.
‘Don’t you like the Poulet Borsalino?’ asked a puzzled proprietor.
Sam looked at him with dreary eyes.
‘The Poulet Borsalino is excellent. It is us we don’t like.’
There was nothing in that for the proprietor; he stole away. (When I tell you that Poulet Borsalino is breast of chicken rolled around gobs of Camembert cheese and deep-fried, you will realize what depths of chagrin caused us to spurn it.)
The Royal Court was intimidating beyond belief. George and Sam’s Advocates and my jolly Solicitor joined us in the lobby. The Advocates pursed their lips; Solly gave me a wink. Taking his point, I wrenched the knot of my necktie tight and slid it to one side, rumpling the collar; a simple ruse which reduces one’s apparent income by several hundred pounds. Verb. sap., not to mention experto crede. We mounted flight after flight of linoleumclad stairs, designed, no doubt, in ancient times to ensure that prisoners arrived in Court flushed and sweating with guilt. Solly goosed me on the stairs, no doubt to cheer me up. Outside the court room itself we were surrendered to the Greffier: a terrifying personage in a black robe who looked as though he believed in capital punishment for motoring offences. Soon we were joined by the Vécomte – pronounced Viscount – another black-robed officer bearing a great mace, and we processed through oaken doors into the Court. It is a tall, airy, well-lit chamber of great beauty, hung with excellent pictures. Before us, in some majesty and under a splendid canopy, sat the arbiters of our fate. In the centre (Solly explained to me in a whisper) the Deputy Bailiff; to his right a lower throne – empty – where Her Majesty’s Lieutenant-Governor would have been sitting had he chosen to exercise his right to attend; on the other side a brace of Jurats, chosen from the flower of Jersey’s ancient aristocracy. They looked wise and useful, which I believe is their function.
The Vécomte stood the mace in its socket before the Bench, the Greffier took his stall and the Court of the Inferior Number (so called when only two Jurats are sitting) was in session.
The public benches were almost empty: the notice had been too short for the mass of sensation-seekers and only the usual handful of ghoulish old ladies sucking peppermints was there – the ones who don’t like all that violence on television and prefer to hear it at first hand, hot from the sty. The sole occupant of the Press bench was my friend Miss H. Glossop, radiating intelligence and goodwill. I had the impression that she would have liked to give me a friendly wave.
There was a deathly hush in the Court, then people recited things in ancient Norman-French; lesser officers repeated them in English; policemen, both Paid and Honorary, related how they had proceeded from one place to another in the execution of their duty and acting on information received and what was more they had notebooks to prove it. Sam’s advocate rose and moaned piteously; George’s man boomed capably; Solly – a Solly I had never seen before – craved the Court’s indulgence to explain briefly that I was – although not in just those words – merely a f*cking idiot and more to be pitied than censured.