The Summer of Sir Lancelot (5 page)

Mr Evans blew his nose loudly, which seemed accepted as the starting signal.

I won‘t harrow you with the heart-rending stories behind each case conjured from the shiny black notebooks of Police Constables Howells and Jenkins. Old grandmothers were on their deathbeds, distant wives seized with sudden illness, children had rained down from trees, boilers burst, houses blazed, tremendous business deals hung in the balance. None of these reasons struck Sir Lancelot as an excuse for proceeding to the scene of the tragedy at over thirty miles an hour.

‘I am not in the slightest interested if your wife had gone off with a hairy great sailor,‘ he declared after some time, when his back was starting to hurt again. ‘If you wished to catch the lady
in flagrante delicto
at Cardiff docks you should have started earlier.‘

‘But I couldn‘t, Your Worship. When she left she took the alarm clock.‘

‘There is a perfectly good call system on the telephone designed for exactly those circumstances. It is no excuse whatever for your proceeding along the highway at a rate which threatens to make the casualty departments of our overworked hospitals resemble the aftermath of the Battle of Waterloo. Your behaviour was utterly antisocial, and I only regret the treatment I am empowered to prescribe can‘t be more radical.‘

He glanced down at the dock, as though having something in mind involving drawing and quartering.

‘Fined five pounds and licence endorsed,‘ he ended briefly. ‘By the way,‘ he added in an undertone to Mr Evans on his left, ‘I want another word with you later about Witches‘ Pool.‘

‘I fear there is nothing you can do about it.‘ The solicitor blew his nose twice, as though sounding the Last Post. ‘I‘ve looked up the deeds again. They are quite specific.‘

‘Rubbish, man! I believe you‘re merely scared of that swindler Chadwick and his money. You wait till I‘ve stoked up a bit of fire in your belly. Next case.‘

‘Ernest Herbert Millichap,‘ came a voice below him.

Sir Lancelot frowned. ‘Who?‘

‘Ernest Herbert Millichap,‘ the Clerk of the Court repeated helpfully. Sir Lancelot glared at the Clerk. He glared down at his list. He glared at his brother justices on each flank.

‘What the devil are you doing there?‘ he demanded, finally glaring at the accused.

‘Your own chauffeur it is, Sir Lancelot.‘ Mr Evans raised his eyebrows. ‘Dear, dear! I suppose you‘d better withdraw.‘

‘Withdraw? How the hell can I withdraw? I can‘t get out of this ruddy chair without Millichap down there to help me.‘

‘It would be most improper otherwise,‘ added Miss Morgan-Griffiths, wagging her trifle.

‘Most
improper indeed,‘ agreed Mr Evans, glancing heavenwards to see the remark registered.

‘Very well.‘ Sir Lancelot folded his arms loftily. ‘I shall withdraw in spirit. With my back in this condition you can hardly expect me to embark on a game of musical chairs. Or possibly you do not trust me, Evans,‘ he added cuttingly, ‘to avoid involving myself in the slightest with the case? My dear man, everyone in court can simply ignore me completely. Now do get on with it. Millichap has plenty to do except stand there all day.‘ Constable Howells rendered an account of the crime while Millichap stood with dignity in the dock, like a Victorian bishop waiting for the hymn to finish before he could pitch into the sermon. Sir Lancelot sat tugging his beard, his complexion steadily progressing through the colours at the lower end of the spectrum.

‘That would be his third offence,‘ concluded Mr Evans, as Sir Lancelot hit ultraviolet.

Miss Morgan-Griffiths pursed her lips. ‘On the same stretch of road, too, Mr Evans.‘

‘Six months‘ disqualification, I think, Miss Morgan-Griffiths?‘

‘A year I‘d say myself, Mr Evans.‘

‘Damnation, Evans,‘ Sir Lancelot burst out, ‘surely you must preserve some sense of proportion? This man is a most careful and considerate driver — ‘

‘But that‘s not evidence, Sir Lancelot, not evidence-‘

‘Damn the evidence!‘ Sir Lancelot thumped the desk. ‘You can‘t take Millichap‘s licence away.‘

‘Why not, pray?‘ demanded Miss Morgan-Griffiths.

‘Because how the hell would I get home from court?‘ Sir Lancelot explained crossly. ‘Not with a back like this.‘

‘We have our duty,‘ she declared, with a sharp wag of the trifle.

Sir Lancelot eyed her like a trout who‘d refused his fly. ‘In that case I wish to make a special plea on behalf of the accused.‘

‘But, Sir Lancelot!‘ Mr Evans put a hand over his eyes, hoping heaven wouldn‘t overhear that one. ‘You can‘t defend the prisoner, man! Not from the Bench.‘

‘I‘m not on the blasted Bench. In spirit I‘m down there in the well of the court trying to inject some reasonable advocacy into the proceedings. Do you realize, Evans, you will be depriving this man not only of his licence but his livelihood? I assure you I cannot possibly afford to employ both Millichap and another chauffeur. He has a wife and children, Miss Morgan-Griffiths,‘ Sir Lancelot continued, with the air of Marshall Hall warming up at the Old Bailey. ‘Moreover, the poor fellow would be utterly lost in any employment but mine. He will go on the dole and even drift into a life of crime, causing misery to his family and eating great holes in the rates. You may he precipitating a ghastly human tragedy. Not something I‘d care to go to bed with on
my
conscience, Evans.‘

‘Well — ‘ faltered Mr Evans, who suffered badly from insomnia already. Millichap cleared his throat.

‘Your Worships, I happened to overhear the plea for leniency made on my behalf by Sir Lancelot, it was very moving, and I thank him from the bottom of my heart. But I could have saved him the trouble. In the past twelvemonth I‘ve got fair browned off driving all over the countryside on his little errands, and I‘ve been wanting an excuse to turn in this chauffeuring lark all winter. So I have today entered employment as gillie to a local gentleman, Mr Charles Chadwick — ‘

‘What!‘ Sir Lancelot quivered. ‘How dare you! You renegade! You turncoat! You rat! I‘ve employed you now for twenty years — ‘

‘But this has nothing whatever to do with the case!‘ cried Mr Evans, fluttering his handkerchief

‘How the devil can you — Evans, I do wish you‘d take something for that blasted cold - how the devil can you bring yourself to work for that blood-blister Chadwick?‘

‘Very simple reason, sir. Twice the wages.‘

Sir Lancelot banged the desk, shaking the lion and unicorn overhead. ‘Have you no speck of loyalty, man?‘ he roared.

‘No, sir. Not after the miserable pay you‘ve been getting away with all these years. Half a mind to report it to the TUC, I have.‘

‘Really, really!‘ complained Mr Evans, glancing nervously not only at heaven but the reporter from the
Brecknock Bugle
as well.

‘Ye gods, what is
the world
coming to?‘ concluded Sir Lancelot, thumping the desk again and rattling the glass on the water jug, the windows, and Miss Morgan-Griffiths‘ teeth.

‘Next case, next case,‘ demanded Mr Evans hurriedly. ‘Twenty pounds, six months‘ disqualification.‘

‘Timothy Aldous Tolly,‘ announced the Clerk.

Sir Lancelot paused. He looked up. He stroked his beard. His expression changed.

‘Well, well,‘ he said.

His tone would have gone unnoticed only in Robespierre at his nastiest.

‘Well, well,‘ he repeated. ‘Timothy Aldous Tolly, eh?‘ He adjusted his glasses and Millichap was blotted from his mind by even blacker fogs of infamy. He squared his shoulders like a man settling down to a good dinner. ‘Proceed,‘ he directed.

Tim stood in the dock feeling as confused as Alice during similar proceedings in Wonderland. This fellow Spratt, like the eye of God, seemed to be everywhere. While driving at twenty-eight mph to court his head had buzzed with ideas to ingratiate himself with the old man, from setting fire to his house and dragging him out of the flames — after, of course, rescuing Euphemia first - to writing respectfully for reprints of his latest papers in
Gut.
Now, he reflected, as Police Constable Howells recited the familiar story of wickedness, there would be rather more leeway to make up.

‘Disgusting,‘ pronounced Sir Lancelot. ‘Here are you, a registered medical practitioner, into whose hands unmerciful Providence has delivered the lives of this community, and you go hurtling about the countryside as though there were gross unemployment among coroners.‘

‘I think I can explain, sir — Your Worship.‘

‘Please do,‘ invited Sir Lancelot promptly.

‘I was on my way to a maternity case.‘

‘That does put rather a different light on it,‘ conceded Miss Morgan-Griffiths.

‘Rubbish. The good doctor sees he‘s given plenty of warning. Damn it, madam, the thing doesn‘t come out like a Polaris missile. Five pounds, licence endorsed,‘ Sir Lancelot ended briskly, ‘and I sincerely trust, young man, I shall not be seeing you here again. Next case.‘

Timothy Aldous Tolly,‘ sang up the Clerk‘s voice.

‘No, we‘ve just had him.‘

‘Timothy Aldous Tolly,‘ repeated the Clerk.

‘Good grief,‘ muttered Sir Lancelot, ‘the man‘s a confirmed criminal.‘ It w as Police Constable Rees who took up the tale of lawlessness.

‘I do wish people would realize that parking their cars for hall an hour in the middle of the High Street on a busy Saturday morning is just as antisocial as laying sleepers across railway lines, and on occasion equally dangerous,‘ pronounced Sir Lancelot. ‘The country is paved with official car parks, but the younger generation seems totally incapable of walking more than twenty yards at a stretch. No wonder everyone‘s arteries resemble the stems of clay pipes.‘

‘I think I can explain, Your Worship,‘ Tim tried again.

‘Please do.‘

‘I had my bag with me. I was calling on a bed-ridden patient to administer an injection of intravenous iron.‘

‘Ah, an errand of mercy,‘ observed Mr Evans, with another glance in the direction of the Recording Angel.

‘Nonsense. If you take half an hour to get a needle into a vein, young man, you ought to be struck from the medical
Register.
As it is, I shall merely fine you forty shillings. Next case.‘

‘Timothy Aldous Tolly,‘ continued the Clerk.

Trespassing, I see,‘ murmured Mr Evans, eyeing his list.

‘Had‘ Sir Lancelot rubbed his hands. ‘Now we‘re getting somewhere!‘ The case was in fact viewed by Sir Lancelot with strict impartiality, the prosecutor being a bad-tempered local farmer whom he disliked almost as much as he did Dr Tolly. He listened to the evidence in silence, but the black thoughts which had retired to the edge of his mind came scudding back thickly across his consciousness.

‘One moment — ‘ Sir Lancelot held up a hand. ‘Let us recapitulate. It appears, Tolly, you were encountered by the landowner on four separate occasions beside, if you please, a board announcing “Trespassers Will be Prosecuted”. You were making your way across his fields at quarter to seven in the morning?‘

‘Yes, Your Worship,‘ agreed Tim meekly.

‘An hour, Tolly, when you might consider yourself unlucky to meet anyone?‘

‘I - I suppose so, Your Worship.‘

‘Do you know where that path leads to, Tolly? To one spot, Witches‘ Pool. It brings me to suspect you were about to embark on the very much more serious crime of poaching.‘

‘Of course I wasn‘t.‘ Tim bit his lip. ‘I didn‘t even have a fishing-rod, did I?‘

‘Naturally,‘ rounded Sir Lancelot, like one of those tedious lawyers who always win on the telly, ‘you hid it under the hawthorn bush, as have several generations of local poachers.‘

‘But I don‘t even own a rod!‘ Tim burst out. ‘And as a matter of fact I think fishing is a pretty stupid pastime altogether, Your Worship.‘

‘Oh?‘ Sir Lancelot‘s beard jutted at him like the firing squad getting down to business. ‘Then what were you doing by Witches‘ Pool at that early hour?‘

‘I — I had an appointment.‘

‘Indeed?‘ scoffed Sir Lancelot. ‘May I ask with whom?‘

‘I‘m afraid I have no intention of telling you,‘ returned Tim calmly.

‘A likely tale! An appointment, begad! At seven o‘clock in the morning? I‘m not at all certain I shouldn‘t consider your committal for perjury.‘

‘Very well,‘ Tim countered briskly, ‘it was your niece, Your Worship.‘

‘My niece?‘

‘Yes, Euphemia.‘

‘There! I told you the feller was lying!‘ exclaimed Sir Lancelot in triumph. ‘He doesn‘t even know her.‘

‘On the contrary.‘ Nothing is quite so savage as the bite of a turned worm. ‘I‘ve met her before breakfast at Witches‘ Pool every morning for three weeks, Your Worship.‘

Sir Lancelot stared. The penny dropped, like the blade of the guillotine.

‘Moreover,‘ continued Tim, discovering, doubtless like St George and the Dragon, it wasn‘t half as hard as it looked once you got started, ‘I want to marry her.‘

‘Marry her?‘ Sir Lancelot looked blank.