Adrian leant over the dock.

“What happens now?” he asked Sir Magnus.

Sir Magnus took a pinch of snuff and startled the entire court with a gigantic sneeze.

“Old Gussy drones on for a bit,” he said. “Just relax for a little. Doze if you feel like it.”

The judge had been peering about unsteadily to try and locate the precise area of the court from which the sneeze had emanated. Eventually he managed to fix his wavering eyes upon Sir Magnus.

“Sir Magnus,” he said.

“M’Iord?” said Sir Magnus, rising to his feet and bowing with false obsequiousness.

“I am aware of the fact,” said the judge, “that you are addicted to taking snuff. I would be very grateful if you could inform me as to whether we are going to be constantly interrupted by that extremely startling noise that you seem forced to make every time you do so.”

“Beg pardon, m’lord,” said Sir Magnus. “I shall stifle it next time.”

“See that you do,” said the judge.

He looked at the prosecuting counsel.

“Since Sir Magnus has finished clearing his nasal passage; you may proceed, Sir Augustus,” be said.

Sir Augustus Talisman rose to his feet, ducked his head in the general direction of the judge and spent several moments adjusting the sleeves of his robe and fiddling with a pile of notes on the table in front of him. Then he turned and had a whispered consultation with his clerk. The clerk dived under the table and reappeared clasping five or six massive volumes, each carefully marked with long strips of pink paper, which he placed on the table next to Sir Augustus Both Sir Magnus and the judge, having settled the matter of the snuff, appeared to have dozed off. Sir Augustus rearranged his robe once more, cleared his throat, clasped his lapel firmly in one hand and spoke.

“My lord,” he said in a mellifluous voice, “the case before you is, to say the least, somewhat unusual. So unusual, in fact, that it has taken me considerable time and patience to find any precedent in the laws of this country.” Here he paused and laid his hand affectionately upon the pile of calf-bound volumes on the table in front of him.

“Briefly, m’lord,” he continued, “for I have no wish to waste your lordship’s valuable time—nor indeed am I under the erroneous impression that your lordship prefers anything that is not succinct and to the point—I would say that this outrage (and I feel that by saying outrage I am not being in any way too harsh in my description) this outrage is one of the most extraordinary cases that I have come across in a long career at the Bar.”

He paused and glanced down at his notes, tapping them thoughtfully with a forefinger. Sir Magnus appeared to be in a deep and untroubled slumber. Adrian had expected him at this point to leap up and protest, and so was somewhat disappointed.

“The defendant. Adrian Rookwhistle,” continued Sir Augustus, “apparently inherited from his uncle a fully grown female elephant. The elephant’s name is apparently Rosy, and so, in order to avoid confusion, and with your lordship’s permission of course, I will refer to her by that name.

“On the evening of 31st May, Rookwhistle arrived in Scallop and the following day made his way to the Alhambra Theatre where he applied to Mr. Clattercup, the owner, for a job. Mr. Clattercup, feeling that the introduction of a tame, and, my lord, I stress the word, tame elephant, into his performance (which I believe was called Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves), would provide a strong appeal, engaged Rookwhistle and the elephant Rosy. Mr. Clattercup had spent a considerable sum of money on the production of this pantomime. On the first night, the theatre was, as would be expected, full of our local inhabitants who hold culture so dear to their hearts. Half of the first scene was enacted without incident, but it was then that Rookwhistle, who had, according to witnesses, been imbibing and had encouraged the elephant to imbibe as well, lost control of the animal. It ran berserk.”

Adrian, shocked at this contumely, glanced at Sir Magnus, but his defending counsel still slept peacefully.

“I have here, m’lord (and I needn’t worry you with the details) a list of the actual damage that was done by the aforementioned elephant, but this was damage to scenery and various stage properties. We now come to the personal damage that the animal inflicted. The violinist of the orchestra suffered numerous cuts and contusions when struck by a palm tree wielded by the elephant. The leader of the orchestra suffered severe concussion and Mr. Clattercup, the owner, not only received severe bruising, but also sustained a broken leg as a result of being hurled into the orchestra pit by the maddened and enraged creature.”

At this point the judge gave a small squeak which may or may not have been laughter.

“M’lord,” said Sir Augustus in the tones of one delivering a funeral oration, “I will bring evidence to show that the defendant Rookwhistle had for some considerable time been travelling the country with this animal, creating havoc wherever he passed and that, in consequence, his acceptance of this job at the Alhambra Theatre was obtained through guile and deceit, since he professed that the animal was tame while knowing that it was in fact a fierce, intractable and uncontrollable creature, a risk to life and property.”

Adrian was so incensed at this twisting of the facts that he leant over the dock, seized Sir Magnus’s shoulder and shook it.

“Ah,” said Sir Magnus brightly, “Gussy’s finished, has he? Hear what he was saying?”

“Yes,” hissed Adrian, “he’s twisting everything to make it look as though Rosy and I are guilty.”

“Bound to,” said Sir Magnus. “That’s what he’s paid for.”

“But can’t you say something?” said Adrian. “Can’t you get up and tell the judge it isn’t true?”

“Don’t panic, dear boy,” said Sir Magnus. “Remember that a spider spends hours weaving a web which you can destroy with a walking-stick with the flick of a wrist.”

And with this Adrian had to be content. Sir Augustus was shuffling through his notes and re-settling his gown, and Adrian examined the jury.

All of them looked sour-faced, gimlet-eyed and unrelenting, and those who had not immediately gone into a trance spent their time looking surreptitiously at their watches and did not appear to be concentrating on anything in particular. They looked at Adrian as though they would be willing to condemn him there and then, either from a sense of vindictiveness or from a desire to get back to their businesses as rapidly as possible.

“I will now call my first witness,” said Sir Augustus “Sir Hubert Darcey.”

“Call Sir Hubert Darcey,” cried the clerk of the court.

Sir Hubert strode into the court as though on to a parade ground. He looked even more magnificently be-whiskered and terrifying than Adrian had remembered him. He stamped into the witness box and took the oath with the air of one who finds it faintly insulting that anyone should even question his truthfulness.

“You,” said Sir Augustus, “are Hubert Darcey of Bangalore Manor in the village of Monkspepper?”

“Yes,” replied Darcey thunderously.

“Sir Hubert,” said the judge, “I wonder if you would be so good as to offer your evidence in a slightly lower tone of voice? The acoustics of this place are such that if you use the full power of your lungs, it sets up an extraordinary reverberation which runs through both my desk and my chair.”

“Very good, my lord,” Darcey barked.

“You are the Master of the Monkspepper Hunt, are you not?” enquired Sir Augustus.

“Yes,” said Darcey. “Have been for twenty years.”

“Now, do you recall the 20th April?”

“I do,” said Darcey. “Vividly,”

“Well, would you be so kind as to tell his lordship and the jury, in your own words, exactly what happened.”

“Yes,” said Darcey in his muted roar. “It was a fine mornin’, mi lud, and the hounds had found in the oak woods behind Monkspepper . . .”