Lost in a Good Book

18. The Trial of Fräulein N

The courtroom was packed full of men all dressed in black, chattering and gesticulating constantly. There was a gallery running around just below the ceiling where more people stood, also talking and laughing, and the room was hot and airless to the point of suffocation. There was a narrow path between the men, and I slowly advanced, the crowd merging behind me and almost propelling me forward. As I walked the spectators chattered about the weather, the previous case, what I was wearing and the finer points of my case—of which, it seemed, they knew nothing. At the other end of the hall was a low dais upon which was seated, just behind a low table, the examining magistrate. Behind him were court officials and clerks talking with the crowd and each other. To one side of the dais was the lugubrious man who had knocked on my door and tricked me into confessing back in Swindon. He was holding an impressive array of official-looking papers. This, I assumed, was Matthew Hopkins, the prosecution lawyer. Snell joined me and whispered in my ear:

‘This is only a formal hearing to see if there is a case to answer. With a bit of luck we can get your case postponed to a more friendly court. Ignore the onlookers—they are simply here as a narrative device to heighten paranoia and have no bearing on your case. We will deny all charges.’

‘Herr Magistrate,’ said Snell, as we took the last few paces to the dais, ‘my name is Akrid S defending Thursday N, in Jurisfiction v the Law, case number 142857.’

The magistrate looked at me, took out his watch and said:

‘You should have been here an hour and five minutes ago.’

There was an excited murmur from the crowd. Snell opened his mouth to say something but it was I who answered.

‘I know,’ I said, ‘I am to blame. I beg the court’s pardon.’

At first, the magistrate didn’t hear me and began to repeat himself for the benefit of the crowd:

‘You should have been here an hour and… what did you say?’

‘I said I was sorry and begged your pardon, sir,’ I repeated.

‘Oh,’ said the examining magistrate as a hush fell upon the room. ‘In that case, would you like to go away and come back in, say, an hour and five minutes’ time, when you will be late through no fault of your own?’

The crowd applauded at this, although I couldn’t see why.

‘At Your Honour’s pleasure,’ I replied. ‘If it is the court’s ruling that I do so, then I will comply.’

‘Very good,’ whispered Snell.

‘Oh!’ said the magistrate again. He briefly conferred with his clerks behind him, seemed rattled for a moment, stared at me again and said:

‘It is the court’s decision that you be one hour and five minutes late!’

‘I am already one hour and five minutes late!’ I announced to scattered applause from the room.

‘Then,’ said the magistrate simply, ‘you have complied with the court’s ruling and we may proceed.’

‘Objection!’ said Hopkins.

‘Overruled,’ replied the magistrate as he picked up a tatty notebook that lay on the table in front of him. He opened it, read something and passed the book to one of his clerks.

‘Your name is Thursday N. You are a house-painter?’

‘No, she—’ said Snell.

‘Yes,’ I interrupted. ‘I have been a house-painter, Your Honour.’

There was a stunned silence from the crowd, punctuated by someone at the back who yelled: ‘Bravo!’ before another spectator thumped him. The examining magistrate peered at me more closely.

‘Is this relevant?’ demanded Hopkins, addressing the bench.

‘Silence!’ yelled the magistrate, continuing slowly and with very real gravity: ‘You mean to tell me that you have, at one time, been a house-painter?’

‘Indeed, Your Honour. After I left school and before college I painted houses for two months. I think it might be safe to say that I was indeed—although not permanently—a house-painter.’

There was another burst of applause and excited murmuring.

‘Herr S?’ said the magistrate. ‘Is this true?’

‘We have several witnesses to attest to it, Your Honour,’ answered Snell, getting into the swing of the strange proceedings.

The room fell silent again.

‘Herr H,’ said the magistrate, taking out a handkerchief and mopping his brow carefully and addressing Hopkins directly, ‘I thought you told me the defendant was not a house-painter?’

Hopkins looked flustered.

‘I didn’t say she wasn’t a house-painter, Your Honour, I merely said she was an operative for SpecOps 27.’

‘To the exclusion of all other professions?’ asked the magistrate.

‘Well, no,’ stammered Hopkins, now thoroughly confused.

‘Yet you did not state she was not a house-painter in your affidavit, did you?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Well then!’ said the magistrate, leaning back in his chair as another peal of laughter and spontaneous applause broke out for no reason. ‘If you bring a case to my court, Herr H, I expect it to be brought with all the details intact. First she apologises for being late, then she readily agrees to having painted houses. Court procedure will not be compromised—your prosecution is badly flawed.’

Hopkins bit his lip and went a dark shade of crimson.

‘I beg the court’s pardon, Your Honour,’ he replied through gritted teeth, ‘but my prosecution is sound—may we proceed with the charge?’

‘Bravo!’ said the man at the back again.

The magistrate thought for a moment and handed me his dirty notebook and a fountain pen.

‘We will prove the veracity of prosecution counsel by a simple test,’ he announced. ‘Fräulein N, would you please write the most popular colour that houses were painted when you were’—and here he turned to Hopkins and spat the words out—’a house-painter!’

The room erupted into cheers and shouts as I wrote the answer in the back of the exercise book and returned it.

‘Silence!’ announced the magistrate. ‘Herr H?’

‘What?’ he replied sulkily.

‘Perhaps you would be good enough to tell the court the colour that Fräulein N has written in my book?’

‘Your Honour,’ began Hopkins in an exasperated tone, ‘what has this to do with the case in hand? I arrived here in good faith to arraign Fräulein N on a charge of a Class II Fiction Infraction and instead I find myself embroiled in some lunatic rubbish about house-painters. I do not believe this court represents justice—’

‘You do not understand,’ said the magistrate, rising to his feet and raising his short arms to illustrate the point, ‘the manner in which this court works. It is the responsibility of the prosecution counsel not only to bring a clear and concise case before the bench, but also to fully verse himself about the procedures that he must undertake to achieve that goal.’

The magistrate sat down amidst applause.

‘Now,’ he continued in a quieter voice, ‘either you tell me what Fräulein N has written in this book or I will be forced to arrest you for wasting the court’s time.’

Two guards had pushed their way through the throng and now stood behind Hopkins, ready to seize him. The magistrate waved the book and fixed the lawyer with a steely gaze.

‘Well?’ he enquired. ‘What was the most popular colour?’

‘Blue,’ said Hopkins in a miserable voice.

‘What’s that you say?’

‘Blue,’ repeated Hopkins in a louder voice.

‘Blue, he said!’ bellowed the magistrate. The crowd was silent and pushed and shoved to get closer to the action. Slowly and with high drama the magistrate opened the book to reveal the word green written across the page. The crowd burst into an excited cry, several cheers went up and hats rained down upon our heads.

‘Not blue, green,’ said the magistrate, shaking his head sadly and signalling to the guards to take hold of Hopkins. ‘You have brought shame upon your profession, Herr H. You are under arrest!’

‘On what charge?’ replied Hopkins arrogantly.

‘I am not authorised to tell you,’ said the magistrate triumphantly. ‘Proceedings have been started and you will be informed in due course.’

‘But this is preposterous!’ shouted Hopkins as he was dragged away.

‘No,’ replied the magistrate, ‘this is Kafka.’

When Hopkins had gone and the crowd had stopped chattering, the magistrate turned back to me and said:

‘You are Thursday N, aged thirty-six, one hour and five minutes late and occupation house-painter?’

‘Yes.’

‘You are brought before this court on a charge of… what is the charge?’

There was silence.

‘Where,’ asked the magistrate, ‘is the prosecution counsel?’

One of his clerks whispered in his ear as the crowd spontaneously burst into laughter.

‘Indeed,’ said the magistrate grimly. ‘Most remiss of him. I am afraid, in the absence of prosecuting counsel, this court has no alternative but to grant a postponement.’

And so saying he pulled a large rubber stamp from his pocket and brought it down with a crash on some papers that Snell, quick as a flash, managed to place beneath it.

‘Thank you, Your Honour,’ I managed to say before Snell grasped me by the arm, whispered in my ear: ‘Let’s get the hell out of here!’ and steered me ahead of him past the throng of dark suits to the door.

‘Bravo!’ yelled a man from the gallery. ‘Bravo!… And bravo again!’

We walked out to find Miss Havisham deep in conversation with Esther about the perfidious nature of men in general and Esther’s husband in particular. They were not the only ones in the room. A bronzed Greek was sitting sullenly next to a Cyclops with a bloodied bandage round his head. The lawyers who were accompanying them were discussing the case quietly in the corner.

‘How did it go?’ asked Havisham.

‘Postponement,’ said Snell, mopping his brow and shaking me by the hand. ‘Well done, Thursday. Caught me unawares with your “house-painter” defence. Very good indeed!’

‘But only a postponement?’

‘Oh, yes. I’ve never known a single acquittal from this court. But next time we’ll be up before a proper judge—one of my choosing!’

‘And what will become of Hopkins?’

‘He,’ laughed Snell, ‘will have to get a very good lawyer!’

‘Good!’ said Havisham, getting to her feet. ‘It’s time we were at the sales. Come along!’

As we made for the door, the magistrate called into the kitchen parlour:

‘Odysseus? Charge of grievous bodily harm against Polyphemus the Cyclops?’

‘He devoured my comrades!’ growled Odysseus angrily.

‘That’s tomorrow’s case. We will not hear about that today. You’re next up—and you’re late.’

And the examining magistrate shut the door again.