Rosy Is My Relative (20 page)

He paused and stared at Adrian portentously. “The charges are as follows. That you did on 20th April in the County of Brockelberry cause a public nuisance in the meadow, alongside the Monkspepper Road there situate by releasing a large wild animal, and furthermore that you allowed it to commit grievous bodily harm to Hubert Darcey, Master of the Monkspepper Hunt and that on the night of 5th June you did commit a public nuisance by allowing a large wild animal loose in a public place, to wit the Alhambra Theatre and allowed it to commit grievous bodily harm to Mr. Emanuel S. Clattercup, the theatre manager.” The sergeant paused, looked down at his notes and then looked up at Adrian and beamed affably.

“That seems to be all for the moment, sir,” he said.

“Ridiculous trumped-up charges,” said Sir Magnus, taking off his top hat and banging it on the sergeant’s desk. “Don’t worry, my dear chap, I will soon have you free of this noxious web which these bovine illiterates are endeavouring to weave around you and that noble creature of yours.”

“I am afraid, sir,” said the sergeant, unmoved by Sir Magnus’s oratory, “that I shall have to detain you in custody so that you can appear before the magistrates tomorrow morning.”

“Well, that’s all very well,” protested Adrian, “but what about Rosy?”

“Your elephant, sir?” enquired the sergeant “Umm, that does present a bit of a problem. You see our cells are somewhat on the small side.”

“Well, she’d be all right out in the yard,” said Adrian, “if she was given something to eat.”

“I will attend to that, sir,” said the sergeant. He picked up a clean piece of paper, licked his pencil and looked at Adrian interrogatively. “Now, what does she eat, sir?”

“Well,” said Adrian, “if you get half a sack of mangolds or turnips (but she prefers mangolds), a bale of hay, half a sack of apples, half a sack of carrots, half a sack of bread . . .”

The station sergeant’s face grew grim.

“You wouldn’t by any chance be gammoning me?”

“No, no,” said Adrian earnestly. “Really, she’s got a colossal appetite.”

“Well,” said the sergeant, “I’ll see what I can, do, sir. Now, I’d be glad if you would just turn out your pockets, sir, and check the contents with me. They’ll all be returned to you in due course.”

Adrian emptied his pockets and the station sergeant put all his possessions in a large brown envelope and locked it away in a cabinet.

“Now, sir,” he said, sounding exactly like the hall porter at a sumptuous hotel, “if you’ll just come this way, I’ll show you your accommodation.”

Sir Magnus stretched out his hand to Adrian.

“Don’t worry, my boy,” he said. “I shall be here first thing in the morning to make sure that you get fair play. Just look upon this as an unpleasant–but rapidly passing–dream.”

“It’s beginning to feel like it,” said Adrian gloomily.

He followed the sergeant down a brick-lined passage way until they came to the doorways of several tiny cells, most of which, judging by the noises and the all-pervading smell of alcohol, contained people whom Rosy would have been honoured to number among her friends. The sergeant unlocked one of the cell doors and ushered Adrian into a tiny whitewashed room with a wooden bunk, a small chest of drawers and, perched on top of it, rather incongruously, a large china bowl and ewer decorated in pink and blue flowers.

“Here we are, sir,” said the sergeant. “Now you get a good night’s rest and we’ll see you in the morning.”

He closed the door and the bolt clicked into place. Slowly Adrian peeled off his sodden clothes, climbed into the hard, narrow bed and lay there staring at the ceiling. He was convinced that he was going to get at least a year’s penal servitude for his crimes, but strangely enough this didn’t worry him. What did worry him was what was going to happen to Rosy, coupled with the fact that if he was imprisoned for a year, it would be a year before he would see Samantha again. By which time, of course, she might have moved and he would not be able to trace her. Or, worse still, might have married some uncouth ruffian who would not appreciate her finer points.

Alone in his little cell, Adrian could visualise it all so clearly that he broke out in a cold sweat. Rosy being condemned to death by the magistrates, the clatter of boots as the army platoon detailed to carry out the sentence marched into the prison yard, the crackle of guns, the great thud as Rosy’s body hit the cobbles, bleeding from a dozen wounds, and meanwhile Samantha irretrievably married to a great, coarse, hairy plough-boy who would beat her regularly every Saturday night so that, if and when Adrian ever discovered her again, she would be a gaunt shadow of her former self, and even the gold flecks in her eyes would have ceased to glitter. With Adrian’s fertile imagination at work, it was not altogether surprising that he got little sleep that night.

In the morning a large constable made his appearance carrying a mug of tea and a hunk of black bread, and Adrian discovered that not only was he hungry, but his throat was so parched he could only talk in a croaking whisper.

“How’s Rosy?” he asked the constable.

“Don’t you go fretting about her, sir,” said the constable comfortably. “She can look after herself, that elephant can. The station sergeant’s nearly gone mad keeping up with her appetite. It’s a wonderful beast, sir.”

“In some ways I suppose she is,” said Adrian.

“You seem to have got up to some tricks with her,” said the constable.

“Yes,” said Adrian shortly, not wishing to have to tell his story all over again. “What time do we go to the magistrates’ court?”

“Ten o’clock, sir,” said the constable.

“I wonder,” said Adrian, “if you could possibly lend me a razor? Mine got left behind in the rush.”

“Surely, sir,” said the constable, and went out, locking the door behind him. Presently he reappeared with a large razor, and stayed there watching while Adrian washed and shaved, then he retrieved the razor and disappeared.

Now, thought Adrian, I must work out my defence. He paced feverishly up and down the cell, occasionally pausing to gesture wildly at the walls as he endeavoured to persuade an implacable imaginary judge that he and Rosy were innocent of any crime whatsoever. At the end of it, however, he was bound to admit that his defence, if it could be called that, was slender in the extreme. It was obvious that he must pin his faith on Sir Magnus. He was evidently well-known to the police, judging by the looks of ill-concealed loathing that they gave him, presumably because of his successes in court. But in this case, Adrian felt even the most brilliant of lawyers would be hard-pressed to prove his innocence.

At ten o’clock the constable reappeared jangling a rather ominous pair of handcuffs.

“We’re off now, sir,” he said cheerfully. “It’s only a step down the road, but if you don’t mind, sir, it’s just a formality, sir. If you’ll just slip these on.”

Adrian allowed him to fasten the handcuff to his left wrist and then the constable attached the other end to his own wrist.

“There we are,” he said paternally, “snug as a bug in a rug.”

“Does Rosy have to come too?” enquired Adrian.

“No, sir,” said the constable. “That’s not necessary. She’s more in the nature of an exhibit, as you might say. We won’t want ’er until your trial.”

In the charge room Sir Magnus awaited them. In the daylight his coat and hat and his extraordinary shoes looked even more decrepit than they had done the previous night and it was obvious that several moths who had had the courage to get on the wrong side of Sir Magnus had wrought havoc with various parts of his moleskin waistcoat.

“My dear Adrian” he said, waving his walking-stick amicably, “I trust you had a good night’s rest, although I fear in these places the accommodation is a little limited.”

“Oh, it was comfortable enough,” said Adrian, “but I didn’t get much sleep.”

Sir Magnus cast him a ferocious look from under his white eyebrows.

“Don’t you trust me?” he asked fiercely.

“Why, yes, of course,” said Adrian startled.

“Well, then, stop getting yourself into a turmoil,” said Sir Magnus. He picked up his top hat and set it at a jaunty angle on his head with a loving pat.

“Come,” he said, waving his cane, “let us take the air.” He led the way out of the police station as though he were leading a parade and the constable and Adrian, clanking musically, followed behind. For the first time Adrian began to realise what Rosy must have felt like when she was shackled. As people in the streets turned to stare, Adrian felt himself getting redder and redder and shrivelling up inside. It was an immense relief when they finally turned into a doorway to the magistrates’ court.

For some obscure reason, Adrian had imagined that he would be tried by the magistrates’ court, condemned, and carried out from there loaded down with chains, but to his astonishment justice did not appear to work in this swift and exemplary fashion. The magistrate, who looked, Adrian thought, an exceedingly good example of the criminal type, listened patiently while the constable who had arrested Adrian began his evidence. The constable, who was basso profundo in the police choir, read from his notebook slowly and ponderously, annunciating each word with relish.

“Police Constable Emanuel Dray, 124, Island of Scallop Constabulary. Sir, on the evening of the 5th June I was proceeding along the dockside at Scallop when my attention was drawn to a crowd that had gathered and was staring into the harbour and appeared greatly excited. Proceeding to the edge of the docks, I perceived the accused disporting himself in the waters with a large and unidentified object, which later, on closer inspection, proved to be an elephant.

“Having previously been informed that a man in possession of an elephant was wanted for questioning in connection with certain disturbances which had taken place in the County of Brockelberry I came to the conclusion that this must be the gentleman in question. When he and the elephant landed on the docks, I approached him and asked if the elephant was his.”

At this point the magistrate raised his eyebrows and cleared his throat with a dry rustle like a small lizzard wriggling between two tightly wedged stones.

“Constable,” he said, “why did you ask him whether it was his elephant? I would have thought that if you find somebody disporting themselves in the harbour with an elephant it is fairly obvious that the elephant is his?”

The constable, slightly thrown off course by this interruption, shuffled his feet.

“Well, sir,” he said reddening, “I thought as how it might be somebody else’s elephant what he was looking after.”

The magistrate gave a tiny sigh.

“An extremely unlikely hypothesis,” he said. “Do continue.”

It took Constable Dray a moment or so with the aid of a stubby finger to find his place in his notes, and then he cleared his throat, threw back his head like a choirboy and proceeded.

“The accused said, ‘It is mine’. I then asked him if his name was Adrian Rookwhistle, to which he replied, ‘That is my name’. I then asked him if he would step down to the station with me to help us in our enquiries, to which he replied, ‘Look officer, I can explain everything’.”

Here Constable Dray paused and beamed at the magistrate. This was as far as he was concerned, a clear confession of guilt.

“Well?” said the magistrate coldly.

“Well, sir,” said Constable Dray, his moment of glory shattered, “I then took him down to the station where he was cautioned and later charged.”

“I see,” said the magistrate. “Thank you, Constable.” Constable Dray shuffled out of the witness box with the ponderous care of a Shire horse and the magistrate flipped through some papers and then looked up.

The police inspector rose to his feet.

“I ask, sir,” he said, “that the prisoner be remanded in custody to appear before the magistrates in a week’s time.”

The magistrate looked enquiringly at Sir Magnus Ramping Fumitory who, throughout the procedure, had been sitting there apparently sound asleep. Sir Magnus rose to his feet.

“Sir,” he said, fishing out his snuff box and tapping it gently with his forefinger. “Sir, my client has been charged by my friends the police” (a faint growl from the inspector was quelled by a look from the magistrate) “with these paltry trumped-up charges.”

Sir Magnus threw out his arms.

“Sir Magnus,” interrupted the magistrate, “we are all not only conscious, but envious, of your powers of oratory. However, I would like to point out to you that at
this
precise moment your client is not on trial.”

“Sir,” said Sir Magnus, “this noble young stripling who, as you kindly pointed out, is not on trial, against whom, as yet, no proof of guilt has been offered, is, should my friends the police have their way, to be incarcerated, cut off from friends and family, cut off from the gay hurlyburly of life, cut off indeed from that magnificent dumb creature who, in times of stress, is his only consolation, cut off I might say . . .”

“Sir Magnus,” said the magistrate sharply, “I would be grateful if you would get to the point. What is it you wish?”

“Bail, sir,” said Sir Magnus profoundly. He made a grandiloquent gesture which inadvertently scattered half an ounce of snuff over the table in front of him.

“My client, sir,” he said, “is not a vagrant, a vagabond, a gypsy, a tramp, nor is he a mountebank . . .”

The magistrate was by now beginning to lose his temper.

“Sir Magnus,” he said, “we are not gathered here to construct a dictionary of synonyms.”

“In short,” continued Sir Magnus, not in any way put out, “I would say that my client is a man of substance, perfectly able–indeed I would say willing–to stand bail, so that, for however brief a period, he may return to the outside world.”

“Spare us,” said the magistrate acidly. “I have grasped your point.”

He sat back and surveyed Adrian briefly with a cold stare.

“It is not customary in cases like this for us to go against the recommendation of the police. However, this is a case which appears to have many unusual features, so I will grant your client bail in his own recognisance in the sum of fifty pounds.”