police station and asked them to send some men over to the Courthouse. As he took his seat beside Lady Maud it was clear that things were not proceeding as he had expected. Lord Leakham’s complexion was horribly mottled and his hand shook as he rapped the gavel on the bench.
“The hearing will resume,” he said huskily. “Silence in court.” The courtroom was crowded and the Judge had to use his gavel a second time before the talking stopped. “Next witness.”
Lady Maud rose to her feet. “I wish to make a statement,” she said. Lord Leakham looked at her reluctantly. Lady Maud was not a sight for sore stomachs. She was large and her manner suggested something indigestible.
“We are here to take evidence,” said the Judge, “not to listen to statements of opinion.”
Mr Turnbull stood up. “My lord,” he said deferentially, “my client’s opinion is evidence before this Enquiry.”
“Opinion is not evidence,” said Lord Leakham. “Your client whoever she may be …”
“Lady Maud Lynchwood of Handyman Hall, my lord,” Mr Turnbull informed him.
“… is entitled to hold what opinions she may choose,” Lord Leakham continued, staring at the author of Poule au Pot Edward the Fourth with undisguised loathing, “but she may not express them in this court and expect them to be accepted as evidence. You should know the rules of evidence, sir.”
Mr Turnbull adjusted his glasses defiantly. “The rules of evidence do not, with due deference to your lordship’s opinion, apply in the present circumstances. My client is not under oath and -“
“Silence in court,” snarled the Judge, addressing himself to a drunken farmer from Guildstead Carbonell who was discussing swine fever with his neighbour. With a pathetic look at Lady Maud Mr Turnbull sat down.
“Next witness,” said Lord Leakham.
Lady Maud stood her ground. “I wish to protest,” she said with a ring of authority that brought a hush to the courtroom. “This Enquiry is a travesty …”
“Silence in court,” shouted the Judge.
“I will not be silenced,” Lady Maud shouted back. “This is not a courtroom -“
“It most certainly is,” snarled the Judge.
Lady Maud hesitated. The courtroom was obviously a courtroom. There was no denying the fact.
“What I meant to say …” she began.
“Silence in court,” screamed Lord Leakham whose peptic ulcer was in the throes of a new crisis.
Lady Maud echoed the Judge’s private thoughts. “You are not fit to conduct this Enquiry,” she shouted, and was supported by several members of the public. “You are a senile old fool. I have a right to be heard.”
In his chair Lord Leakham’s mottled head turned a plum colour and his hand reached for the gavel. “I hold you in contempt of court,” he shouted banging the gavel. Lady Maud lurched towards him menacingly. “Officer, arrest this woman.”
“My lord,” Mr Turnbull said, “I beg you to …” but it was too late. As Lady Maud advanced two constables, evidently acting on the assumption that an ex-judge of the High Court knew his law better than they did, seized her arms. It was a terrible mistake. Even Sir Giles could see that. Beside him Mr Turnbull was shouting that this was an unlawful act, and behind him pandemonium had broken out as members of the public rose in their seats and surged forward. As his wife was frog-marched, still shouting abuse, from the courtroom, as Lord Leakham bellowed in vain for the court to be cleared, as fighting broke out and windows were broken, Sir Giles sat slumped in his seat and contemplated the ruin of his plans.
Downstairs the TV cameramen, alerted by the shouts and the fragments of broken glass raining on their heads from the windows above, aimed their cameras on the courtroom door as Lady Maud emerged dishevelled and suddenly surprisingly demure between two large policemen. Somewhere between the courtroom and the cameras her twinset had been quite obscenely disarranged, a shoe had
“The hearing will resume,” he said huskily. “Silence in court.” The courtroom was crowded and the Judge had to use his gavel a second time before the talking stopped. “Next witness.”
Lady Maud rose to her feet. “I wish to make a statement,” she said. Lord Leakham looked at her reluctantly. Lady Maud was not a sight for sore stomachs. She was large and her manner suggested something indigestible.
“We are here to take evidence,” said the Judge, “not to listen to statements of opinion.”
Mr Turnbull stood up. “My lord,” he said deferentially, “my client’s opinion is evidence before this Enquiry.”
“Opinion is not evidence,” said Lord Leakham. “Your client whoever she may be …”
“Lady Maud Lynchwood of Handyman Hall, my lord,” Mr Turnbull informed him.
“… is entitled to hold what opinions she may choose,” Lord Leakham continued, staring at the author of Poule au Pot Edward the Fourth with undisguised loathing, “but she may not express them in this court and expect them to be accepted as evidence. You should know the rules of evidence, sir.”
Mr Turnbull adjusted his glasses defiantly. “The rules of evidence do not, with due deference to your lordship’s opinion, apply in the present circumstances. My client is not under oath and -“
“Silence in court,” snarled the Judge, addressing himself to a drunken farmer from Guildstead Carbonell who was discussing swine fever with his neighbour. With a pathetic look at Lady Maud Mr Turnbull sat down.
“Next witness,” said Lord Leakham.
Lady Maud stood her ground. “I wish to protest,” she said with a ring of authority that brought a hush to the courtroom. “This Enquiry is a travesty …”
“Silence in court,” shouted the Judge.
“I will not be silenced,” Lady Maud shouted back. “This is not a courtroom -“
“It most certainly is,” snarled the Judge.
Lady Maud hesitated. The courtroom was obviously a courtroom. There was no denying the fact.
“What I meant to say …” she began.
“Silence in court,” screamed Lord Leakham whose peptic ulcer was in the throes of a new crisis.
Lady Maud echoed the Judge’s private thoughts. “You are not fit to conduct this Enquiry,” she shouted, and was supported by several members of the public. “You are a senile old fool. I have a right to be heard.”
In his chair Lord Leakham’s mottled head turned a plum colour and his hand reached for the gavel. “I hold you in contempt of court,” he shouted banging the gavel. Lady Maud lurched towards him menacingly. “Officer, arrest this woman.”
“My lord,” Mr Turnbull said, “I beg you to …” but it was too late. As Lady Maud advanced two constables, evidently acting on the assumption that an ex-judge of the High Court knew his law better than they did, seized her arms. It was a terrible mistake. Even Sir Giles could see that. Beside him Mr Turnbull was shouting that this was an unlawful act, and behind him pandemonium had broken out as members of the public rose in their seats and surged forward. As his wife was frog-marched, still shouting abuse, from the courtroom, as Lord Leakham bellowed in vain for the court to be cleared, as fighting broke out and windows were broken, Sir Giles sat slumped in his seat and contemplated the ruin of his plans.
Downstairs the TV cameramen, alerted by the shouts and the fragments of broken glass raining on their heads from the windows above, aimed their cameras on the courtroom door as Lady Maud emerged dishevelled and suddenly surprisingly demure between two large policemen. Somewhere between the courtroom and the cameras her twinset had been quite obscenely disarranged, a shoe had
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