Cat and Mouse by Tim Vicary Read Free Book Online

on wooden benches.
    She stood in the centre of it all, raised above them in the dock, with only the magistrates and their clerk at her own eye level.
    Her hands shook as she grasped the metal rail on the front edge of the dock. She wondered what she looked like to all these men. A slim, tall woman with a pale face, dark, deep set eyes, and untidy brown curly hair, she supposed. Not very clean or attractive. She had washed and dressed as well as she could — one of the wardresses had given her a bowl of soap and water and a comb, and had helped her to straighten out her hat which had fallen off and been bent in the National Gallery. But the woman had not produced a needle and thread, and Sarah was conscious of several rips in her grey skirt and jacket. The men could not fail to see those.
    Her hands shook, too, because she was already feeling weak after twenty-four hours without sleep or food.
    They had brought her food last night, but she had sent it back untasted. She had resisted again today, though the smell of breakfast had been a much greater temptation than she had expected.
    I am like an animal, here to be baited, she thought. I am their victim. They could tear me apart if it entertained them. But then, that is what all men are like, in the end.
    She saw Jonathan, sitting down below on the benches to the left. Immaculate as ever in morning coat and top hat — tall, bearded, handsome. But the high wing collar only partially covered the medical dressing on one cheek, and the face which looked up at her was tired, drawn and pale like her own. She wondered if he had slept since he saw her, and if he was afraid of what she might say in court this morning.
    They gazed at each other bleakly. When he tried to smile she frowned and he turned away, embarrassed, conscious of the long row of journalists eagerly watching from the side benches, ready to scribble in their notebooks.
    She had prepared a speech, but everything seemed to go so smoothly she thought she would have no chance to give it. Jonathan had produced a lawyer for her earlier this morning, but she had sent the man away. He had suggested she plead insanity , for heaven's sake! Now, when they put the charge to her, she raised her head and proudly said: ‘Guilty’ in a clear voice which sent a buzz of comment through the court.
    She had thought that would hurry things along, but it seemed that a great deal of time had to be given to the prosecution lawyer to ramble on stating perfectly obvious facts, such as the time of day she had entered the National Gallery and even the knife she had used — he held it up. When he called the manager of the Gallery into the witness box to explain the value of the painting, Sarah lost patience.
    In a loud, clear voice, she said: ‘I do not recognise the jurisdiction of this court.’
    All the heads of the men, who had been concentrating on the oath the manager was about to take, turned her way. the manager's mouth was actually open in surprise. The clerk of the court scowled.
    ‘Please be quiet, madam. You will be given your chance to speak in due course.’
    ‘But I don't want to be given a chance to speak, I want to speak now! I have been here many times before and listened to you — now it is my turn. Freedom of speech is not a thing for men to grant to women — we have it of right. And I say here and now that I do not recognise this court, because it is a court composed only of men, granted its powers by a parliament composed only of men, which in its turn was elected by male voters only. Whereas half of the citizens of this country are women . . .’
    ‘Madam! You will be silent!’ The clerk banged furiously with his wooden gavel, and the policeman in the dock moved to Sarah’s side and held her by the arm. But he hasn’t got my mouth, Sarah thought, that still works.
    She raised her voice and spoke louder into the uproar.
    ‘That man there is only going to testify that the painting I slashed was priceless, which we