“The Plumbdragons and Fenneltrees have, I believe, been part of the aristocitatic backbone of this country for something in the neighbourhood of four hundred years. Is that correct?”
“Yes,” said Lady Fenneltree.
“During that time,” said Sir Magnus looking at the jury, “the Plumbdragons and Fenneltrees have ruled over vast acres, cosseting and nurturing the lesser mortals who dwelt therein. They have been shining examples to the communities that lived at their gates, examples of modesty as personified by Lady Fenneltree herself, of honesty, of fair play and, above all, of truthfulness. For people like you and me (people of lesser clay) the Plumbdragons and Fenneltrees are people to be looked up to. In olden days, before the establishment of dignified, fair-minded courts like this, who was it that we, the humble, looked to for compassion and for those qualities which have made this country of ours what it is—fair play and honesty? We looked to the Plumbdragons and Fenneltrees of this world.”
Sir Augustus, scenting a rat without being able to discern its shape, got to his feet.
“My lord,” he interrupted, “I really don’t see—fascinating though it is—what my learned friend’s speech adds to the case.”
“My lord,” said Sir Magnus, “I know that I am appearing for the defence. Nevertheless, I do not want it to appear that I have bullied and frightened a woman in the witness box and a woman, moreover, who has all those qualities of which I have been speaking.”
“But Sir Magnus,” pointed out the judge, “you have hardly as yet questioned the witness. There can be no possible reason for saying that you have bullied her.”
“M’lord,” said Sir Magnus, “I wish the jury to be easy in their minds.”
Here he cast a glance like a blow-lamp over the jury.
“We are all trying to get at the truth. That is why we are gathered here, and all I am saying to you, my lord, and to the jury, is that from the lips of such a noble, modest and aristocratic woman, we can expect nothing but the truth.”
“Well, she is on oath,” said the judge petulantly. “I would have thought that was sufficient. I feel it would be helpful if instead of lecturing us, Sir Magnus, you questioned the witness, endeavouring wherever possible not to bring any more animals into the case.”
“As your lordship pleases,” said Sir Magnus.
He turned and smiled at Lady Fenneltree caressingly. “Your recollections of the evening of the 28th April seem remarkably clear,” he said.
“They are,” said Lady Fenneltree, “extremely clear.”
“You forgive me for asking that question,” said Sir Magnus. “To a sensitive, well brought up woman, such an experience must have been terrifying in the extreme, and so it would be understandable if your recollections of certain points were slightly blurred.”
“Sir Magnus,” said Lady Fenneltree crisply, “I may or may not be endowed with all the qualities that you suggest, but I have one quality which never deserts me. I am observant in the extreme.”
“So observant,” said Sir Magnus as though to himself, “that you overlooked the fact that an elephant had taken up residence in your stables.”
Lady Fenneltree glared at him malevolently. “I do not normally,” the said cuttingly, “spend my life in the stables, and my husband had concealed the fact that he had an elephant secreted there.”
“Of course,” said Sir Magnus, soothingly, “it is a thing that we could all overlook, isn’t it?”
He glanced at the jury as though hoping that they would sympathise with Lady Fenneltree in her failing.
“However,” he continued, “to return to the night of the 28th April. You say that the elephant skidded into the ballroom, upset the tables containing the food and drink and then proceeded to rampage about, to use your own words, seeking whom it might devour. Your recollection of this part of the story is quite dear, is it?”
“Quite dear,” said Lady Fenneltree suspiciously.
“Later on, you say you recovered consciousness,” said Sir Magnus, “in time to see the elephant deliberately endeavour to kill Sir Hubert?”
“Yes,” said Lady Fenneltree.
“Your impression was that this was an unprovoked attack by a dangerous and uncontrolled wild animal?”
“Yes,” said Lady Fenneltree.
“You had yourself just had an unpleasant experience by being carried by the elephant,” said Sir Magnus, “and you fainted, which is of course very right and proper. When you recovered consciousness you were lying, it appears, upon a salmon?”
“Yes,” said Lady Fenneltree.
“Did you sustain any bruises or contusions from this brief encounter?”
“No,” said Lady Fenneltree, “but I can only attribute this to the fact that, mercifully, the animal put me down in favour of attacking Sir Hubert.”
“Not an insatiable elephant,” said Sir Magnus. “One would have thought that it might have finished off one victim before starting on another.”
“Yet that’s what happened,” said Lady Fenneltree.
Sir Magnus sighed, took out his snuff-box absentmindedly, applied snuff to his nostrils and sneezed.
“Sir Magnus,” said the judge, “I hope I won’t have to remind you again about sneezing in court.”
“I apologise, m’lord,” said Sir Magnus. “I was carried away by emotion. It is with the utmost reluctance I have to make Lady Fenneltree undergo the very unpleasant experience of being in the witness-box. To a truthful, law-abiding citizen, this can be nothing but a degrading experience.”
He snapped his snuff-box shut, returned it to his pocket and turned once more to Lady Fenneltree. Somehow a subtle change seemed to have come over him. He bristled and quivered like a small, alert terrier at a rabbit hole.
“We have established then, Lady Fenneltree, have we not,” he said, “that you are exceptionally perceptive and that your recollection of the evening in question is exceedingly dear, and we have established, of course, your honesty without a shadow of a doubt.”
He glanced at the jury, a shiny, twinkling glance, and they all involuntarily nodded.
“Therefore,” said Sir Magnus, “I need not keep you very much longer. But there is just one small point which I would be glad if you would dear up for the sake of the jury.”
He paused and glanced down at his notes. It was perfectly obvious to everybody, including Lady Fenneltree, that he was not reading his notes. The pause was for effect, while he waited, open and gleaming like a gin trap. Lady Fenneltree realised she was being manoeuvred into something—her regal nose snuffed danger, but she could not see from which direction the danger threatened. Eventually Sir Magnus looked up and waved snow-white eyebrows at her in a disarmingly friendly fashion.
“You say that the elephant skidded down the ballroom and into the tables containing food?” he enquired.
“I have already told you that,” said Lady Fenneltree. Sir Magnus shuffled his notes.
“After that,” he said, “the elephant rampaged about?”
“Yes,” said Lady Fenneltree.
“During the course of its destructive progress,” said Sir Magnus, “you say that it pulled down the chandelier.”
“Yes,” said Lady Fenneltree.
“The ballroom at Fenneltree Hall, I take it,” said Sir Magnus, “is fairly large?”
“It is a magnificent room,” said Lady Fenneltree.
“It has, I believe, a minstrels’ gallery at one end?” said Sir Magnus.