Legal Restrictions

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A pigeon goes on trial

Hot on the heels of our intrepid War Correspondent, Prof A Chaos and his Kitchen Saga,

we introduce our Court Correspondent, Mr Icy North.

Legal Restrictions

'The prosecution may cross-examine the witness,' announced the judge, 'but owing to reasons of national security, neither the accused nor any of the witnesses in this case may be identified by name. Is that clear?'

'Thank you, M'lud,' replied Quentin Fortescue QC, as he sprang to his feet, puffed up his chest and affectedly tucked both thumbs inside the folds of his black robe. 'You are Mr W, of number X, Avenue F, Town O, are you not?' He enunciated precisely to a point on the ceiling somewhere approximately above the witness box.

'Er, yes sir. I believe so', replied W.

'So can you tell the court - in your own words - the events of the afternoon in question, from the moment you walked into... Cafe A?' The lawyer consulted a large sheaf of papers.

'Er, yes sir,' repeated W. 'I was sitting at my usual table, like. When the waiter came over to take my order.'

'Ha! Man X!' snapped Fortescue.

'Er, no sir, not ham and eggs. I went for a mixed grill, you know, like a barbecue.'

'Barber Q? Your statements to the police never said he was there!' The lawyer noisily rifled through his notes.

'Er, no, sir. But anyway, this big, shifty-looking bloke then came in and sat down opposite me, like. He ordered soup.'

Fortescue wasn't expecting this. 'Was it Spy C?'

'No, it was something bland - just the pea and ham, I think, but his roll was mouldy.'

'His role was Mole D? So he was a sleeper?

'Well he didn't look entirely awake, sir. Neither did his friend, who joined him a couple of minutes...'

'This was Man D?', interrupted Fortescue.

'I didn't ask his name, sir. He didn't look like a Mandy, if you know what I mean. Anyway, at that moment a chef walked past with a cup of tea and a biscuit.'

'Cook E?'

'Well, more like a shortbread finger, actually, sir.'

'Enough of this nonsense!'

Fortescue was finding W a tough nut to crack. He laid the papers on the bench and adjusted his wig. 'Let's get to the episode where you argued with the waitress. What was it that you told the police she called you?'

'You mean womaniser?'

'No, not Woman I, the waitress!'

'Well, only that.' said W, 'It was all a bit of a mystery.'

'Precisely which bit of Mr E are we talking about?' gasped Fortescue. He produced a monogrammed handkerchief and dabbed at his forehead.

'I think she'd confused me with a naval rating she'd served the previous week.'

'Sailor V?', squeaked Fortescue.

'Absolutely, sir. That's life!'

'No further questions,' piped a small voice from beneath a crumpled heap of silk...

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