“But I’m innocent! I didn’t steal any bloody paintings!” Tree was indignant.
“SILENCE!!!” roared Fife.
Fourteen more art thefts were placed before the jury. Fourteen more times Roland Rattington replied with the word ‘guilty.’
Lord Justice Fife fingered his black cap lovingly as the final charge was put to the jury.
“On the charge that, on the night of 11th February, 1869, the defendant, Theodore Hiram Tree, did, with malice aforethought, most cruelly crucify and murder Miss Dorothy Rose Brown, of Virginia Road, Shoreditch; how do you find the defendant? Guilty, or Not Guilty?”
You could have heard a pin drop in the court. Even Barb was entirely silent.
“Not Guilty.”
“Bugger!” muttered Fife to himself, putting down the black cap, and taking up his gavel. The court was in uproar.
Tree wasn’t sure whether to be angry or relieved. He had done nothing wrong, but he was, at least, to be spared the noose.
“The Prisoner will stand!”
Tree was pushed to his feet. Fife peered myopically around the court until he eventually located the prisoner.
“Prisoner at the bar! You have been found guilty of fifteen counts of theft. A crime against fine, upstanding citizens of the United Kingdom! A crime, as we have heard, which has affected dreadfully some of its victims; the sweet and lovely Lady Thessela, for instance, remains a nervous wreck.
“There are no mitigating circumstances. You shall serve a term of one year’s penal servitude. One year for each theft, fifteen years in total! Take him down!”
Tree was furious. Fifteen years in jail! Worse still, he was completely stuck in the nineteenth century! Repertor was nowhere around! No way back! He was going to die before he was even born! What had he done to deserve this?
Old Slave was waiting for him, as he was loaded into the back of the prison carriage for the trip back to Newgate. “I’ll ride with you,” he told the constable.
“Very good, sir.”
“You’re a lucky bastard, Tree,” said Slave, as the carriage got under way. “I know you did that girl. I can’t prove it, but I know you killed her. You should be heading for the rope! You won’t enjoy Newgate, but you can count your fucking blessings for every minute of those fifteen years!”
Tree and slave glared at each other in a spirit of mutual loathing. “You just saw me as a free ticket to clear up some old crimes. Well, friend, let me give you one small piece of advice. You better tell your toffee nosed pals like Wragg to keep an eye on their paintings. Cos whoever is the Racing Rodent, I sure as hell ain’t him! And I never touched Dorothy fuckin’ Brown.”
“Oh, save it, Tree! You’ve been found as guilty as hell by twelve good men and true. So don’t come the fuckin’ innocent with….”
“In five hundred yards, take a right turn.”
“Who said that? Constable? Who was that woman?”
“Woman, sir? I heard no woman?”
“Now who’s making things up?” sneered Tree, but his heart was pounding.
“In two hundred yards, make a right turn.”
“There she goes again! Constable! You must have heard her!” Slave had never before considered himself prone to hallucinations.
“It must have been someone on the pavement, sir”
“No! It came from round here, somewhere…that box! On the…”
“Make a right turn.”
Constable Repertor hauled on the reins, and the carriage swung violently to the right.
“Oi!” shouted a man on the pavement.
“Oi!” shouted Slave.
“Yeeee-HAR!” shouted Tree, as Repertor brought the car to a stand by the side of New Bond Street, to await a gap in the traffic. A ‘Big Green Parcel Machine’ flashed its lights to let him out (a minor miracle in itself). Repertor waved his thanks, and pulled out into the traffic.
“What…the….hell?” stammered Slave. “Where are we?”
“New Bond Street, Inspector. Would you mind fastening your seat belt, sir? Only it is illegal in 2016 not to wear one.”
“2016? 2016?” Awful realisation swept over Slave. “Oh, my God! Constable! Take me back! I order you to take me back!”
“I’m sorry, sir, that won’t be possible. I apologise sir, I didn’t realise that you would be coming along for the ride. Senator, I do apologise for the inconvenience. You will see that we have plenty of time for your plane. And your painting is back where it belongs, in the boot, sir.”
“Inspector Slave!” Tree was jubilant, so much so that he let Repertor’s slightly insipid interpretation of the word ‘inconvenience’ pass. “Welcome to the twenty-first century, Inspector! And, do you know what I am going to do? I am going to take your sorry ass for a trip in a Boeing 747!”
“SILENCE!!!” roared Fife.
Fourteen more art thefts were placed before the jury. Fourteen more times Roland Rattington replied with the word ‘guilty.’
Lord Justice Fife fingered his black cap lovingly as the final charge was put to the jury.
“On the charge that, on the night of 11th February, 1869, the defendant, Theodore Hiram Tree, did, with malice aforethought, most cruelly crucify and murder Miss Dorothy Rose Brown, of Virginia Road, Shoreditch; how do you find the defendant? Guilty, or Not Guilty?”
You could have heard a pin drop in the court. Even Barb was entirely silent.
“Not Guilty.”
“Bugger!” muttered Fife to himself, putting down the black cap, and taking up his gavel. The court was in uproar.
Tree wasn’t sure whether to be angry or relieved. He had done nothing wrong, but he was, at least, to be spared the noose.
“The Prisoner will stand!”
Tree was pushed to his feet. Fife peered myopically around the court until he eventually located the prisoner.
“Prisoner at the bar! You have been found guilty of fifteen counts of theft. A crime against fine, upstanding citizens of the United Kingdom! A crime, as we have heard, which has affected dreadfully some of its victims; the sweet and lovely Lady Thessela, for instance, remains a nervous wreck.
“There are no mitigating circumstances. You shall serve a term of one year’s penal servitude. One year for each theft, fifteen years in total! Take him down!”
Tree was furious. Fifteen years in jail! Worse still, he was completely stuck in the nineteenth century! Repertor was nowhere around! No way back! He was going to die before he was even born! What had he done to deserve this?
Old Slave was waiting for him, as he was loaded into the back of the prison carriage for the trip back to Newgate. “I’ll ride with you,” he told the constable.
“Very good, sir.”
“You’re a lucky bastard, Tree,” said Slave, as the carriage got under way. “I know you did that girl. I can’t prove it, but I know you killed her. You should be heading for the rope! You won’t enjoy Newgate, but you can count your fucking blessings for every minute of those fifteen years!”
Tree and slave glared at each other in a spirit of mutual loathing. “You just saw me as a free ticket to clear up some old crimes. Well, friend, let me give you one small piece of advice. You better tell your toffee nosed pals like Wragg to keep an eye on their paintings. Cos whoever is the Racing Rodent, I sure as hell ain’t him! And I never touched Dorothy fuckin’ Brown.”
“Oh, save it, Tree! You’ve been found as guilty as hell by twelve good men and true. So don’t come the fuckin’ innocent with….”
“In five hundred yards, take a right turn.”
“Who said that? Constable? Who was that woman?”
“Woman, sir? I heard no woman?”
“Now who’s making things up?” sneered Tree, but his heart was pounding.
“In two hundred yards, make a right turn.”
“There she goes again! Constable! You must have heard her!” Slave had never before considered himself prone to hallucinations.
“It must have been someone on the pavement, sir”
“No! It came from round here, somewhere…that box! On the…”
“Make a right turn.”
Constable Repertor hauled on the reins, and the carriage swung violently to the right.
“Oi!” shouted a man on the pavement.
“Oi!” shouted Slave.
“Yeeee-HAR!” shouted Tree, as Repertor brought the car to a stand by the side of New Bond Street, to await a gap in the traffic. A ‘Big Green Parcel Machine’ flashed its lights to let him out (a minor miracle in itself). Repertor waved his thanks, and pulled out into the traffic.
“What…the….hell?” stammered Slave. “Where are we?”
“New Bond Street, Inspector. Would you mind fastening your seat belt, sir? Only it is illegal in 2016 not to wear one.”
“2016? 2016?” Awful realisation swept over Slave. “Oh, my God! Constable! Take me back! I order you to take me back!”
“I’m sorry, sir, that won’t be possible. I apologise sir, I didn’t realise that you would be coming along for the ride. Senator, I do apologise for the inconvenience. You will see that we have plenty of time for your plane. And your painting is back where it belongs, in the boot, sir.”
“Inspector Slave!” Tree was jubilant, so much so that he let Repertor’s slightly insipid interpretation of the word ‘inconvenience’ pass. “Welcome to the twenty-first century, Inspector! And, do you know what I am going to do? I am going to take your sorry ass for a trip in a Boeing 747!”
do I get my painting back? Only it does seem to have a wonderfully interesting effect on Thessela, and...
