Wig Betrayed by Charles Courtley Page A

Fred lurched to his feet plonking one chubby hand down on the lectern in front of him. A carafe of water wobbled ominously at the edge of the table as his other gesticulating hand brushed against it.
    â€œMembers of the jury, My Lord. I appear in this matter to prosecute with my learned and gallant junior, Major Rashleigh, from the Army Prosecuting Authority.”
    I winced at the flowery language. The tag ‘gallant’ was normally only used to refer to those Members of Parliament who had served in the armed forces.
    â€œThe prisoner here,” Borler prodded the air in the general direction of Private Merse, “represented by Mr. Clibbery, stands charged with the crime of theft. This we will prove beyond all reasonable doubt. Mr Merse wantonly stole General Hudibrass’s golf club – an act of almost unimaginable grossness due to the exalted rank of its lawful owner.”
    The Matron General was shifting in her seat in irritation and I felt it was time to intervene.
    â€œSir Fred – one or two things relating to the correct forms of address at a court martial: the military members should be described as ‘members of the board’, me as ‘sir’, and the accused as ‘Private Merse’.”
    Borler’s eyes, bulging and bloodshot, goggled at me.
    â€œQuite so, quite so – the court will be aware that I am accustomed to appear at the Old Bailey or other courts of that ilk and not well acquainted with the procedures of this kind of tribunal.”
    His pomposity was beginning to grate on me, but I kept my voice level.
    â€œMoreover, Sir Fred – we are dealing with a case of theft
simpliciter
. The fact that the club belonged to a general or to any lesser person makes no difference whatsoever in this trial. Perhaps you can proceed and just tell us about the facts.”
    â€œThe facts, yes, yes....now,
where’s
the police report?”
    He fumbled amongst his papers frantically and, in doing so, finally knocked over his carafe of water which emptied its contents onto the floor and was fortunately absorbed by the carpet. As he continued to huff and puff, a faint aroma of stale alcohol stole across the room.
    â€œSir, members – regrettably, I am unable to track down at this precise moment the document that I require. However, the wheels of justice need not cease to turn – you know of the allegation – I shall call the evidence before you without further delay.”
    Glancing to my left, I noticed that Brigadier Drubb’s nose was twitching. The smell of stale booze had not missed her either. Meanwhile, Sir Fred, his flabby face as white as chalk subsided in his seat and whispered to his junior. He obviously had not read the brief, I surmised, but relied on there being a comprehensive police report (which was always available in civil cases) to help him out. What he did not know was that, in military cases, the Royal Military Police were responsible for collating the witness statements only and did not write a report before handing the whole process over to their lawyers.
    Major Rashleigh now rose instead and was about to address the court when a retching sound emanated from Borler. For a moment, I thought he might be having a heart attack but then guessed the ghastly truth – the man was about to be sick! And he was, vomiting straight into his wig which he snatched from his head just in time. That venerable piece of headgear was used in a way which must have been totally unprecedented in legal history. Staring in horror at its stinking contents, Sir Fred fled the courtroom without further ado.
    â€œUgh!”
    The dead silence that followed was broken by Rashleigh’s exclamation of disgust as he flopped back into his seat. I felt it wise to adjourn at that point, and was soon visited by a young staff captain who had been responsible for Borler’s movements whilst in Germany. It was confirmed that the QC had got so drunk in the