James, Fabulous Feline

by Harriet Hahn

“I object,” said Sir Grant, springing to his feet and waving an arm. “There is not the slightest shred of evidence that this was a possibility.”

  “I am not asking the witness whether or not he did keep the originals. I am asking him if it was a possibility.”

  “It was not possible for me, no,” I answered.

  James hissed.

  The judge looked annoyed. “Do not answer the question until I have ruled on it,” he said irritably.

  Sir Grant glared at James.

  “You may proceed Mr. Benton,” said the judge.

  “Who knew you were taking the statues to the Huntingdown to be photographed?” The barrister said the last word with a heavy emphasis.

  “I can’t say. I mentioned it to lots of people and they may have told more, certainly five or six, anyway.”

  “When you entered Mr. Wentworth’s office you saw a statue on the desk and a partially packed crate on the floor beside the desk, is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “You found the original statues in the crate?”

  “Yes.”

  “You and Mr. Cummings asked Mr. Wentworth about the two sets of statues?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did he tell you?”

  “That he had made the copies as requested and was surprised it was the originals in the crate.”

  “And then you took the originals and the cat and left?”

  “That’s right.”

  “That’s all.” Mr. Benton sat down.

  “Redirect, Sir Grant?”

  “No, my lord.”

  “You may step down,” said the judge. I returned to the lawyers’ table. No one asked me to leave.

  Sir Grant stood up. “My lord,” he said, “I beg leave to call a most unusual witness, the cat, James, a British blue cat, property of Mrs. Hilary March.”

  Mr. Benton was on his feet. “I strenuously object,” he said. “This is a frivolous obfuscation on the part of the prosecution. It is, in fact, one of the most outrageous affronts to the dignity of the court in the whole history of English law.”

  The judge smiled on Mr. Benton. “I am inclined to agree with you,” he said. Then he turned to Sir Grant. “Have you any evidence to substantiate your claim that this is anything but a trained circus cat?”

  “I had anticipated your lordship’s concern,” said Sir Grant. “I have a number of character witnesses who are willing to testify to James’s abilities. Do you wish to hear them now or after the cat testifies? I believe your lordship has their names, as does opposing counsel.”

  The judge picked up a paper in front of him and studied it with a sigh.

  “I think we’ll hear the cat now,” he said in a resigned voice.

  Mr. Benton sat down, looking not too worried. I noticed Mr. Wentworth was looking very worried indeed, however.

  “Thank you, my lord, I call James.”

  James, looking neither to the right nor the left, walked with great dignity to the witness box and made himself comfortable on the top of the box itself.

  A bailiff produced a carton, which he put on top of the witness chair, and James sat on that, the soul of dignity.

  The bailiff, greatly discomfited, presented James with a Bible and swore him in.

  Sir Grant began his questioning. “Your name is James? You live at Baron’s Chambers on Ryder Street?”

  A nod.

  “Have you ever been in a courtroom before?”

  A shake of the head.

  With a heavy sigh, the judge turned to the court reporter. “You will indicate ‘Yes’ for a nod and ‘no’ for a shake.”

  “My lord,” said Sir Grant, “I suggest, in order to satisfy yourself that James is not a trained circus cat, that you ask him any questions you wish.”

  The judge looked taken aback but recovered.

  “Do you like Purr-Porridge?” he asked.

  James opened his eyes wide, hissed and shook his head vehemently.

  “Well, do you know Lord Henry Haverstock?”

  James smiled and nodded his head.

  “I see. You may proceed, Sir Grant.”

  “My lord,” said Sir Grant, “because of the limitations of my witness, I may have to ask him what would be considered leading questions.”

  “Obviously,” said the judge, trying to regain control of himself.

  Sir Grant then led James through finding the monogram in Westminster Abbey, seeing it on the Shakespeare terra-cotta, on the Handel marble and on the terra-cottas from Buenos Aires. No mention was made of the fact that James had actually made the trip. Then he took James through the last visit to the museum on the day we found the reproductions.

  “You heard Mr. Wentworth on the phone?”

  A nod.

  Mr. Benton was now quietly conferring with his client.

  “Did he see you come in?”

  A shake of the head.

  “Did he say, ‘It’s a wonderful day outside’?”

  A shake.

  “Did he say, ‘I’ll meet you for dinner tonight’?”

  A shake.

  “Did he say, ‘I’m crating them now, I’ll bring them this afternoon’?”

  James, looking directly at Mr. Wentworth, nodded.

  “Did he say, ‘I’m crating them now I’ll bring them tomorrow’?”

  James shook his head.

  “Did he say, ‘Have a check for £5,000 ready’?”

  James shook his head.

  “Did he say, ‘Have a check for £15,000’?”

  James nodded very slowly. The courtroom was very quiet.

  “Did you then run back to get the curator?”

  James nodded and shifted his position.

  “When you got back to Mr. Wentworth’s office, did you jump on his desk and after looking at the statue, quickly knock it off onto the floor?”

  James nodded.

  “Then did you attempt to unpack the crate?”

  James nodded.

  “That’s all, my lord,” said Sir Grant.

  Mr. Benton rose to his feet. He did not look happy. “My lord,” he said, “I am also going to make a singular request. I should like to cross-examine this cat in a closed room where none of the people who appear to know him are present. I propose to do this with the cat, myself and my client in an empty courtroom. I shall be delighted to have the proceedings televised and have the court in electronic communication so that Sir Grant can object to questions if he wishes and the court can watch the proceedings, but I wish the cat to be prevented from receiving any signals from anyone. I believe this whole performance is a ploy developed by Mr. Cummings to protect himself from having to answer for the aborted theft himself.”

  The judge sighed. “I cannot really refuse.” He looked at the clock on the wall. “Bailiff, we will recess until two o’clock. Can you be ready by then?”

  The bailiff nodded. We all rose and the court adjourned for lunch.

  We met Lord Henry, Helena and Poppy in front of the building and all of us headed for a nearby restaurant. Sir Grant could not join us. But before he went to keep an appointment he grinned at James in a gleeful way.

  “Splendid!” he exclaimed. “My only advice for this afternoon is, Don’t let them make you mad whatever they do.”

  James smirked, waved at Sir Grant and gave us all his piece-of-cake grin.

  After lunch we reassembled. I joined Lord Henry, Helena and Poppy in the visitors’ gallery, which we reached by a small side entrance. The visitors’ gallery is a very cramped place.

  Mr. Graves was now in charge of James.

  The bailiff got us all to our feet. The judge entered. We would see, placed in one corner of the courtroom, a large television set. At the barristers’ table sat Sir Grant and Mr. Graves. On the screen we could see Mr. Benton and Mr. Wentworth at their table and near them a chair. Suddenly James appeared on the screen, walking with great dignity to the chair, where he sat and waited. To one side, barely in the picture, was a court reporter and besi
de him a bailiff.

  “Your name is James?” asked Mr. Benton.

  James nodded.

  “Nice kitty!” said Mr. Wentworth.

  James gave him a cold stare.

  “Have you ever seen this man before today?” Mr. Benton pointed to the stenographer.

  James shook his head.

  “Have you seen this man before today?” Mr. Benton pointed to Mr. Wentworth.

  James nodded.

  “When?” asked Mr. Benton sharply.

  James shrugged and waited.

  “Did you find any food in Mr. Wentworth’s office?”

  A nod.

  “I had a Danish and coffee on a workbench,” hissed Mr. Wentworth.

  “Was Mr. Wentworth’s phone yellow?”

  James shook his head. He shifted his position. Mr. Wentworth held out a dish of a popular brand of kitty treats.

  Sir Grant, with a twinkle in his eyes, rose to his feet. “I object,” he said, “to the efforts of Mr. Wentworth to suborn my witness.”

  “Sustained,” said the judge.

  Mr. Benton gave Mr. Wentworth a black look. The kitty treats were withdrawn.

  “Is Mr. Wentworth’s telephone black?”

  A nod.

  “Was Mr. Wentworth holding the phone in his left hand?”

  A nod, but James was getting restless. He stretched and lay down.

  “Was Mr. Wentworth wearing a green shirt?”

  James shook his head, rolled over and began batting the air. He was bored.

  Sir Grant rose to his feet. “My lord,” he said in a loud voice. James looked up and appeared to be less bored.

  “My lord,” said Sir Grant, “I think we have tested the ability of James to observe, quite enough.”

  “Sustained,” said the judge. “Please confine yourself to substantive questions.”

  “You don’t like Mr. Wentworth, do you?”

  James shook his head.

  “You have made up this story to protect Mr. Cummings, haven’t you?”

  James shook his head. He looked angry.

  “Isn’t it true that you are really a tool of Mr. Cummings?”

  James shook his head.

  “Isn’t it true you are a thief yourself? Didn’t you plan to help Mr. Cummings substitute the reproductions for the originals?” Mr. Benton was making a wild stab.

  James had proved an unbreakable witness, but now James broke. After all, he had stolen the thistle brooch from Ellen. Without realizing it, Mr. Benton had hit a raw nerve.

  James arched his back. Hissed and then howled. The noise racketed through the courtroom. On the tiny screen Mr. Benton tried to calm the cat. James, claws unfurled, struck out. Mr. Benton retreated. Remembering where he was, he turned to the camera and said, “I have no further questions.” It was clear no one would have any more questions for the moment.

  Court was temporarily recessed. Sir Grant went to the cross-examination room to collect his witness, who was sitting dejectedly on the witness chair. Mr. Benson and Mr. Wentworth had gone.

  I found James and Sir Grant eventually.

  I explained to Sir Grant about the brooch.

  “So, you see, James has stolen something himself,” I said.

  “James,” said Sir Grant, “you are a great cat. There is no question that the jury believes in you. Now, the only question is what they believe. Are you a conspirator of Mr. Cummings, or Mr. Wentworth’s avenging angel? I’ll put my money on the latter, but time will tell. Be of good cheer, old dear.”

  James was not to be mollified. He was sure the case was lost.

  Sir Grant returned to court and the judge recessed the case until the following day when the defense would call its witnesses and closing arguments would be given.

  We all went off to tea at the Savoy, but James was depressed, and even a generous helping of Devonshire cream with orange marmalade, which he greatly prefers to strawberry jam, did not lighten his gloom. He refused to join me for supper but went straight to bed.

  The next morning we arrived early to get a good seat in the visitors’ gallery. We had to run through a group of press photographers who were waiting to take James’s picture, but we made it in good time and we were all sitting in the front row when the judge was announced and the trial continued.

  Mr. Benton called Mr. Wentworth, who took the stand and testified that he had done his job of making reproductions of pieces in the museum collection for sale in the museum store. Pieces were sent to his department with an order signed by the curator or the head of a particular department. Once the work was completed, he returned the original either to the curator or, on frequent occasion, directly to the spot from which the object had been taken in the first place.

  “How did you come to have these statues?” asked Mr. Benton.

  “I received a note to go to Photography to get them along with a request that I make reproductions of them. I showed my authorization to the girl at Photography and she gave me the statues and I signed a receipt.”

  “Now tell us about the day the—cat”—the word was said with great distaste—“came into your office and found the statues.”

  “Well, I was preparing to return the originals to Photography, where they came from, and I put what I thought were the copies in a crate to send to the shop. I am very sorry about the mistake. I don’t usually make mistakes, but these copies are very good and I just moved too fast.”

  James was hissing. I calmed him as best I could.

  “Were you talking on the phone before the curator came in?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “Have there ever been any problems of this sort before?”

  “Never.”

  “Are you on good terms with Mr. Cummings?”

  “I think he is jealous of my skill.”

  “No further questions.” Mr. Benton sat down.

  “You may cross-examine,” said the judge.

  Sir Grant rose. “You have given an admirable picture of your procedures. Do you know any reason why Photography did not tell the curator the statues had been sent to Reproduction?”

  “I didn’t even know they didn’t tell him. It’s only his word.”

  “Do you usually send your reproductions to the museum shop in wooden crates?”

  Mr. Wentworth thought for a moment.

  “Well,” he said at last, “not usually.”

  “Most of the time you keep a stock of reproductions in your shop and send one or two upstairs in a paper bag, or just carry them, isn’t that right?”

  “I suppose so,” said Mr. Wentworth.

  “So, why the heavy wooden crate, secure enough to transport the statues on a long airplane flight if necessary, just to carry them upstairs?”

  “I wanted to be extra careful.”

  “With copies you could replace at any time?”

  “I trust I am not to be persecuted for being overcareful,” said Mr. Wentworth in a righteous voice.

  “Have you ever used a wooden crate to transport copies before?”

  “Not recently.”

  “Ever?” insisted Sir Grant.

  “I guess not,” said Mr. Wentworth.

  “Is £15,000 a fair price for a pair of statues sold to a fence?” said Mr. Grant in an offhand voice.

  “I think it’s too little, myself,” said Mr. Wentworth. “I have no idea where the cat got that idea.”

  “You were not happy about it?”

  “No,” said Mr. Wentworth, and suddenly gasped.

  “Nothing further,” said Sir Grant.

  On redirect Mr. Benton led Mr. Wentworth to say that the matter of the money was entirely speculation, as no specific reference had been made to money ever. Then Mr. Wentworth was excused. No more witnesses were called, and Mr. Benton rose to make his closing argument, which rested on the fact that Mr. Wentworth had made a terrible mistake, but mistakes were not criminal. The originals had been found and were now in the hands of their rightful owner, and perhaps it was the curator w
ho had larceny at heart. Mr. Benton finally suggested that, as a part of a vendetta against Mr. Wentworth, the curator had resorted to using a cat as a witness, a clearly frivolous gesture. The case should be thrown out of court.

  Sir Grant rose to give his argument.

  “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” he said, “there is only one area of disagreement between Mr. Benton and myself. The Crown acknowledges Mr. Wentworth’s skill as a technician. However, we contend that Mr. Wentworth, and only Mr. Wentworth, deliberately planned to return to the curator the reproductions he had made and then sell the originals through a confederate to whom he was talking on the telephone when James overheard him. For this purpose he was packing the statues in a large wooden crate suitable for transport over long distances.

  “We are not asking you to assume that these were the true events. We ask you to believe our witness. If you believe James, Mr. Wentworth is guilty. James is a very unusual witness, but I submit that he is totally credible, and I think you will think so too.”

  James waved a paw. I grabbed it and curbed him.

  “If you believe James,” Sir Grant continued, “the problem of the crate used to transport two small statues one floor in a museum is solved. If you believe James, Mr. Wentworth’s concern for the value of the statues is reasonable. I suggest he is not happy with the amount his confederate offered. If you believe James, the concern of the curator that the Photography Department took so long is reasonable. It is up to you. I am confident you will find the truth.”

  Sir Grant sat down. The judge instructed the jury, which was led away by the bailiff. Court was recessed.

  Sir Grant swept us all off to lunch at his club.

  “Whatever the outcome, the jury won’t return until sometime late this afternoon,” said Sir Grant as we sat around a table sipping good single-malt whiskey. “They plan to have lunch at the Crown’s expense, believe me. I don’t think they will take too long, once they get to work, whether they believe you, James, or whether they don’t.”

  James lapped a little whiskey but looked downcast.

  “Don’t worry, James,” said Sir Grant as we ate grilled plaice. “I’m not worried. I know you lost your temper, but in a way that’s in our favor. A trained circus cat would not have responded that way.” James looked somewhat mollified.

  Sir Grant kept us all entertained with tales of some of his more obscure cases. We had just finished some quite acceptable trifle when a waiter came up with a message that the jury was returning shortly, and we hurried off to get seats in the visitors’ gallery.