Mr Smith ducked back through the doorway and out of the caravan, closely followed by the beekeeper.
“Can we sit down?” the policeman asked Mr Grunt. “I have a great many questions.”
“If you must,” Mr Grunt grunted. “What was it you were going to conduct?”
“An interview,” said the policeman. “Hence the questions.”
Over the next hour, Mr Grunt was accused of having done many things that day from “endangering aircraft” to “actual bodily harm to a public convenience”.
One of the few things Mr Grunt wasn’t charged with was stealing Mr Lippy’s juggling torch. The clown didn’t want to press charges.
The man with the raffle tickets had wanted Mr Grunt to be charged for parking in a NO PARKING area and for letting his “mules” – he didn’t know a pair of donkeys when he saw one – eat a display of prize-winning flowers, but the police didn’t seem interested.
There was also the matter of Mrs Grunt having tampered with Edna Tuppenny’s jars in the Preserves, Jams and Jellies Competition. She might very well have been poisoning them. And, not only that, if Mrs Grunt’s mother, Mrs Lunge, had won the contest, and there was a cash prize as well as a certificate and cup, then wouldn’t that be classed as obtaining money by deception?
The policeman might well have decided not to pursue the matter of the Preserves, Jams and Jellies Competition if Mrs Grunt hadn’t suddenly decided it was a good idea to bite his ankle.
He yelped.
“That’ll teach you!” she cackled.
The policeman turned to a fresh page in his notebook, wrote down her name and started to write. The first line was, “intent to poison”.
The Grunts were in a jam, or, to be more accurate, they were in a holding cell underneath a courtroom. It looked rather like those jails you see in Westerns: like a cage of metal bars where only the outer wall is made of stone.
Sunny was in the cell with Mr and Mrs Grunt rather like in the picture on the cover of this book except, of course, Mr Grunt had his nose in a bandage.*
[*EDITOR’S NOTE: A picture on the cover showing Mr Grunt with a nose bandage would be enough to put most readers off, which is why there isn’t a nose-bandage in sight.]
The policeman in charge of the cells hadn’t wanted to let Sunny in until Mr Grunt had explained that he was their lawyer.
“And you have to let our lawyer in.”
“He’s your lawyer? He looks very young to be a lawyer,” said the policeman with a frown. He was wondering who in their right mind would hire such a young lawyer with such wonky ears, such sticky-up hair and wearing such an odd blue dress. Then he looked at Mr and Mrs Grunt.
Yup. That made sense.
“OK then,” said the policeman, letting Sunny into the holding cell. “Name?”
“Sorry?” asked Sunny.
“I need your name for the ledger, sir.” He pointed at an official-looking book on his desk in the corridor that the cell doors opened out on to. “So the court knows who’ll be representing them at the hearing.”
“Ah,” said Sunny. They hadn’t thought this through. There was no way he could actually act as a lawyer in any court case!
“Sunny,” said Mrs Grunt. “He’s called Sunny.”
“Sunny,” said the policeman. He began writing in the ledger.
“With a ‘u’,” said Sunny, because he knew some people spelled Sunny as “Sonny” with an “o”.
“Sunny Withayew,” said the policeman as he wrote, thinking the last part was Sunny’s surname, not a spelling instruction. He put down his pen and selected a key from the chain hanging from his belt, and unlocked the cell door. “OK, Mr Withayew, in you go.”
“So what happens now?” asked Sunny as the door was locked behind him.
“We’ll tell the judge to let us go,” said Mr Grunt. He was busy tucking his shirt into the top of his trousers. (He’d fixed the belt with an old office stapler he’d managed to “borrow” off a policeman’s desk as they were being bundled into the cells.)
“Dad,” said Sunny, then lowered his voice in case the policeman heard. (Lawyers probably didn’t generally call their clients “Dad”.) “If you’re going up in front of the judge tomorrow, do you have any idea what you’re going to say?”
“All we have to do is tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but—”
“A tin of coconut milk?” suggested Mrs Grunt.
Mr Grunt grunted. “I’ll tell ’em I was having a fun day out and might have bumped into a few people and a few things. That’s all.”
“Shouldn’t you have a real lawyer, Dad?” said Sunny.
“Lawyers are expensive!” said Mr Grunt.
“And noisy,” added Mrs Grunt.
“You’re thinking of lawnmowers,” said Mr Grunt.
“Am not.”
“Are.”
“Not.”
“Are.”
“I was thinking of volcanoes. They’re noisy,” said Mrs Grunt.
“Not always,” said Mr Grunt. “Not the quiet ones. HA!”
“But Lady Bigg told me that if you can’t afford your own lawyer, the court will provide one for you.”
“What does that mean?” demanded Mrs Grunt.
“It means that they pay for your lawyer. You don’t have to,” Sunny explained. “The only catch is, you get who you’re given…”
“Which is me!” said a man, striding down the corridor into view.
“Who are you?” asked the puzzled policeman.
The man looked familiar to Sunny but at the same time unfamiliar. It was Sack, the ex-gardener from Bigg Manor! But Sack unlike they’d ever seen him before. He was dressed in a shiny blue suit and tie and was carrying a brand-new briefcase.
When Sunny and the Grunts first went to Bigg Manor, Mimi was still the boot boy and Sack was still the gardener. But with Lord Bigg in jail, Lady Bigg had freed the servants of all their duties and Sack was thrilled, delighted and over the moon that he never had to plant another bulb, prune another rose, trim another bush or grow another seedling. He hated gardening. What he yearned to be was an inventor.
And Sack had invented some amazing things. He invented the bath plug and the necktie. The front-door bell and the bicycle. He invented inflatable dolphins and egg cups. Cake mix and sticky toffee pudding. But the one thing that each and every single one of his inventions had in common was that someone had invented it before him. So he gave up on the dream of being a professional inventor, left Bigg Manor (where all the ex-servants, except Peach the former butler, still chose to live) and went to night school TO BECOME A LAWYER.
He loved it. He learned to be a lawyer at night and did lots of lawyering homework during the day. And he found that he was really rather good at it. He ended up doing something called the A.L.P. which stands for the Accelerated Law Programme. It meant that he became a lawyer very quickly indeed. And he was about to find out just how good he really was or wasn’t, because Mr and Mrs Grunt were to be his first clients in his first ever court hearing!
“Who am I?” Sack asked the puzzled policeman. “I’m Sack the court-appointed lawyer.”
“Then who’s he?” demanded the policeman.
“He’s our lawyer too,” said Mr Grunt, with a grunt. “Two of us. Two lawyers. What’s the problem?”
“Precisely,” said Sack, who had no idea what was going on but was having the time of his life. “So if you’d be kind enough to leave us alone with our clients…”
“Just as soon as I have your name in my ledger, sir,” said the policeman. He wrote it down, then, as good as his word, he left the corridor, closing the door behind him.
“Right!” said Sack. “Let’s get down to business!”
Sunny had never seen Sack look so happy.
“Don’t waste your time with all that,” said Mr Grunt. “Whatever it is that they say I’ve done, I’m innocent. I took Mrs Grunt’s mother to the country fair, that’s all. The rest is—”
“Porridge!” said Mrs Grunt.
“The rest is not porridge, you dust ball!”
“Harpoon!”
“Cashback!”
“Sandpit!”
“The rest is hogwash. I didn’t do a single thing they say I did.”
“And it’ll be my job to make sure you don’t rot in jail!” said Sack, pulling up a stool and sitting himself in front of the bars of the cell.
“Don’t you need time to prepare for the trial?” asked Sunny.
“Tomorrow isn’t a trial,” said Sack, pulling a buff-coloured file stuffed with papers out of his case. “Tomorrow’s a hearing. It’s to decide if either or both of you have a case to answer.” He shut the briefcase, resting it on his lap like a tray and placing the fat file on top of it. “In other words, all the charges may get thrown out tomorrow and you won’t even have to go to trial.”
“Or?” asked Sunny.
“Or they may decide that there will be a trial. In which case, we’ll agree a date and then they’ll set you free as long as you turn up on the day.” Sack suddenly looked a little hesitant.
“Or?” asked Sunny. Again.
“Or they may decide that there’ll be a trial and that one or both of you will need to stay in jail until – er – then,” said Sack. “It all depends how it goes upstairs tomorrow.” He pointed up at the ceiling of the holding cells, above which was the floor of the courtroom.
“How do you think it’ll go?” asked Sunny through the bars.
“Have no fear,” said Sack. “I’m on the case!”
Sunny might have felt more confident if he hadn’t already noticed what was written on the pages in Sack’s impressively fat buff-coloured folder, sitting on the briefcase on his knee.
Nothing.
The pages were totally blank.
It was the morning of Mr and Mrs Grunt’s hearing and the courtroom was packed. Lady “La-La” Bigg had managed to squeeze all those she needed to into her rusty old car: Peach, the former butler who now ran her pub, The Happy Pig, Agnes the former cook and maid, Agnes’ husband Jack, the former handyman (also known as Former Handyman Jack,) and Poppet the pig.
The car was tiny. Peach sat in the front next to Lady Bigg, sitting as upright and as dignified as possible, but with his knees up to his chin. This was because he’d moved his seat as far forward as it would go to make room behind. Agnes and Jack sat in the back, Poppet the pig between them. Because of the way the car roof sloped, Jack could only fit in the car if he had his head and one elbow out of the window. Agnes had folded herself up as much as possible, like a piece of human origami. Poppet had the most room and seemed as happy as a pig in a car with four people.
Lady Bigg pulled the tiny car to a halt in one of the few remaining spaces in the courtroom car park and everyone spilled out, stretching their legs, rolling their heads, bending and stretching and generally trying to get some feeling back into their limbs.
Jack the former handyman’s neck made a terrible “CLICK” and got stuck sideways, so he walked towards the courthouse as though he were still sticking his head out of a car window, but an imaginary one this time. Peach pushed Poppet the pig in a pushchair.
Once inside, Lady Bigg’s group made their way to the public gallery, the place where members of the public could sit upstairs in rows and look down on proceedings below (a bit like at a theatre). There was a sign at the entrance to the gallery that clearly stated:
This was why Lady “La-La” Bigg had given Poppet rouged cheeks, red lipstick, a rather ill-fitting floral dress, and a sunhat. This was why Peach was pushing her along in the large, old-fashioned pushchair.
“Mornin’, your ladyship,” said Mr Harper, the courthouse security guard, touching the peak of his cap in respect. Lady Bigg was a well-known figure in the neighbourhood, not least because she was the lady of the manor – though she actually lived in a pigsty – and because she was a little – er – eccentric.
“Good morning, Harper!” said Lady “La-La” Bigg. She and her ex-servants formed a sort of human shield between him and the pig as they walked merrily on.
Six seats in the front row of the public gallery had been reserved for “Lady Bigg’s party” (the five in the car and one for Mimi). The humans occupied four of them, but two remained empty: one for Mimi when she came up to the gallery, and Poppet’s because she remained in the pushchair at the end of the row. Lady Bigg sat next to her, rubbing the pig’s tummy to keep her contented. On the other side of the aisle sat Lara Farp, Ace, Dr Alphonso Tubb and Jenny Prendergast. Most of them were leaning over the edge of the gallery to look at the courtroom below.
Two rows behind Lady Biggs sat a very petite woman with golden hair who, you may not be surprised to learn, had won the southern heat of the Miss Dainty Lady Shopkeeper Contest on a number of occasions. She was holding a broom handle on to which she’d nailed a handwritten placard bearing the words:
It was none other than Mrs Winterbottom of Hall’s Groceries.
Down in the holding cells, Sack (their court-appointed lawyer) and Sunny Withayew (the Grunt-appointed pretend-lawyer) were having some last-minute discussions with their clients.
“So we’re all agreed then,” said Sack, snapping his briefcase shut.
“On what?” asked Mrs Grunt.
“That, to get the judge to free you, you need to make a good impression,” Sack reminded them.
Mrs Grunt started hissing. “Hssssssssssssss. That’s my impression of a punctured beach ball!” she cackled.
“Behave!” grunted Mr Grunt.
“Beehive!” said Mrs Grunt, then realising how clever she’d been – what with bees having played a major part in how they’d ended up here – she started to buzz.
A door opened at the end of the corridor, and there was Mimi. She came hurrying in, Frizzle and Twist flitting around her head.
“I just want to wish you good luck, Mr and Mrs Grunt,” she said. She gave Sunny a hug. “Lady Bigg and the others are up in the public gallery. Just about everyone from the manor’s here, as well as Lara Farp and Ace.”
“That’s excellent!” said Sack, rubbing his hands. “Moral support!”
“I’d better get up there,” said Mimi. She turned to Sack. “All set?”
“All set, Mimi,” nodded Sack. He patted his briefcase.
Both Mimi and Sunny had serious doubts.
By the time Mr and Mrs Grunt were brought up from the holding cells, the courtroom was packed. Not only was the public gallery full, but the various court officials were in place: the clerk of the court, the court recorder (who’d write everything down), the defence “lawyers”, Sack and Sunny, and the prosecution lawyer, Mr Benderby. And then there was the judge, Judge Humperdink.
More than anything, Judge Humperdink’s head looked like a balloon. It was smooth and hairless and even shaped like one. His ears were tiny, and his small eyes, small nose and small mouth were all neatly clustered together as though someone had drawn all his features in the middle of a balloon rather than using up the available space.
His voice was high-pitched, like someone who’d swallowed helium.
If Sack had been an experienced lawyer, he’d have known about Judge Humperdink and would have warned the Grunts that, though he looked funny and sounded even funnier, they mustn’t laugh and point and make rude jokes about him because judges don’t like that kind of thing. (It’s possibly even WORSE than prodding a police officer.)
So the first thing Mr and Mrs Grunt did when they were led up into the dock – a bit like a waist-high wooden box with walls on three sides and steps at the back – was to look at Judge Humperdink directly opposite them, then look at each other and burst out laughing.
“Oi, balloon face…” said Mr Grunt.
I wish I could say that Judge Humperdink banged his gavel, one of those little hammers you often see judges hitting their desks with in films and cartoons, but he didn’t have one.
“Silence in court!” said the clerk of the court, who was standing next to the judge’s podium,
a raised area where the judge could sit and look down on the accused (in this case the Grunts).
Now the judge spoke. “First and foremost, I’d like to remind everyone that this is not a trial. It is a hearing to decide whether there are cases to be answered and if there is a need for a trial.” He looked directly at Mr Grunt. “Is that clear, Mr Grunt?”
“As jelly,” nodded Mr Grunt.
“Is that clear, Mrs Grunt?” Humperdink squeaked.
“As what he said,” said Mrs Grunt.
Judge Humperdink frowned.
“My clients understand, your honour,” said Sack grandly.
So the hearing began. The first charge Mr Grunt had to answer was vandalism: deliberately sitting on a guess-the-weight cake.
“I remember it was squishy,” said Mr Grunt.
“Because you squashed it,” said Mr Benderby for the prosecution.
“It looked badly made and flat,” said Mr Grunt.
“Because you squashed it,” said Mr Benderby for the prosecution.
“Why are you picking on me, big ears?” asked Mr Grunt.
Judge Humperdink glared at Mr Grunt and would, I AM SURE, have banged his gavel if he’d had one. “It’s his job, Mr Grunt!” he squeaked.
Sack got up and stared at a blank piece of paper in his hand. “Do you deny sitting on the cake, Mr Grunt?”
“Of course not,” said Mr Grunt indignantly. “I did sit on it.”
“Big bum,” said Mrs Grunt. “Bedpan!” said Mr Grunt.
“Your honour, the reason why my client sat on the cake was because the cake was placed at the height of a seat,” said Sack, hurriedly interrupting the Grunts before they had a full-on slanging match. “The guess-the-weight cake was placed on a table below regulation height, putting it at seating level and, therefore, officially making it a seat, according to…”
The Grunts In a Jam Page 8
