arrival of the first hordes. It always reminded him of flies descending on a carcass but Margaret did not notice. He was trying to work out why she threw fruit for her charge; to tire her out, perhaps, you threw sticks for a dog and more edible things for a child, but his interest soon died. The creature did not resemble his own child, dark as a gypsy like him, run away a long time ago; sheâd be a woman now.
Margaret called to the child and when she ran back, seized her firmly by the hand and led her up the street towards her house. Disconsolate, Logo remembered his icy feet and stamped them. He courted the cold, did not really mind it and the stamping was more ritual than necessity. He waited until Margaret was out of sight, then drew in a lungful of air and began to sing.
âJesu, saviour ever mild, Born for us a little child, Of the virgin undefiled:
Hear us Holy Jesus.â
Keeping close to the walls, backing out of Legard Street, pushing the cumbersome trolley like a big old pram, he moved in the direction of the crowds which would throng the thoroughfares beyond. Looking for a small, dark child, with a headful of black curls cascading from the neck to her waist and streaming out behind her like the tangled mane of a thoroughbred filly as she ran away. From him.
Â
D insdale Cotton thought Helen West was beautiful. He did not say as much, but the conclusion had been on his mind from the moment he had first met her. He could follow the present discussion with his brain all the more easily because it gave him a better opportunity to look at her eyes, hands, hair, legs in whatever order they happened to present themselves without quite seeming to devour her. He knew it was still far too soon to do anything else, that would be like spitting in public, but he planned it anyway, enjoying what he had for now. Besides the conversation was always worth while, even if they both chose to deny the undercurrent which flowed between them.
âEvidence,â she was saying. âCome on, Dinsdale, why the hell arenât you doing this? Why me and not you, giving a lecture on evidence? How come I even got volunteered and not you, when you can talk the hind leg off a donkey and everyone knows Iâve never understood law at all? I only practise it. What do I say to them?â
He took a covert look at her slender crossed ankles, as she sat back in the beastly lounge of the Swan and Mitre, and decided he could look no further so he might as well entertain himself by intellectual effort.
âWhat you say always depends on the audience,â he said. âAnd thereâs no audience, apart from a symposium of scientists, who do not want their information as simple as possible.â
âJust as well. I canât manage more than that. Come on, surprise me. Ten minutes is what I have to deliver, on the subject of, What is evidence? The audience being Justices of the Peace with nil legal training. Your starter for ten, please.â
Dinsdale sipped his drink, vodka in tomato juice, which did not look at all effete in his hands. He removed an imaginary pair of glasses and shuffled an imaginary sheaf of papers on the rather dirty table.
âEvidence, my dears, is fact. It comes in the form of brick or cement. There are basically three kinds of evidence. The first is the most direct, say from an eye or ear witness to an event, the horseâs mouth evidence. Then it comes, less directly, from those who follow on behind, picking up the pieces of the smashed car, testing the blood samples and the semen stains and who can thus say, this event happened. This is circumstantial evidence, although they are recycled bricks, they are the most certain of all. Evidence also comes from a number of unrelated facts which surround the victim and the defendant but have nothing to do with them, and this is the cement. They are little facts, positive and negative, which point to one conclusion. Thus, one witness hears a
Margaret called to the child and when she ran back, seized her firmly by the hand and led her up the street towards her house. Disconsolate, Logo remembered his icy feet and stamped them. He courted the cold, did not really mind it and the stamping was more ritual than necessity. He waited until Margaret was out of sight, then drew in a lungful of air and began to sing.
âJesu, saviour ever mild, Born for us a little child, Of the virgin undefiled:
Hear us Holy Jesus.â
Keeping close to the walls, backing out of Legard Street, pushing the cumbersome trolley like a big old pram, he moved in the direction of the crowds which would throng the thoroughfares beyond. Looking for a small, dark child, with a headful of black curls cascading from the neck to her waist and streaming out behind her like the tangled mane of a thoroughbred filly as she ran away. From him.
Â
D insdale Cotton thought Helen West was beautiful. He did not say as much, but the conclusion had been on his mind from the moment he had first met her. He could follow the present discussion with his brain all the more easily because it gave him a better opportunity to look at her eyes, hands, hair, legs in whatever order they happened to present themselves without quite seeming to devour her. He knew it was still far too soon to do anything else, that would be like spitting in public, but he planned it anyway, enjoying what he had for now. Besides the conversation was always worth while, even if they both chose to deny the undercurrent which flowed between them.
âEvidence,â she was saying. âCome on, Dinsdale, why the hell arenât you doing this? Why me and not you, giving a lecture on evidence? How come I even got volunteered and not you, when you can talk the hind leg off a donkey and everyone knows Iâve never understood law at all? I only practise it. What do I say to them?â
He took a covert look at her slender crossed ankles, as she sat back in the beastly lounge of the Swan and Mitre, and decided he could look no further so he might as well entertain himself by intellectual effort.
âWhat you say always depends on the audience,â he said. âAnd thereâs no audience, apart from a symposium of scientists, who do not want their information as simple as possible.â
âJust as well. I canât manage more than that. Come on, surprise me. Ten minutes is what I have to deliver, on the subject of, What is evidence? The audience being Justices of the Peace with nil legal training. Your starter for ten, please.â
Dinsdale sipped his drink, vodka in tomato juice, which did not look at all effete in his hands. He removed an imaginary pair of glasses and shuffled an imaginary sheaf of papers on the rather dirty table.
âEvidence, my dears, is fact. It comes in the form of brick or cement. There are basically three kinds of evidence. The first is the most direct, say from an eye or ear witness to an event, the horseâs mouth evidence. Then it comes, less directly, from those who follow on behind, picking up the pieces of the smashed car, testing the blood samples and the semen stains and who can thus say, this event happened. This is circumstantial evidence, although they are recycled bricks, they are the most certain of all. Evidence also comes from a number of unrelated facts which surround the victim and the defendant but have nothing to do with them, and this is the cement. They are little facts, positive and negative, which point to one conclusion. Thus, one witness hears a
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