thought me a gluttonous gourmand?” Everything Yemko said seemed to come with a raised eyebrow attached to the end of it.
Beside the fountain in City Square, Agathe chewed through the last of her stale roll. “I could make a better lunch than this for half the price,” she thought.
Before she went back to work, she hurried up Castle Street to Verthun Smitt’s double-fronted ironmonger’s shop and bought a blue enamelled tin box. “From now on, I bring my own sandwiches,” she said and turned back towards the square.
Just about then, a lopsided cab drew up outside the court and rocked on its springs as Yemko Guillaume extracted himself. “We must part again here,” he said and enveloped Mayor Krovic’s hand in his.
“Why did you ask me for lunch?” asked Tibo.
“Because you were right,” said Guillaume. “That little turd smacks his wife. You must never assume that, simply because I am a lawyer, I have no love for justice. Never confuse justice and the law. Never confuse what is good with what is right. Never assume that what is right must be what is good. You did the right thing. No! See how easy it is? You’ve got me doing it now! You did the good thing. That is why they call you ‘Good’ Tibo Krovic—did you know that? ‘Good Tibo Krovic’—like ‘Alexander the Great’ or ‘Ivan the Terrible.’ It must be almost worth living to have made a name like that. It was a good thing but it was not the right thing. The law is not to be mocked. It’s the only shield the rest of us have to protect us from ‘good’ people. So I will report you to Judge Gustav. I have to do the ‘right’ thing. I have no choice. You’re a dangerous man to have on the bench.”
“I understand,” said Tibo. “Thank you for the omelette.”
The bells of my cathedral struck two. There was only one more case that day. The clerk called, “Hektor Stopak!” and handed the papers to Tibo.
“Stopak,” Tibo wondered, “could this be Stopak, Agathe’s Stopak? Surely there must be other Stopaks?”
Hektor stood in the dock. Quite a tall man, quite a dashing moustache, dark, good looking in a dirty, unkempt kind of way. Young. Too young to be Agathe’s Stopak.
“Mr. Stopak, I see from the charge sheet,” Tibo tapped the papers in front of him with his pen, “that you are accused of quite a serious breach of the peace in The Three Crowns tavern—a lot of shouting and swearing, quite a bit of damaged furniture and one of your fellow customers taken to hospital with a broken nose and a number of other, less serious injuries. I have the medical report here. Are you guilty or not guilty?”
Yemko Guillaume cranked himself to his feet again like a barrage balloon rising on the end of a cable. “I am for Mr. Stopak, Your Honour.”
“And how will your client be pleading?”
“Guilty, Your Honour.”
“Extenuating circumstances?”
“Is Your Honour disposed to hear them?”
“Not overly.”
“Then let me only say that Mr. Stopak is an artist of some considerable promise—a painter. As such, he keeps somewhat,” Yemko paused to attach another raised eyebrow to his sentence, “bohemian company. He is himself of an artistic temperament and his fellow artists share that fiery disposition.”
“I hadn’t realised that The Three Crowns was such a hotbed of artistic endeavour,” said Tibo. “Is it an established school?”
“More of a ‘haunt,’ Your Honour,” said Yemko. “The circumstances of the incident are very much as related on the charge sheet. A discussion amongst brother artists which became heated, drink having been taken …”
“Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera,” Tibo interrupted.
“I had not realised that Your Honour was a Latin scholar. Yes, indeed, sir, a familiar story often rehearsed in Your Honour’s court. However, I am happy to inform the court that, this very morning, my client has found employment with his cousin.” Yemko turned with a wheeze and
Beside the fountain in City Square, Agathe chewed through the last of her stale roll. “I could make a better lunch than this for half the price,” she thought.
Before she went back to work, she hurried up Castle Street to Verthun Smitt’s double-fronted ironmonger’s shop and bought a blue enamelled tin box. “From now on, I bring my own sandwiches,” she said and turned back towards the square.
Just about then, a lopsided cab drew up outside the court and rocked on its springs as Yemko Guillaume extracted himself. “We must part again here,” he said and enveloped Mayor Krovic’s hand in his.
“Why did you ask me for lunch?” asked Tibo.
“Because you were right,” said Guillaume. “That little turd smacks his wife. You must never assume that, simply because I am a lawyer, I have no love for justice. Never confuse justice and the law. Never confuse what is good with what is right. Never assume that what is right must be what is good. You did the right thing. No! See how easy it is? You’ve got me doing it now! You did the good thing. That is why they call you ‘Good’ Tibo Krovic—did you know that? ‘Good Tibo Krovic’—like ‘Alexander the Great’ or ‘Ivan the Terrible.’ It must be almost worth living to have made a name like that. It was a good thing but it was not the right thing. The law is not to be mocked. It’s the only shield the rest of us have to protect us from ‘good’ people. So I will report you to Judge Gustav. I have to do the ‘right’ thing. I have no choice. You’re a dangerous man to have on the bench.”
“I understand,” said Tibo. “Thank you for the omelette.”
The bells of my cathedral struck two. There was only one more case that day. The clerk called, “Hektor Stopak!” and handed the papers to Tibo.
“Stopak,” Tibo wondered, “could this be Stopak, Agathe’s Stopak? Surely there must be other Stopaks?”
Hektor stood in the dock. Quite a tall man, quite a dashing moustache, dark, good looking in a dirty, unkempt kind of way. Young. Too young to be Agathe’s Stopak.
“Mr. Stopak, I see from the charge sheet,” Tibo tapped the papers in front of him with his pen, “that you are accused of quite a serious breach of the peace in The Three Crowns tavern—a lot of shouting and swearing, quite a bit of damaged furniture and one of your fellow customers taken to hospital with a broken nose and a number of other, less serious injuries. I have the medical report here. Are you guilty or not guilty?”
Yemko Guillaume cranked himself to his feet again like a barrage balloon rising on the end of a cable. “I am for Mr. Stopak, Your Honour.”
“And how will your client be pleading?”
“Guilty, Your Honour.”
“Extenuating circumstances?”
“Is Your Honour disposed to hear them?”
“Not overly.”
“Then let me only say that Mr. Stopak is an artist of some considerable promise—a painter. As such, he keeps somewhat,” Yemko paused to attach another raised eyebrow to his sentence, “bohemian company. He is himself of an artistic temperament and his fellow artists share that fiery disposition.”
“I hadn’t realised that The Three Crowns was such a hotbed of artistic endeavour,” said Tibo. “Is it an established school?”
“More of a ‘haunt,’ Your Honour,” said Yemko. “The circumstances of the incident are very much as related on the charge sheet. A discussion amongst brother artists which became heated, drink having been taken …”
“Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera,” Tibo interrupted.
“I had not realised that Your Honour was a Latin scholar. Yes, indeed, sir, a familiar story often rehearsed in Your Honour’s court. However, I am happy to inform the court that, this very morning, my client has found employment with his cousin.” Yemko turned with a wheeze and
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