Sam looked at him with dreary eyes.

‘The Poulet Borsalino is excellent. It is us we don’t like.’

There was nothing in that for the proprietor; he stole away. (When I tell you that Poulet Borsalino is breast of chicken rolled around gobs of Camembert cheese and deep-fried, you will realize what depth a of chagrin caused us to spurn it.)

The Royal Court was intimidating beyond belief. George and Sam’s Advocates and my jolly Solicitor joined us in the lobby. The Advocates pursed their lips; Solly gave me a wink. Taking his point, I wrenched the knot of my necktie tight and slid it to one side, rumpling the collar; a simple ruse which reduces one’s apparent income by several hundred pounds. Verb. sap., not to mention experto crede. We mounted flight after flight of linoleumclad stairs, designed, no doubt, in ancient times to ensure that prisoners arrived in Court flushed and sweating with guilt. Solly goosed me on the stairs, no doubt to cheer me up. Outside the court room itself we were surrendered to the Greffier: a terrifying personage in a black robe who looked as though he believed in capital punishment for motoring offences. Soon we were joined by the Vécomte – pronounced Viscount – another black-robed officer bearing a great mace, and we processed through oaken doors into the Court. It is a tall, airy, well-lit chamber of great beauty, hung with excellent pictures. Before us, in some majesty and under a splendid canopy, sat the arbiters of our fate. In the centre (Solly explained to me in a whisper) the Deputy Bailiff; to his right a lower throne – empty – where Her Majesty’s Lieutenant-Governor would have been sitting had he chosen to exercise his right to attend; on the other side a brace of Jurats, chosen from the flower of Jersey’s ancient aristocracy. They looked wise and useful, which I believe is their function.

The Vécomte stood the mace in its socket before the Bench, the Greffier took his stall and the Court of the Inferior Number (so called when only two Jurats are sitting) was in session.

The public benches were almost empty: the notice had been too short for the mass of sensation-seekers and only the usual handful of ghoulish old ladies sucking peppermints was there – the ones who don’t like all that violence on television and prefer to hear it at first hand, hot from the sty. The sole occupant of the Press bench was my friend Miss H. Glossop, radiating intelligence and goodwill. I had the impression that she would have liked to give me a friendly wave.