“I see. A very complete fantasy.”

“I suppose you must call it that. But I assure you it is extremely serious to me. This case I am telling you about took several hours. I was charged with creating a disturbance in a public place while under the influence of liquor, and there were grave special circumstances—creating a scandal that would seriously embarrass the Staunton family, for one.”

“Surely that is a moral rather than a legal matter?”

“Not entirely. And anyhow, the law is, among other things, a codification of a very large part of public morality. It expresses the moral opinion of society on a great number of subjects. And in Mr Justice Staunton’s court, morality carries great weight. It’s obvious.”

“Truly? What makes it obvious?”

“Oh, just a difference in the Royal Arms.”

“The Royal Arms?”

“Yes. Over the judge’s head, where they are always displayed.”

“And what is the difference?… Another of your pauses, Mr Staunton. This must mean a great deal to you. Please describe the difference.”

“It’s nothing very much. Only that the animals are complete.”

“The animals?”

“The supporters, they are called. The Lion and the Unicorn.”

“And are they sometimes incomplete?”

“Almost always in Canada. They are shown without their privy parts. To be heraldically correct they should have distinct, rather saucy pizzles. But in Canada we geld everything, if we can, and dozens of times I have sat in court and looked at those pitifully deprived animals and thought how they exemplified our attitude toward justice. Everything that spoke of passion—and when you talk of passion you talk of morality in one way or another—was ruled out of order or disguised as something else. Only Reason was welcome. But in Mr Justice Staunton’s court the Lion and the Unicorn are complete, because morality and passion get their due there.”

“I see. Well, how did the case go?”

“It hung, in the end, on the McNaghten Rule.”

“You must tell me what that is.”

“It is a formula for determining responsibility. It takes its name from a nineteenth-century murderer called McNaghten whose defence was insanity. He said he did it when he was not himself. This was the defence put forward for Staunton. The prosecution kept hammering away at Staunton to find out whether, when he shouted in the theatre, he fully understood the nature and quality of his act, and if he did, did he know it was wrong? The defence lawyer—Mr David Staunton, a very eminent Q.C.—urged every possible extenuating circumstance: that the prisoner Staunton had been under severe stress for several days; that he had lost his father in a most grievous fashion, and that he had undergone severe psychological harassment because of that loss; that unusual responsibilities and burdens had been placed upon him; that his last hope of regaining the trust and approval of his late father had been crushed. But the prosecutor—Mr David Staunton, Q.C., on behalf of the Crown—would not recognize any of that as exculpatory, and in the end he put the question that defence had been dreading all along. ‘If a policeman had been standing at your elbow, would you have acted as you did? If a policeman had been in the seat next to you, would you have shouted your scandalous question at the stage?’ And of course the prisoner Staunton broke down and wept and had to say, ‘No,’ and then, to all intents, the case was over. The Judge—Mr Justice Staunton, known for his fairness but also for his sternness—didn’t even leave the Bench. He found the prisoner Staunton guilty, and the sentence was that he should seek psychiatric help at once.”