The Baker Street Jurors Read Free Page A

trusts, leasehold agreements, and legal boilerplate. As a solicitor—rarely taking a litigation to court, as a barrister could do, but always just hammering away (though quite effectively) to create impregnable contracts—he had complained to Lois more than once that he needed a change. Some variety. Either give up the law altogether, or get his barrister’s certification, as Reggie had done years ago. It was coming to that; something would have to change, one way or the other.
    He had his head down now in those documents, and Lois put the jury summons in front of him, with its bold red letters and Crown Court insignia.
    Nigel looked up, saw that insignia, and laughed. “So they got you, did they? Happens to all of us, Lois, sooner or later. And probably sooner; there are some very troublesome trials coming up, and I hear the Crown is having trouble rounding up enough victims. I mean, jurors.”
    â€œLook closer,” said Lois. “It’s not for me.”
    Nigel froze. “Please don’t say it’s for me.”
    â€œNot for you, either,” said Lois, and she tapped her index finger emphatically on the name and address. Nigel looked at the name on the summons, and then at Lois. “Seriously?” he said.
    â€œNothing on it that says April Fools,” said Lois. “And it’s not yet April. Should I write back and tell them they can’t put a character of fiction on jury service?”
    â€œNo, that will just dig the hole deeper. These things are done by computer. You can’t argue with them. Maybe some prankster put the name Sherlock Holmes on a registered voters’ list and the system has just now randomly picked it up. Or maybe they’re so desperate for jurors they’re just sending now to every address to which the Royal Mail delivers. And since the Royal Mail has been delivering letters to Sherlock Holmes to this building ever since it was put up sixty years ago—well, there you are. Sooner or later, the insistence of Sherlock Holmes fans that he is real was bound to cross paths with the Crown’s need for jurors.”
    â€œThen what do we do?”
    â€œNothing.”
    â€œBut it says they’ll assess a thousand-pound fine for failure to appear.”
    â€œLet them. Good luck finding a Mr. Sherlock Holmes to collect it from. Just be glad that they haven’t come for you yet. One of the trials starting at the Old Bailey is the McSweeney murder case. The media is all over it, and it will go on for weeks. And then there’s the Switcombe insider trading case. Dry as the desert, and just as hard to get through. And then there’s a civil trial that—well, I won’t even describe it to you. You don’t even want to know. In any case, Sherlock Holmes, being a character of fiction, is not required to serve.”
    â€œBut what will happen when he doesn’t report? Won’t they send the … jury police or something to collect him?”
    â€œI’ve never heard of it happening, but it would be entertaining to see them try in this instance. Too bad my brother won’t be back by then—they’d probably figure that he is close enough, at least in appearance, and cart him off in handcuffs.”
    Nigel looked in the direction of the wastebasket, at the far corner of the room, next to the street window.
    â€œThis will be a three-point shot,” he said.
    He was about to crumple the Sherlock Holmes jury summons into a ball.
    â€œWait!” said Lois. “You mustn’t wad it up!”
    Nigel stopped. “You’re right,” he said. “That wouldn’t show proper respect for Her Majesty’s Courts Service.”
    Lois had spoken just in time. Nigel laid the still-pristine summons flat on the desk in front of him.
    And then he folded it lengthwise down the middle, made two more angular folds at one end, and two additional creases lengthwise for air-worthiness.
    â€œFor