“Pesh,” said the Brentford Snail Boy.

“My pleasure,” said Mr Gwynplaine Dhark.

“Let the witness take the oath,” said Mr Justice Doveston, fanning at his face with his gavel. “He smells rather iffy, let’s get this done.”

“Ah, no,” said Mr Gwynplaine Dhark, taking several steps back from the Holy Book and crushing the feet of spectators. “He cannot swear upon the Bible. He has no concept of Christianity, although the nuns at Saint Sally of the Little Buttocks are presently engaged in converting him. He can only swear upon a box of salt.”

“Salt?” asked Mr Justice D.

“Snails fear salt,” said Mr Gwynplaine Dhark. “And slugs also, you know what happens if your pour salt on slugs.”

“Squesh,” went the Brentford Snail Boy.

“Ah yes,” said the magistrate. “Horrible business. He can swear upon the salt then, not that he needs to, but it’s protocol. And personally, and no offence meant, Mr Scribbens, I like salt. I’m very partial to salt. Particularly on a portion of cod and chips.”

“Me too,” said Mr Gwynplaine Dhark, running a forked tongue about his lips. “And I also like plenty of vinegar.”

“Oh yes, vinegar, too.”

“They put it on a sponge,” said Mr Gwynplaine Dhark. “And offered it to Jesus when he cried out on the Cross that he thirsted.”

“I don’t think that has any relevance,” said the magistrate.

“None whatever,” said Mr Gwynplaine Dhark. “I just like thinking about it.”

“HP sauce,” said the clerk of the court.

“What?” said the magistrate.

“HP sauce, your honour. On the cod and chips. There’s nothing like HP sauce.”

“You’re right there. It’s a pity we’ve just had lunch. Let’s go and have fish and chips later.”

“And pickled onions.” The clerk of the court brought out the official box of salt that was kept for such occasions as this and offered it to the witness, who shied away at its approach.

“He is greatly afeared of the salt,” said Mr Gwynplaine Dhark.

“But he loves a bit of lettuce,” said Miss Poppins positioning herself behind the Brentford Snail Boy.

“Please do the reciting of the oath and things of that nature with the witness,” the magistrate told the clerk of the court.

“Certainly, your honour. Will the witness, please raise his right hand?”

Miss Poppins lifted the Snail Boy’s right hand.

“Repeat after me,” said the clerk of the court. “I swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me, or I may be doused in salt, soused with garlic and lightly pan-fried and served with a hollandaise sauce upon a bed of tossed green salad.”

“Poosh,” said the Brentford Snail Boy.

“He certainly does,” said Mr Gwynplaine Dhark.

“I object again,” said Tim McGregor.

“And why this time?” asked the magistrate.

“Because anyone can see where this is going. The witness makes incomprehensible pssshing sounds and the counsel for the prosecution interprets them as suits himself.”

“You wouldn’t do that, would you?” the magistrate asked the counsel for the prosecution.

“On my word, your honour.”

“That was an ambiguous answer,” said Tim.

“Poosh,” said the Brentford Snail Boy.

“You’re so right,” said the magistrate. “I wish I’d said that.”

“What?” said Tim.

“I wish I’d said that,” said Will.

Mr Gwynplaine Dhark approached the witness stand.

“Ow!” “Ouch!” “Oh!” went those who stood in his way as he did so.

“You are Master Makepiece Scribbens of number nine Mafeking Avenue, Brentford?” he asked.

“What?” said the other Will.

“Pssssh,” went the Brentford Snail Boy.

“And did you witness the altercation that occurred last night in the Hands of Orloc public house, Brentford?”

“Pssssh,” went the Brentford Snail Boy, dribbling somewhat as he said it.

Miss Poppins took out a white linen handkerchief, wiped the witness’s lips and then popped a spoonful of sugar into his mouth.

“It helps the medicine go down,” she explained.

“Would you be so good as to describe, in your own words, what took place in The Hands of Orloc?” Mr Gwynplaine Dhark asked the witness.

“This should be thrilling,” said Tim.

“Pussssssssh,” said the Brentford Snail Boy.

“I can scarcely believe my ears,” said the magistrate. “And where were you when you witnessed these alarming events that you have given us such a precise and detailed account of? And which prove absolutely the guilt of the twin accused.”

“Psss,” said the Brentford Snail Boy.

“Really?” said the magistrate. “Half way across the ceiling ignoring the unwelcome attentions of a sparrow-hawk. Your bravery is an example to us all.”

“I object again,” said Tim McGregor.

“Upon what grounds, this time?” asked the magistrate.

“Because this is absurd. He’s making silly noises and you’re pretending to understand him. There’s no justice in this.”

“I believe,” said Mr Gwynplaine Dhark, “that the counsel for the defence does not speak mollusc”

“I certainly don’t,” said Tim. “And nor do you, this is all nonsense.”

“I hardly feel that such damning evidence as this can be called nonsense,” said Mr Justice D. “In fact, I believe that you are in contempt of court. I will have to ask you to withdraw from the case.”

“No way,” said Tim. “I have heaps of famous witnesses to call, the Queen and everything. You wanted a trial that would bring some publicity to the borough and you are going to get it. This man,” Tim pointed at Mr Gwynplaine Dhark, “is going down. Big time.”

“He doesn’t even speak the Queen’s English,” said Mr Gwynplaine Dhark. “He is totally incompetent. And according to Master Scribbens’ eloquent testimony, he was also an accomplice. He should be taken at once to the cells and from there to Tyburn to join the evil twins upon the scaffold.”

“I agree,” said the magistrate. “Much as I would have enjoyed meeting the Queen. Or indeed watching you burn at the stake if you’d lost the case. The witness’s evidence is damning. I think we’ll have all three executed this very afternoon.”

“Then fish and chips afterwards,” said the clerk of the court.

“No!” Will cried. He rose from his bench and flinched in expectancy of his imminent truncheoning-down. “This isn’t right. The Snail Boy is lying. The ceiling in the Hands of Orloc is far too low. If he’d been on it we would have been bumping into him.”

“What have you to say about this?” the magistrate asked Snail Boy.

“Posssh,” said the Snail Boy.

“As high as that?” asked the magistrate. “Eight miles high? That’s a very high ceiling.”

“See what I mean?” cried Will. “And we do have really famous witnesses to call.”

“We’ll call them to attend your execution then,” said the magistrate. “It will be a star-studded extravaganza. The blonde Swedish weather girl can pull the lever. Would you like that, my dear?”

“I’d like that very much,” said the blonde Swedish weather girl. “Nothing I like more than pulling on a big stiff lever.”

Mr Justice Doveston put on his black cap. “It is the verdict of this court,” said he, “that you and your evil twin are guilty of all the charges and—”

“Tim!” shouted Will. “I think we’d better go to plan ‘B’!”

“Plan ‘B’,” said Tim. “Are you absolutely sure?”

“Never been surer.”

“Okay,” said Tim. And he reached into his briefcase.

And drew out a gun.

And he pointed the gun at Mr Justice Doveston. “Free the Brentford Two,” said Tim. “Or I will be forced to shoot you dead.”