Feathered Justice

Corvinus was not a normal African Grey. Most parrots content themselves with mimicking fire alarms or swearing at the postman, but Corvinus had higher ambitions. He wanted to be a barrister.

He shared a small flat with Mr McBean, a retired Scottish geography teacher from Inverness, whose life was quiet, predictable and thoroughly dominated by the bird. Corvinus spent his days observing Mr McBean with a critical, beady eye and delivering stern commentary on the human’s daily choices in a booming voice that sounded suspiciously like a High Court judge.

‘Unlawful disposal of a tea bag,’ Corvinus would squawk whenever Mr McBean missed the bin. ‘Contempt of kitchen!’

Mr McBean usually ignored him, but trouble began on a soggy Thursday morning when Mrs Higgins from next door knocked. She was holding a prized gnomish ornament, or rather, the headless torso of one.

‘That bloody bird of yours did it, Mr McBean,’ she declared, pointing a trembling, accusatory finger. ‘He flew through my open bathroom window, landed on Sir Reginald and took his head off. It’s malicious damage!’

‘Objection!’ squawked Corvinus from the top of the desk. ‘Hearsay! Circumstantial nonsense!’

‘Shut up, Corvinus,’ Mr McBean muttered, rubbing his temples. ‘Look, Mrs Higgins, I’m sure we can resolve this over a cup of Earl Grey. There’s no proof Corvinus was anywhere near your gnomes.’

‘I have a witness!’ Mrs Higgins snapped. ‘Mr Jenkins saw a grey flash leaving my premises at eleven o’clock sharp. Maybe a few minutes later.’

The parrot adjusted his feathers, puffed out his chest and bobbed his head up and down. ‘Mr Jenkins is blind in one eye and legally incompetent,’ Corvinus proclaimed with terrifying clarity. ‘The witness is unreliable. I demand an acquittal!’

Mrs Higgins gasped.

‘Did that bird just impugn the character of my brother-in-law?’

‘He doesn’t know what he’s saying,’ Mr McBean lied quickly, edging between Mrs Higgins and the parrot. ‘He just repeats things from the legal dramas I watch on the telly.’

‘I know my rights under the Theft Act 1968,’ Corvinus added in a sinister whisper, leaning forward on his perch. ‘You have no physical evidence. No DNA. No feathers at the crime scene.’

Mr McBean froze. He looked slowly at Corvinus, then down at Mrs Higgins’s hands. Clutched in the hand holding the headless gnome was a single, unmistakable bright red tail feather.

Silence fell over the hallway. Mrs Higgins glared at the feather, then at Mr McBean and finally up at the bird. Corvinus stared at the feather. He blinked once. He blinked twice. The legal composure vanished instantly.

‘Mistrial!’ Corvinus shrieked, launching himself into the air and flying at top speed towards the kitchen. ‘Tampering with evidence! I’ve been framed by the cat!’

It took Mr McBean two hours, a packet of custard creams and a promise to replace Sir Reginald with a superior, solar-powered gnome to pacify Mrs Higgins. Corvinus spent the rest of the afternoon hiding behind the bread bin, occasionally muttering about appealing to the European Court of Human Rights, but he ultimately accepted a plea bargain that involved three days of reduced sunflower seeds and no telly after eight o’clock.