PENGUIN BOOKS
THE FIRST RUMPOLE OMNIBUS
Sir John Mortimer is a playwright, novelist and former practising barrister. During the war he worked with the Crown Film Unit and published a number of novels, before turning to theatre. He has written many film scripts, and plays for both radio and television, including A Voyage Round My Father, the Rumpole plays, which won him the British Academy Writer of the Year Award, and the adaptation of Evelyn Waugh’s Brideshead Revisited. He has also written Character Parts, which contains interviews with some of the most famous men and women of our time, and an acclaimed autobiography in three volumes, entitled Clinging to the Wreckage, Murderers and Other Friends and The Summer of a Dormouse. His novels include Summer’s Lease, Paradise Postponed, Titmuss Regained (which have been made into successful television series), Charade, Dunster, Felix in the Underworld and The Sound of Trumpets. Many of his books are published by Penguin.
Sir John lives with his wife and their youngest daughter in what was once his fathers house in the Chilterns. He received a knighthood for his services to the arts in the 1998 Queen’s Birthday Honours list.
JOHN MORTIMER IN PENGUIN
Fiction
Dunster Felix in the Underworld
Like Men Betrayed The Narrowing Stream
Charade Summer’s Lease
Paradise Postponed Titmuss Regained
The Sound of Trumpets
The Rumpole Series
The Trials of Rumpole Rumpole for the Defence
The Best of Rumpole The First Rumpole Omnibus
The Second Rumpole Omnibus
The Third Rumpole Omnibus
Rumpole and the Angel of Death
Autobiography
Clinging to the Wreckage Murderers and Other Friends
The Summer of a Dormouse
Interviews
Character Parts
John Mortimer
THE FIRST
Rumpole
OMNIBUS
Rumpole of the Bailey
The Trials of Rumpole
Rumpole’s Return
PENGUIN BOOKS
PENGUIN BOOKS
Published by the Penguin Group
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Rumpole of the Bailey first published 1978
Copyright © Advanpress Ltd, 1978
The Trials of Rumpole first published 1979
Copyright © Advanpress Ltd, 1979
Rumpole’s Return first published 1980
Copyright © Advanpress Ltd, 1980
This collection first published 1983
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Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser
ISBN: 978-0-14-192800-5
Contents
Rumpole of the Bailey
Rumpole and the Younger Generation
Rumpole and the Alternative Society
Rumpole and the Honourable Member
Rumpole and the Married Lady
Rumpole and the Learned Friends
Rumpole and the Heavy Brigade
The Trials of Rumpole
Rumpole and the Man of God
Rumpole and the Showfolk
Rumpole and the Fascist Beast
Rumpole and the Case of Identity
Rumpole and the Course of True Love
Rumpole and the Age for Retirement
Rumpole’s Return
Rumpole of the Bailey
For Irene Shubik
Rumpole and the Younger Generation
I, Horace Rumpole, barrister at law, 68 next birthday, Old Bailey Hack, husband to Mrs Hilda Rumpole (known to me only as She Who Must Be Obeyed) and father to Nicholas Rumpole (lecturer in social studies at the University of Baltimore, I have always been extremely proud of Nick); I, who have a mind full of old murders, legal anecdotes and memorable fragments of the Oxford Book of English Verse (Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch’s edition) together with a dependable knowledge of bloodstains, blood groups, fingerprints, and forgery by typewriter; I, who am now the oldest member of my Chambers, take up my pen at this advanced age during a lull in business (there’s not much crime about, all the best villains seem to be off on holiday in the Costa Brava), in order to write my reconstructions of some of my recent triumphs (including a number of recent disasters) in the Courts of Law, hoping thereby to turn a bob or two which won’t be immediately grabbed by the taxman, or my clerk Henry, or by She Who Must Be Obeyed, and perhaps give some sort of entertainment to those who, like myself, have found in British justice a life-long subject of harmless fun.
When I first considered putting pen to paper in this matter of my life, I thought I must begin with the great cases of my comparative youth, the ‘Penge Bungalow Murder’, where I gained an acquittal alone and without a leader, or the ‘Great Brighton Benefit Club Forgery’, which I contrived to win by reason of my exhaustive study of typewriters. In these cases I was, for a brief moment, in the Public Eye, or at least my name seemed almost a permanent feature of the News of the World, but when I come to look back on that period of my life at the Bar it all seems to have happened to another Rumpole, an eager young barrister whom I can scarcely recognize and whom I am not at all sure I would like, at least not enough to spend a whole book with him.
I am not a public figure now, so much has to be admitted; but some of the cases I shall describe, the wretched business of the Honourable Member, for instance, or the charge of murder brought against the youngest, and barmiest, of the appalling Delgardo brothers, did put me back on the front page of the News of the World (and even got me a few inches in The Times). But I suppose I have become pretty well known, if not something of a legend, round the Old Bailey, in Pommeroy’s Wine Bar in Fleet Street, in the robing room at London Sessions and in the cells at Brixton Prison. They know me there for never pleading guilty, for chain-smoking small cigars, and for quoting Wordsworth when they least expect it. Such notoriety will not long survive my not-to-be-delayed trip to Golders Green Crematorium. Barristers’ speeches vanish quicker than Chinese dinners, and even the greatest victory in Court rarely survives longer than the next Sunday’s papers.
To understand the full effect on my family life, however, of that case which I have called ‘Rumpole and the Younger Generation’, it is necessary to know a little of my past and the long years that led up to my successful defence of Jim Timson, the 16-year-old sprig, the young hopeful, and apple of the eye of the Timsons, a huge and industrious family of South London villains. As this case was, by and large, a family matter, it is important that you should understand my family.
My father, the Reverend Wilfred Rumpole, was a Church of England clergyman who, in early middle age, came reluctantly to the conclusion that he no longer believed any one of t
he 39 Articles. As he was not fitted by character or training for any other profession, however, he had to soldier on in his living in Croydon and by a good deal of scraping and saving he was able to send me as a boarder to a minor public school on the Norfolk coast. I later went to Keble College, Oxford, where I achieved a dubious third in law - you will discover during the course of these memoirs that, although I only feel truly alive and happy in Law Courts, I have a singular distaste for the law. My father’s example, and the number of theological students I met at Keble, gave me an early mistrust of clergymen whom I have always found to be most unsatisfactory witnesses. If you call a clergyman in mitigation, the old darling can be guaranteed to add at least a year to the sentence.
When I first went to the Bar, I entered the Chambers of C. H. Wystan. Wystan had a moderate practice, acquired rather by industry than talent, and a strong disinclination to look at the photographs in murder cases, being particularly squeamish on the fascinating subject of blood. He also had a daughter, Hilda Wystan as was, now Mrs Hilda Rumpole and She Who Must Be Obeyed. I was ambitious in those days. I did my best to cultivate Wystan’s clerk Albert, and I started to get a good deal of criminal work. I did what was expected of me and spent happy hours round the Bailey and Sessions and my fame grew in criminal circles; at the end of the day I would take Albert for a drink in Pommeroy’s Wine Bar. We got on extremely well and he would always recommend ‘his Mr Rumpole’ if a solicitor rang up with a particularly tricky indecent assault or a nasty case of receiving stolen property.
There is no point in writing your memoirs unless you are prepared to be completely candid, and I must confess that, in the course of a long life, I have been in love on several occasions. I am sure that I loved Miss Porter, the shy and nervous, but at times liberated daughter of Septimus Porter, my Oxford tutor in Roman Law. In fact we were engaged to be married, but the engagement had to be broken off because of Miss Porter’s early death. I often think about her, and of the different course my home life might have taken, for Miss Porter was in no way a girl born to command, or expect, implicit obedience. During my service with the ground staff of the R.A.F. I undoubtedly became helplessly smitten with the charms of an extremely warmhearted and gallant officer in the W.A.A.F.s by the name of Miss Bobby O’Keefe, but I was no match for the wings of a Pilot Officer, as appeared on the chest of a certain Sam ‘Three-Fingers’ Dogherty. During my conduct of a case, which I shall describe in a later chapter which I have called ‘Rumpole and the Alternative Society’, I once again felt a hopeless and almost feverish stirring of passion for a young woman who was determined to talk her way into Holloway Prison. My relationship with Hilda Wystan was rather different.
To begin with, she seemed part of life in Chambers. She was always interested in the law and ambitious, first for her widowed father, and then, when he proved himself unlikely Lord Chancellor material, for me. She often dropped in for tea on her way home from shopping, and Wystan used to invite me in for a cup. One year I was detailed off to be her partner at an Inns of Court ball. There it became clear to me that I was expected to marry Hilda; it seemed a step in my career like getting a brief in the Court of Appeal, or doing a murder. When she proposed to me, as she did over a glass of claret cup after an energetic waltz, Hilda made it clear that, when old Wystan finally retired, she expected to see me Head of Chambers. I, who have never felt at a loss for a word in Court, found absolutely nothing to say. In that silence the matter was concluded.
So now you must picture Hilda and me twenty-five years later, with a son at that same east coast public school which I just managed to afford from the fruits of crime, in our matrimonial home at 2.5B Froxbury Court, Gloucester Road. (A mansion flat is a misleading description of that cavernous and underheated area which Hilda devotes so much of her energy to keeping shipshape, not to say Bristol fashion.) We were having breakfast, and, between bites of toast, I was reading my brief for that day, an Old Bailey trial of the 16-year-old Jim Timson charged with robbery with violence, he having allegedly taken part in a wage snatch on a couple of elderly butchers: an escapade planned in the playground of the local Comprehensive. As so often happens, the poet Wordsworth, that old sheep of the Lake District, sprang immediately to mind, and I gave tongue to his lines, well knowing that they must only serve to irritate She Who Must Be Obeyed.
‘Trailing clouds of glory do we come From God, who is our home; Heaven lies about us in our infancy!’
I looked at Hilda. She was impassively demolishing a boiled egg. I also noticed that she was wearing a hat, as if prepared to set out upon some expedition. I decided to give her a little more Wordsworth, prompted by my reading the story of the boy Timson.
‘Shades of the prison house begin to close Upon the growing boy.’
Hilda spoke at last.
‘Rumpole, you’re not talking about your son, I hope. You’re never referring to Nick…’
‘Shades of the prison house begin to close? Not round our son, of course. Not round Nick. Shades of the public school have grown round him, the thousand-quid-a-year remand home.’
Hilda always thought it indelicate to refer to the subject of school fees, as if being at Mulstead were a kind of unsolicited honour for Nick. She became increasingly business-like.
‘He’s breaking up this morning.’
‘Shades of the prison house begin to open up for the holidays.’
‘Nick has to be met at 11.15 at Liverpool Street and given lunch. When he went back to school you promised him a show. You haven’t forgotten?’
Hilda was clearing away the plates rapidly. To tell the truth I had forgotten the date of Nick’s holidays; but I let her assume I had a long-planned treat laid on for him.
‘Of course I haven’t forgotten. The only show I can offer him is a robbery with violence in Number 2 Court at the Old Bailey. I wish I could lay on a murder. Nick’s always so enjoyed my murders.’
It was true. On one distant half term Nick had sat in on the ‘Peckham Billiard Hall Stabbing’, and enjoyed it a great deal more than Treasure Island.
‘I must fly! Daddy gets so crotchety if anyone’s late. And he does love his visits.’
Hilda removed my half-empty coffee cup.
‘Our father which art in Horsham. Give my respects to the old sweetheart.’
It had also slipped my mind that old C. H. Wystan was laid up with a dicky ticker in Horsham General Hospital. The hat was, no doubt, a clue I should have followed. Hilda usually goes shopping in a headscarf. By now she was at the door, and looking disapproving.
‘ “Old sweetheart” is hardly how you used to talk of the Head of your Chambers.’
‘Somehow I can never remember to call the Head of my Chambers “Daddy”.’
The door was open. Hilda was making a slow and effective exit.
‘Tell Nick I’ll be back in good time to get his supper.’
‘Your wish is my command!’ I muttered in my best imitation of a slave out of Chou Chin Chow. She chose to ignore it.
‘And try not to leave the kitchen looking as though it’s been hit by a bomb.’
‘I hear, oh Master of the Blue Horizons.’ I said this with a little more confidence, as she had by now started off on her errand of mercy, and I added, for good measure, ‘She Who Must Be Obeyed’.
I had finished my breakfast, and was already thinking how much easier life with the Old Bailey judge was than marriage.
Soon after I finished my breakfast with Hilda, and made plans to meet my son at the start of his holidays from school, Fred Timson, star of a dozen Court appearances, was seeing his son in the cells under the Old Bailey as the result of a specially arranged visit. I know he brought the boy his best jacket, which his mother had taken specially to the cleaners, and insisted on his putting on a tie. I imagine he told him that they had the best ‘brief in the business to defend him, Mr Rumpole having always done wonders for the Timson family. I know that Fred told young Jim to stand up straight in the witness box and remember to call
the judge ‘my Lord’ and not show his ignorance by coming out with any gaffe such as ‘Your Honour’, or ‘Sir’. The world, that day, was full of fathers showing appropriate and paternal concern.
The robbery with which Jim Timson was charged was an exceedingly simple one. At about 7 p.m. one Friday evening, the date being 16 September, the two elder Brixton butchers, Mr Cadwallader and Mr Lewis Stein, closed their shop in Bombay Road and walked with their week’s takings round the corner to a narrow alley-way known as Green’s Passage, where their grey Austin van was parked. When they got to the van they found that the front tyres had been deflated. They stooped to inspect the wheels and, as they did so they were attacked by a number of boys, some armed with knives and one flourishing a cricket stump. Luckily, neither of the butchers was hurt, but the attache case containing their money was snatched.
Chief Inspector ‘PersiF White, the old darling in whose territory this outrage had been committed, arrested Jim Timson. All the other boys got clean away, but no doubt because he came from a family well known, indeed almost embarrassingly familiar, to the Chief Inspector, and because of certain rumours in the school playground, he was charged and put on an identity parade. The butchers totally failed to identify him; but, when he was in the Remand Centre, young Jim, according to the evidence, had boasted to another boy of having ‘done the butchers’.
As I thought about this case on my way to the Temple that morning, it occurred to me that Jim Timson was a year younger than my son, but that he had got a step further than Nick in following his father’s profession. I had always hoped Nick would go into the law, and, as I say, he seemed to thoroughly enjoy my murders.
In the clerk’s room in Chambers Albert was handing out the work for the day: rather as a trainer sends his string of horses out on the gallops. I looked round the familiar faces, my friend George Frobisher, who is an old sweetheart but an absolutely hopeless advocate (he can’t ask for costs without writing down what he’s going to say), was being fobbed off with a nuisance at Kingston County Court. Young Erskine-Brown, who wears striped shirts and what I believe are known as ‘Chelsea Boots’, was turning up his well-bred nose at an indecent assault at Lambeth (a job I’d have bought Albert a double claret in Pom-meroy’s for at his age) and saying he would prefer a little civil work, adding that he was so sick to death of crime.
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