The First Rumpole Omnibus

by John Mortimer

  ‘The first shot?’ She frowned, as if at some distant memory.

  ‘The one that didn’t kill him. The one that went behind you. He must have fired that. He must...’

  ‘Yes.’ She nodded her head. That was encouraging. So far as it went.

  ‘Why the hell… why in the name of sanity didn’t you tell us that before?’

  ‘I waited. Until there was someone I could trust.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes. You, Mr Rumpole.’

  There’s nothing more flattering than to be trusted, even by a confirmed and hopeless villain (which is why I find it hard to dislike a client), and I was convinced Maggie Hartley wasn’t that. I sat down beside her in the cell and, with Albert taking notes, she started to talk. What she said was disjointed, sometimes incoherent, and God knows how it was going to sound in the witness-box, but given a few more breaks in the prosecution case, and a following wind I was beginning to get the sniff of a defence.

  One, two, three, four…

  Mr Alan Copeland, the juvenile lead, had just given his evidence-in-chief for the prosecution. He seemed a pleasant enough young man, wearing a tie and a dark suit (good witness-box clothing) and his evidence hadn’t done us any particular harm. All the same I was trying what the director Derwent had admired as the devastating pause.

  Seven… eight… nine…

  ‘Have you any questions, Mr Rumpole?’ The judge sounded as if he was getting a little impatient with ‘the timing’. I launched the cross-examination.

  ‘Mr Alan… Copeland. You know the deceased man owned a Smith and Wesson revolver? Do you know where he got it?’

  ‘He was in a spy film and it was one of the props. He bought it.’

  ‘But it was more than a bit of scenery. It was a real revolver.’

  ‘Unfortunately, yes.’

  ‘And he had a licence for it…?’

  ‘Oh yes. He joined the Grimble Rifle and Pistol Club and used to shoot at targets. I think he fancied himself as James Bond or something.’

  ‘As James who…?’ I knew that Mr Justice Skelton wouldn’t be able to resist playing the part of a mystified judge, so I explained carefully.

  ‘A character in fiction, my Lord. A person licensed to kill. He also spends a great deal of his time sleeping with air hostesses.’ To Tommy Pierce’s irritation I got a little giggle out of the ladies and gentlemen of the jury.

  ‘Mr Rumpole. We have quite enough to do in this case dealing with questions of fact. I suggest we leave the world of fiction… outside the Court, with our overcoats.’

  The jury subsided into serious attention, and I addressed myself to the work in hand. ‘Where did Mr Frere keep his revolver?’

  ‘Usually in a locker. At the Rifle Club.’

  ‘Usually?’

  ‘A few weeks ago he asked me to bring it back to the theatre for him.’

  ‘He asked you?’

  ‘I’m a member of the Club myself.’

  ‘Really, Mr Copeland.’ The judge was interested. ‘And what’s your weapon?’

  ‘A shot gun, my Lord. I do some clay pigeon shooting.’

  ‘Did Frere say why he wanted his gun brought back to the theatre?’ I gave the jury a puzzled look.

  ‘There’d been some burglaries. I imagine he wanted to scare any intruder…’

  I had established that it was Frere’s gun, and certainly not brought to the scene of the crime by Maggie. I broached another topic. ‘Now you have spoken of some quarrels between Frere and his wife.’

  ‘Yes, sir. He once threw a drink in her face.’

  ‘During their quarrels, did you see my client retaliate in any way?’

  ‘No. No, I never did. May I say something, my Lord…’

  ‘Certainly, Mr Copeland.’

  I held my breath. I didn’t like free-ranging witnesses, but at his answer I sat down gratefully.

  ‘Miss Hartley, as we knew her, was an exceptionally gentle person.’

  I saw the jury look at the dock, at the quiet almost motionless woman sitting there.

  ‘Mr Copeland. You’ve told us you shot clay pigeons at the Rifle Club.’ The prosecution was up and beaming.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Nothing much to eat on a clay pigeon, I suppose.’

  The jury greeted this alleged quip with total silence. The local comic had died the death in Grimble. Pierce went on and didn’t improve his case.

  ‘And Frere asked for this pistol to be brought back to the theatre. Did his wife know that, do you think…?’

  ‘I certainly didn’t tell her.’

  ‘May I ask why not?’

  ‘I think it would have made her very nervous. I certainly was.’

  ‘Nervous of what, exactly?’

  Tommy Pierce had broken the first rule of advocacy. Never ask your witness a question unless you’re quite sure of the answer.

  ‘Well… I was always afraid G.P.’d get drunk and loose it off at someone…’

  The beauty of that answer was that it came from a witness for the prosecution, a detached observer who’d only been called to identify the gun as belonging to the late-lamented G. P. Frere. None too soon for the health of his case Tommy Pierce let Mr Copeland leave the box. I saw him cross the Court and sit next to Daniel Derwent, who gave him a little smile, as if of congratulation.

  In the course of my legal career I have had occasion to make some study of firearms; not so intensive, of course, as my researches into the subject of blood, but I certainly know more about revolvers than I do about the law of landlord and tenant. I held the fatal weapon in a fairly expert hand as I cross-examined the Inspector who had recovered it from the scene of the crime.

  ‘It’s clear, is it not, Inspector, that two chambers had been fired?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘One bullet was found in the corner of the mirror, and another in the body of the deceased, Frere?’

  ‘That is so.’

  ‘Now. If the person who fired the shot into the mirror pulled back this hammer,’ I pulled it back, ‘to fire a second shot… the gun is now in a condition to go off with a far lighter pressure on the trigger?’

  ‘That is so. Yes.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  I put down the gun and as I did so allowed my thumb to accidentally press the trigger. I looked at it, surprised, as it clicked. It was a moderately effective move, and I thought the score was fifteen-love to Rumpole. Tommy Pierce rose to serve.

  ‘Inspector. Whether the hammer was pulled back or not, a woman would have no difficulty in firing the pistol?’

  ‘Certainly not, my Lord.’

  ‘Yes. Thank you, Inspector.’ The prosecution sat down smiling. Fifteen-all.

  The last witness of the day was Miss Christine Hope who turned her large ingenue eyes on the jury and whispered her evidence at a sound level which must have made her unintelligible to the audiences at the Theatre Royal. I had decided to cross-examine her more in sorrow than in anger.

  ‘Miss Hope. Why were you waiting at the stage door?’

  ‘Somehow I can never bear to leave. After the show’s over… I can never bear to go.’ She gave the jury a ‘silly me’ look of girlish enthusiasm. ‘I suppose I’m just in love with The Theatre.’

  ‘And I suppose you were also “just in love with G. P. Frere”?’

  At which Miss Hope looked helplessly at the rail of the witness-box, and fiddled with the Holy Bible.

  ‘You waited for him every night, didn’t you? He left his wife at the stage door and took you home.’

  ‘Sometimes…’

  ‘You’re dropping your voice, Miss Hope.’ The judge was leaning forward, straining to hear.

  ‘Sometimes, my Lord,’ she repeated a decibel louder.

  ‘Every night?’

  ‘Most nights. Yes.’

  ‘Thank you, Miss Hope.’

  Pierce, wisely, didn’t re-examine and La Belle Christine left the box to looks of disapproval from certain ladies on the jury. />
  I didn’t sleep well that night. Whether it was the Majestic mattress, which appeared to be stuffed with firewood, or the sounds, as of a giant suffering from indigestion, which reverberated from the central heating, or mere anxiety about the case, I don’t know. At any rate Albert and I were down in the cells as soon as they opened, taking a critical look at the client I was about to expose to the perils of the witness-box. As I had instructed her she was wearing no make-no make-up, and a simple dark dress which struck exactly the right note.

  ‘I’m glad you like it,’ Maggie said. ‘I wore it in Time and the Conways.’

  ‘Listen to the questions, answer them as shortly as you can.’ I gave her her final orders. ‘Every word to the North Country comedian is giving him a present. Just stick to the facts. Not a word of criticism of the dear departed.’

  ‘You want them to like me?’

  ‘They shouldn’t find it too difficult.’ I looked at her, and lit a small cigar.

  ‘Do I have to swear on… the Bible?’

  ‘It’s customary.’

  ‘I’d rather affirm.’

  ‘You don’t believe in God?’ I didn’t want an obscure point of theology adding unnecessary difficulties to our case.

  ‘I suppose He’s a possibility. He just doesn’t seem to be a very frequent visitor to the East Grimble Rep.’

  ‘I know a Grimble jury,’ Albert clearly shared my fears. ‘If you could swear on the Bible?’

  ‘The audience might like it?’ Maggie smiled gently.

  ‘The jury,’ I corrected her firmly.

  ‘They’re not too keen on agnostic actresses. Is that your opinion?’

  ‘I suppose that puts it in a nutshell.’

  ‘All right for the West End, is that it? No good in Grimble.’

  ‘Of course I want you to be yourself…’ I really hoped she wasn’t going to be difficult about the oath.

  ‘No you don’t. You don’t want me to be myself at all. You want me to be an ordinary North Country housewife. Spending just another ordinary day on trial for murder.’ For a moment her voice had hardened. I looked at her and tried to sound as calm as possible as I pulled out my watch. It was nearly time for the curtain to go up on the evidence for the defence.

  ‘Naturally you’re nervous. Time to go.’

  ‘Bloody sick to the stomach. Every time I go on.’ Her voice was gentle again, and she was smiling ruefully.

  ‘Good luck.’

  ‘We never say “good luck”. It’s bad luck to say “good luck”. We say “break a leg”…’

  ‘Break a leg!’ I smiled back at her and went upstairs to make my entrance.

  Calling your client, I always think, is the worst part of any case. When you’re cross-examining, or making a final speech, you’re in control. Put your client in the witness-box and there the old darling is, exposed to the world, out of your protection, and all you can do is ask the questions and hope to God the answers don’t blow up in your face.

  With Maggie everything was going well. We were like a couple of ballroom dancers, expertly gyrating to Victor Sylvester and certain to walk away with the cup. She seemed to sense my next question, and had her answer ready, but not too fast. She looked at the jury, made herself audible to the judge, and gave an impression, a small, dark figure in the witness-box, of courage in the face of adversity. The Court was so quiet and attentive that, as she started to describe that final quarrel, I felt we were alone, two old friends, talking intimately of some dreadful event that took place a long time ago.

  ‘He told me… he was very much in love with Christine.’

  ‘With Miss Hope?’

  ‘Yes. With Christine Hope. That he wanted her to play Amanda.’

  ‘That is… the leading lady? And what was to happen to you?’

  ‘He wanted me to leave the company. To go to London. He never wanted to see me again.’

  ‘What did you say to that?’

  ‘I said I was terribly unhappy about Christine, naturally.’

  ‘Just tell the ladies and gentlemen of the jury what happened next.’

  ‘He said it didn’t matter what I said. He was going to get rid of me. He opened the drawer of the dressing-table.’

  ‘Was he standing then?’

  ‘I would say, staggering.’

  ‘Yes, and then…?’

  ‘He took out the… the revolver.’

  ‘This one…?’

  I handed the gun to the usher, who took it to Maggie. She glanced at it and shuddered.

  ‘I… I think so.’

  ‘What effect did it have on you when you first saw it?’

  ‘I was terrified.’

  ‘Did you know it was there?’

  ‘No. I had no idea.’

  ‘And then…?’

  ‘Then. He seemed to be getting ready to fire the gun.’

  ‘You mean he pulled back the hammer…?’

  ‘My Lord…’ Pierce stirred his vast bulk and the judge was inclined to agree. He said:

  ‘Yes. Please don’t lead, Mr Rumpole.’

  ‘I think that’s what he did,’ Maggie continued without assistance. ‘I didn’t look carefully. Naturally I was terrified. He was waving the gun. He didn’t seem to be able to hold it straight. Then there was a terrible explosion. I remember glass, and dust, everywhere.’

  ‘Who fired that shot, Mrs Frere?’

  ‘My husband. I think…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I think he was trying to kill me.’ She said it very quietly, but the jury heard, and remembered. She gave it a marked pause and then went on. ‘After that first shot. I saw him getting ready to fire again.’

  ‘Was he pulling…?’

  ‘Please don’t lead, Mr Rumpole.’ The trouble with the great comedian was that he couldn’t sit still in anyone else’s act.

  ‘He was pulling back… That thing.’ Maggie went on without any help.

  Then I asked the judge if we could have a demonstration and the usher went up into the witness-box to play the scene with Maggie. At my suggestion he took the revolver.

  ‘We are all quite sure that thing isn’t loaded?’ The judge sounded nervous.

  ‘Quite sure, my Lord. Of course, we don’t want another fatal accident?

  ‘Really, my Lord. That was quite improper!’ Pierce rose furiously. ‘My learned friend called it an accident.’

  I apologized profusely, the point having been made. Then Maggie quietly positioned the usher. He raised the gun as she asked him. It was pointed murderously at her. And then Maggie grabbed at the gun in his hand, and forced it back, struggling desperately, against the usher’s chest.

  ‘I was trying to stop him. I got hold of his hand to push the gun away… I pushed it back… I think… I think I must have forced back his finger on the trigger.’ We heard the hammer click, and now Maggie was struggling to hold back her tears. ‘There was another terrible noise… I never meant…’

  ‘Yes. Thank you, Usher.’

  The usher went back to the well of the Court. Maggie was calm again when I asked her:

  ‘When Mr Croft came you said you had killed your husband?’

  ‘Yes… I had… By accident.’

  ‘What else did you say?’

  ‘I think I said… What could I do with him? I meant, how could I help him, of course.’

  ‘And you asked Mr Croft to help you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  It was time for the curtain line.

  ‘Mrs Frere. Did you ever at any time have any intention of killing your husband?’

  ‘Never…! Never…! Never…!’ Now my questions were finished she was crying, her face and shoulders shaking. The judge leaned forward kindly.

  ‘Don’t distress yourself. Usher, a glass of water?’

  Her cheeks hot with genuine tears, Maggie looked up bravely.

  ‘Thank you, my Lord.’

  ‘Bloody play-acting!’ I heard the cynical Tommy Pierce mutter ungraciously to his junior, Roach.
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  If she was good in chief Maggie was superb in cross-examination. She answered the questions courteously, shortly, but as if she were genuinely trying to help Tommy, clear up any doubt about her innocence that may have lingered in his mind. At the end he lost his nerve and almost shouted at her:

  ‘So according to you, you did nothing wrong?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘I did something terribly wrong.’

  ‘Tell us. What?’

  ‘I loved him too much. Otherwise I should have left him. Before he tried to kill me.’

  During Tommy’s final speech there was some coughing from the jury. He tried a joke or two about actors, lost heart and sat down upon reminding the jury that they must not let sympathy for my client affect their judgement.

  ‘I agree entirely with my learned friend,’ I started my speech. ‘Put all sympathy out of your mind. The mere fact that my client clung faithfully to a drunken, adulterous husband, hoping vainly for the love he denied her; the terrible circumstance that she escaped death at his hands only to face the terrible ordeal of a trial for murder; none of these things should influence you in the least…” and I ended with my well-tried peroration. ‘In an hour or two this case will be over. You will go home and put the kettle on and forget all about this little theatre, and the angry, drunken actor and his wretched infidelities. This case has only been a few days out of your lives. But for this lady I have the honour to represent…’ I pointed to the dock, ‘all her life hangs in the balance. Is that life to be broken and is she to go down in darkness and disgrace, or can she go back into the glowing light of her world, to bring us all joy and entertainment and laughter once again? Ask yourselves that question, members of the jury. And when you ask it, you know there can only be one answer.’

  I sank back into my seat exhausted, pushing back my wig and mopping my brow with a large silk handkerchief. Looking round the Court I saw Derwent. He seemed about to applaud, until he was restrained by Mr Alan Copeland.

  There is nothing I hate more than waiting for a jury to come back. You smoke too much and drink too many cups of coffee, your hands sweat and you can’t do or think of anything else. All you can do is to pay a courtesy visit to the cells to prepare for the worst. Albert Handyside had to go off and do a touch of Dangerous Driving in the Court next door, so I was alone when I went to call on the waiting Maggie.