The First Rumpole Omnibus

by John Mortimer

  ‘How what happened?’

  ‘How I had it away with Mr Ransom.’

  ‘You mean sexual intercourse?’ George asked, showing himself to be unexpectedly up in contemporary English.

  ‘Yes,’ said Francesca.

  ‘Because you were annoyed with Charles. You did that}’ I tried to sound incredulous.

  ‘I wasn’t annoyed. I was furious with him.’

  ‘Because of that, you say, you made love to my client?’

  ‘That was the reason. Really.’

  ‘Without love?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you enjoy the experience?’

  ‘Not much. He kept on spouting poetry.’

  I looked at my client’s face. I knew that nothing, no prison sentence that George had it in his power to award, would now hurt him more than the words that his young Juliet, Miss Fran-cesca Capstick, had just spoken. I took a deep breath and began again, ‘I put it to you that what you have just told us is a deliberate and wicked lie. You never went to bed with my client.’

  ‘I did. We did it again too…’

  ‘Just as your letter to him was a wicked and deliberate lie, aimed to deceive him, your evidence has been completely invented to deceive this jury.’ I went on like that for the rest of the afternoon. But my heart was no longer in it.

  Guthrie Featherstone played golf with Mr Justice Vosper and Keith from the Lord Chancellor’s office, but his luck was out. Vosper got stuck in some sort of sand dune, Keith hit his ball into a river, and Guthrie committed the unpardonable and quite unintentional social blunder of holing out in one on the thirteenth; so for the moment his heavy hints of his willingness to exchange the hectic struggle of the front row for the peace and comfort of the Judicial Bench went unheeded.

  Worse still, Hilda told all my gossip to Marigold Featherstone, who told Guthrie, who summoned Erskine-Brown to him and said that the last thing he needed was to be Head of a Chambers in which irregular unions and unsanctified births were a common occurrence. As his own marriage would founder unless he got a judgeship, he begged Erskine-Brown to pop the question to an ever-increasing Miss Phillida Trant.

  At first his proposal was received somewhat coldly, but when Erskine-Brown insisted that he was particularly fond of children, Miss Trant asked him if he would be prepared to baby-sit if she were kept late at London Sessions, and when he showed willing Claude was accepted without more ado. The happy couple were married in the Temple Church and we had a reception in a tent in Temple Gardens. Old George Frobisher came and we sank our noses into glasses of non-vintage Pommeroy’s Shampoo.

  ‘Sorry to have had to put that fellow Ransom away,’ George said. ‘I really had no alternative. Was two years too much?’

  ‘Two days would have been too much. You know that, George.’

  George ignored this and gulped champagne. ‘I heard they’re not prosecuting that young boy Mowersby. No doubt that’s a wise decision. It’s different, isn’t it, for the young?’

  ‘You mean they’re so much more grown-up, and experienced?’

  ‘But your client was her schoolmaster. He was in charge of her.’

  ‘No, George. She was in charge of him. Totally.’

  ‘Are you angry with me, Rumpole?’

  ‘I was. Exceedingly.’

  ‘It wasn’t my fault.’

  He was right, of course. It wasn’t George’s fault. It was the fault of life, the fault of love, the fault of poetry, the fault of youth, the fault of the law. Not George’s fault at all. Ronald Ransom had thanked me for all I’d done, but I knew he hated me for it. As for Miss Francesca Capstick, she left the Court arm-in-arm with C. J. Mowersby. It was the only time I ever saw him smile.

  Rumpole and the Age for Retirement

  ‘Sir Mathew told the Police Federation that the work of crime detection was becoming more and more frustrating. “And when you catch them,” he said, “there’s always some clever dick of a bent barrister who earns his living by finding a legal loophole for the crook to wriggle out of.”’

  The wireless set in the kitchen at Casa Rumpole, where I was moodily chewing a slice of burnt toast and drinking a cup of instant before setting off for the Ludgate Circus Palais de Justice, crackled with indignation as it reported the words of some highly placed copper who was intent, as highly placed coppers are nowadays, on repealing Magna Carta, abolishing Habeas Corpus, reversing the presumption of innocence and substituting a brief hearing before the sergeant in the local Station (from which all lawyers would, of course, be barred) for the antiquated and unsatisfactory system of trial by jury. As I went for the ancient hat and well-used mackintosh I heard that Sir Mathew had regretted ‘the recent serious epidemic of acquittals at the Old Bailey, which was a glaring example of the injustice caused by underworld legal vultures’.

  Oh dear, and a very big ‘oh dear’ at that. Rumpole’s occupation, that of making sure that citizens of all classes are not randomly convicted of crimes they didn’t do just so that the prison statistics may look more impressive, seems to have fallen into disrepute. I felt more than usually unappreciated as I burrowed down the Gloucester Road tube on my mole-like journey to irritate the constabulary and pour sand in the gear-box of justice, and when I emerged, blinking, into the daylight of the Temple Station I was beginning to wonder if it was not time to abandon the up-hill struggle. Was it possible that Rumpole should retire from the Bar? Of course I have nothing to retire on, except an overdraft at the National Westminster Bank and a dribble of uncollected fees. But now my son Nick has gone off to seek a Newer World, being something pretty high up in the University of Baltimore (Sociology Department) and living with his wife Erica in some luxurious ranch-style edifice, with a swimming-pool in what my daughter-in-law mysteriously refers to as the ‘Back Yard’ (I always thought of a back yard as a place for dustbins, bicycles and possibly a cage for ferrets), Hilda and I are more or less alone in the world.

  ‘It little profits that an idle king…’ I quoted to myself as I climbed into the frayed black gown and crowned myself with the antique wig, and poor old Alfred Tennyson’s words seemed more than usually apposite:

  ‘By this still hearth, among these barren crags,

  Matched with an aged wife, I mete and dole

  Unequal laws unto a savage race,

  That hoard and feed and sleep and know not me…”

  I recalled the poor old Laureate’s words again that day when, delivered of my final speech in a case where I was defending a certain Melvin Glassworth on a well-aimed charge of conspiracy to steal various works of art and valuable antiques, I sat in Number 3 Court at the Old Bailey, listening to the summing-up of that singularly unattractive judge, Mr Justice Vosper. Just as a gambler at Monte Carlo may be bankrupted by a long run on the black when all his savings are staked on the red, so I had suffered the misfortune of facing Vosper J. in three cases running at the Bailey. This judge, who in my considered opinion has a great deal in common with Shakespeare’s Angelo (they both urinate congealed ice), suffered all the worst faults of a judge; he was unable to keep quiet, he invariably acted as leading counsel for the prosecution, and he could never resist trying to make a joke instead of leaving the comedy to Rumpole. Anyway there we sat, Counsel for the prosecution relaxed, the jury looking young and serious (they had all no doubt heard the wise woH? of the Head Copper on the wireless that morning) and Mr Melvin Glassworth, a plumpish, pinkish man who smelt of vari- ous toilet preparations, sweating slightly in the dock as he saw the doors of the prison house begin to close. I shut my eyes and from afar became aware that the words now falling from his Lordship, might be construed as discouraging Rumpole’s continued activity about the Courts of Justice.

  ‘Finally, members of the jury, allow me to remind you,’ said his Lordship, ‘you decide this case on the facts and not on the speeches of Counsel, however eloquently they address you.’ In other words his message was ‘Beware of Rumpole, the Old Bailey Hack’. ‘Counsel for the defence in this case,�
�� the judge went on, ‘has chosen to challenge the police evidence as he is entitled to do. But you are entitled to form your own view of the evidence, quite independent of the view of learned Counsel, however long he may have been practising at the Bar.’ Why didn’t he just tell them ‘Rumpole’s past it?’ ‘We all enjoy Mr Rumpole’s speeches. We always find his little jokes most amusing. But you and I have a more serious duty to perform…’ I knew he was delighted that I was only there to provide light relief. Bring on the dancing Rumpole.

  ‘Of course, if by any chance you think there is a reasonable doubt in this case you will follow Mr Rumpole’s advice and acquit the defendant Glassworth of this serious charge of conspiracy to steal these valuable works of art.’ Here his Lordship smiled tolerantly at the jury, in the full knowledge that they would agree that this was a truly laughable suggestion. ‘But if you think that the prosecution case is unanswerable…’ In other words, Vosper J. was saying, if you have an ounce of common sense, ‘then it is your plain duty, in accordance with your oath, to find the defendant guilty as charged.’ And bugger Rumpole, he might have added. ‘So will you please go now and consider your verdict. The only question for you is whether Melvin Glassworth is guilty as charged… Mr Jury Bailiff…’

  Whereupon the usher rose in the well of the Court, held up a Bible and swore to take the jury to some convenient place to consider this simple question, and I prayed silently that they would consider the feelings of an old man and stay out for a decent interval, or at least more than five minutes. Meanwhile I went out into the corridor, lit a small cigar with the nervous hand and the dry mouth I always experience when the jury goes out to consider its verdict, and was immediately accosted by a bulky man of about my own age, wearing a lightweight checked summer sports-jacket, who addressed me in a low, rumbling, transatlantic accent.

  ‘Mr Rumpole,’ he said, ‘I have heard a lot about you, sir. Your fame has spread to the States.’

  ‘I can’t believe it.’

  ‘Oh yes, sir. You know, I practised as an attorney myself. For many years. Of course, I didn’t wear the rug.’

  I thought he must be referring to some sort of plaid, perhaps for use in cold courts, and I was confused.

  ‘The what?’

  ‘The headpiece. The horse-hair peruque.’

  ‘Oh this.’ I slapped my antique wig. ‘Of course, we’re invisible without it. Unless we’ve got it on the judge can’t see us. Sometimes I’m tempted to remove the wig and disappear entirely from view.’

  ‘I can understand, sir. Exactly how you feel.’ The gravelly voice was sympathetic. ‘The learned judge seemed to regard you as a senior citizen.’

  ‘I’m not all that senior.’ I was defensive. ‘And he’s not all that learned!’

  ‘I long ago gave up the dust of conflict for the Groves of Academe. What do you call an academic lawyer here?’

  As bad language is not encouraged from members of my learned profession round the Bailey I didn’t tell him.

  In the ensuing silence he pulled out his wallet and presented me with an embossed card.

  ‘Professor Kramer. Head of the Department of Law’, it announced, ‘in the University of Baltimore.’

  Baltimore! My son’s university; but the usher came bustling up to put an end to further inquiry.

  ‘Mr Rumpole,’ he said urgently, ‘they’re coming back, Mr Rumpole.’

  ‘How extremely rude of them.’ I turned to Professor Kramer. ‘My son Nick’s at Baltimore. Teaching Sociology. He’s got his own small Department now. And a new house. 1106 East Drive, Baltimore. You know it? Of course, Nick’s the brain of the family.’

  ‘They’ve got a verdict, Mr Rumpole,’ the usher intoned.

  ‘Look, I’ve got to go now, Professor…’

  ‘Kramer, Julius Kramer. I shall be in touch! Back to the dust of battle, Mr Rumpole. I have to tell you. It’s just great to be out of it!’

  The jury came back and announced their unanimous decision, the judge announced the three-year sentence he’d been planning throughout the trial, and I went down to the cells to say goodbye to Mr Melvin Glassworth. Taking your leave of a convicted client is one of those awkward social occasions which I would give anything to avoid, but which are as mandatory as an invitation to the Palace (not that I have ever had an invitation to the Palace; but I have kept many disappointed engagements down the cells at the Bailey). However disastrous the result or excessive the sentence you rarely get blamed for losing a case; the prisoner may be almost relieved that it wasn’t as bad as he feared, and he is always numb; it’s only after a week in chokey that the shock wears off, the pain starts, and the customer faces up to the reality of stone walls and banging up and stinking chamber-pots and tears, I have no doubt, start to prick behind his eyes.

  As I have said, you rarely get blamed. Mr Melvin Glassworth was, however, the exception that proves the rule. When my solicitor, Mr Bernard, and I went down to the cells he was red-faced, sweating more than ever, and extremely angry. It was no good suggesting that three years for a theft worth at least twenty-thousand nicker was not outrageous, so Rumpole lit a small cigar, and contented himself into looking genuinely grieved. Mr Bernard provided cold comfort by pointing out that it was only two really, with time off for good behaviour.

  ‘Oh, what’s two? A long weekend in the country. Is that what you’re trying to tell me? I suppose you want me to be grateful.’ Mr Glassworth mopped his forehead with a purple silk handkerchief that smelt of old pear drops. ‘I’m a man of a certain fastidiousness,’ he told us. ‘I have to have two shirts a day, me! Two clean shirts is not an indulgence as far as I’m concerned. It’s a necessity! Do they still have slopping out?’

  ‘I’m afraid they do,’ I had to tell him. He moved away from us; I was afraid that the tears were coming now.

  ‘I have spent my life in the acquisition of beautiful objects,’ Mr Glassworth said. That, of course, was really the problem. ‘Slopping out. How can I live through it, me!’ He went on, ‘And the sickening sexual advances of beefy warders!’

  ‘I shouldn’t count on that, old darling,’ I said, not quite sufficiently under my breath.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Nothing… I’m sorry.’

  ‘You’re sorry! You can go home.’ Mr Glassworth’s misery exploded in anger. ‘Have a bath with a decent tablet of Imperial Leather. Dry on a warm fleecy towel. Use talcum powder and eau de toilette, you!’

  ‘I don’t actually…’ But there was no real point in establishing my bathroom habits.

  ‘Attacking the police! That wasn’t a smash hit with the jury, was it? And those little jokes in your final speech, they didn’t exactly bring the house down!’

  ‘The judge went too far in his summing-up, Melvin. We can think about an appeal.’ Mr Bernard was soothing, but Melvin Glassworth turned on me, unappeased.

  ‘You know what you ought to be thinking about, you. Retirement!’ he said. ‘That’s what you ought to do! Bloody retire!’

  My next appearance before Mr Justice Vosper took place after old Uncle Percy Timson found Jesus Christ unexpectedly in his lock-up garage.

  I have written elsewhere of the Timson family,* that huge clan of South London villains whose selfless devotion to crime has kept the Rumpoles in such luxuries as Vim, Gumption, sliced bread and saucepan scourers over the years, not to mention the bare necessities of life, such as gin, tonic and cooking claret from Pommeroy’s Wine Bar. Uncle Percy Timson, who lived with his wife Noreen in a respectable semi-detached somewhere in the general direction of Kent, had practised for many years the profession of a small-time fence or receiver of stolen property. The business was small, personal and regular: it enabled Uncle Percy and Auntie Noreen to run an elderly Cortina, grow prize leeks and go for an annual holiday on the Costa Brava. They had, it seemed, recently been away for such a package adventure, and the morning after their return, as they sat brewing early-morning tea in their kitchen, Auntie Noreen saw something which caused
her to throw the fine Georgian silver tea-pot she was using (part of the business stock) straight into the tidy bin. When Percy joined her at the window he said:

  ‘That new one… that Detective Inspector Broome’s got no bloody manners. When it was old “Persil” White’s patch he at least gave you time to finish your breakfast.’

  Detective Inspector Broome, known as the new Broome among the disapproving Timsons, was a young zealous officer with horn-rimmed spectacles, a small but aggressive moustache, and views on lawyers which coincided entirely with those which Sir Mathew, the Chief Copper, had been expounding on steam radio. He was at that moment advancing remorselessly on Uncle Percy’s garage leading a posse which included Detective Constable Wood, a uniformed officer, and an Alsatian dog. At the garage doors old Uncle Percy came out in his dressing-gown and encountered the D.I. His conscience was easy and his manner relaxed. So far as he knew there was nothing of interest to be found in the garage; the load from the Deptford job went the week before, and a consignment of electric blankets was not due till the following Saturday.

  ‘You’re interested in buying my Banger, Mr Broome, are you?’ Percy asked. ‘One owner, and he was the Vicar of Gravesend and only used it for funerals.’

  ‘Open up, Percy.’ D.C. Wood sounded distinctly hostile. ‘Or you want us to break the door down?’

  ‘We know what you got there, Percy. We know exactly what you’ve got,’ D.I. Broome said.

  ‘Nothing, I do assure you, Mr Broome, what’s not perfectly legitimate.’

  At which, with a confidence which turned out to be ill-founded, Percy Timson unlocked his garage. A huge religious picture, which had been leaning against the door, toppled forward, Our Lord and Saviour, his hand raised in gentle Benediction, was descending on the astonished onlookers.

  ‘Jesus… Ker-ist!’ said Percy, he was more surprised than anyone.

  So it happened that Percy Timson found himself in the local nick being interviewed by those fearless battlers against crime, D.I. Broome and D.C. Wood. Broome, in the interests of making his case barrister-proof, was after Uncle Percy’s autograph on a confession statement, a brief admission of the crime of receiving a religious art-work in his lock-up garage well knowing it to have been stolen.