The First Rumpole Omnibus

by John Mortimer

  ‘We’re not what, Mr Rumpole?’ Fred was puzzled.

  ‘You’re not even Lord Clark. You never studied civilization even on the telly. You couldn’t tell a genuine Fra Angelico from the top of a box of biscuits. And because of your total abysmal ignorance of matters artistic, Uncle Percy’s up on a half-million-pound handling and three-quarters of the way to Parkhurst, Isle of Wight!’

  ‘Well. What are you going to do about it, Mr Rumpole?’ Dennis asked uncomfortably.

  ‘No. What are you going to do about it, Dennis?’ I stood up and prepared to leave the assembled Timsons. ‘You’d better think a bit quickly,’ I told him, ‘Uncle Percy’s going to give his evidence tomorrow.’

  By the time I got back to the flat I was feeling low and somewhat exhausted. I sat by the electric fire, alone in the dark and was roused from a blackish reverie by Nick coming in and switching on the light. It seemed that She Who Must Be Obeyed was out on a visit to the fascinating Erskine-Brown baby. Nick looked at me in the way that relatives look at old people on hospital visits, with a sort of hushed concern.

  ‘A bad day in Court?’

  ‘Detective Inspector Broome wants to reverse the burden of proof, revoke Magna Carta and abolish barristers. Well, that might be all right, if only he could resist gingering up the evidence whenever it suits him. And there’s no honour among thieves any more, Nick. I’m ashamed of the Timson family.’

  ‘I’ve always thought your job must be pretty depressing,’ Nick said briskly.

  ‘They wanted to get poor old Uncle Percy to retire, so the family cooked up the most diabolical plot. I don’t know… I really don’t know what things are coming to… Drop of G and T?’ I shuffled off to the reviving drinks table.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Things have reached a low ebb, Nick. They’ve even got piped music in Pommeroy’s Wine Bar. I have to come home now, to avoid the crooner.’

  ‘How disgusting!’

  At which I recalled the good old days, when Nick was about ten.

  ‘Remember when we used to go for walks on the Heath, Nick? I was Holmes and you were Watson, and we used to pick up clues?’

  Nick took his G and T, smiled and entered into the spirit of the thing. ‘What’s the explanation of this half-used box of matches on the path, Holmes?’ he said in his Watson voice.

  ‘Someone’s either got a hole in his jacket pocket, or he suddenly gave up smoking!’

  ‘You amaze me, Holmes!’

  ‘You can’t go for a walk up on the Heath now,’ I told him. ‘Not a decent Sherlock Holmes voyage of exploration. You keep tripping over the permissive society. I’ll never forget those walks. It doesn’t matter we don’t see so much of each other now, Nick. It doesn’t matter in the least. Bound to happen anyway. People growing up and all that sort of thing.’

  ‘Perhaps we can do something about it.’

  ‘Growing up?’

  ‘Not seeing each other. Look, honestly,’ Nick protested. ‘Haven’t you got into a terrible rut?’

  ‘Matched with an aged wife, I mete and dole

  Unequal laws unto a savage race…’

  I started off and my son, God bless him, was on to Alfred Lord Tennyson like a terrier.

  ‘Tis not too late to seek a new world’

  said Nick.

  ‘Push off, and sitting well in order smite

  The sounding furrows…’

  ‘You remember it, Nick!’ I was delighted, and stood up in a determined manner,

  ‘For my purpose holds’

  I carried on,

  ‘To sail beyond the sunset and the baths

  Of all the western stars until I die…’

  ‘You are going to, aren’t you?’ Nick asked.

  ‘Die?’

  ‘Of course not! Sail beyond the sunset. You’re coming to Baltimore?’

  ‘It’s a long way from the Old Bailey!’ I suppose I sounded doubtful.

  ‘Wouldn’t that be a relief?’

  ‘Perhaps it might be.’

  ‘It’s still on, you know. The lectures.’

  ‘Oh yes, the lectures.’

  ‘I saw Professor Kramer today. The only trouble is, he’s no longer at the Savoy. They’ve taken him into the Charing Cross Hospital.’ Nick broke the news to me as a matter of some seriousness. ‘He collapsed while jogging.’

  ‘While jogging, eh? Well, I’ve always avoided exercise.’ I tried to look serious also. ‘Exercise is simply an invitation to death!’

  When I turned up at the Bailey next day I saw Guthrie Featherstone, Q.c, m.p., robed for the Court next door, in earn- est conversation with my opponent Claude, the family man. As I drew up alongside Featherstone broke off and looked, I thought, exceedingly shifty.

  ‘Morning, Erskine-Brown,’ I said. ‘Ready for the battle? I think we may have a little surprise for you today.’

  ‘Ah, Horace. Are you free, by any chance, next Thursday evening?’ Featherstone asked in a casual sort of manner.

  ‘Free? I don’t suppose so. I’ll probably be at home with my wife.’

  ‘Oh, we want Hilda to come too. And your son, of course. I believe he’s over.’

  ‘Come? Where?’ I was puzzled.

  ‘I’m giving a little dinner at my Club,’ Featherstone said, ‘the Sheridan. Most of Chambers will be there. Pencil it in, now. Like a good chap.’ He went, and I turned to Erskine-Brown for clarification.

  ‘What’s the matter with our learned Head of Chambers?’ I asked him. ‘Has he come into money?’

  A couple of hours later that doughty advocate, Claude Erskine-Brown, was cross-examining Dennis Timson who had just given evidence on behalf of the defence.

  ‘Let me get this clear,’ Erskine-Brown asked with some scorn, ‘you found the picture on the municipal rubbish dump?’

  ‘Where I works. Yes.’ Dennis smiled at the jury, who were looking, in turn, at the exhibited depiction of Our Saviour giving a half-million-pounds Benediction.

  ‘And you put it in your Uncle Percy’s garage?’

  I had a key. Percy lent me his Cortina when they went on holiday,’ Dennis explained patiently.

  ‘You put-it there at night. Without telling your Uncle what you had done?’

  I did it quietly, like. Not wanting to awaken the old couple.’

  ‘Why store it in Uncle Percy’s garage?’

  ‘I didn’t have no accommodation. Not for a thing of that size at home.’

  ‘Mr Timson,’ asked the exasperated Erskine-Brown, ‘can you think of one reason why the members of the jury should believe this extraordinary story?’

  ‘Yes.’ Dennis turned to the jury in a business-like way. ‘You see, members of the jury. I rang the local nick that night. I said there was this picture, like, and if they was interested they could find it in Uncle Percy’s garage. So they was there next morning with the dawn patrol.’

  Erskine-Brown sat down on this, and I saw him speaking to Henry who had just come into Court. I rose to re-examine with confidence.

  D.I. Broome had clearly been told by someone that there was something interesting in Percy’s garage, and that informant was now revealed as Den.

  ‘Who did you speak to, at the local nick?’ I asked.

  ‘I spoke to D.I. Broome. He’ll tell you that.’

  ‘We shall see,’ I said, ‘if the prosecution recalls him to deny it.’ From the whispers from the officers in charge of the case it seemed unlikely that they would.

  ‘You told the Detective Inspector the picture was in your Uncle’s garage?’

  “Course I did.’

  ‘But you never told your Uncle. He remained in ignorance?’

  ‘Total ignorance, my Lord,’ Dennis told the judge without hesitation.

  ‘Yes, thank you, Mr Timson. Unless your Lordship has any further questions?’

  But by now even Mr Justice Vosper was silent. And Erskine-Brown was busy giving a cheque to our clerk Henry, his contribution, as I later discovered, to the Chambers present to
mark the retirement of Rumpole; a handsome clock to be presented at the forthcoming dinner organized by Guthrie Featherstone, Q.c, M.P., at the Sheridan Club.

  The jury was out for four hours and acquitted Percy Timson by a majority. He went back to work to the great satisfaction of Noreen, and the resigned regret of the rest of the family. On the following Thursday, I duly turned up with my wife and son at feeding-time at the Sheridan. We penetrated the somewhat chilly portals, passed a somnolent and sleepy uniformed figure in a glass case, and went up a staircase to a fire-warmed hall where I was delighted to see my old friend George Frobisher, now a Circuit Judge, and less delighted to see Mr Justice Vosper, and his lanky son Simon. I did my best to ignore the High Court Judge, and greeted the inferior tribunal, His Honour Judge Frobisher.

  ‘George! My old friend. My dear old friend. You’ve come all the way from Hertfordshire?’ I was touched.

  ‘To have dinner in your honour, Rumpole. Of course I have. No hard feelings, about the young schoolmaster?’* George smiled, I thought he was pleased to see me.

  ‘Not at all,’ I reassured him, ‘and I miss you at Pommeroy’s. No friendly jar there when the day’s work is over.’ I sat down, for a moment, on a nearby and inviting settee.

  ‘That’s the drawback of being a Circuit Judge, Rumpole. The work’s over at tea-time and you’re not even allowed to go to the pub.’

  ‘I say, Rumpole. You’re not a member here, are you?’ Mr Justice Vosper always had to have his two-pennyworth.

  ‘No, Judge. I don’t believe I am.’

  ‘Well. You’re sitting on the members’ sofa! I suppose you plead ignorance?’

  ‘No, Judge. I plead exhaustion.’ But I had to move when an elderly waitress appeared and told us that Mr Featherstone was receiving his guests in the small dining-room. So George and the Rumpole family set off in the direction she indicated, and arrived in a room hung with pictures of old actors, judges and best-selling novelists, and found a table lit by candles and gleaming with old silver, with Guthrie Featherstone and all the other members of Chambers, including Henry and Dianne from the clerk’s room, chatting merrily and drinking sherry. I was surprised that my entrance produced a sort of awed silence.

  Then Guthrie Featherstone stepped forward with a welcoming ‘Rumpole!’

  ‘Here he is. The Guest of Honour!’ said Erskine-Brown.

  ‘Rumpole of the Bailey!’ his wife chimed in.

  ‘Rumpole, my dear fellow. Mrs Rumpole. And Nick. Delighted you could come.’ Featherstone did the honours, and I heard Uncle Tom, our oldest inhabitant and non-practising barrister, whisper to Erskine-Brown.

  ‘Are we feeding the entire Rumpole family?’

  ‘What is this, a wedding or a wake?’ I asked the world at large, and then moved towards the smiling Erskine-Browns. ‘The baby left home, has it?’

  ‘It’s actually in its carrycot with the lady downstairs,’ our Portia told me, and the proud father added,

  ‘One of us’ll have to leave early to give it its ten o’clock feed.’

  ‘One of us…’ I thought that his wife was looking at him in a meaningful manner. I also thought it was time to get off the nappy-chat, so I said cheerfully,

  ‘Well, Erskine-Brown. I thoroughly enjoyed our little scrap.’

  ‘I suppose it’s nice for you to go out on a win,’ Erskine-Brown admitted grudgingly.

  ‘Go out? Go out where?’ I was puzzled. ‘Oh, you mean go out for dinner?’

  ‘I didn’t enjoy our case much,’ Erskine-Brown said. ‘I find these days I really prefer paper-work at home. It keeps one with the family.’

  ‘And I love Court!’ His wife was enthusiastic. ‘Of course, now there’ll be such a lot of crime going spare in Chambers.’

  ‘Oh, really? Are you expecting a new outbreak of villainy?’

  Before I could fully understand Mrs Erskine-Brown’s prophecy of extra work in Chambers I heard a well-known and unloved voice say, ‘Rumpole!’

  ‘Oh my God!’ I turned at the unwelcome sound.

  ‘Only our judge,’ Erskine-Brown reassured me. What had happened was all too clear. Featherstone had invited Mr Justice Vosper and his unlikely lad to dinner.

  ‘I think you know my son, Simon. He’s endlessly grateful for the favour you’re doing him. Aren’t you grateful to Rumpole, Simon?’

  ‘Of course I am Daddy.’

  I had no idea what particular kindness, if any, I had unintentionally done young Simon Vosper. Before I could ask for further particulars the judge rattled on.

  ‘I say, that was an outrageous win you had today. Your client should have been potted!’

  ‘I’m sorry you mis-cued.’

  ‘Mis-cued!’ The judge laughed mirthlessly. ‘Funny that. You’ll probably have some outrageous wins too, Simon, as soon as you get your bottom on to Rumpole’s chair!’

  What on earth was he talking about? His son’s bottom on my chair? Was Mr Justice Vosper getting past it? Before I could inquire further the antique waitress called us to the trough.

  ‘Come on, Rumpole,’ Featherstone called to me. ‘I’ve ordered pheasant. Game chips and all the trimmings. The best that the Sheridan can offer!’

  ‘The last time I remember having pheasant was in old Wil-loughby Grimes’s day. We had a Chambers dinner here and they dished us up pheasant.’ Uncle Tom was reminiscing as we moved to the table.

  ‘The occasion was Tiny Banstead’s being appointed Recorder of Swindon, which was considered a great honour at the time.’

  ‘Dinner’s ready, Uncle Tom,’ Mrs Erskine-Brown called from the table. But our oldest inhabitant insisted on finishing his story.

  ‘Well, poor old Tiny got one of those little pheasant bones stuck in his gullet and they rushed him to hospital. Death by suffocation! He never sat as a Recorder. Quite a disappointment to his wife…’

  A couple of hours later, during which I had been speculating about a mysterious cardboard box in front of Featherstone’s place, the learned Head of our Chambers beat on a glass with a spoon and rose to his feet to address the cigar-smoking, port-swilling company who were all still present, save Erskine-Brown who had slipped away mysteriously after the pud.

  ‘Just a few words from me,’ said Featherstone. ‘Horace Rumr pole has become part of our lives in Chambers. Like a valued piece of antique furniture which we see every day, and only notice perhaps, and miss, when it’s gone.’

  Well, that fell into the category of things which could have been put better, but I let him carry on, seeing that he was about to open the box in front of him.

  ‘But I hope, Horace, I sincerely hope that you and Mrs Rum-pole will accept this clock as a token of our affection and respect. May it tell many happy hours in the future.’

  As the handsome time-piece was thrust into my hands, engraved as it was with the names of all the members of Chambers, including Henry and Dianne, and as I fondled their gift, and as their voices were raised in asking for a speech in reply, the pieces of the jigsaw, as they say in detective stories, fell into place. I saw clearly that there had been a plot against me as ruthless and well-planned as the Timson family’s scheme to dispose of Uncle Percy. I was being retired, and their clock was my parting gift. I had little time to consider the participation of my wife and son in this conspiracy. My final speech was expected of me, and I gave it.

  ‘If your Lordship pleases. Hilda, Nick, my friends. My old friends. This occasion has cheered me considerably!’ I drank port, and my audience smiled pleasantly. ‘There have been times lately, during the long hours in your Lordship’s Court…’ I went on, and Vosper J. called out, ‘Pretty long for me, Rumpole.’ However, I ignored the interruption. ‘Listening to the constant attacks on our profession by the police, there have been times, I must confess, when I wondered if I hadn’t been getting into some sort of rut.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I’ve been thinking!’ I heard Nick whisper to George. And then I gave them the first whiff of Tennyson:

  ‘Matched
with an aged wife, I mete and dole

  Unequal laws unto a savage race,

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

  Members of Chambers all looked at Hilda in a friendly fashion; and she smiled and said, ‘Really Rumpole!’

  ‘In such moods, I must confess, I have been tempted to chuck it all in. To retire. To go out to grass.’ Here I paused and looked round at them all gratefully. ‘But your support, your affection, and above all this very generous gift, have made me change my mind.’

  There was a moment’s puzzled silence; but before they could ask a question I had launched into the final great passage of the old Laureate’s Ulysses.

  ‘Tis not too late, to seek a new world…’

  I told them,

  ‘Push off, and sitting well in order, smite

  The sounding furrows: for my purpose holds

  To sail beyond the sunset…’

  ‘A new world?’ George whispered to Nick. ‘Perhaps he’s going after all.’

  ‘Of course he is!’

  ‘… And the baths

  Of all the western stars until I die.’

  I went on, and I heard Hilda assure Mrs Erskine-Brown, ‘he’s definitely going’.

  ‘It may be that the gulfs will wash us down’

  I told them,

  ‘It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles

  And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.

  Tho’ much is taken, much abides; and tho’

  We are not now that strength which in the old days

  Moved earth and heaven: that which we are, we are…’

  ‘What are we?’ Uncle Tom was asking.

  ‘What we are, apparently,’ George assured him.

  ‘One equal temper of heroic hearts…’

  ‘He still makes a good final speech, old Rumpole.’ This was Featherstone muttering to Mr Justice Vosper, to which the judge replied, ‘Goes on a bit long.’