The First Rumpole Omnibus

by John Mortimer

  ‘Thank you, Lord Freith.’ I sat down and glanced at the jury, and I could tell that I hadn’t lost their interest.

  The learned Judge smiled at Lord Freith with the deepest respect. ‘Thank you, Lord Freith. Your ordeal is over,’ he said. The witness left the box, but our ordeal was continuing.

  ‘What are you up to exactly?’ Ken Cracknell whispered to his learned leader as we were waiting for the next witness to come into the box. I didn’t think he looked particularly elated by my cross-examination of Lord Freith, which, on the whole, I would have marked at least eight out of a possible ten.

  ‘Cracknell, perchance you wonder at our show,’ I whispered back at him. ‘Then wonder on, till truth makes all things plain. Who’s the next witness?’

  ‘D.I. Wargrave. The officer in charge of the case. At least you won’t be discussing religion with him.’ But there, as a matter of fact, he was mistaken.

  After the Detective Inspector had read out, in a monotonous tone of voice and from his notebook, his account of the police interview with Simpson, I rose to cross-examine.

  ‘Mr Wargrave, you say that my client told you that he was guilty?’

  ‘That’s what I’ve got down in my notebook.’

  ‘So, because you’ve got it down in your notebook, it has the authority of Holy Writ?’

  ‘Mr Rumpole!’ As usual I got the warning growl from the Bench.

  ‘I suggest he never used the word “guilty” at all. He said he had “sinned”.’

  ‘Doesn’t it come to exactly the same thing?’ the Judge asked, and I decided it was time to give him a little basic theology.

  ‘Hardly, my Lord. Every clergyman at morning prayers says, “I acknowledge my transgressions and my sin is before me.” That can hardly be taken as an admission of stabbing people down the underground.’ I picked up the commando knife and weighed it in my hand. ‘Officer, this knife, Exhibit Two, would seem to be the fatal weapon.’

  ‘It would seem so, sir.’

  ‘And yet my client possessed a knife, a curved oriental dagger, which you found on his dressing-table.’

  ‘I did, yes.’

  ‘The jury can see that in the police photograph of my client’s room, next to the blood-stained letter… photograph number four in your bundle, members of the jury…’ The twelve old darlings leafed through their bundles of photographs and found the place. ‘We know there were no blood stains on that dagger.’

  ‘I believe not,’ the Detective conceded.

  ‘So it comes to this, does it? My client’s knife had not been used, but what had been used was a commando knife of the sort that Mr Canter might have had?’

  ‘Might have had. Yes.’ D.I. Wargrave sounded dubious as ever.

  ‘And there were two sets of fingerprints on the handle of that knife, Exhibit Two… somewhat blurred. The fingerprints of my client and those of the deceased gentleman.’

  ‘That is so. Yes.’

  ‘And my client’s hands were cut and his clothing cut in some places?’

  ‘Yes, indeed.’

  ‘So what does that indicate to you, Inspector?’

  ‘I suppose it might indicate some sort of struggle for the possession of the knife,’ Bullingham said, unable to sit quietly and listen to the evidence. The learned Judge had played straight into my hands.

  ‘If your Lordship pleases!’ I gave him a low bow in which there was only the faintest touch of mockery. ‘Oh, I am extremely grateful to your Lordship. Your Lordship is always the first to appreciate… points in favour of the defence.’

  For a moment Bullingham was speechless, but then he looked at the clock and was saved by it. ‘We’ll break off now. Shall we say until five past two, members of the jury?’ And he added, in a somewhat desperate bid for their favour, ‘It may come as a little relief to you, in your consideration of this rather sordid case, to know that England are now eighty-five for two in the Test at Melbourne.’

  The Judge smiled at them and withdrew. It was a somewhat desperate gambit on his part, and certainly not cricket.

  *

  During the luncheon adjournment I took my junior and instructing solicitor down to the cells. There we found the comforting smell of cooking and some screws sitting down to piled plates and great mugs of tea. Our client Simpson came into the little interview room and sat down without a greeting. Young Cracknell, when I looked at him, seemed equally gloomy.

  ‘What’s the matter with you all? I get the impression we’re doing rather well.’ I tried to cheer them up. ‘I don’t hear anyone say, “The Rumpole hand has lost none of its cunning.” I don’t hear that exactly.’

  ‘We’ve still got the letter,’ Ken Cracknell sighed. ‘You don’t write a letter in your victim’s blood, not unless it’s a deliberate murder. That’s what the jury’s going to think.’

  There was a faint voice: Simpson seemed to be talking to himself. ‘The Master is not bound by the laws of man and nature. His is the power of the miraculous.’ He then turned to me and said, ‘That’s what we can’t fight. It’s no use fighting.’

  ‘You’re not going to help me, are you, Duchess? Not until you lose your faith in miracles. Well, that’s about to happen,’ I told him; it was no use sharing my own doubts and uncertainties with him.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Professor Andrew Ackerman, that most distinguished pathologist, had been associated with death in its various forms for so long that he seemed to be ageless. He was a tall, bald man whose skin had a sort of mortuary pallor and whose voice was sepulchral and full of respect. He wore small, round, gold-rimmed spectacles and he gave his evidence impeccably. His reputation in the Courts was such that he was treated as infallible by judges and, as the natural successor to the late Sir Bernard Spilsbury, Ackerman’s word on a blood stain, or a bruise, or a mark of strangulation, was accepted as Holy Writ down the Bailey. He had only the faintest trace of a Scottish accent from his distant Edinburgh upbringing and he was in fact, when away from the courtroom or the morgue, a man of great kindness and quiet humour who spent his holidays bird-watching and his evenings listening to Baroque music or re-reading Jane Austen.

  ‘Professor Ackerman. Have you ever tried to write a message of this sort in blood?’

  ‘For the purposes of this case I did so. It is quite possible, yes.’ The Professor was nothing if not thorough.

  ‘Blood clots in two or three minutes, does it not?’ I asked him.

  ‘Yes, but there would have been continued bleeding from the deceased in this case.’

  ‘So Mr Simpson would have had to have written this while he was with the deceased. He couldn’t have taken blood home with him, because it would have clotted?’

  ‘That is so. Yes.’

  ‘The evidence is that he was unobserved on the platform for about five minutes between the arrival of two trains. He would have had to write this message during that time, perhaps with the blood on the dagger?’

  ‘It is possible.’

  ‘Just possible, but an extremely strange thing to do?’

  ‘The suggestion is, Mr Rumpole, that you have an extremely strange type of client.’ I had left myself wide open to that sort of crack from the Bull.

  My mouth was dry and my voice not altogether steady. I took a deep breath, a gulp of water and started a new and entirely friendly dialogue with Professor Ackerman, asking him the questions I had begun to think of, months before, in a Florida library.

  ‘Professor Ackerman, we have known each other for a good many years.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Rumpole, we have.’ The mortuary man gave a faint smile.

  ‘And have discussed a good many corpses.’

  ‘Is this to be a time of private reminiscence, Mr Rumpole, or do you intend to cross-examine the Professor?’ The Bull was feeling left out of this meeting of old friends. I ignored him.

  ‘And of course the jury may not know as much as you on the subject of blood.’ I intended to get down to basics. ‘All our red corpuscles are the same.�
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  ‘They are. Yes,’ Ackerman agreed.

  ‘What varies are the agglutinogens which must fit in with the appropriate agglutinin like a lock fits its own key, and cause the red cells to clump together… like bunches of grapes?’

  ‘Mr Rumpole. If you and the Professor understand…’ The Bull was restive again. I looked him straight in the eye.

  ‘The system can be made clear,’ I said, ‘even to the simple mind by saying that those varying types of locks can divide human blood into four groups called, for convenience, “O”, “A”, “B” and “AB”.’

  Unlike the Bull, the members of the jury were looking interested, and some of them were taking notes.

  ‘That is exactly so,’ Ackerman agreed.

  ‘Class “O” blood is rather common and flows in the veins of forty-five per cent of the population. It flowed in the veins of the Honourable Rory Canter.’

  ‘The deceased was class “O”. Yes.’

  ‘Whereas my client, Mr Simpson, is of the forty-one to forty-three per cent whose blood is “A”?’

  ‘He is “A” from the sample I took from him.’ The Professor glanced down at his notes.

  ‘And you came to the conclusion that the blood which wrote that letter was class “O” blood, and therefore likely to be Mr Canter’s?’

  The usher took the exhibit to the Professor, who looked at it again, turning it over with long, surprisingly delicate fingers. ‘It responded to the test in that way, yes.’

  ‘You took a minute particle of paper, treated it chemically to detect the antigens and examined it under a microscope?’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘Professor Ackerman. When did you think this letter had been written?’

  ‘I assumed, as it was Mr Canter’s blood, that it must have been shortly after the murder.’

  I gave a small sigh of satisfaction. Ackerman had accepted the instructions given him and, for once, hadn’t asked questions.

  ‘But supposing it had been written months before! Suppose my client joined a somewhat dotty religious sect, a sect which required him to write an oath or motto in drops of his own blood?’

  ‘But it wasn’t his own blood group, Mr Rumpole.’ Ackerman smiled patiently.

  ‘But if it had been, and had been done months before, wouldn’t the antigens have perhaps faded in their strength?’

  It was the key question, and the professor considered it. His answer, when it came, was perfectly fair. ‘I suppose they might. I hadn’t considered that.’

  ‘Consider it now, Professor. I beg of you! The various constituents of blood stains fade in time, don’t they?’

  ‘Yes, they do.’ He picked up the paper again, with delicate fingers, and looked at it thoughtfully.

  ‘And blood becomes more difficult to classify.’

  ‘I would say, less easy.’ Even this caution was good enough for me.

  ‘Less easy! Thank you. But the constituents don’t fade evenly, do they? Some factors may vanish before others.’

  ‘It is possible.’

  ‘You found my client’s blood was “A”. Canter’s was “O”. After that finding you didn’t do more tests to break down the classification further?’

  ‘No. The situation seemed perfectly simple.’

  ‘Oh, Professor, let’s keep it simple.’ I couldn’t resist saying, ‘For the benefit of the learned Judge.’ I went on before there could be any grumbling from the Bench. ‘I feel sure the members of the jury will have my point already. Is it not possible that after my client had written this absurd message in his own blood, and kept it, the antigens became less accurately classifiable, and the blood on this paper then gave you an “O” result?’

  There was a long pause, during which I hoped I could feel the mystery which surrounded Simpson’s defence was beginning to clear. Professor Ackerman picked up the paper again, put it down, smoothed it out and then said, and the words were music to my ears, ‘I think the theory you have advanced is a possible one.’

  The Bull, of course, was looking disconcerted as he turned to Ackerman. ‘Let me get this clear, Professor,’ he said, and I hoped he was capable of it. ‘Are you saying this letter may have been written by Simpson months before, for some sort of religious reason, in his own blood, and may have nothing to do with this murder?’

  ‘I think now that may be so, my Lord.’ Ackerman’s careful answer was impressive.

  ‘And you can’t be sure that it was in fact written in the victim’s blood?’

  ‘In view of the possibility that Mr Rumpole has pointed out, no.’

  It was then that I silently blessed the good Ackerman and wished him many long and happy years in the morgue.

  ‘Yes, thank you, Professor,’ the Bull said, tamed by the Professor’s authority. ‘I think I understand.’

  Wonder of wonders. And I had to hand it to the dear old Bull, I think he did.

  ‘No miracle!’ I assured my client when we met in the cells at the end of the day, and he was half smiling when he said, ‘No.’

  ‘The universe has recovered its balance. There is a perfectly clear, scientific explanation.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ he conceded.

  ‘They can’t work miracles, Duchess! You’ve got nothing to be afraid of.’

  ‘Haven’t I?’ He still sounded doubtful.

  ‘You can tell the jury the truth now.’ There was a long silence and then I pressed him again. ‘Tell it! You’ve got to tell it for the sake of -’

  ‘For your sake?’ There was no mistake about it, he was smiling now.

  I shook my head. ‘For the sake of a lot of lonely people,’ I told him, ‘who go out looking for miracles.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  In a way, cross-examination is the easiest part of the defending barrister’s job. You have the sword, the red cape to swing in the hope of exciting blind and intemperate anger, and, unless you slip on a pile of horse shit and get gored to death, you may hope to be in some sort of control of the situation. When you call your own client to give evidence in his own defence, however, the matter is entirely different. Out there in the witness box he is, for all practical purposes, beyond your help. You can’t lead him, or put words into his mouth. For the first time in a trial he must tell his own story and in his own way, and all you can do is guide him towards the main points at issue and then leave him to sink or swim on his own. Calling your own client in a murder case is always an extremely dodgy and nerve-racking business: what made it more alarming in Simpson’s case was that I really had no very clear idea of exactly what he was going to say.

  After the formalities of getting his name and previous good character were over, I started where I first heard of the Notting Hill Gate Underground Murder, in the Sunshine State.

  ‘Last summer I think you went on a holiday to Florida. Did you meet someone in the street handing out leaflets?’

  Once he began to talk, Simpson was articulate, and the old dead look had left him. ‘He seemed so clean and respectable. He was wearing a tie and a clean shirt. We started to talk. About loneliness and how to make friends. Oh, and then about all the meanness and cruelty in the world. He took me to meet his friends.’

  ‘Where were they?’

  ‘In a sort of farm. It was called the Sun Valley. They were all nice and… cheerful. They sang a lot, and they seemed to work very hard. Later I met a man, he was dressed as a clergyman. They called him the Master.’

  ‘What did he tell you?’

  ‘My Lord. How can this be relevant?’ Moreton Colefax rose to object, and, wonder of wonders, the Bull, impressed by the quiet young clerk in the witness box, said, ‘I think we must let Mr Simpson tell his story.’

  ‘What did he tell you?’ I repeated the question gratefully.

  ‘He told me I must work for him, in their accounts department. He said that when the Children of Sun took over the government of the world, I should have some great post… in world economics. I was going to be their Minister of Finance.�
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  ‘Did you believe him?’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid I did.’ Simpson smiled, a small apology for a huge presumption.

  ‘Did you start to work on the books?’

  ‘Almost at once.’

  ‘What did you find?’

  ‘There were hopeless discrepancies.’ Simpson looked pained. ‘A great deal of money was coming in: the “friends and brothers” gave all their worldly goods. None of this money was accounted for. I’m afraid I came to the conclusion that the whole organization of the Children of Sun was a gigantic swindle.’

  ‘Did you tell anyone that?’

  ‘We weren’t allowed close friends. They told us that would destroy our loyalty to the group,’ Simpson explained. ‘But there was a young American man I worked with. I told him one night. He said he’d have to go to the Master and denounce me as a traitor. That’s when I decided to escape. There was a truck going out of the farm gate with vegetables. I hid in the back of it.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Then I went back to England on the next plane. I’d managed to keep the ticket.’

  ‘Back to your work in the Inland Revenue?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Were you afraid at all?’

  ‘Yes, I was. I knew I had found out things in Florida that the Children of Sun wouldn’t want to be known. I told myself that I was back in England, and that they’d have no way of finding me, but I often got the feeling that I was being watched when I left home. Once or twice I thought I was being followed, nothing definite you understand, just an uneasy feeling.’

  ‘Yes, I understand. Mr Simpson, will you tell me your routine movements on Thursday evenings?’

  ‘Well, I used to go to my evening class.’

  ‘In advanced accountancy?’

  ‘Yes. And on the way home I would buy my supper at the Delectable Drumstick in Notting Hill Gate and take the train on to Paddington.’

  ‘Anyone who had been watching you over a long period would know that?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose they would.’