‘I assumed that Dr Betty gave Chippy the overdose and the whisky.’
‘You assumed that because she’s a well-known supporter of euthanasia?’
‘Well, yes, I suppose so.’ Ursula frowned a little then and looked puzzled, but as attractive as ever.
‘Because she believes in euthanasia, she’s the most likely suspect?’
‘Isn’t that obvious, Mr Rumpole?’ Portia answered the question for the witness.
‘And because she was the most likely suspect, is that why you decided to ask her to look after Chippy?’ I asked Ursula the first hostile question with my usual charm.
‘I’m not sure I understand what you mean?’ Ursula smiled in a puzzled sort of way at the Jury, and they looked entirely sympathetic.
‘I’m not sure I understand either.’ Portia sounded distinctly unfriendly to Counsel for the Defence.
‘I’ll come back to it later, if I may. Mrs Chippenham, we’ve got a copy of Chippy’s will. Nurse Pargeter does quite well out of it, doesn’t she? She gets a substantial legacy.’
‘Twenty thousand pounds. She did a great deal for Chippy.’
‘And let me ask you this. Your husband’s in business as an estate agent, is he not?’
‘Marcellus & Chippenham, yes.’
‘It’s going through a pretty difficult time, isn’t it?’
‘I think the housing market is having a lot of difficulty, yes.’
‘As we all know, Mr Rumpole.’ The Erskine-Browns were trying to get rid of a house in Islington and move into central London, so the learned Judge spoke from the heart.
‘Let’s say that the freehold of the house in Dettingen Road and the residue of Chippy’s estate might solve a good many of your problems. Isn’t that right?’
The Jury looked at me as though I had suggested that Mother Theresa was only in it for the money and Ursula gave exactly the right answer. ‘We were both extremely grateful for what Chippy decided to do for us.’ Then she spoilt it a little by adding, ‘When he made that will, he understood it perfectly.’
‘And I am sure he was conscious of all you and your husband were doing for him?’ Portia was firmly on Ursula’s side.
‘Thank you, my Lady.’ Ursula didn’t bob a curtsey, but it seemed, for a moment, as if she was tempted to do so.
‘Mrs Chippenham, you know the way the Lethe organization recommends helping sufferers out of this wicked world?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t.’
‘Are you sure? Didn’t Nurse Pargeter give you a pamphlet like this when she was trying to persuade you not to engage Dr Betty?’ I handed her the Lethe pamphlet which Bonny Bernard had got me and it was made Defence Exhibit One. Then I asked the witness to turn to page three where a recipe for easeful death was set out. I read it aloud: ‘“The method recommended is a large dose of sleeping pills which are readily obtainable on prescription and a strong alcoholic drink such as whisky or brandy. When the patient is asleep, a long plastic bin-liner is placed over the head and pulled over the shoulders.
Being deprived of air, the sleep is gentle, painless and permanent.” Did you read that when Nurse Pargeter gave you the pamphlet?’
There was a silence and the courtroom seemed to have become suddenly chilly. Then Ursula answered, more quietly than before, ‘I may have glanced at it.’
‘You may have glanced at it. But I suggest that someone in your house remembered it quite clearly when old Chippy was helped out of this troubled world.’
Of course there was an immediate hullabaloo. Cut Above trumpeted that there was no basis at all for that perfectly outrageous suggestion, and Portia, in more measured tones, asked me to make it clear what my suggestion was. I said I was perfectly prepared to do so.
‘I suggest someone woke Chippy up, around midnight. He hadn’t remembered taking his pills, of course, so he was given a liberal overdose, washed down with a large whisky. One of the long black bin-liners that your dustmen provide so generously was then made use of.’
Ursula was silent, but Counsel for the Prosecution wasn’t. ‘I hope, my Lady, that Mr Rumpole will be calling evidence to support this extraordinary charge?’
I didn’t answer him, but asked the witness, ‘Your son Andrew hasn’t been well lately?’
‘I’m afraid not.’ Ursula recovered her voice, thinking I’d passed to another subject.
‘Mr Rumpole’ – Portia was clearly displeased – ‘the Court would also like to know if you are going to call evidence to support the charge you have made.’
‘I’m happy to deal with that, my Lady, when I’ve asked a few more questions.’ I turned back to the witness. ‘Is Dr Eames treating young Andrew?’
‘Yes, Dr Eames has come back to us.’
‘Is Andrew’s illness of a nervous nature? I mean, has he become worried about something?’
‘I don’t know. He’s had sick headaches and we’ve kept him out of school. Dr Eames isn’t sure what the trouble is exactly.’
‘Is Andrew worried by something he might have seen the night Chippy died? Remember, he sleeps with his door open and Chippy’s room is immediately opposite. He saw something that night which has worried him ever since. Perhaps that’s why he collects the plastic bags from the dustbins and hides them away. Is it because he knows bin bags can cause accidents?’
Ursula’s voice slid upwards and became shrill as she asked, ‘You say he saw . . . What did he see?’
‘He thought it was a dream. But it wasn’t a dream, was it?’
‘My Lady, are we really being asked to sit here while Mr Rumpole trots out the dreams of a ten-year-old child?’ Cut Above boomed, but I interrupted his cannonade.
‘I’m not discussing dreams! I’m discussing facts. And the fact is’ – I turned to Ursula – ‘that you were coming out of Chippy’s room that night, perhaps to take the empty bottle of pills back to the bathroom. It was then Andrew saw Chippy propped up on the pillows. Shrouded, Mrs Chippenham. Suffocated, Mrs Chippenham, with a black plastic bag pulled down over his head.’
The Court was cold now, and silent. Ursula looked at the Judge who said nothing, and at the Jury who said nothing either. Her beauty had gone as she became desperate, like a trapped animal. I saw Hilda watching and she appeared triumphant. I saw Dr Betty lean forward as though concerned for a patient who had taken a turn for the worse. When Ursula spoke, her voice was hoarse and hopeless. She said, ‘You’re not going to bring Andrew here to say that about the plastic bag, are you?’
I hated my job then. Chippy was dying anyway, so why should either Dr Betty, or this suffering woman, be cursed for ever by his death? I felt tired and longed to shut up and sit down, but if I had to choose between Ursula and Dr Betty, I knew I had to protect my client. So I took in a deep breath and said, ‘That entirely depends, Mrs Chippenham, on whether you’re going to tell us the truth.’
To her credit she didn’t hesitate. She was determined to spare her son, so she turned to Portia and said quietly, ‘I don’t think he suffered and he would have died anyway. When I thought of doing it, I got Dr Ireton to treat Chippy so she would be blamed. That’s all I have got to say.’ Then she stood, stunned, like the victim of an accident, as though she didn’t yet understand the consequences of any of the things she’d done or said.
When I came out of Court, I felt no elation. Cut Above, almost, for him, pianissimo, had offered no further evidence after Ursula’s admission, and the case was over very quickly. I had notched a win, but I felt no triumph. I saw the Inspector in charge of the case talking to Dick and Ursula, and when I thought of their future, and Andrew’s, I hated what I had done. The merciful tide of forgetfulness which engulfs disastrous days in Court, sinking them in fresh briefs and newer troubles, would be slow to come. Then I saw Hilda embrace Dr Betty and give her one of She Who Must Be Obeyed’s rare kisses. My wife turned to me with a look of approval which was also rare; it was as though I were some sort of domestic appliance, a food blender perhaps, or an electric blanket, she
had lent to an old friend and which, for once, worked satisfactorily. They asked me to join them for coffee and went away as happy as they must have been when young Betty Ireton led the school team to another victory. Bonny Bernard went about his business and I stood alone, outside the empty Court.
‘Rumpole, a word with you, if you please, in a matter of urgency.’
Soapy Sam Ballard had paused, wigged and gowned, in full flight to another Court. He looked pale and agitated to such an extent that I was about to greet him with a quotation I thought might be appropriate: ‘The devil damn thee black, thou cream- fac’d loon! Where gott’st thou that goose look?’ Before I could speak, however, Soapy Sam started to burble. ‘Bad news, I’m afraid. Very bad news indeed. We shall not be entering into a contract of service with Vincent Blewitt.’
I managed to restrain my tears. ‘But Bollard,’ I protested, ‘didn’t you think he was the very man for the job?’
‘I did. Until he came to me with an idea for a Chambers’ party. Did you know anything about this, Rumpole?’ The man was suddenly suspicious.
‘He told me he wanted to give Henry some kind of a send- off. I thought it was rather generous of him.’
‘But did he tell you exactly what sort of send-off he had in mind?’
‘A Chambers’ party, I think he said. I can’t remember the details.’
‘He described it as a singles party. At first, I thought he was suggesting tennis.’
‘A natural assumption.’
‘And then he asked me to leave my ham sandwich at home – I wondered what on earth the man was talking about. I mean, it’s never been my custom to bring any sort of sandwich to a Chambers’ party. Your wife’s friend, Dodo Mackintosh, usually provides the nibbles.’
‘Have you any idea, Ballard’ – I looked suitably mystified – ‘what he meant?’
‘I have now. He was talking about my wife Marguerite.’
‘Marguerite, who once held the responsible position of matron at the Old Bailey?’
‘That is exactly whom he meant.’
‘Who was known, even to the red judges, as Matey?’
‘Marguerite got on very well with the Judiciary. She treated many of them.’
‘Can I believe my ears? Vincent Blewitt called your Marguerite a ham sandwich?’ I was incredulous.
‘I can’t imagine what she would have to say if she ever got wind of it.’
‘All hell would break loose?’
‘Indeed it would!’ Ballard nodded sadly and went on, ‘He said we’d all have more fun if I left her at home. And the same applied to your Hilda.’
‘Ballard, I can see why you’re concerned.’ I sounded most reasonable. ‘It was a serious error of judgement on Blewitt’s part, but if that was the only thing . . . ’
‘It was not the only thing, Rumpole.’
‘You mean there’s worse to come?’
‘Considerably worse!’ Ballard looked around nervously to make sure he wasn’t overheard. ‘He suggested that the party should start . . . I don’t know how to tell you this, Rumpole.’
‘Just take it slowly. I understand that it must be distressing.’
‘It is, Rumpole. It certainly is. He thought the party should start . . .’ Soapy Sam paused and then the words came tumbling out. ‘. . . By the male Members of Chambers and the girl guests blowing up balloons inside each other’s underclothes. Rumpole, can you imagine what Marguerite would have said to that?’
‘I thought Marguerite was to be left at home.’
‘There is that, of course. But he wanted Mrs Justice Erskine-Brown to come. What would she have said if Blewitt had approached her with a balloon?’
‘She’d have jailed him for contempt.’
‘Quite right too! And then to top it all . . .’
‘He topped that?’
‘He said he knew I liked a good story, and wasn’t that a great joke about the sleeveless woman?’
‘What on earth was he talking about?’ I looked suitably mystified.
‘I have no idea. Do you know any story about a sleeveless woman?’
‘Certainly not!’ I replied with absolute truth.
‘So then he told me about a legless nun. It was clearly obscene but I’m afraid, Rumpole, the point escaped me.’
‘Probably just as well.’
‘I’m afraid I shall have to tell Chambers. I’m informing you first as a senior member. We shall not be employing Vincent Blewitt or indeed any legal administrator in the foreseeable future.’
‘It will be a disappointment, perhaps. But I’m sure we’ll all understand.’
‘Henry may have had his faults, Rumpole. But he calls me Sir and not Sam. And I don’t believe he knows any jokes at all.’
‘Of course not. No, indeed.’
The case of R. v. Ireton had not, so far as I was concerned, ended happily. Rumpole v. Blewitt, on the other hand, was an undoubted victory. Win a few, lose a few. That is all you can say about life at the Bar.
Henry decided, in his considerable relief, that he should have a Chambers’ party to celebrate his not leaving. All the wives came. Hilda’s old schoolfriend Dodo Mackintosh provided the cheesey bits and, perhaps because he had a vague idea of what I had been able to do for him, our clerk laid on a couple of dozen of the Château Thames Embankment of which I drank fairly deep. The day after this jamboree, I was detained in bed with a ferocious headache and a distinct unsteadiness in the leg department.
In a brief period of troubled sleep about midday, I heard voices from the living-room and then the door opened quietly and the Angel of Death was at my bedside. ‘Mr Rumpole,’ she smiled and her glasses twinkled, ‘I hear you’re not feeling very well this morning.’
‘Really?’ I muttered with sudden alarm. ‘Whatever gave you that idea? I’m feeling on top of the world, in absolutely’ – and here I winced at a sudden stabbing pain across the temples – ‘tiptop condition.’
‘And Hilda tells me the dear old mind’s not what it was?’ Dr Betty smiled understandingly. ‘The butter knife in the top pocket, is that what she told me? Dear Mr Rumpole, do remember I’m here to help you. There’s no need for you to suffer. The way out is always open, and I can steer you gently and quite painlessly towards it.’
‘I’m afraid I must ask you to leave now,’ I told the Angel of Death. ‘Got to get up. Late for work already. As I told you, I never felt better. Full of beans, Dr Betty, and raring to go.’
God knows how I ever managed to climb into the striped trousers, or button the collar, but when I was decently clad I hotfooted it for the Temple. There, I sat in my room suffering, my head in my hands, determined at all costs to keep myself alive.
Rumpole and the Angel of Death Page 29