The Second Rumpole Omnibus

by John Mortimer

  ‘After eleven. My wife Grace made some coffee and we listened to music. I always listen to music for half an hour before turning in.’

  ‘What was the speech?’

  ‘What?’ He turned round to look at me, apparently surprised by the question.

  ‘What were you going to say?’

  ‘It was a plea for friendship between the Apu and the Matatu people. That we should all work together, for the good of Neranga.’

  ‘Did you ever make it?’

  ‘How could I? I was arrested.’ He came and sat beside me. We were silent for a moment. Then he said, ‘Well. How does it look to you?’

  ‘Identification cases are always tricky. And I’ve known healthier alibis.’ I suddenly felt very tired. The only thing I wanted to do was to clean my teeth, go to bed, pull the pillow round my ears and forget all about charges of capital murder.

  ‘You won’t win this on alibis,’ David Mazenze said. ‘You know what you’ll have to rely on?’

  ‘I would welcome suggestions.’

  ‘On the Common Law of England! The Presumption of Innocence, you know what you taught me: the Golden Thread which goes through the history of the law. I like that phrase so very much.’

  ‘You have a remarkable memory for what I told you at the crammers all those years ago.’ I was flattered.

  ‘A man is innocent until he’s proved guilty. Better that ten guilty men should go free than one who is not guilty should be convicted, for to convict the innocent is…’ The words sounded particularly convincing in his dark velvet voice, and I joined in the chorus, ‘To spit in the face of justice.’

  ‘Do you still use that one, Horace’ – the Apu leader was smiling nostalgically – ‘in your speeches to the jury at the old London Sessions?’

  ‘I must confess I do. From time to time. A jury in Neranga can’t be much different.’

  ‘Mr Rumpole.’ Freddy Ruingo was about to say something, but the words of my favourite speech had banished exhaustion and started the adrenalin coursing through my veins. I stood and addressed the others as though they were the jury. ‘The evidence calls for guesswork in this case, members of the jury,’ I said and went on, warming to the occasion. ‘Now you may pick the winner of the Derby by guesswork, but it is no way to bring in a verdict on a charge of capital murder against a fellow human being.’

  ‘Steady on, Mr Rumpole.’ Freddy Ruingo managed to get his word in. ‘We have no jury.’

  ‘No jury?’ I was incredulous, appalled.

  ‘You British abolished juries in murder cases when Neranga was still “New Somerset”.’ David Mazenze appeared to think it was something of a joke.

  ‘We did that?’ I was more appalled than ever.

  ‘I must say, Dr Death followed your example quite enthusiastically,’ Freddy admitted.

  ‘No jury. And the Judge?’

  ‘Worthington Banzana,’ David Mazenze told me. ‘Sir Worthington. You remember that old judge, Horace? What did you say he always ordered for tea after death sentences?’

  ‘Muffins. You mean Twyburne?’

  ‘Exactly. Well, our Chief Justice is like your Mr Justice Twyburne.’ He laughed. ‘Only black!’

  ‘And he is Dr Death’s chicken. He will run for him, wherever he wants him to go.’ Freddy Ruingo wasn’t, I must admit, being particularly encouraging.

  About half of my heavy task was done, and the day seemed to have already lasted several years, when we left the Police House and bumped off, along what appeared to be Neranga’s single road, to the Mazenze residence. There the leading lights of the Apu People’s Party, or A.P.P., were, Freddy assured me, assembled to do honour to the great white barrister who had dropped out of the skies by courtesy of Justitia International.

  When we got to the bungalow the sound of old pop records was mixed with the noises of the night. It didn’t seem that the Mazenze family, or the Apu leaders, were sitting wrapped in gloom, stricken by the danger that hung over their hero’s head. Freddy and I squeezed our way past a crowd of young men and girls in the open doorway and went down a passage towards a big comfortable room with doors which opened on to a verandah. The room seemed full of people, women in brightly printed cotton frocks, men in shirts and trousers, dancing, or drinking, or arguing, with children running among their feet. As I entered, the gramophone was immediately switched off and the assembled company burst into a verse of ‘For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow’. I stood propped against the doorway, smoking a small cigar, and praying that I shouldn’t fall asleep standing there, like a horse.

  ‘Beer? Seven-Up? Scotch on the rocks?’ said Freddy Ruingo, who was minding me.

  I chose beer, which Freddy brought back in the form of a cold tin of Tuborg. He also brought a placid, middle-aged woman, whose hair was just starting to turn grey, and introduced her as David Mazenze’s wife, Grace.

  ‘Mrs Mazenze.’ I shook her hand. She looked at me trustingly.

  ‘It is kind you came to us.’

  ‘Nice of you to ask me.’

  ‘You came to save David, I mean.’

  ‘I can’t promise that, you know.’

  I began to feel the awful burden on the defending lawyer, the need to work miracles.

  ‘David remembers you so well. He has often talked about you. He has so much faith in you.’

  ‘I’ll do everything I can. But in the end a barrister’s not much better than his case.’ Mrs Mazenze was looking at me, hurt by my lack of complete confidence. ‘You can’t make bricks without straw,’ I told her.

  ‘I don’t understand.’ She shook her head and there were tears in her eyes.

  ‘What we could do with is a bit of evidence.’

  Before I could tell her what I thought were the gaps in the case, however, we were interrupted by a tall, thinnish young African, brightly dressed in his native costume. His features were sharper than David’s, his eyes narrower and his nose thinner, and when he spoke, his voice was higher and less melodious.

  ‘Don’t you worry, Grace,’ he said to her, ‘no one can hurt David. David is one of the immortals.’ He turned and held out a hand to me; it had a pale palm and curiously long fingers. ‘Welcome to Neranga, Mr Rumpole. Welcome to the home of the Apu people. I am Jonathan Mazenze, David’s little brother.’

  ‘Little John?’ I found myself looking up at him.

  ‘Oh yes. And was my big brother delighted to see you, his old hero from his student days! He said you used to tease the judges. He said you used to pull their legs unmercifully.’

  ‘Well, I did pull a few judicial legs, I suppose.’ I was yawning modestly.

  ‘And that you always dropped cigar ash down your stomach.’

  ‘Did he remember that?’ I brushed a deposit about the size of the eruption of Vesuvius off my shirt front. At which point a woman who had been handing round plates of food came up to speak to Grace, who excused herself and left us. Jonathan looked after her and then turned to me.

  ‘What did you tell Grace we needed to win the case for David?’

  ‘A witness or two would be a help,’ I muttered.

  ‘What sort of witness do you want, exactly?’

  ‘Someone who saw David Mazenze at the time of the murder. He says he was just driving round aimlessly, composing his speech.’

  Jonathan laughed, apparently at the simplicity of my requirements. ‘You want some fellows who saw him? I can arrange it. How many fellows do you want, half a dozen?’

  I was too tired not to let my anger show. ‘No, you can’t arrange it! I want a witness who’ll stand up in Court and tell the truth.’

  ‘How very British you are, Mr Horace Rumpole!’ Jonathan smiled down on me now.

  ‘That’s why I’m here, you know. As a representative of British justice.’

  Jonathan suddenly stopped smiling. He spoke quietly, but with great intensity. ‘David doesn’t need all that humbug,’ he said. ‘He needs the anger of the Apu people. If David is found guilty there are three thousand Apus with their
guns hidden in the bush who will rescue him in one hour! That’s how we win this case, don’t you worry, old barrister!’

  ‘Really? I prefer to rely on the way we do it down the Old Bailey,’ I said, somewhat coldly.

  ‘Dr Death’s gone too far this time. The Apu people are on the move!’

  ‘And I must be on the move too,’ I told him. ‘Which way is the gents?’

  Going to the lavatory in foreign parts is, in my limited experience, to take your life in your hands, but the Mazenze facilities were clean and efficient. There was a pile of old numbers of the New Statesman and New Society, caricatures of David on the walls, and all the basic comforts. It may be that I dropped asleep for a moment or two, and when I emerged the music had stopped. I was in the long passage which led to what must have been a back door open to the night. I caught a glimpse of a very beautiful young girl in African dress looking in, asking what seemed to be an urgent question. Grace Mazenze, who was standing with her back to me, said something and then closed the door, shutting out the girl. I stood watching, and Grace went back to the living room. I followed her to find the room was empty. The doors on to the verandah were open and all the guests, together with Grace, seemed to have moved out into the darkness, from which came a sound of rhythmic shouting.

  When I moved on to the verandah, I saw that the night was filled with people, and there were rows of white eyes, white teeth, white shirts, glimmering. Jonathan Mazenze was standing above the crowd with his fist raised, chanting, ‘AH…PU… AH… PU… AH… PU,’ and the chorus of voices took up the chant.

  ‘What’s all this?’ I asked Freddy Ruingo, who had manifested himself beside me. ‘A party political broadcast on behalf of the Apu People’s Party?’

  By the time I got to the old Majestic Hotel in Nova Lombaro, which was to be my home during the trial in Neranga, I felt to a great degree disorientated in time and space. I found it hard to remember where I was, or when I got there, or what time it might be. So I stood, swaying gently, in a hotel lounge which cannot have changed much since it was used by the white businessmen, farmers and district officers of ‘New Somerset’. Only now there was a large, and no doubt obligatory photograph of the Prime Minister behind the reception desk, where there once must have been one of the Queen.

  I was giving instructions for my morning call to the somewhat confused African porter behind the desk, when I was vaguely conscious of a tall, grey-haired Englishman in an old tropical suit who was moving towards me with a couple of middle-aged orientals in tow.

  ‘Six o’clock call, please,’ I said to the porter. ‘Room 51. Mr Rumpole. R… U… M… P… O… L… E.’

  ‘Mr Rumbold, I presume,’ said the Englishman, who must have heard me.

  ‘Rumpole.’

  ‘All hail! I was dining with Mr and Mrs Singapore here. We all call each other after our countries, as diplomats, don’t we, Mrs Singapore? I’m Mr Old England. Arthur Remnant, British High Commissioner. This is our notable British barrister. Remind me of your name again.’

  ‘Rumpole.’ I wondered how long I could keep this up. Mr and Mrs Singapore were smiling at me as though I had said something funny.

  ‘I must invite you to the High Commission,’ said the man Remnant. ‘Our problem is, the cook’s so terribly anglophile that everything tastes of Bisto. I say, it must be exciting for you, doing a murder trial, out here.’ His voice sank to an eerie whisper. ‘Topping!’

  ‘Ripping!’ I said. I supposed it was expected of me.

  ‘No, I mean “topping”.’ Remnant explained with a smile. ‘Swinging. We’re so Victorian in Neranga. Full of Baptist chapels, and plum jam and the death penalty. The Black Cap does add a bit of zest to a murder trial, doesn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t suppose my client thinks so.’ The High Commissioner was beginning to sicken me a little.

  ‘Well, I suppose not. You know, I was amazed when they gave permission for you to come here.’ He started to move away from me with the Singapores. ‘Christopher Mabile’s got something up his sleeve. Such a brilliant politician. We could do with him in Commonwealth Relations. Anyway, welcome, Rumbelow. We’ll throw a little cocktail for you!’

  ‘How very topping!’ I said to his back. It was my last word of the evening.

  At last I went upstairs and pulled off my tie, which seemed to have become, during that endless evening, unreasonably tight. I heard the sound of driving rain and turned to the window. The curtain was blowing back, heavy rain was splashing the sill and the carpet. I closed the window, and looked for a moment at the wet glass and out into the darkness. A few minutes later I was asleep.

  It rained for the next three days. I sat in the hotel and ate large, indigestible meals that looked back to the days of New Somerset. Features of the menu were castle puddings doused in custard, and a large, trembling, pink blancmange. I studied weather reports, maps, and the characters of Nerangan politicians. I had a couple more inconclusive conferences with my client, who seemed anxious to discuss P. G. Wodehouse, my old cases, the shortcomings of UNESCO, the role of barristers in the Third World and the lasting benefits of British rule in the New Neranga; anything, in fact, except the small question of his defence. When I mentioned the trial he would smile, spend a good deal of time lighting his pipe and, as soon as possible, turn on the Fauré Requiem.

  Freddy Ruingo took me to see the scene of the crime. It looked exactly like any other part of that endless, overcrowded road to Nova Lombaro. We didn’t get out of the car, but a crowd of wet, black, shining children milled round us, demanding cigarettes. The rain came through the back window of the Jaguar, which Freddy hadn’t yet been able to get mended.

  The fourth day of my stay in Neranga started with blinding sunshine. I got out of a taxi, sweating in a black jacket and striped trousers, and carried my briefcase and red robe bag up the steps of the white-pillared portico of the British-built High Court of Justice. The steps were crowded with people, some faces I remembered from the night of the party, many more strange to me. At the top of the steps, resplendent in his bright cottons, stood Jonathan Mazenze. He was smiling and seemed to be leading the low chanting of the people around him. The syllables emerging were not ‘AH… PU…’ this time. Listening hard I could have sworn they were ‘RUM…POLE!’ I lifted a hand in salutation and went into the building.

  The robing room in the Nova Lombaro High Court was a good deal more comfortable than that at the Old Bailey. It was a high room, with cedarwood lockers and long mirrors. An attendant in a white uniform made me a cup of Nescafé as I changed my shirt and prepared to put on the blunt execution of a winged collar. It was then that I realized that my packing, for all the medicines and mosquito nets I had bought, was lacking in one vital commodity.

  ‘Damn,’ I said aloud. ‘Where do you get a front collar stud in Africa?’

  ‘Right here, my learned friend.’ Mr Rupert Taboro, Attorney-General and prosecuting Counsel, had stolen up beside me and was holding out a leather stud-box. ‘I had a gross of these little chaps flown in from Harrods,’ he said. ‘Be my guest.’

  ‘That’s remarkably civil of you.’ I took a stud and fixed the collar.

  ‘Merely in accordance with the best traditions of the Bar. I see young Jonathan Mazenze had his friends from Rent-an-Apu out there to greet you.’

  ‘Yes. I found it rather encouraging,’ I told him. ‘The people cheering on my victory.’

  ‘Your victory?’ Taboro smiled tolerantly at me. ‘Do you really think that’s what they want?’

  And, before I could ask him what the hell he meant, he had glided away about his business.

  Apart from the fact that all the faces under the white wigs, except for mine, were black, the Court was set out exactly as it is in the Old Bailey. Only the big, slowly revolving wooden fans on the ceiling, and the Court attendants in white uniforms and small red fezes, were different from the buzzing air conditioning and black-gowned ushers in England. The public gallery, instead of containing one old man in a ma
ckintosh and a party of schoolgirls, was crammed with loyal members of the Apu tribe, prepared, if anyone gave them half a chance, to cheer for the prisoner.

  The only other white faces in the Court belonged to half a dozen reporters from European papers who had come to report on the trial of a well-known African politician; and were hoping, no doubt, to be able to describe a further collapse of justice in a Third World state.

  I had sat, during the Attorney-General’s opening, staring up at our learned Judge. Sir Worthington Banzana was a small, broad-shouldered, stocky man, whom I judged to be about seventy years old. He had been more or less silent during the early stages of the trial, and had noticeably refrained from welcoming a visitor from across the sea to the Nerangan Bar. In fact he had hardly glanced in my direction. So I took a few notes and tried to calm a bubbling and over-eager Freddy Ruingo, who kept moving from his seat in front of me to whisper to the prisoner in the dock. David Mazenze seemed strangely uninterested in the proceedings.

  I glanced round the Court. I could see Mrs Grace Mazenze looking down at me with trusting anxiety from the public gallery. I turned away from her to look at the first prosecution witness, a plump young African in a crumpled suit, who was glistening with sweat as he answered the calm, reassuring questions of my learned friend, Mr Rupert Taboro.

  ‘Are you Magnus Nagoma?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘You are in government service?’

  ‘I am Permanent Private Secretary to the Minister for Home Affairs.’

  ‘The defendant is your boss?’ Taboro glanced at the dock.

  ‘He is, yes.’

  ‘My boss…’ The Chief Justice repeated in a deep and gravelly voice as he made a note.

  ‘Do you remember a day last July when you went to meet your boss outside the Parliament building?’ Taboro asked, smiling gently.

  ‘I do, yes. He was there with Bishop Kareele. They were having an argument.’

  ‘A heated argument?’

  ‘Please don’t lead!’ I growled a warning from my seat.

  ‘I hear my learned friend’s objection.’ Taboro smiled at the Judge, who looked at me for the first time. It was by no means a smile of friendliness. ‘I don’t, I must confess.’ He was tapping his pencil on his desk with suppressed irritation. ‘Mr Rumpole! Is it no longer customary in England to stand on your hind legs if you wish to make an objection?’