I didn’t sleep much that night. I was busy putting two and two together to make about five thousand nicker. Around dawn I drifted off and dreamt of washing machines and spindriers, and Ballard was bringing me a bouquet of roses and inviting me to lunch, and Fiona Allways had decided to leave the Bar and take up life as a coalminer, saying the pay was so much better.
So I arrived at the Old Bailey in a somewhat jaded condition. Having robed for the day’s work, I went up to the canteen on the third floor and bought myself a black coffee and a slightly flaccid sausage roll. I wasn’t enjoying them much when Erskine-Brown came up to me in a state of considerable distress, holding out a copy of The Times in a trembling hand. The poor fellow looked decidedly seedy.
‘The silk list, Rumpole!’ he stammered. ‘Have you seen the new Q.C.s?’
‘Haven’t got beyond the crossword.’ I opened the paper and found the relevant page. ‘Well, here’s your name. What are you worrying about?’
‘My name?’ Erskine-Brown asked bitterly.
‘Erskine-Brown. Mrs!’ I read the entry more carefully. ‘Oh, I do see.’ I felt for the man, my heart bled for him.
‘She never warned me, Rumpole! I had no idea she’d applied. Had you?’
‘No.’ I honestly hadn’t. ‘Haven’t you asked her about it?’
‘She left home before the paper came. And now she’s gone to ground in the ladies’ robing room!’ Then he asked with a faint hope, ‘Do you think it might be some sort of misprint?’
I might have sat there for some time commiserating with Claude, but I saw a blonde head and a blue trouser suit by the tea-urns. I rose, excused myself to the still suffering, still junior barrister, and arrived alongside Mrs April Timson just in time to pay for her coffee.
‘You’re very kind, Mr Rumpole,’ she said.
‘Sometimes,’ I agreed. She moved to a table. I went with her. ‘Young Vincent well this morning, is he? Chrissie Molloy looking after him properly?’
‘Chrissie’s all right.’ She sat and then looked up at me and spoke very quietly. ‘Tony doesn’t know she’s a Molloy.’
I sat down beside her and took my time in lighting a small cigar. ‘No. Mrs Timson,’ I said. ‘Tony doesn’t know very much, does he?’
‘We were at school together. Me and Chrissie. Anyway, she and Shawn Molloy’s separated.’
‘But still friends,’ I suggested. ‘Close enough for the Molloy firm to meet at Chrissie’s house.’ I blew out smoke and then asked, ‘When did you know they were short of a driver?’
‘I may have heard… someone mention it.’ She looked away from me and stirred her coffee. So I told her the whole story, as though she didn’t know. ‘Your husband wouldn’t have been the slightest use in a getaway car, would he?’ I said. ‘He’d have had three parking tickets and hit a milk float before they’d got clear of the bank. You, on the other hand, I happen to have noticed, are distinctly nippy, driving through traffic.’ A silence fell between us. It lasted until I said, ‘What was the matter? Tony not ambitious enough for you?’
‘Why ever should you think…?’ She looked up at me then. Whatever it was meant to be, the look was not innocent.
‘Because of where you put the money,’ I told her quietly. ‘It was the one place in the house you knew your husband would never look.’
She had the nerve of an accomplished villain, had Mrs April Timson. She took a long swig of coffee and then she asked me what I was going to do.
‘The real question is,’ I said, ‘what are you going to do?’ And then I gave her my legal advice. ‘Leave it out, April,’ I said. ‘Give it up, Mrs Timson. Keep away from it. It’s men’s work, you know. Let the men make a mess of it.’ I paused to let the advice sink in, then I stood up to go. ‘It was the first time, I imagine. Better make it the last.’
I got into Court some time before the learned computer took his seat on the Bench. As soon as Phillida arrived I gave her, believing it right to take my junior into my full confidence, my solution to the case, and an account of my conversation with April Timson.
She thought for a moment, and then asked, ‘But why didn’t Gerry Molloy identify her?’
‘He was ashamed, don’t you understand? He didn’t want to admit that the great Molloys went out with a woman driver!’
‘What on earth are we going to do?’
‘We can’t prove it was April. Let’s hope they can’t prove it was Tony. The jury don’t much care for the mini-grass, and the Molloys might have planted the money.’
Hilary Onslow came in then, gave us a cheerful ‘Good morning’, and took his place. I spoke to Phillida in a whisper.
‘Only one thing we can do, Portia. I’ll just give them the speech about reasonable doubt.’
‘No. I will…’ she said firmly.
‘What?’ I wasn’t following her drift.
‘I’m your leader now. Don’t you read The Times, Rumpole? I have taken silk!’
At which point the Usher shouted, ‘Be upstanding,’ and Judge Dover was upon us. He looked at the defence team, said, ‘Yes, Mr Rumpole?’ and then saw that Phillida was on her feet.
‘Mrs Erskine-Brown. I believe that certain congratulations are in order?’
‘Yes, my Lord. I believe they are,’ said our Portia, and announced that she would now call the defendant.
Tony gave evidence. As he denied knowing anything about the money, or the whereabouts of the Pond Hill bank, or even the exact situation of his own washing machine, he was a difficult witness to cross-examine. Onslow did his best, and made a moderately effective final speech, and then I sat quietly and listened to Mrs Phillida Erskine-Brown, now my learned leader. I smiled as I heard her reach a familiar peroration.
‘Members of the jury.’ She was addressing them with carefully controlled emotion. ‘Soon this case will be over. In a little while you will go back to your jobs and your families, and you will forget about it. At most it is only a small part of your lives, but for my client, Tony Timson, it is the whole of his life! And it is that life I leave with confidence in your hands, certain that there can be only one verdict in this case, “Not Guilty”!’
And then Phillida sank down in her seat exhausted, just as I had taught her to, as I had taught Fiona Allways, and anyone else who would care to listen.
‘Good speech.’ I congratulated Phillida as we came out of Court when the Timson case was over.
‘Yes. It always was.’
‘Portia of Belmont… Phillida Erskine-Brown, née Trant… and Fiona Allways… the great tradition of female advocates should be carried on!’ I lit a small cigar.
Phillida looked at me. ‘It’s not enough for you that we won Timson, is it? Not enough that you got the jury to disbelieve Gerry Molloy and think the money may have been planted. You want to win the Allways case as well.’
‘Well,’ I said reasonably, ‘why shouldn’t we take on Fiona?’
‘Over my dead body!’
She moved towards the lifts. I followed her.
‘But why?’
‘She was making a play for Claude. I found them all over each other in Pommeroy’s. That’s when I got so angry I applied for silk.’
‘Without telling your husband?’ I asked sorrowfully.
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘I’d better come clean about this.’ I took off my wig, and stood looking at her. She looked back at me, deeply suspicious. ‘What’ve you been up to, Rumpole?’
‘Well, I just wanted your Claude to look on Miss Allways with a warm and friendly eye. I mean, I thought that’d increase her chances of getting in, so…’
‘You wanted Claude to warm to her…’ Phillida’s voice was rising to a note of outrage.
‘I thought it might help. Yes,’ I admitted.
‘Rumpole! I suppose you told him that she fancied him.’
‘Now, Portia. Would I do such a thing?’ I protested.
‘Very probably. If you wanted to win badly enough. I imagine you told him she thought
he looked like Robert Redford.’
‘No. I protest!’ I was hurt. ‘That is utterly and entirely untrue! I told him she thought he looked like a fellow called Newman.’
‘And had Allways actually said that?’ Phillida was still uncertain of the facts.
‘Well, if you want me to be entirely honest…’
‘It would make a change,’ she said, unnecessarily, I thought.
‘Well, no. She hadn’t.’
And then, quite unexpectedly, our Portia smiled. ‘Poor old Claude,’ she said. ‘You know what you were doing, Rumpole? You can’t rely on a girl to get in on her own talents, can you? You have to manipulate and rely on everyone else’s vanity. You were simply exploiting the male sex.’
‘So now you know,’ I asked her, ‘will you vote for Fiona?’
‘Tell me one good reason.’
‘Ballard’s against her.’
‘I suppose that’s one good reason. And because of you I’ve ended up a silk. What on earth can I tell Claude?’ She seemed, for a delightful moment, overcome with guilt, and blushed very prettily, as though she had to admit the existence of a lover.
‘Tell him,’ I suggested, ‘that the Lord Chancellor just thought there weren’t enough women silks. So that’s why you got it. He’ll feel better if he thinks there’s no damn merit about this thing.’
‘I suppose so.’ She looked a little disappointed as she asked me, ‘Is that true?’
‘Quite possibly,’ I told her. After all, I hadn’t undertaken to tell her the whole truth about anything.
When I got home that night, Hilda asked me if I had noticed anything. Suspecting that she had had a new hair-do or bought a new dress, I said that of course she was looking extremely pretty.
‘Not me,’ she said. ‘Look at the walls.’
The shelf I had put up was not only firmly screwed and looking even better than usual, it seemed to have pupped and there were shelves all over the place, gamely supporting potted plants and glasses, telephone directories and bottles of plonk.
‘What did you do, Hilda,’ I asked her. ‘Did you get a man in?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Me.’
It all ended once again with a Chambers party. The excuse for that particular shindig was the swearing-in at the House of Lords of Mrs Phillida Erskine-Brown as One of Her Majesty’s Counsel. She made a resplendent figure as she came to split a few bottles of champagne with us in Ballard’s room. Her handsome female face peeped out between the long spaniel’s ears of her full-bottomed wig. She wore a long silk gown with a black purse on her back. There were lace cuffs on her tailed coat, and lace at her throat. Her black skirt ended with black stockings and diamond-buckled shoes. She carried her white gloves in one hand and a glass of Mercier (on offer at Pommeroy’s) in the other. Just when matters were going with a certain amount of swing, Ballard took it upon himself to make a speech.
‘In our great profession…’ he was saying, and I muttered an, ‘Amen.’ ‘We are sometimes accused of prejudice against the female sex.’
‘Shame!’ said Erskine-Brown.
‘That may be true of some sets of Chambers, but it cannot be said of us at 3 Equity Court,’ Ballard continued. ‘As in many other things, we take the lead and set the example! Today we celebrate the well-deserved promotion of Mrs Phillida Erskine-Brown to the front row!’
‘Philly looks very fine in a silk gown, doesn’t she, Rumpole?’ the proud husband said to me.
‘Gorgeous!’ I agreed.
‘And we welcome a new member of our set. Young Fiona Allways,’ Ballard concluded. All around me barristers were toasting the triumph of women.
‘You know, between ourselves, Philly got it because it’s the Lord Chancellor’s policy to appoint more women Q. C.s,’ Erskine-Brown told me confidentially.
‘How appalling.’ I looked on the man with considerable sympathy. ‘You’re a victim of sexual discrimination!’
‘But Philly’s made me a promise. Next year she’s going to take some time off.’
‘Good. I might get my work back.’
‘We’re going to have’ – his voice sank confidentially – ‘a little companion for Tristan.’
‘Isolde?’ I suggested.
‘Oh, really, Rumpole!’
I moved away from him as I saw Phillida in all her glory go up to Fiona, who was wearing wide trousers which, coming to just below the knees, had the appearance of a widish split skirt.
‘Well done, Allways!’ Phillida gave the girl an encouraging smile. ‘Welcome to Chambers.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Erskine-Brown.’ Fiona seemed genuinely pleased. But Phillida had stopped smiling.
‘Oh, just one thing, Allways. No culottes!’
‘Oh,’ said Fiona. ‘Really?’
‘If you want to get on at the Bar, and it is a pretty tough profession,’ Phillida told her, ‘just don’t go in for those sort of baggy trouser arrangements. It’s just not on.’
‘No. Remember that, Fiona,’ I put my oar in. ‘A fellow looks so much better in a skirt.’
Rumpole and the Sporting Life
‘Rumpole,’ said She Who Must Be Obeyed over breakfast one morning in the mansion flat. ‘We’re going to the Bar Races on Saturday, aren’t we?’ It was less a question than a statement of fact, less a statement of fact than a Royal command. It was no use protesting, for instance, that Rumpole has never been a racing man.
Claude Erskine-Brown, somewhat disappointed in his application for silk, had come to the conclusion that a more active part in the social life of the Bar might bring him to the attention of the powers that be. He joined the Bar Golfing Society, he put up for election to the Bar Council, and he decided that it would be just as well to be seen hobnobbing with those sporting judges who patronized the Bar Races. He decided to make up a party for this event, but Ballard, quite naturally, didn’t approve of gambling, and Hoskins didn’t want to lose his girls’ school fees on a piece of fallible horseflesh. Accordingly, it was suggested that a party should be made up of the Erskine-Browns, Henry our clerk (who, being by far the wealthiest of us, undertook to supply three or four bottles of champagne), Uncle Tom, and the Rumpoles.
‘We must go, Rumpole,’ Hilda said as soon as she heard of the invitation. ‘Daddy always went to the Bar Races.’
I had a distant memory of attending this annual point-to-point with C. H. Wystan when he was Head of Chambers. We journeyed down to the Cotswolds in his large and hearse-like motor, feasted on ham sandwiches and rock cakes, and the warmish hock flowed like cement. Once or twice, as I remember it, Hilda Wystan was in the party, and She would be in charge of the thermos and getting her father perched on his shooting stick in time to see the end of the Barristers’ Handicap.
Over the course of the years fewer barristers have been able to find the spare currency to keep horses in livery, being hard pushed to keep their nearest and dearest in regular feed and stabling. The Barristers’ Races have therefore shrunk to one event in an afternoon of races for adjacent hunts and military sportsmen, but a few alcoholic juniors with a taste for hunting still put their mounts, like nervous clients, to various jumps and hazards, and a great many judges and barristers and barristers’ wives dress up in old caps and trilby hats, tweeds and green padded waistcoats, and consume, with icy fingers, large picnics from the boots of their motor cars and so join happily in the Sport of Kings.
‘It’ll be like the old days, won’t it, Rumpole?’ Hilda said as she daubed the ham sandwiches with mustard and wrapped them in greaseproof paper. ‘And it’ll do you so much good to have a day out in the countryside.’ I was already marvelling at the English longing to journey vast distances to some damp and uncomfortable place and then, with none of the normal facilities such as knives and forks and dining-room furniture, eat a packed meal. I was busy storing as many bottles as possible of the Château Fleet Street into my red robe bag in the hope that I might, with their assistance, be able to keep out the cold.
We left London at a ridicu
lously early hour in the Erskine-Brown Volvo Estate. Phillida Erskine-Brown, Q.C., was wearing a sort of tweed cape and deerstalker, which gave her the curious appearance of a red-headed and personable female Sherlock Holmes. Claude, a great one for uniforms, was wearing the regulation padded waistcoat and green wellies. Uncle Tom sported an old hacking jacket with leather patches, and Henry wore a tweed suit with knife-edge creases, a sheepskin car coat and had, slung about his neck, a huge pair of racing binoculars. You have the complete picture when I tell you that Hilda was in a tweed two-piece with brogues and a Burberry, and I was in the old Sunday jacket, cavalry twill bags and everyday mac. When we had all assembled in the street outside Froxbury Court, I piled my bag of booze and Hilda’s sandwiches into the hatchback, as Henry rather quaintly called it, and it was tally ho and we were off to the races. A fine drizzle was falling then, and it went on falling for the rest of the day.
The point-to-point course was a fairly representative slice of the English countryside. There was a damp and distinct prospect of fields and hedgerows and a hillside on which the cars were parked and the bookies had set up their stands. The Mecca of the place, the large tent in which food and drink were supplied, had been pitched next to the saddling enclosure. I would have wished to spend most of the afternoon under canvas, but Hilda, encouraged by Phillida Erskine-Brown, who showed considerable sporting interest, insisted on trekking down to the rails to watch the finish of each race, and then climbing back to the bookies to put money on another loser.
My involvement with the sporting life, and the events which led to one of the most interesting murder cases of the Rumpole career (I put it not far below the Penge Bungalow affair in the list of my more engaging cases) started as we were watching the three o’clock race, in which members of the adjacent hunts contested the field with a few barristers. We were positioned near to the last fence as a bunch of riders, helmeted, goggled and pounding through a cloud of flying mud, approached the high brushwood and flung their horses at it.
The Second Rumpole Omnibus Page 39