Mr Newton, the inquiry agent, later pointed her out to me as Blythe’s secretary, whom he had once seen dancing in Soho wearing, incredibly enough, pink satin trousers.
Oddly enough I won my case in Manchester. My solicitor told me that an elderly man on the jury had been heard to say that if a nice girl like me read those sort of magazines there couldn’t be much harm in them. It seems I’m to get a lot more dirty books from Manchester! Anyway, I was back in time for the Chambers meeting and all of us, except for Mrs Erskine-Brown who was apparently doing something extremely important in Wales, assembled in Ballard’s room. I was taking the minutes so I can tell you more or less exactly what happened. It started when Ballard read out the telemessage again in a very sad and solemn sort of way.
‘Bit rum, isn’t it? What’s he mean exactly, “Higher Tribunal”?’ Uncle Tom said.
‘I have no doubt he means that Great Court of Appeal before which we shall all have to appear eventually, Uncle Tom,’ Ballard explained.
‘I never got to the Court of Appeal. Never had a brief to go there, as a matter of fact. Probably just as well. I wouldn’t’ve been up to it.’ Uncle Tom smiled round at us all.
‘Knowing Rumpole,’ said Erskine-Brown, ‘there must be a joke there somewhere.’
‘It must have been sent by Mrs Rumpole. Poor Rumpole is clearly not in a position to send “telemessages”,’ our Head of Chambers told us.
‘Not in a position? Oh. See what you mean. Quite so. Exactly.’ Uncle Tom got the point.
‘Now, of course, this sad event will mean consequent changes in Chambers.’ Ballard moved the discussion on.
‘So far as the furniture is concerned. Yes.’ Erskine-Brown opened a favourite subject. ‘I don’t suppose anyone will have any particular use for the old hatstand which stood in Rumpole’s room.’
‘His hatstand, Erskine-Brown?’ Ballard was surprised.
‘I happen to have conferences, from time to time, with a number of solicitors. Naturally they have hats. Well, if no one else wants it…’
‘I don’t think there’ll be a stampede for Rumpole’s old hatstand,’ Uncle Tom assured him.
‘I was thinking that there ought to be a bit more work about,’ Hoskins said. ‘I mean, I suppose Henry can hang on to some of Rumpole’s solicitors. Myers and people like that. Now the work may get spread around a bit.’
‘I’m not sure I agree with Hoskins.’ Erskine-Brown was doubtful. ‘There’s some part of Rumpole’s work which we might be glad to lose. I mean the sort of thing you were doing in Manchester, Allways.’
‘You mean porn?’ I asked him brightly.
‘Obscenity! That’s exactly what I do mean. Or rape. Or indecent assault. Or possessing house-breaking instruments by night. I mean, this may be our opportunity, sad as the occasion is, of course, to improve the image of Chambers. I mean, do we want dirty-book merchants hanging about the clerk’s room?’
‘Speaking for myself,’ Ballard agreed, ‘I think there’s a great deal in what Erskine-Brown says. If you’re not for these moral degenerates, in my view, you should be against them. I’d like to see a great deal more prosecution work in Chambers.’
‘Well, you are certain of the money, with prosecutions.’ Hoskins was with him. ‘Speaking as a man with daughters.’
‘There is a young fellow who’s a certainty for the Yard’s list of prosecutors,’ Ballard said. ‘I think I’ve mentioned young Archie Featherstone to you, Erskine-Brown?’
‘Of course. The Judge’s nephew.’
‘It may be, in the changed circumstances, we shall have a room to offer young Archie Featherstone.’
‘He won’t be taking work from us?’ Hoskins was more than a bit nervous at the prospect.
‘In my opinion he’ll be bringing it in,’ Ballard reassured him, ‘in the shape of prosecutions. Now, there are a few arrangements to be discussed.’
‘I hope “arrangements” doesn’t mean a crematorium,’ Uncle Tom said mournfully. ‘I always thing there’s something terribly depressing about those little railway lines, passing out through the velvet curtain.’
‘Of course, it is something of an event. I wonder if we’d get the Temple Church?’ Hoskins seemed almost excited.
‘Oh, I imagine not.’ Erskine-Brown was discouraging. ‘And, of course, we’ve seen nothing in the Times Obituaries. I’m afraid Rumpole never got the cases which made legal history.’
‘I suppose they might hold some sort of memorial service in Pommeroy’s Wine Bar,’ Uncle Tom said thoughtfully. Our Head of Chambers looked a bit disapproving at that, as it didn’t seem to be quite the right thing to say on a solemn occasion.
‘I think we should send a modest floral tribute,’ he suggested. ‘Henry can arrange for that, out of Chambers expenses. Everyone agreed?’ They all did, and Ballard went on, ‘In view of the fact that at the eleventh hour he appeared to be reconciled to the deeper realities of our brief life on earth, you might all care to stand for a few minutes’ silence, in memory of Horace Rumpole.’
So we all stood up, just a bit sheepishly, and bowed our heads. The silence seemed to last a long time, like it used to in Poppy Day services at school.
As I have been writing up this account for the completion of Rumpole’s papers, I have got to know Mrs Rumpole and, in the course of a few teas, come to get on with her jolly well. As we all knew in Chambers, Rumpole used to call her She Who Must Be Obeyed and always seemed to be in tremendous awe of her, but I didn’t find her all that alarming. In fact she always seemed grateful for someone to talk to. She told me a lot about the old days, when her father, C. H. Wystan, was Head of Chambers, and of how Rumpole always criticized him for not knowing enough about bloodstains; and she described how Rumpole proposed to her at a ball in the Temple, when he’d had, as she described it, ‘quite enough claret cup to be going on with’. During one of our teas (she took me, which was very decent of her, to Fortnum’s) she described the visit she had received at her flat in the Gloucester Road shortly before Mr Myers restored R. v. Armstrong for a further hearing before Judge Bullingham.
One afternoon there came a ring, so it seemed, at the door bell of the Rumpole mansion flat. Mrs Rumpole – I’ll call her ‘Hilda’ from now on since we’ve really become quite friendly – opened the door to see a small, fat, elderly man (Hilda described him to me as toad-like), who had a bald head, gold-rimmed spectacles and the cheek to put on a crêpe armband and a black tie. As he sort of oozed past her into her living room, he looked, Hilda told me, like a commercial traveller for a firm of undertakers. She wasn’t entirely unprepared for this visit, however. The man had rung her earlier and explained that he was Mr Perivale Blythe, a solicitor of the Supreme Court and anxious to pay his respects to the Widow Rumpole.
When he had penetrated the living room, Mr Blythe sat on a sofa with his briefcase on his knee and began to talk in hushed, respectful tones, Hilda told me.
‘I felt I had to intrude,’ he said softly. ‘Even at this sad, sad moment, Mrs Rumpole. I do not come as myself, not even as Blythe, Winterbottom and Paisley, but I come as a representative, if I may say so, of the entire legal profession. Your husband was a great gentleman, Mrs Rumpole. And a fine lawyer.’
‘A fine lawyer?’ Hilda was puzzled. ‘He never told me.’
‘And, of course, a most persuasive advocate.’
‘Oh, yes. He told me that,’ Hilda agreed.
‘We all join you in your grief, Mrs Rumpole. And I have to tell you this! There are no smiling faces today in the firm of Blythe, Winterbottom and Paisley!’
‘Thank you.’ Hilda did her best to sound grateful.
‘Nor anywhere, I suppose, from Inner London to Acton Magistrates. He will be sorely missed.’
‘I have to tell you what will be sorely missed, Mr Blythe,’ Hilda said then, and said it in a meaningful kind of way.
‘What, Mrs Rumpole?’
I think she said she stood up then and looked down on her visitor’s large, pale, bald he
ad, ‘All those fees you owe him. Since the indecency case, I believe, in 1973.’
Blythe was clearly taken aback. He cleared his throat and began to fiddle nervously with the catch on his briefcase. ‘You have heard a little about that?’
‘I’ve heard a lot about it!’
‘Well, of course, a great deal of that money hasn’t been completely recovered from the clients. Not in full. But I’m here to settle up,’ he assured her. ‘I imagine you’re the late Mr Rumpole’s executor?’
He opened his briefcase; Hilda looked into it and noticed a cheque book. Blythe got out a document and shut the briefcase quickly.
‘Of course I’m his executor,’ Hilda told him.
‘Then no doubt you’re fully empowered to enter into what I think you’ll agree is a perfectly fair compromise. Now, the sum involved is…’
‘Two thousand, seven hundred and sixty-five pounds, ninety-three pence,’ Hilda said quickly. She has a jolly good memory.
‘Quite the businesswoman, Mrs Rumpole.’ The beastly Blythe smiled in a patronizing manner. ‘Now, would an immediate payment of… let’s say ten per cent, be a nice little arrangement? Then it’ll be over and done with.’
‘Mr Blythe. I have to face the butcher!’ Hilda told him.
‘Yes, of course, but…’ Blythe didn’t seem to understand.
‘And the water rates. And the London Electricity Board. And the telephone has actually been cut off during my visit to the Lake District. I can’t offer them a nice little arrangement, can I?’
‘Well. Possibly not,’ Blythe admitted.
‘But I will offer you one, Mr Perivale Blythe,’ Hilda said firmly.
‘Well, that’s extremely obliging of you…’ Blythe took out his fountain pen.
And then Hilda spoke to him along the following lines. It was undoubtedly her finest hour. ‘I will offer you this,’ she said. ‘I won’t report this conversation to the Law Society, although this year’s President’s father was a close personal friend of my father, C. H. Wystan. I will not take immediate steps to have you struck off, Mr Blythe, just provided you sit down and write out a cheque for two thousand, seven hundred and sixty-five pounds, ninety-three pence, in favour of Hilda Rumpole.’
The effect of this on the little creep on the sofa was apparently astonishing. For a moment his mouth sagged open. Then, in desperation, he patted his pockets. ‘Unfortunately forgot my cheque book,’ he lied. ‘I’ll slip one in the post.’
‘Look in your briefcase, Mr Blythe. I think you’ll find your cheque book there.’ Hilda’s words of command were interrupted by the sound of a ring at the door. As she went to open it she said, ‘Excuse me. And don’t try the window, Mr Blythe. It’s really a great deal too far for you to jump.’
No doubt about it, she was a woman born to command. When she was out of the room, Blythe, with moist and trembling fingers, wrote out a cheque for the full amount. She returned with a tall, lugubrious figure who was scrubbing the end of his nose with a crushed pocket handkerchief.
‘Thank you, Mr Blythe,’ Hilda said politely as she took the cheque. ‘And now there’s a gentleman to see you.’
At which the new arrival whisked a paper out of his pocket and put it into the hand of the demoralized Perivale Blythe.
‘ “Fig” Newton!’ he said. ‘Whatever’s this?’
‘It’s a subpoena, Mr Blythe,’ Mr Newton explained patiently. ‘They want you to give evidence in a case down the Old Bailey.’
The case was, of course, R. v. Armstrong. On the morning when it started again I sat in Rumpole’s place, the only defending barrister. When the jury was reassembled the Usher called for silence and his Honour Judge Bullingham came into Court, looked towards me, noticed the gap that used to be Rumpole, and clearly decided that it would be in order to say a few words of tribute to the departed. They took the form of a speech to the jury in which his Lordship sounded confidential and really jolly sincere. ‘Members of the jury,’ he said, and they all turned their faces solemnly towards him. ‘Before we start this case, there is something I have to say. In our Courts, warm friendships spring up between judges and counsel, between Bench and Bar. We’re not superior beings as judges; we don’t put on “side”. We are the barristers’ friends. And one of my oldest friends, over the years, was Horace Rumpole.’ Both Ward-Webster for the prosecution and I looked piously up to the ceiling. We carefully hid our feelings of amazement.
‘During the time he appeared before me, in many cases, I can truthfully say that there was never a cross word between us, although we may have had trivial disagreements over points of law,’ Bullingham went on. ‘We are all part of that great happy family, members of the jury, which is the Criminal Court.’
It was at that moment that I heard a sound beside me and smelt the familiar shaving soap and small cigar. The Judge and the jury were too busy with each other to notice, but Ward-Webster and almost everyone else in Court were looking towards us in silent stupefaction. Rumpole was, I must say, looking in astonishingly fine condition, pinker than usual and well rested. He was obviously enjoying the Judge’s speech.
‘Mr Horace Rumpole was one of the old brigade.’ By now Judge Bullingham was clearly deeply moved. ‘Not a leader, perhaps, not a general, but a reliable, hard-working and greathearted old soldier of the line.’
Of course, Rumpole could resist it no longer. He got slowly to his feet and bowed deeply, saying, ‘My Lord.’ The jury’s faces swivelled towards him. Bullingham looked away from the jury-box and into the Court. If people who see ghosts go dark purple, well, that’s how Bullingham looked.
‘My Lord,’ Rumpole repeated, ‘I am deeply touched by your Lordship’s remarks.’
‘Mr Rumpole… Mr Rumpole…?’ The Judge’s voice rose incredulously. ‘I heard…’
‘Greatly exaggerated, my Lord, I do assure you.’ Of course, Rumpole had to say it. ‘May I say what a pleasure it is to be continuing this case before your Lordship.’
‘Mason. What’s this mean?’ Bullingham leant forward and whispered hoarsely to the Clerk of the Court. We heard Mr Mason whisper back, ‘Quite honestly, Judge, I haven’t a clue.’
‘Mr Rumpole. Have you some application?’ The Judge was looking at Rumpole with something like fear. Perhaps he thought he was about to call someone from the spirit world.
‘No application.’ Rumpole smiled charmingly. ‘Your Lordship kindly adjourned this case, if you remember. It’s now been restored to your list. Our inquiries are complete and I will call Mr Perivale Blythe.’
After the sensation of Rumpole’s return from the tomb, where Bullingham quite obviously thought he’d been, I’m afraid to say that the rest of R. v. Armstrong was a bit of an anti-climax. Perivale Blythe padded into the witness-box, took the oath in a plummy sort of voice, and I have the notes of Rumpole’s examination-in-chief.
‘Mr Blythe,’ the resurrected old barrister asked. ‘After their father’s death, did you act for the two Armstrong brothers, my client Frank and his brother Frederick?’
‘Yes, I did,’ Blythe agreed.
‘And did Fred supply the computers set up in the offices of Sun-Sand Holidays, my client Frank Armstrong’s firm?’
‘I believe he did.’ Blythe sounded uninterested.
‘Mr Blythe, would you take the photograph of the Cornish holiday site?’
As the usher took the photograph to the witness-box, Bullingham staged a bit of a comeback and said, ‘The industrial area, Mr Rumpole?’
‘Exactly, my Lord.’ Rumpole bowed politely. ‘Do you know what that industry is, Mr Blythe?’
‘Tin mines, my Lord. I rather think.’ Once again, Blythe sounded deliberately unconcerned.
‘You know, don’t you? Didn’t you visit that site on behalf of your client Mr Frederick Armstrong?’
‘I did. He was anxious to buy his brother Frank’s site.’
‘Because he knew tin would also be discovered there.’
‘Yes, of course.’ And then Blythe forgot his
lack of interest. ‘I don’t believe he told his brother that.’
‘I don’t believe he did.’ Rumpole was after him now. ‘And when his brother refused, didn’t Fred take every possible step to ruin his brother Frank’s business, no doubt by interfering with the computers that he’d installed so that they constantly gave misleading information, booked non-existent holiday homes and gave false instructions for caravans to be towed away?’
‘I never approved of that, my Lord. I am an officer of the Court. I wouldn’t have any part of it.’ Perivale Blythe was sweating. He patted his bald head with a handkerchief and protested his innocence. I’d say he made a pretty unattractive figure in the witness-box.
‘Although you knew about it. Come, Mr Blythe. You must have known about it to disapprove.’ Rumpole pressed his advantage but the Judge, back to his old form, was getting restless. ‘Mr Rumpole! I take the gravest objection to this in examination-in-chief. It is quite outrageous!’
‘A trivial objection, surely?’ Rumpole gave a sweet smile. ‘Your Lordship has told the jury we only have trivial disagreements.’
‘You are putting an entirely new case to this witness, so far as I can see, on no evidence.’
‘Oh, there will be evidence, my Lord.’
‘I hope my learned friend doesn’t intend to give that evidence?’ Ward-Webster rose to his feet to object for the prosecution.
‘I hope that my learned friend doesn’t wish to conceal from the jury the fact that Detective Inspector Limmeridge arrested Frederick Armstrong when he had entered his brother’s office by night and was reprogramming the computers. There has been a charge of Perverting the Course of Justice,’ Rumpole said, looking hard at the jury. ‘In fact, Mr Newton has given the results of all his observations to the officer in charge of the case.’
‘Is that right, Mr Ward-Webster?’ Bullingham asked incredulously.
‘So I understand, my Lord.’ Ward-Webster subsided.
The Second Rumpole Omnibus Page 47