‘That, if I may say so,’ – Hearthstoke gave a small, wintry smile – ‘is the dying voice of what may well become a dying profession.’
‘We’ve got to move with the times, Rumpole, as Charles has pointed out.’ Ballard was clearly exercising a great self-control in dealing with the critics.
‘As a matter of fact I’m entirely in favour of the privatization of Henry.’ This was the colourless barrister, Hoskins. ‘Speaking as a chap with daughters, I can ill afford ten per cent.’
‘Those of us who have a bit of practice at the Bar, those of us who can’t spend all our days doing feasibility studies on the price of paper-clips, know how important it is to keep our clerk’s room happy.’ That, at any rate, was my considered opinion. ‘Besides, I don’t want to go in there in the morning and find the place full of up-thrusting young chartered accountants. It’d put me off my breakfast.’
‘Is that all you have to say on the subject?’ Ballard looked as though he couldn’t take much more.
‘Absolutely. I’m going to work. Come along, Mizz Probert’ – I rose to my feet – ‘I believe you’ve got a noting brief.’
‘There’s a dingy-looking character in a dirty mac hanging about the waiting-room for you, Rumpole,’ Erskine-Brown was at pains to tell me. ‘And talking of dirty macs’ – Hearthstoke looked at me in a meaningful fashion – ‘There is one other point I have to raise,’ he said, but I left him to raise it on his own. I was busy.
The client who was waiting for me was separated from his mac; all the same he cut a somewhat depressing figure. He wore thick, pebble glasses, a drooping bow-tie, and a cardigan which had claimed its fair share of soup. A baggy grey suit completed the get-up of a man who seemed to have benefited not at all from the programme of physical fitness which he sold to the public; neither did he seem to enjoy the prosperity which the Prosecution had suggested. He had a curiously high voice and the pained expression of a man who at least pretended not to understand why he was due to be tried at the Old Bailey.
‘Dr Maurice Horridge. Where does the “Doctor” come from, by the way?’ I asked him.
‘New Bognor. A small seat of learning, Mr Rumpole. In the shadow of the Canadian Rockies…’
‘You know Canada well?’
‘I was never out of England, Mr Rumpole. Alas.’
‘So this degree of yours. You wrote up for it?’
‘I obtained my diploma by correspondence,’ he corrected me. ‘None the less valuable for that.’
‘And it is a doctorate in…?’
‘Theology, Mr Rumpole. I trust you find that helpful.’ I got up and stood at the window, looking out at some nice, clean rain. ‘Oh, very helpful, I’m sure. If you want to be well up in the Book of Job or if you want to carry on an intelligent chat on the subject of Ezekiel. I just don’t see how it helps with the massage business.’
‘The line of the body, Mr Rumpole, is the line of God.’ My client spoke reverently. ‘We are all of us created in His image.’
‘Yes. I’ve often thought He must be quite a strange-looking chap.’
‘Pardon me, Mr Rumpole?’ Dr Horridge looked pained.
‘Forget I spoke. But massage…’
‘Spiritual, Mr Rumpole! Entirely spiritual. I could stretch you flat on the floor, with your head supported by a telephone directory, and lay your limbs out spiritually. All your aches and pains would be relieved at once. I don’t know if you’d care to stretch out?’
‘The girls in these massage parlours you run…’ I got to the nub of the case.
‘Trained! Mr Rumpole. All fully trained.’
‘Medically?’
‘In my principles, of course. The principles of the spiritual alignment of the bones.’
‘What’s alleged is that they so far forgot their spiritual mission as to indulge in a little hanky-panky with the customers.’ I explained the nature of the charges to the good doctor; roughly it was alleged that he was living on immoral earnings and keeping a large number of disorderly houses. ‘I cannot believe it, Mr Rumpole! I simply cannot believe it of my girls.’ He spoke like a priest who has heard of group sex among the vestal virgins.
‘So that your defence,’ I asked him as patiently as possible, ‘is that entirely without your knowledge your girls turned from sacred to profane massage?’
Dr Horridge nodded his head energetically. He seemed to think that I had put his case extremely well.
Now I must try to tell you how the troubles of Dr Maurice Horridge became connected with the painful matter of the Judge’s elbow. Meeting his wife at the tennis court one night – he had so far improved in his health, thanks to Elsie, that he felt fit enough to resume mixed doubles with the Addisons – Guthrie found Marigold reading the Standard. ‘Massage parlours,’ she almost spat out the words with disgust.
‘Well. Yes. In fact…’ Guthrie hadn’t yet confided the full facts of his visit to the Good Life Health Centre to his wife, who read aloud to him from the paper.
‘ “Doctor of Theology charged with running massage parlours as disorderly houses”. How revolting! What was it you wanted to tell me, Guthrie?’
‘Well, nothing really. Just that my elbow seems much better. I can really swing a racket now.’
‘Well, just don’t dislocate anything else.’ She gave him more of the news. ‘ “Thirty-five massage parlours alleged to offer immoral services in the Greater London area.” Pathetic! Grown men having to go to places like that!’
‘I’m quite sure some of them just needed a massage,’ Guthrie tried to persuade her.
‘If you’d believe that, Guthrie, you’d believe anything!’ She read on regardless. ‘ “Arab oil millionaires, merchant bankers and well-known names from television are said to be among those who used the cheap sex provided at Dr Horridge’s establishments and paid by credit card”!’ Guthrie stifled an agonized exclamation of terror. ‘What’s on earth’s the matter? That elbow playing you up again?’
The next thing Guthrie did was to visit the tennis club Gents, and flush away the American Express slip which he had retained for the monthly check-up. He didn’t want Marigold, searching for a bit of cash, to find the dreaded words ‘Massage and Sauna’ stamped on a bit of blue paper. The next day, in the privacy of the Judge’s room, he made a telephone call, which I imagine went something like this.
‘American Express? The name is Featherstone. Mr Justice Featherstone. No, not Justice-Featherstone with a hyphen. My name is Featherstone and I’m a justice. I’m a judge, that is. Yes. Well, actually I got into a bit of a muddle and paid someone with a credit card when I should have paid cash and if I could go and pay them now, could I get my credit-card slip back and you wouldn’t need to have any record of it at all if it’s a purely private matter, just a question of my own personal accounting?… Do I make myself clear? What’s that? Oh. I don’t…’
It is never easy to recall the past and rectify our mistakes. In this case, Guthrie was to find it impossible. Norman, the Usher, who started all the trouble, had suddenly retired and gone to live in the North of England, and when Guthrie revisited the address near Tottenham Court Road, in the hope that his credit-card transaction could be expunged from the records, he found that the Health Centre had sold up and the premises taken over by Luxifruits Ltd. He was offered some nice juicy satsumas by the greengrocer now in charge, but all traces of Elsie and the receptionist had vanished away.
Guthrie’s cup of anxiety ran over when he bumped into Claude Erskine-Brown walking up from the Temple tube station. ‘Always so good to see some of the chaps from my old Chambers,’ the Judge was gracious enough to observe after Claude had removed his hat and then restored it to its position. ‘See your wife was in the Court of Appeal again the other day. And Rumpole! What’s old Horace doing?’
‘Something sordid as usual,’ Claude told him.
‘Distasteful?’
‘Downright disgusting. Rumpole’s cases do tend to lower the tone of 3 Equity Court. This time it’s mas
sage parlours! Rumpole’s acting for the King of the massage parlours. Of course, he thinks it’s a huge joke.’
‘But it’s not, Erskine-Brown, is it?’ The Judge was serious. ‘In fact, it’s not a joke at all!’
‘I can’t pretend my marriage is all champagne and opera. We’ve had our difficulties, Philly and I, from time to time, as I’d be the first to admit. But thank heavens I’ve never had to resort to massage parlours! I simply can’t understand it.’
‘No. It’s a mystery to me, of course.’
‘Anyway. That sort of thing simply lets down the tone of Chambers.’
‘Yes. Of course, Claude. Of course it does. The honour of Equity Court is still extremely important to me, as you well know. Perhaps I should invite Horace Rumpole to lunch at the Sheridan. Have a word with him on the subject?’
‘What subject?’ Claude was apparently a little mystified.
‘Massage… No,’ the Judge corrected himself, ‘I mean Chambers, of course.’
‘Oysters for Mr Rumpole… and I’ll take soup of the day. And Mr Rumpole will be having the grouse and I – I’ll settle for the Sheridan Club Hamburger. I thought a Chablis Premier Cru to start with and then, would the Château Talbot ’77 appeal to you at all, Horace?’ The autumn sunlight filtered through the tall windows that badly needed cleaning and glimmered on the silver and portraits of old judges. Around us, actors hobnobbed with politicians and publishers. I sat in the Sheridan Club, amazed at the Judge’s hospitality. As the waitress left us with my substantial order, I asked him if he’d won the pools.
‘No. It’s just that one gets so few opportunities to entertain the chaps from one’s old Chambers. And now Claude Erskine-Brown tells me you’re doing this case about what was it… beauty parlours?’
‘Massage parlours. Or, as I prefer to call them, Health Centres.’
‘Oh, yes, of course. Massage parlours.’ The Judge seemed to choke on the words and then recovered. ‘Well, I suppose some of these places are quite respectable and above-board, aren’t they? I mean, people might just drop in because they’d got…’
‘A touch of housemaid’s knee?’ I was incredulous.
‘That sort of thing, yes.’
‘Someone who was as innocent and unsuspecting as that, they shouldn’t be let off the lead.’
‘Why do you say that?’
The waitress came with the white wine. Guthrie tasted it and she then poured. I tasted a cold and stony Chablis, no doubt at a price that seldom passes my lips. ‘Well, to your average British jury, the words massage parlour mean only one thing,’ I told Guthrie, without cheering him up.
‘What?’
‘Hanky-panky!’
‘Oh. You think that, do you?’
‘Everyone does.’
‘Hanky-panky?’ The words stuck in the Judge’s throat.
‘In practically every case.’
‘Rumpole! Horace… Look, do let me top you up.’ He poured more Chablis. ‘You’re defending in this case, I take it?’
‘What else should I be doing?’
‘And as such, as defending counsel, I mean, you’ll get to see the prosecution evidence…’
‘Oh, I’ve seen most of that already,’ I assured him cheerfully.
‘Have you?’ He looked as though I’d already passed sentence on him. ‘How extraordinarily interesting.’
‘It’s funny, really.’
‘Funny?’
‘Yes. Extremely funny. You know, all sorts of Very Important People visited my client’s establishments. Nobs. Bigwigs.’
‘Big wigs, Horace?’ Guthrie seemed to take the expression personally.
‘Most respectable citizens. And you know what? They actually paid with their credit cards! Can you imagine anything so totally dotty…’
‘Dotty? No! Nothing.’ The Judge laughed mirthlessly. ‘So their names are all… in the evidence? Plain for all the world to see?’ He broke off as the soup and the oysters were brought by the waitress, and then said thoughtfully, ‘I don’t suppose that all the evidence will necessarily be put before the Jury.’
‘Oh no. Only a few little nuggets. The cream of the collection. It should provide an afternoon of harmless fun.’
‘Not fun for the… big… big wigs involved…’ He looked appalled.
‘Well, if they were so idiotic as to use their credit cards!’ There was a long pause during which my host seemed sunk in the deepest gloom. He then rallied a little, smiled in a somewhat ghastly manner, and addressed me with all his judicial charm and deep concern. ‘Horace,’ he said, ‘don’t you find this criminal work rather exhausting?’
‘It’s a killer!’ I admitted. ‘Only sometimes a bit of evidence turns up and makes it all worthwhile.’
‘Have you ever considered relaxing a little?’ He ignored any further reference to big wigs in massage parlours. ‘Perhaps on the Circuit Bench?’
‘You’re joking!’ He had amazed me. ‘Anyway, I’m far too old.’
‘I don’t know. I could have a word with the powers that be. They might ask you to sit as a deputy, Rumpole. On a more or less permanent basis. A hundred and fifty quid a day and absolutely no worries.’
‘Deputy Circus Judge?’ I was still in a state of shock. ‘Why should they offer me that?’
‘As a little tribute, perhaps, to the tactful way you’ve always conducted your defences.’
‘Tactful? No one’s ever called me that before.’ I squeezed lemon on an oyster and sent it sliding down.
‘I’ve always found you extremely tactful in Court, Horace. And discreet. Oysters all right, are they?’
‘Oh, yes, Judge.’ I looked at him with some suspicion. ‘Absolutely nothing wrong with the oysters.’
Walking back from the Sheridan Club to Chambers, I thought about Guthrie’s strange suggestion and felt even more surprised. Deputy Circuit Judge! Why on earth should I want that? These thoughts flitted through my head. Judging people is not my trade. I defend them. All the same… One hundred and fifty smackers a day, the old darling did say a hundred and fifty, and you didn’t even have to stand up for it. It could all be earned sitting down. With hacks constantly flattering you and saying ‘If your Honour pleases’, ‘If your Honour would be so kind as to look at the fingerprint evidence.’ No one has ever spoken to me like that. But what was the Judge up to exactly? Offering me grouse and oysters and Deputy Circus Judge. What, precisely, was Guthrie’s game?
I could find no answer to these questions as I walked along the Strand. Then a voice hailed me and I turned to see a tall, bald man familiar to me from the Bailey. It was Norman, the ex-Usher, who had apparently called down to the old shop to collect his cards. He asked if Mr Justice Featherstone’s elbow had improved.
‘It seems to be remarkably recovered,’ I told him.
‘In terrible pain, he was,’ Norman clucked sympathetically. ‘Don’t you remember? I was able to put him on to a place where they could give him a bit of relief. Get down to the deep fibres, you know. Have the Judge’s bones stretched out properly…’
‘You recommended a place?’ I was suddenly interested.
‘The wife’s niece worked there. Nice type of establishment, it was really. Very hygienically run.’ He looked down the road. ‘Here comes a number 11. I’ll be seeing you, Mr Rumpole. I don’t know if you’ve got any use for a nice length of garden hose.’
‘What place? What place did you recommend exactly?’ I tried to ask him, but he skipped lightly on to his number 11 and left me.
The Prosecutor in R. v. Dr Maurice Horridge was a perfectly decent fellow called Brinsley Lampitt. I called on him at his Chambers and he let me have a large cardboard box of documents, bank statements, accounts and credit-card slips all connected with the questioned massage parlours. My meetings with Guthrie Featherstone and Norman the Usher had given me the idea of a defence which seemed so improbable that at least it had to be tried. I carried the box of exhibits back to Chambers, and set Mizz Liz Probert to sift through the
m, with particular reference to the credit-card transactions. Then I went down to see Henry.
I found Charles Hearthstoke in the clerk’s room asking for P.A.Y.E. forms and petty-cash vouchers for coffee consumed over the last two years. Henry was looking furious and Dianne somewhat flustered. I discovered much later that they had been surprised in a flagrant kiss behind a potted plant when Hearthstoke entered. On my arrival, he turned his unwelcome attentions on me. ‘Sorry you had to slip away from the Chambers meeting, Rumpole.’ ‘What did I miss, Hearthrug?’ I asked him. ‘Have you replaced me with a reliable computer?’
‘Not yet. But we did pass a resolution on the general standards of appearance in Chambers. Old macs are not acceptable now, over a black jacket and striped trousers.’ The Pill then left us, and I looked after him with some irritation and contempt. ‘I quite agree with you, Mr Rumpole,’ Henry said, and I told him we stood together on the matter. ‘Together,’ I told him, ‘we shall contrive to scupper Hearthrug.’
‘It’ll need a bit of working out,’ Henry said, ‘Mr Ballard being so pro…’
‘Bollard? Leave Bollard to me! Providing, Henry, I can leave something to you.’
‘I’ll do my best, sir. What exactly?’
‘Miss Osgood. The lady who arranges the lists down the Bailey. You know, your co-star from the Bromley amateur dramatics.’
‘We’re playing opposite each other, Mr Rumpole. In Brief Encounter.’
‘Encounter her, Henry! Drop a word in her shell-like ear about the massage parlour case. What we need, above all things, is a sympathetic judge… “There is a tide in the affairs of barristers,” Henry, “Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune; Omitted, all the voyage of their life is bound in shallows and in miseries…” ’ On such a full tide were we now afloat, and I took charge of the helm and suggested the name of the Judge whom I thought Miss Osgood would do well to assign to R. v. Horridge.
So it came about that when Guthrie Featherstone arrived for his next stint of work down the Bailey, and Harold, the new usher, brought him coffee in his room, he found the Judge staring, transfixed with horror, at the papers in the case he was about to try and muttering the words ‘massage parlours’ in a voice of deep distress. Not even the offer of a few nice biscuits could cheer him up. And when he entered Court and saw Dr Horridge in the dock, Rumpole smiling up at him benignly and the table of proposed exhibits loaded with credit-card slips, the Judge looked like a man being led to the place of execution.
The Second Rumpole Omnibus Page 61