'What's her crime, Mr Rumpole? That's what Roz and I wants to know. It's not as though she nicked things ever.' 'Well, not really, ' And Roz admitted, 'She'll take a Jaffa cake when I'm not looking, or a few sweets occasionally.' 'Our Tracy's too young for any serious nicking.' Her father was sure of it. 'What you reckon she done, Mr Rumpole?
What they got on her charge-sheet?' 'Childhood itself seems a crime to some people.' It's a point that has often struck me.
'We can't seem to get any sense out of that Miss Jones.' Roz looked helpless.
'Jones?' 'Officer in charge of case. Tracy's social worker.' 'One of the "caring" community.' I was sure of it.
'All she'll say is that she's making further inquiries,' Mr Bernard told me.
'I never discovered what I'd done when they banged me up in a draughty great boarding-school at the age of eight.' I looked back down the long corridor of years and began to reminisce.
'Hear that, Roz?' Cary turned to his wife. 'They banged up Mr Rumpole when he was a kid.' 'Did they, Mr Rumpole? Did they really?' But before I could give them further and better particulars of the bird I had done at Linklaters, that downmarket public school I attended on the Norfolk coast, Mr Bernard brought us back to the fantastic facts of the case and the nature of the charges against Tracy. 'I've been talking to the solicitor for the Local Authority,' he reported, 'and their case is that the Juvenile Timson has been indulging in devil worship, hellish rituals and satanic rights.' It might be convenient if I were to give you an account of that filmed interview with Dominic Molloy which, as I have told you, we finally saw at the trial. Before that, Mr Bernard had acquired a transcript of this dramatic scene, so we were, by bits and pieces, made aware of the bizarre charges against young Tracy, a case which began to look as though it should be transferred from Crockthorpe Juvenile Court to Seville to be decided by hooded inquisitors in the darkest days of the Spanish Inquisition.
The scene was set in the Headmistress's office in Stafford Cripps Junior. Mirabelle Jones, at her most reassuring, sat smiling on one side of the desk, while young Dominic Molloy, beaming with self-importance, played the starring role on the other.
'You remember the children wearing those horrid masks at school, do you, Dominic?' Mirabelle kicked off the proceedings.
'They scared me!' Dominic gave a realistic shudder.
'I'm sure they did.' The social worker made a note, gave the camera, no doubt installed in the corner of the room the benefit of her smile and then returned to the work in hand.
'Did you see who was leading those children?' 'In the end I did.' 'Who was it?' 'Trace.' 'Tracy Timson?' 'Yes.' 'Your mum said you went round to Tracy Timson's a few times. After school, was that?' 'Yes. After school like.' 'And then you said you went somewhere else. Where else, exactly?' 'Where they put people.' 'A churchyard. Was it a churchyard?' Mirabelle gave us a classic example of a leading question. Dominic nodded approval and she made a note. 'The one in Crockthorpe Road, the church past the roundabout. St Elphick's?' Mirabelle suggested and Dominic nodded again. 'It was the churchyard.
Was it dark?' Dominic nodded so eagerly that his whole body seemed to rock backwards and forwards and he was in danger of falling off his chair.
'After school and late. A month ago? So it was dark. Did a grown-up come with you? A man, perhaps. Did a man come with you?' 'He said we was to play a game.' Now Dominic had resorted to a kind of throaty whisper, guaranteed to make the flesh creep.
'What sort of game?' 'He put something on his face.' mask?' 'Red and horns on it.' 'A devil's mask.' Mirabelle was scribbling enthusiastically.
Is that right, Dominic? He wanted you to play at devils?
This man did?' 'He said he was the Devil. Yes.' 'He was to be the Devil. And what were you supposed to be?' Dominic didn't answer that, but sat as if afraid to move.
'Perhaps you were the Devil's children?' At this point Dominic's silence was more effective than any answer.
'What was the game you had to play?' Mirabelle tried another approach.
'Dance around.' The answer came in a whisper.
'Dance around. Now I want you to tell me, Dominic, when did you meet this man? At Tracy Timson's house? Is that where you met him?' More silence from Dominic, so Mirabelle tried again. 'Do you know who he was, Dominic?' At which Dominic nodded and looked round fearfully.
'Who was he, Dominic? You've been such a help to me so far. Can't you tell me who he was?' 'Tracy's dad.' Everything changes and with ever-increasing rapidity. Human beings no longer sell tickets at the Temple tube station.
Machines and not disillusioned waitresses dispense the socalled coffee in the Old Bailey canteen and, when I became aware that Dianne, our long-time typist and close personal friend to Henry, our clerk, had left the service, I feared and expected that she might be replaced by a robot. However, what I found behind the typewriter, when I blew into the clerk's room after a hard day's work on an actual bodily harm in Acton a few weeks after my conference with Tracy's parents, was nothing more mechanical than an unusually pretty and very young woman, wearing a skirt as short as a suspended sentence and a smile so ready that it seemed never to leave her features entirely but to be waiting around for the next opportunity to beam. Henry introduced her as Miss Clapton.
'Taken over from Dianne, Mr Rumpole, who has just got herself married. I don't know if you've heard the news.' 'Married? Henry, I'm sorry.' 'To a junior clerk in a bankruptcy set.' He spoke with considerable disgust. 'I told her she'd live to regret it.' 'Welcome to Equity Court, Miss Clapton,' I said. 'If you behave really well, you might get parole in about ten years.' She gave me the smile at full strength, but my attention was diverted by the sight of Mizz Liz Probert who had just picked up a brief from the mantelpiece and was looking at it with every sign of rapture. Liz, the daughter of Red Ron Probert, Labour leader on the Crockthorpe Council, is the most radical member of our Chambers. I greeted her with, 'Soft you now! The fair Mizz Probert! What are you fondling there, old thing?' Or words to that effect.
'What does it look like, Rumpole?' 'It looks suspiciously like a brief.' 'Got it in one!' Mizz Liz was in a perky mood that morning.
'Time marches on! My ex-pupil has begun to acquire briefs.
What is it? Bad case of non-renewed dog licence?' 'A bit more serious than that. I'm for the Crockthorpe Local Authority, Rumpole.' 'I am suitably overawed.' I didn't ask whether the presence of Red Ron on the Council had anything to do with this manna from heaven, and Mizz Liz went on to tell a familiar story. 'A little girl had to be taken into care. She's in terrible danger in the home. You know what it is, the father's got a criminal record. As a matter of fact, it's a name that might be familiar to you. Timson.' 'So they took away a Timson child because the father's got form?' I asked innocently, hoping for further information.
'Not just that. Something rather awful was going on. Devil worship! The family were deeply into it. Quite seriously. It's a shocking case.' 'Is it really? Tell me, do you believe in the Devil?' 'Of course I don't, Rumpole. Don't be so ridiculous!
Anyway, that's hardly the point.' 'Isn't it? It interests me, though. You see, I'm likely to be against you in the Juvenile Court.' 'You, Rumpole! On the side of the Devil?' Mizz Probert seemed genuinely shocked.
'Why not? They tell me he has the best lines.' 'Defending devil-worshippers, in a children's case! That's really not on, is it, Rumpole?' 'I really can't think of anyone I wouldn't defend. That's what I believe in. I was just on my way to Pommeroy's. Mizz Liz, old thing, will you join me in a stiffener?' 'I don't really think we should be seen drinking together, not now I'm appearing for the Local Authority.' 'For the Local Authority, of course!' I gave her a respectful bow on leaving. 'A great power in the land! Even if they do rather interfere with the joy of living.' No sooner had I got to Pommeroy's Wine Bar and chalked up the first glass of Jack Pommeroy's Very Ordinary when Claude Erskine-Brown of our Chambers came into view in a state of considerable excitement about the new typist. 'An enormous asset, don't you t
hink? Dot will bring a flood of spring sunshine into our clerk's room.' 'Dot?' I was puzzled. 'What are you babbling about?' 'Her name's Dot, Rumpole. She told me that. I said it was a beautiful name.' I didn't need to tell the fellow he was making a complete ass of himself; this was a fact too obvious to mention.
'I've told her she must come to me if she has any problems workwise.' Claude is, of course, married to Phillida ErskineBrown, Q.c., the attractive and highly competent Portia of our Chambers. Perhaps it's because he has to play second fiddle to this powerful advocate that Claude is for ever on the lookout for alternative company, a pursuit which brings little but embarrassment to himself and those around him. I saw nothing but trouble arising from the appearance of this Dot upon the Erskine-Brown horizon, but now the fellow completely changed the subject and said, 'You know Charlie Wisbeach?' ' I've never heard of him.' 'Wisbeach, Bottomley, Perkins & Harris.' Erskine-Brown spoke in an awe-struck whisper as though repeating a magic formula.
'Good God! Are they all here?' 'I rather think Claude's talking about my dad's firm.' This came from a plumpish but fairly personable young man who was in the offing, holding a bottle of champagne and a glass, which he now refilled and also gave a shower of bubbles to Erskine-Brown.
'Just the best firm in the City, Rumpole. Quality work. And Charlie here's come to the Bar. He wants a seat in Chambers.' Erskine-Brown sounded remarkably keen on the idea, no doubt hoping for work from the firm of Wisbeach, Bottomley, Perkins & Harris.
'Oh, yes?' I sniffed danger. 'And where would he like it?
There might be an inch or two available in the downstairs loo.
Didn't we decide we were full up at the last Chambers meeting?' 'I say, you must be old Rumpole!' Young Wisbeach was looking at me as though I were some extinct species still on show in the Natural History Museum.
'I'm afraid I've got very little choice in the matter,' I had to admit.
'You're not still practising, are you?' Charlie Wisbeach had the gall to ask.
'Not really. I suppose I've learned how to do it by now.' 'Oh, but Claude Erskine-Brown told me you'd soon be retiring.' 'Did you, Claude? Did you tell young Charlie that?' I turned upon the treacherous Erskine-Brown the searchlight eyes and spoke in the pained tones of the born cross-examiner.
'Well, no. Not exactly, Rumpole.' The man fumbled for words. 'Well, of course, I just assumed you'd be retiring some time.' 'Don't count on it, Erskine-Brown. Don't you ever count on it!' 'And Claude told me that when you retired, old chap, there might be a bit of space in your Chambers.' The usurper Wisbeach apparently found the situation amusing. 'A pretty enormous space is what I think he said. Didn't you, Claude?' 'Well no, Charlie. No... Not quite.' Erskine-Brown's embarrassment proved his guilt.
'It sounds like an extremely humorous conversation.' I gave them both the look contemptuous.
'Charlie has a pretty impressive C.V., Rumpole.' ErskineBrown tried to change the subject as his newfound friend gave him another slurp.
'See what?' 'Curriculum vitae. Eton...' 'Oh. Good at that as well, is he? I thought it was mainly drinkin'.' 'Claude's probably referring to the old school.' Wisbeach could not, of course, grasp the Rumpole joke.
'Oh, Eton! Well, I've no doubt you'll rise above the handicaps of a deprived childhood. In somebody else's Chambers.' 'As a matter of fact Claude showed me your room.' Wisbeach gave the damning evidence. 'Very attractive accommodation.' 'You did what, Claude?' 'Charlie and I... Well, we... called in to see you. But you were doing that long arson in Snaresbrook.' 'Historic spot, your room!' Wisbeach told me as though I'd never seen the place before. 'Fine views over the churchyard.
Don't you look straight down at Dr Johnson's tomb?' 'It's Oliver Goldsmith's, as it so happens.' Eton seemed to have done little for the man's store of essential knowledge.
'No, Johnson's!' You can't tell an old Etonian anything.
'Goldsmith,' I repeated, with the last of my patience.
'Want to bet?' 'Not particularly.' 'Your old room needs a good deal of decorating, of course.
And some decent furniture. But the idea is, we might share.
While you're still practising, Rumpole.' 'That's not an idea. It's a bad dream.' I directed my rejection of the offer at Erskine-Brown, who started up a babble of 'Rumpole! Think of the work that Wisbeach could send us!' 'And I would like to let it be known that I still have work of my own to do, and I do it best alone. As a free spirit!
Wrongs are still to be righted.' Here I drained my plonk to the dregs and stood up, umbrella in hand. 'Mr Justice Graves is still putting the boot in. Chief Inspector Brush is still referring to his unreliable notebook. And an eight-year-old Timson has been banged up against her will, not in Eton College like you. Master Charlie, but in the tender care of the Crockthorpe Local Authority. The child is suspected of devil-worship. Can you believe it? An offence which I thought went out with the burning of witches.' 'Is that your case, Rumpole?' Erskine-Brown looked deeply interested.
'Indeed, yes. And I have a formidable opponent. None other than Mizz Liz Probert, with the full might of the Local Authority behind her. So, while there are such challenges to be overcome, let me tell you, Claude, and you, Charlie Whatsit, Rumpole shall never sheath the sword. Never!' So I left the bar with my umbrella held aloft like the weapon of a crusader, and the effect of this exit was only slightly marred by my colliding with a couple of trainee solicitors who were blocking the fairway. As I apologized and lowered the umbrella I could distinctly hear the appalling Wisbeach say, 'Funny old buffer!' In all my long experience down the Bailey and in lesser courts I have not known a villain as slithery and treacherous as Claude Erskine-Brown proved on that occasion. As soon as he could liberate himself from the cuckoo he intended to place in my nest, he dashed up to Equity Court in search of our Head of Chambers, Samuel Ballard, Q.c. Henry, who was working late on long-delayed fee notes, told him that Soapy Sam was at a service with his peer group, the Lawyers As Christians Society, in the Temple Church. Undeterred, Claude set off to disturb the holy and devoutly religious Soapy at prayer. It was, he told a mystified Henry as he departed, just the place to communicate the news he had in mind.
I am accustomed to mix with all sorts of dubious characters in pursuit of evidence and, when I bought a glass of Pommeroy's for a L.A.C. (member of the Lawyers As Christians Society), I received an astonishing account of Claude's entry into Evensong. Pushing his way down the pew he arrived beside our Head of Chambers, who had risen to his feet to an organ accompaniment and was about to give vent to a hymn.
Attending worshippers were able to hear dialogue along the following lines.
'Erskine-Brown. Have you joined us?' Ballard was surprised.
'Of course I've joined L.A.C.S. Subscription's in the post. But I had to tell you about Rumpole, as a matter of urgency.' 'Please, Erskine-Brown. This is no place to be talking about such matters as Rumpole.' ''Devil-worshippers. Rumpole's in with devil-worshippers,' Claude said in a voice calculated to make our leader's flesh creep.
However, at this moment, the hymn-singing began and Ballard burst out with: God moves in a mysterious way His wonders to perform; He plants his footsteps in the sea, And rides upon the storm.
Betraying a certain talent for improvisation, my informant told me that he distinctly heard Claude Erskine-Brown join in with: 'Rumpole in his mischievous way Has taken on a case About some devil-worshippers.
He's had them in your place!
Your Chambers, I mean.' At which point Ballard apparently turned and looked at the conniving Claude with deep and horrified concern.
It was a time when everyone seemed intent on investigating the alleged satanic cult. Mirabelle Jones continued to make films for showing before the Juvenile Court and this time she interviewed Tracy Timson in a room, also equipped with a camera and recording apparatus, in the Children's Home.
Rumpole and the Children of the Devil Mirabelle arrived, equipped with dolls, not glamorous pinup girls, but a somewhat drab and unsexy family consi
sting of a Mum and Dad, Grandpa and Grandma, who looked like solemn New England farm-workers. Tracy was ordered to play with this group, and when, without any real interest in the matter, she managed to get Grandpa lying on top of Mum, Miss Jones sucked in her breath and made a note which she underlined heavily.
Later, Tracy was shown a book in which there was a picture of a devil with a forked tail, who looked like an opera singer about to undertake Mephistopheles in Faust. The questioning, as recorded in the transcript, then went along these lines.
'You know who he is, don't you, Tracy?' Mirabelle was being particularly compassionate as she asked this.
'No.' 'He's the Devil. You know about devils, don't you?' And she added, still smiling, 'You put on a devil's mask at school, didn't you, Tracy?' 'I might have done.' Tracy made an admission.
John Mortimer - Rumpole On Trial Page 2