'Oh, yes I wasn't born yesterday, you know! Sneaky Purbright was having hanky-panky with old Mat Mattingley's secretary in King's Bench Walk. That meant he was out of Chambers a lot, so whenever Sneaky's wife rang up we had to say, "He's gone over to the library to read Phipson on Evidence.'"
'But this time it's the Opera,' Claude was anxious to explain, 'and absolutely nothing occurred.' 104 lit'So. In the fulness of time', Uncle Tom ignored the interruption 'our phrase for hanky-panky in Chambers became "reading Phipson on Evidence". That was our expression for hankypanky.
I mean, "reading Phipson" meant you know what.' 'Please, Uncle Tom, I'd be very grateful. It's really quite innocent.' 'If you ask me, I'm to say I went to the Opera with you.' Uncle Tom was keen to cooperate.
'No,' Claude was still patient, 'if my wife asks you.' 'Absolutely,' Uncle Tom agreed. 'I'll tell Mrs ErskineBrown it was a most delightful evening.' He started to play golf again, singing the while, ' "Nothing else would matter in the world today,/We would go on loving in the same old way./ If you were the only girl in the world..."' 'I don't know how to thank you. Uncle Tom,' Claude said, but the old man was busy completing the ditty. '"... and I was the only boy."' Mr Justice Oliphant, known, not particularly affectionately, to the legal profession as 'Oilie' Oliphant, hailed from somewhere near Gunster and had done his practice in the deep North. He was a pallid, shapeless, rubbery sort of man, and every movement he made seemed to cost him considerable effort. As he made a note he would purse his lips, frown, suck in his breath, concentrate visibly, and then, when he read through what he had written, he would rub his eyes with his fist and gasp with surprise. He was fond of treating us like a lot of Southern layabouts, full of far-fetched fantasies, who eat grapes to the sound of guitars and take siestas. He was always telling us about his down-to-earth. North Country common sense and he was proud of calling a spade a spade, usually long before anyone had proved it was a toothpick. Perhaps because he knew the area, he was chosen to preside over the Gunster murder trial at the Old Bailey. The Prosecution was represented by Mordaunt Bissett, Q.c., a large, florid man with a Plummy voice, who hunted every weekend in the season snd was said to be extremely 'clubbable'. (There were many occasions in Court when I could have clubbed the fellow, if a suitable blunt instrument were handy. He had a talent for jumping over the rules of evidence as though they were low hedges in the Bicester country.) He was assisted by a junior whose name I now forget and whose only task seemed to be fetching coffee for his learned leader when we retired to the Bar mess. The Defence was in the more than capable hands of Mr Horace Rumpole and Mizz Liz Probert.
The trial was well attended by members of the press and, in the public gallery, I spotted a number of interested academics, including Martin Wayfield, the Professor of Classics. Let me begin my account of the proceedings at the point when Mrs O'Leary, the late Hayden Charles's housekeeper, was in the witness-box and Mordaunt Bissett, examining her in chief, began a question, 'Now tell us, when you were in the kitchen on the night of the murder...' 'My Lord, I object!' I was on my feet with the agility that constantly surprises my opponents. 'No one's proved it was a murder! It might be anything from manslaughter to accident.' 'Oh, come, come, Mr Rumpole.' The voice of the North Country comedian on the Bench tried to stifle my protests. 'The Jury and I will use our common sense. Mr Mordaunt Bissett is just using the word in the indictment your client faces.' 'To use that word before it's been proved isn't common sense. It is uncommon nonsense,' I insisted, at which Oilie became testy. 'If the Defence is going nit-picking, Mr Rumpole, we'll call it an "incident". Will that satisfy you?' 'It's not me that has to be satisfied, my Lord,' I answered grandly, 'it's the interests of justice!' I sat down then and the Judge said, in his best down-toearth manner, 'come along, Mr Mordaunt Bissett. Let's get back to work, shall we, now Mr Rumpole's had his say.' At which the mighty hunter smiled in an ingratiating sort of way and said to the witness, 'During the "incident" you could distinguish some of the words the man on the stairs was shouting. You told us you heard him say something about "licking the Chancellor's boots"?' 'I heard that. Yes,' Mrs O'Leary agreed.
'Could you recognize the man's voice?' 106'I was sure I could.' 'Whose was it?' Mrs O'Leary looked at the tall, red-bearded man in the dock as though she regretted the abolition of the death penalty. 'It was his voice,' she said.
'You mean it was the voice of Professor Clympton?' Bissett was one for hammering home the message, and Mrs O'Leary obliged again with 'I'm sure it was.' At this point Bissett sat and closed his eyes, as though the verdict was no longer in doubt. Oilie Oliphant made a note of the witness's last answer, pursed his lips, gasped for air like a porpoise and underlined the words heavily with a red pencil in a way the Jury couldn't help noticing. Then he asked me if I had any questions for Mrs O'Leary in a way which meant 'Do have a go, if you think it will do you the slightest good, young fellow, my lad!' 'Mrs O'Leary', 1 rose to my feet, more slowly this time, 'Did you hear any other words you could distinguish, from Mr Charles's attacker?' 'Only a few, my Lord.' 'What were they?' 'I didn't think they were important. I couldn't make sense of them, anyway.' 'Let's see if we can.' 'I heard him say "oh!" loudly.' 'Oh, and then what?' 'Well, it sounded like "temporary". And then another "oh!"
And then, I think I heard, "more is"...' 'Does all this make sense to you, Mr Rumpole?' his Lordship asked.
•'Not at the moment, my Lord,' I admitted.
'So this evidence is merely brought out to puzzle the Jury?' 'Or perhaps, my Lord,' I suggested, 'to test their powers of deduction.' And then I turned my attention to the witness again. 'You say you heard the man shout something about licking the Chancellor's boots?' 'She's told us that!' The good old North Country patience was running out fast.
Yes, but let me suggest when you heard it, Mrs O'Leary.
107 'Thank you, Mr Perkins.' Bissett sat down satisfied and I climbed to my feet with a new interest in the evidence. 'We haven't heard about the bag,' and I asked, 'Can you describe it?' 1 'Just an ordinary zipper holdall. I thought he was on his way to play squash or something.' 'On his way to play squash at that time of evening?' I fl ' "• 'Well, I didn't know where he was going, did I?' 'Of course not.' The Judge was, as always, reluctant to exercise his right to silence.
'Well, I hope no one's suggesting he was carrying special equipment for pushing people downstairs,' I said, and couldn't resist adding, 'After all, we've got to use our common sense about this, haven't we. Members of the Jury?' It was a time when everyone seemed to be carrying mysterious luggage. When I got back to Chambers I telephoned young Audrey Wystan, who was still in residence in Gunster, working at some thesis on the importance of cosmetics in metaphysical poetry, or something of the sort, by which she hoped to further her academic career. I asked her if she wanted to help the Professor and, when I got an enthusiastic and breathless 'yes', I gave her certain instructions about getting into his rooms on some pretext and conducting a search.
When I left Equity Court I saw a familiar figure hurrying through the gloaming. It was Soapy Sam Ballard, and in his hand was his tartan zipper-bag, the piece of luggage which had been the subject of so much speculation. I must confess that my curiosity overcame me and, instead of heading straight for Pommeroy's Wine Bar as I had intended, I set out, like that irreplaceable sleuth Fig Newton, to tail Ballard. I wanted to know where he was going and what he did with the mysterious holdall.
Keeping a discreet distance between us, I followed him across J Fleet Street, down Fetter Lane and through some of the, narrow and dingier lanes behind Holborn. At last we came to an anonymous and gloomy building, which might have been a j converted warehouse. Windows on the first floor were lit up, noand the regular pulse of loud disco music was audible in the street below. Moving quickly and, I thought, furtively, Ballard sneaked in through the swing-doors of this establishment. I loitered in the street and lit a small cigar.
After a decent interval I followed our Head of Chambers' footsteps in at the door and climbe
d a stone staircase to the first floor and the source of the music which was, by now, almost deafening. There was another pair of doors on the landing, over which a notice was fixed which read alliteratively ANNIE ANDERSON'S AEROBOTICS ATELIER. SESSIONS TWICE nightly. I approached the doors with a good deal of natural hesitation and found that they had small, circular windows in them. Peering through, I was able to discern a hefty blonde, no doubt Annie herself, clad in a yellow track-suit, leaping up and down and shouting commands in time to the music. The corybants she commanded were mainly young, but among them I spotted a breathless Ballard, pale and eager, leaping as best he could, clad in a bright purple track-suit and elaborately constructed plimsolls that had no doubt been the secret contents of his much discussed holdall. If I was laughing, my laughter was happily drowned by the dreadful sound of the musical accompaniment.
At about the same time as I was watching Ballard trip the heavy and fantastic toe at Annie Anderson's Aerobotics Atelier, young Audrey Wystan had entered Professor Clympton's rooms in Gunster. He had left a key with the porter and Audrey had borrowed it, saying that Clympton needed some things urgently for his trial. She was so anxious to help him that she practised this small deception on my express instructions.
She went through his study without finding what I had sent her to look for, but at last she opened a big built-in cupboard in the bedroom. There was a zipper-bag on the noor, beneath the hanging suits and academic gowns, and when she opened it she found it to contain, to her bewilderment, a gilded horseshoe on a chain and a leather apron. She telephoned me and I got on to the indrustious Beazley to tell him to get out a witness summons for the man we should have l to call the next day, with the permission of the Judge.
in 'Thank you, Mr Perkins.' Bissett sat down satisfied and I climbed to my feet with a new interest in the evidence. 'We haven't heard about the bag,' and I asked, 'Can you describe it?' 'Just an ordinary zipper holdall. I thought he was on his way to play squash or something.' 'On his way to play squash at that time of evening?' 'Well, I didn't know where he was going, did I?' 'Of course not.' The Judge was, as always, reluctant to exercise his right to silence.
'Well, I hope no one's suggesting he was carrying special equipment for pushing people downstairs,' I said, and couldn't resist adding, 'After all, we've got to use our common sense about this, haven't we. Members of the Jury?' It was a time when everyone seemed to be carrying mysterious luggage. When I got back to Chambers I telephoned young Audrey Wystan, who was still in residence in Gunster, working at some thesis on the importance of cosmetics in metaphysical poetry, or something of the sort, by which she hoped to further her academic career. I asked her if she wanted to help the Professor and, when I got an enthusiastic and breathless 'yes', I gave her certain instructions about getting into his rooms on some pretext and conducting a search.
When I left Equity Court I saw a familiar figure hurrying through the gloaming. It was Soapy Sam Ballard, and in his hand was his tartan zipper-bag, the piece of luggage which had been the subject of so much speculation. I must confess that my curiosity overcame me and, instead of heading straight for Pommeroy's Wine Bar as I had intended, I set out, like that irreplaceable sleuth Fig Newton, to tail Ballard. I wanted to know where he was going and what he did with the mysterious holdall.
Keeping a discreet distance between us, I followed him across Fleet Street, down Fetter Lane and through some of the narrow and dingier lanes behind Holborn. At last we came to an anonymous and gloomy building, which might have been a converted warehouse. Windows on the first floor were lit up, no, aand the regular pulse of loud disco music was audible in the street below. Moving quickly and, I thought, furtively, Ballard sneaked in through the swing-doors of this establishment. I I loitered in the street and lit a small cigar.
After a decent interval I followed our Head of Chambers' footsteps in at the door and climbed a stone staircase to the I first floor and the source of the music which was, by now, almost deafening. There was another pair of doors on the landing, over which a notice was fixed which read alliteratively ANNIE ANDERSON'S AEROBOTICS ATELIER. SESSIONS TWICE nightly. I approached the doors with a good deal of natural hesitation and found that they had small, circular windows in them. Peering through, I was able to discern a hefty blonde, no doubt Annie herself, clad in a yellow track-suit, leaping up and down and shouting commands in time to the music. The corybants she commanded were mainly young, but among them I spotted a breathless Ballard, pale and eager, leaping as best he could, clad in a bright purple track-suit and elaborately constructed plimsolls that had no doubt been the secret contents of his much discussed holdall. If I was laughing, my laughter was happily drowned by the dreadful sound of the musical accompaniment.
At about the same time as I was watching Ballard trip the heavy and fantastic toe at Annie Anderson's Aerobotics Atelier, young Audrey Wystan had entered Professor Clympton's j rooms in Gunster. He had left a key with the porter and i Audrey had borrowed it, saying that Clympton needed some things urgently for his trial. She was so anxious to help him that she practised this small deception on my express instructions.
She went through his study without finding what I had sent her to look for, but at last she opened a big built-in cupboard in the bedroom. There was a zipper-bag on the noor, beneath the hanging suits and academic gowns, and when she opened it she found it to contain, to her bewilderment, a gilded horseshoe on a chain and a leather apron. She telephoned me and I got on to the indrustious Beazley to tell J m to get out a witness summons for the man we should have to ca the next day, with the permission of the Judge.
* JJ So, much to his obvious irritation, a reluctant witness, looking, at that moment, like an extremely displeased frog, was called to the witness-box and I asked him, as soothingly as possible, whether he were Sir Dennis Tolson. j 'I am.' J This simple question an answer produced an outcry from the dock, where my client, foregoing his right to silence at last, began to utter fruitless cries of 'No! I forbid it!', 'I'm not having it!' and 'Stop it, Rumpole! What the hell do you think you're doing?' What I was hoping to do was to get the Professor off, despite all his efforts to land himself in the slammer for life. Fortunately Oilie Oliphant did something useful at last.
'Mr Rumpole,' he said, showing a rare grasp of the facts of the case, 'your client is creating a disturbance!' 'Is he really, my Lord?' I tried to keep calm in spite of the Professor. 'It's these literary chaps, you know. Very excitable natures.' 'Well, he's not getting excitable in my Court. Do you hear that, Clympton? Any more of this nonsense and you'll be taken down to the cells. Now', here the Judge smiled winsomely at the witness, 'did you say. Sir Dennis Tolson?' 'Yes, my Lord.' 'Some of us do our weekly shop at Tolson's Tasty Foods.
Don't we. Members of the Jury?' A few of the more sycophantic jury members nodded and Oilie started to exchange reminiscences with the fat little fellow in the witness-box. 'Sir Dennis, it may interest you to know, I come from your part of England.' 'Is that so, my Lord?' Tolson sounded as though he had received more fascinating information.
'I used to practise often at the old Gunster Assizes,' the Judge went on. 'Never dreamt I'd find myself sitting down here, at the Old Bailey.' I refrained from telling the old darling that it came as a bit of a shock to us too, and asked Sir Dennis J if he attended by summons.
" 'It was served on me last night,' he told us. 'It was most inconvenient.' 'I'm sorry, but it would be most inconvenient for my client 112 "',,.y'to have to go to prison for a crime he didn't commit. Are you an Ostler?' 'A what, Mr Rumpole?' Oilie was clearly having difficulty keeping up.
'A member of the Ancient Order of Ostlers,' I explained.
'An organization with considerable power and influence in the CityofGunster.' At which point the witness raised his arm in what looked like a mixture between a benediction and a Fascist salute and intoned, 'By the Great Blacksmith and Forger of the Universe ?
'That means you are?' I assumed.
'He doesn't permit me to answer that ques
tion.' Sir Dennis was also having a go at the right to silence.
'Don't bother about the Great Blacksmith for a moment,' I told him. 'His Lordship is in control here and he will direct you to answer my questions.' 'Provided they're relevant!' Oilie snapped like a terrier at my heels. 'What've you got to say, Mr Mordaunt Bissett?' 'I think the Defence should be allowed to put its case, my Lord.' The not very learned Prosecutor showed some unusual common sense. 'We have to consider the Court of Appeal.' Now, if there's anything which makes Oilie wake up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night it's the fear of being criticized by that august assembly. 'The Court of Appeal? Yes,' he agreed hastily. 'You're quite right. Get on with it then, Mr Rumpole.
The Jury don't want to be kept here all night, you know.' 'Are most of the important people in Gunster members of the Ostlers?' I asked the witness.
'We are sworn to secrecy.' 'Are they members?' I was prepared to go on asking the question all day if I didn't get an answer.
'Our Ostlers are men of talent and ambition. Yes.' I got a sort of an answer.
'And is membership a path to promotion in local government, for instance, and in the University?' 'An Ostler will do his best to help another Ostler, yes. All Aings being equal.' 113 'And all things being equal, an ambitious English Professor might do well to join you, if he had his eyes on becoming ViceChancellor.
John Mortimer - Rumpole A La Carte Page 12