In the fulness of time?' There was a long silence then. I saw my client sit with his arms crossed, his eyes on the ground. He only lifted his head to look at the witness with an unspoken protest when he answered, 'Professor Clympton was one of our members. Yes.
If that's what you're getting at.' 'Thank you. Sir Dennis.' I was genuinely grateful. 'That's exactly what I was getting at. Now did you, by any chance, have a meeting on the night Hayden Charles met his death?' 'As a matter of fact we did.' 'What time did that meeting begin?' 'Our normal time. Nine thirty.' 'Where was it?' 'The usual place.' 'The Gunster Arms hotel?' I remembered Wayfield's story.
'Yes.' 'And when did Professor Clympton arrive?' 'About ten minutes before the meeting was due to begin.' 'That's nine twenty. When Hayden Charles was still alive.
When did he leave?' 'We broke up around midnight. We had a few drinks when the meeting was over.' 'And by eleven o'clock the police had found Hayden Charles dead. And Professor Clympton was with you all the time?
From nine thirty to midnight?' 'Yes. He initiated a couple of candidates and...' 'Thank you. Sir Dennis', I was prepared to spare the witness further embarrassment, 'you can keep the rest of your secrets intact.' I sat down and Mordaunt Bissett got up to start a quite ineffective attempt to repair the fatal damage done to his case.
While this was going on, Mizz Probert asked me in a whisper what on earth a decent left-wing professor thought he was doing with a lot of old businessmen in aprons.
'He was ambitious,' I told her. 'But he'd rather be suspected of murder than let it be known just how ambitious. Perhaps 114 :Lthat's why he'll never thank me. He's lost the young.' And looking behind me at the man in the dock, I saw his face back in his hands, his shoulders bowed and felt some pity for him, but more for young Audrey Wystan who had so admired his outspoken independence of the University establishment.
The case of Claude Erskine-Brown was not going so happily.
He and Uncle Tom were both in our clerk's room when Dianne announced that Mrs Erskine-Brown was on the phone and wanted to speak to the aged golfer in the corner. I was just back from a day's work at the Bailey and I saw Uncle Tom take the call, and was a witness to the agony of Erskine-Brown as he heard how it was going.
'Oh, Mrs Erskine-Brown. Where are you? Winchester Crown Court. Just checking up? Oh.' And then Uncle Tom obliged Claude by saying, 'When you were in Hong Kong, your husband did take me to a show. It was very kind of him indeed. It was my birthday. What was the show called? Just a moment...' Here he put his hand over the instrument and whispered to Claude, 'What was it called?' And received the answer,'Tristan and Isolde.' 'Oh, yes.' Uncle Tom was back in contact with our Portia.
'Tristan and somebody else. No. Claude's not here at the moment. I think he's over in the library. Reading Phipson on Evidence. Yes. It was a most delightful show. Tristan, yes. I'm very fond of a musical, d'you see?' 'Uncle Tom!' Claude, in spite of himself, cried out, fearing what was coming. 'The tunes are unforgettable, aren't they?' Uncle Tom blundered on. 'I was singing to myself all the way home.' And here he burst into song with '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...' This is not, of course, the best-known number from Wagner's Tristan. Uncle Tom's voice faded as the phone was put down at the other end, and he turned to Claude and asked, amazed that his deception hadn't met with more success, 'Did 1 say something wrong?' All over the place the truth was emerging despite the ii5 conspiracy of silence. Walking to the bus stop, I caught up with Ballard, and greeted him with a cry of 'Hop, skip and jump!' 'What?' Our leader look startled.
'Or can't you do it without the purple jump-suit?' I asked politely. 'I bet that garment skips of its own accord.' 'Rumpole!' Ballard looked stricken. 'You know everything!' 'Pretty well.' 'Marguerite was so insistent that I should get what she calls my "naughty tummy" down,' he began to explain his extraordinary behaviour, 'she practically talked of nothing else.' 'I know.' I understood.
'At last I could stand it no more. I saw an advertisement for this "studio". It seemed so jolly. Music and...' '... Young ladies?' 'That's why I kept it from Marguerite. I thought she might not appreciate...' 'You skipping about with young ladies? I think she'd admire your heroism. Bollard. Tell her you made the supreme sacrifice and got into a purple jump-suit, just for her. And you've lost weight?' 'A few inches.' He sounded modestly pleased. 'As I told you, my trousers hang loose.' ' Superb! Tell her. Bollard. Boast of it to her.' 'That's really your advice to me, Rumpole?' 'Why not? Bring it all out into the open, old darling. The time for secrets is over.' 'Although steps may be taken soon to bring the law into line with good, old-fashioned common sense. Members of the Jury', Oilie Oliphant's summing up was drawing to a close, 'Professor Clympton has chosen not to enter the witness-box and give evidence. But you have had the testimony of Sir Dennis Tolson.' He said this as though the Holy Ghost had given tongue in Number One Court at the Old Bailey. 'Sir Dennis and I come from the same part of England. We have a rule up there in the North, Members of the Jury, Use your common sense. Sir Dennis isn't a stranger to us, is he? I expect some of you brought your sandwiches in Tolson's bags, didn't 116 byou? And Sir Dennis is quite sure the Professor was at the meeting when the deceased man fell from the stairs. Has he any reason for inventing? Use your common sense. Members of the Jury! Now. Take all the time you need to consider your verdict.' With these words ringing in their ears, the Jury retired and I went out into the corridor to light a small cigar, walk up and down and hope for victory. As I was so engaged I met the Professor of Classics wandering vaguely, and I offered to buy him a coffee in the Old Bailey canteen. This fluid now comes from a machine which also emits tea, cocoa and soup, these beverages being indistinguishable. We sat at a table in a corner of the big room, among the witnesses, families, barristers and police officers engaged in other cases, and I said, 'You're taking a lot of interest in these proceedings?' 'Why not?' Wayfield filled his pipe but didn't get around to lighting it. 'Clive Clympton's a valued colleague.' 'Hayden Charles wasn't such a valued colleague, was he?' 'What do you mean?' Wayfield frowned, as though over a particularly obscure Latin text.
'I've been thinking about those odd words Mrs O'Leary heard. "Oh, temporary", she said, if you remember. "Oh, more is"... As I told you. I don't know much Latin, but didn't Cicero express his disgust with the age he lived in?
Didn't he say, "0 tempora, 0 mores!"? Oh, our horrible times and our dreadful customs!, or words to that effect?' 'Cicero said that. Yes.' Wayfield seemed surprised I knew such things, and I wouldn't have done had I not spent a good ten minutes with he Oxford Dictionary of Quotations.
'And did a Classics Professor,' I asked him then, 'shout it on the staircase, furious with the man who was going to stop its study at Gunster University?' I don't understand what you're saying, Mr Rumpole.' For once in his life, I thought, Martin Wayfield wasn't telling the truth. He lied without any talent.
'Don't you. Professor Wayfield? "Licking the boots of the Chancellor" and turning Gunster into a training-ground for 117 1 bankers and accountants? You heard Clympton say that and you thought it was a pretty good description of Charles's activities. So good, in fact, that it was worth shouting at him again on the stairs.' 'Mr Rumpole, you argued dive's case very well, but...' Wayfield tried an unconvincing bluster which also didn't suit him.
'But the Vice-Chancellor was seized by the throat with a strong grasp. I've felt your handshake. Professor. He was thrown against the banister by someone who thought all he believed in, his whole life, was threatened. Isn't that possible?' 'Just who is suggesting that?' 'Oh, no one but me. If anyone else does, I'll make them prove it. There's really no evidence, except for a rough translation from the Latin.' Wayfield said nothing to that, but he took out his diary, tore a scrap of paper out of it and wrote something down. 'Look, if you're ever in Gunster again,' he said, 'do ring me. We could have dinner. I'll give you my number.' 'Thank you. Professor. I think I'll give Gunster
a wide berth from now on.' 'Here's the number, anyway.' And he handed me the scrap of paper, just as Mizz Liz Probert, whom I had left downstairs to await events, came to tell us that the Jury were back with a.1 verdict.
'I suppose I'm expected to thank you.' Clive Clympton parted from me with a singular lack of grace.
'No need. I get people off murder charges every day of the week. It's just part of the Rumpole service.' 'Couldn't you have done it without Tolson?' 'Probably not. Silence may be golden but it can also be extremely dangerous. It tends to give people ideas.' So Professor Clympton went back to Gunster. Whether or not he ended up with Mercy Charles I don't know, but young Audrey Wystan took up a teaching job in America and we didn't see her again. In due course Martin Wayfield retired to Devon to write a new life of Cicero, but died before the task 118could be completed. Claude Erskine-Brown's difficulties were solved more easily. He told me that Phillida and he were on excellent terms again. 'How did you manage that?' I asked him. 'Did you teach Uncle Tom to sing the love duet?' 'Oh, no. I told her the truth. I said you'd persuaded me to take Liz Probert secretly to the Opera to settle a problem in Chambers. I made it perfectly clear that the whole wretched business was entirely your fault.' It is the touching loyalty of my fellow hacks that's such a feature of the great camaraderie of the Bar.
On the day I won R. v. Clympton, the Gunster murder, I returned home to the mansion flat, went into the kitchen, poured myself a sustaining glass of Chateau Fleet Street, and hoped to enjoy a post-mortem on my triumph with She Who Must Be Obeyed as she prepared supper for the hero of Court Number One.
'You know what first gave me the idea?' I told her. 'When the Prosecution moved the case to London. It wasn't for the Professor's benefit; they were afraid of Ostlers on the Jury who might let their fellow Ostler off. You see the point, don't you, old thing?' Hilda answered with a stunning silence.
'Secrets! It's extraordinary, Hilda. The secrets people think important. Take my Professor, now. He'd rather risk prison than break his oath of secrecy to a lot of middle-aged businessmen tricked out in fancy dress in a hotel dining-room.
You follow me?' But once again, answer came there none. 'Of course, he wanted it all ways. He wanted to be the hero of the young. And he wanted the secret help of the Ancient Order of Ostlers. Do you see the point?' I sent out words like soldiers to battle and they never returned. 'Oh, thanks,' I said, 'always glad of your opinion, Hilda. So he resorted to silence. It's what everyone does when life gets too difficult. Take cover in silence.
wrap silence round your ears like a blanket. If you say nothing, you can't come to any harm. But no one can keep silent forever. You get lonely. You have to say something some time.
Unless you're struck dumb by some unfortunate disease. Is at your problem, Hilda?' But my wife, peeling potatoes, seemed unaware of my existence.
119 bankers and accountants? You heard Clympton say that and you thought it was a pretty good description of Charles's activities. So good, in fact, that it was worth shouting at him again on the stairs.' 'Mr Rumpole, you argued dive's case very well, but...' Wayfield tried an unconvincing bluster which also didn't suit him.
'But the Vice-Chancellor was seized by the throat with a strong grasp. I've felt your handshake. Professor. He was thrown against the banister by someone who thought all he believed in, his whole life, was threatened. Isn't that possible?' 'Just who is suggesting that?' 'Oh, no one but me. If anyone else does, I'll make them prove it. There's really no evidence, except for a rough translation from the Latin.' Wayfield said nothing to that, but he took out his diary, tore a scrap of paper out of it and wrote something down. 'Look, if you're ever in Gunster again,' he said, 'do ring me. We could have dinner. I'll give you my number.' 'Thank you. Professor. I think I'll give Gunster a wide berth from now on.' 'Here's the number, anyway.' And he handed me the scrap of paper, just as Mizz Liz Probert, whom I had left downstairs to await events, came to tell us that the Jury were back with a verdict.
'I suppose I'm expected to thank you.' Clive Clympton parted from me with a singular lack of grace.
'No need. I get people off murder charges every day of the week. It's just part of the Rumpole service.' 'Couldn't you have done it without Tolson?' 'Probably not. Silence may be golden but it can also be extremely dangerous. It tends to give people ideas.' So Professor Clympton went back to Gunster. Whether or noi he ended up with Mercy Charles I don't know, but young " Audrey Wystan took up a teaching job in America and we didn't see her again. In due course Martin Wayfield retired to Devon to write a new life of Cicero, but died before the task 118could be completed. Claude Erskine-Brown's difficulties were solved more easily. He told me that Phillida and he were on excellent terms again. 'How did you manage that?' I asked him. 'Did you teach Uncle Tom to sing the love duet?' 'Oh, no. I told her the truth. I said you'd persuaded me to take Liz Probert secretly to the Opera to settle a problem in Chambers. I made it perfectly clear that the whole wretched business was entirely your fault.' It is the touching loyalty of my fellow hacks that's such a feature of the great camaraderie of the Bar.
On the day I won R. v. Clympton, the Gunster murder, I returned home to the mansion flat, went into the kitchen, poured myself a sustaining glass of Chateau Fleet Street, and hoped to enjoy a post-mortem on my triumph with She Who Must Be Obeyed as she prepared supper for the hero of Court Number One.
'You know what first gave me the idea?' I told her. 'When the Prosecution moved the case to London. It wasn't for the Professor's benefit, they were afraid of Ostlers on the Jury who might let their fellow Ostler off. You see the point, don't you, old thing?' Hilda answered with a stunning silence.
'Secrets! It's extraordinary, Hilda. The secrets people think important. Take my Professor, now. He'd rather risk prison than break his oath of secrecy to a lot of middle-aged businessmen tricked out in fancy dress in a hotel dining-room.
You follow me?' But once again, answer came there none. 'Of course, he wanted it all ways. He wanted to be the hero of the young. And he wanted the secret help of the Ancient Order of Ostlers. Do you see the point?' I sent out words like soldiers to battle and they never returned. 'Oh, thanks,' I said, 'always glad of your opinion, Hilda. So he resorted to silence. It's what everyone does when life gets too difficult. Take cover in silence.
Wrap silence round your ears like a blanket. If you say nothing, you can't come to any harm. But no one can keep silent forever. You get lonely. You have to say something some time.
Unless you're struck dumb by some unfortunate disease. Is that your problem, Hilda?' But my wife, peeling potatoes, seemed unaware of my existence.
119 'And what about the other Professor? The Latin s(l Ie didn't say much, but I could see he found it diffic i;ep quiet, extremely difficult. Look at this.' I showed i i/iyfield's diary page and got no reaction. 'He gave me k er and wrote something on it. A Latin quotation. Of co, a line inter silvas Academi quaerere verum. I might find my... yool dictionary.' I went and found a Latin dictionary o } in the living-room. It still smelled of ink and gob-stop, xv/len I returned to the kitchen, the telephone on the wall w. '. hg.
Hilda held it to her ear and said, 'Yes. Oh, hello, M r.t.' 'A miracle,' I muttered, as I looked up the Latin §u 'he speaks!' In fact Hilda was talking quite jovially. lephone.
'Rumpole told Sam to confess it all to y lid that?' There was a further miracle. She Who Must h,.ed was smiling. 'Gymnastics? Lost four inches...? p). iin the bag? Well, that is a relief, dear, isn't it?' I had made sure that silva was a wood, and quaere to seek, when Hilda put down the telephone and said, '.. ou told Sam Ballard you didn't believe in secrets betwe /ied, ,, '-nma people.
'Secrets between married people? Perish the fi t' I protested and went back to the dictionary. ''Verun, fell, that's obvious.' 'Sam's trousers hang loose.' Hilda had got on to iive subject. 'Your trousers don't hang loose, do they, ile?
Take up gymnastics. Lose four inches round th. r ike Sam Ballard!' wals 'You want me to hop around in a bright purp
le, ?nt?
To the sound of disco music. Perish the thought!' g' And then I tried a rough translation of Wayfield' c ' "And seek for truth in the groves of Academe.. ,', " se?
Even the Professor of Classics couldn't keep things k urrt'' v~ Mr Justice Graves. What a contradiction in terms! Mr 'Injustice' Graves, Mr 'Penal' Graves, Mr 'Prejudice' Graves, Mr 'Get into Bed with the Prosecution' Graves, all these titles might be appropriate. But Mr 'Justice' Graves, so far as I'm concerned, can produce nothing but a hollow laugh. From all this you may deduce that the old darling is not my favourite member of the Judiciary. Now he has been promoted, on some sort of puckish whim of the Lord Chancellor's from Old Bailey Judge to a scarlet and ermine Justice of the Queen's Bench, his power to do harm has been considerably increased. Those who have followed my legal career will remember the awesome spectacle of the mad Judge Bullingham, with lowered head and bloodshot eyes, charging into the ring in the hope of impaling Rumpole upon a horn. But now we have lost him, I actually miss the old Bull. There was a sort of excitement in the corridas we lived through together and I often emerged with a couple of ears and a tail. A session before Judge Graves has all the excitement and colour of a Wesleyan funeral on a wet day in Wigan. His pale Lordship presides sitting bolt upright as though he had a poker up his backside, his voice is dirge-like and his eyes close in pain if he s treated with anything less than an obsequious grovel.
John Mortimer - Rumpole A La Carte Page 13