John Mortimer - Rumpole A La Carte

by Rumpole A La Carte(lit)

  I suppose I just lost control of myself.' 'Had Dr Rahmat tried to kiss you?' 'Don't lead,' I grumbled, but the protest was unnecessary.

  Whatever lead Phillida gave, the girl was clearly not going to follow it.

  'I'm... I'm sure he hadn't.' 'Did he put his hand between your legs?' 'Oh, no!' Miss Liptrott looked shocked. 'I'm sure he didn't do that either.' 'You apparently ran out of the room shouting, "The beast!

  The beast!" Do you remember that?' 'Not really. If I did, I wasn't talking about Dr Rahmat. I'd Hmet some other people who weren't very nice.' 'Miss Liptrott', Sir Hector looked like an elder of the kirk who has just been reliably informed that there is no such thing as hell and that sin is now permissible, 'you made a statement to the General Medical Council to the effect that Dr Rahmat made improper advances to you.' I looked round the Court in the pause that followed. Dr Cogger was now in the public gallery, leaning forward in his seat, looking as mystified as everyone except the witness, who I seemed to find her behaviour perfectly natural.

  'Well. I'd made such a fuss in the surgery. I felt I had to give some reason for it, otherwise you'd have thought me very silly, wouldn't you? But I always meant to tell the truth when I got here.' 'And what is the truth. Miss Liptrott?' Phillida's line sounded less like a question than a cry for help; but help for Ae prosecution case was not forthcoming.

  Fhe truth', Marietta now seemed to have no doubt about " matter, 'is that Dr Rahmat always behaved like a perfect gentleman.' n was at this point that Phillida, after a whispered 197 consultation with her instructing solicitor, threw in the towel.

  'In view of the evidence which has just been given, we do not feel it would be right to continue with the case against Dr Rahmat.' The battle was over and I had no idea how I had come to gain such a decisive victory.

  'Mr Rumpole', Sir Hector was looking at me with slightly less than his usual disgust, 'during the course of your crossexamination you made certain serious allegations against Dr Cogger. As I understand it, you suggested he joined with this young lady in a conspiracy to "frame", if I may use a common expression...' 'Oh, by all means, sir. "Frame" puts it very nicely.' 'Very well then. To "frame" Dr Rahmat. In view of the evidence we have just heard, may we take it that all such allegations are now withdrawn?' I was about to open my mouth when Dr Rahmat was up beside me, standing to attention and saying at the top of his voice, 'Unreservedly withdrawn, sir. Dr Tim Cogger is a fine man.

  He leaves this Court without a stain on his character. My barrister-at-law will confirm this without a moment's delay.' 'Do you agree, Mr Rumpole?' 'Oh, yes.' I may have sounded a little mournful as my brilliant defence went out of the window, but I resigned gracefully.

  'I agree. Not a stain on the Doctor's character.' 'A Passage to India', I reminded Dr Rahmat when we went for a celebratory bottle of plonk in a wine bar off the Marylebone Road, 'ends with the girl, who's meant to have been raped by the Indian doctor, withdrawing her whole story in Court.' 'Such a brilliant writer, old E.M.F.,' Dr Rahmat agreed.

  'Always so true to life.' 'Do you think the Naughty Marietta's read the book?' 'Well, sir, perhaps.' " There was a pause as I filled my mouth with the wine, product, perhaps, of the same sun-starved vineyard which grew the Chateau Thames Embankment grape. Then I said, 'Who do you think put her up to it?', 198'Oh, Tim Cogger, undoubtedly.' Dr Rahmat smiled tolerantly.

  'He wanted to get rid of me, you see. He thought I had tumbled to why he was wanting us all to use the Marchmain drugs.' 'You think he hired Marietta?' I looked at the man, amazed at his conversion to my view of the case.

  'Oh, I'm sure he did so.' 'How are you sure?' 'She told me.' I finished the glass. Soon I should finish the bottle.

  'You've talked to her about it?' 'Oh, certainly. I have taken her out to dinner on a number of occasions. We go to the Star of Hyderabad. It was not something I thought you would wish to know.' 'Why?' 'I knew I had the most brilliant barrister-at-law. I knew you would win my case, but I didn't want to win by rubbishing poor old Tim Cogger. I want to keep my partnership, you know. I want to get on well with all the chaps in the surgery, Dr Tim included. So it seemed the best way out was to persuade Miss Liptrott to tell the truth, which is that nothing happened. It seemed to me such an easy way to win the case, but far too unsubtle, of course, for a brilliant barrister-at-law like yourself. But at least I managed, sir, to make an omelette without the breaking of a single egg!' I looked at the chap with a sinking feeling. What if the infection spread and all clients got themselves off without any help from the learned friends? The future of the legal profession began to look bleak.

  'There's one other thing you might tell me,' I asked, as I stared at the quack in amazement. 'How much did you give the lady to persuade her to tell the truth?' 'I gave her, as you might say, sir, all my worldly goods.' 'What are you talking about? Don't babble!' 'To be honest with you, Mr Rumpole, I do not babble. Miss "Marietta Liptrott is as charming and honest as she is beautiful. °he has done me the honour of agreeing to be my wife. The ceremony will be at the mosque in Regent's Park, with a 199 reception to follow at the Star of Hyderabad in the Gloucester Road. You and your good lady are cordially invited.' 'And Dr Cogger, of course.' I began to get the picture.

  'Oh, yes, indeed. All the surgery will come. And I hope that Tim Cogger will propose the toast to the happy couple. I shall certainly ask him.' 'And in all the circumstances,' I thought it fair to say, 'I don't see how he can refuse.' 'Rumpole. Something distinctly peculiar has happened.' 'You mean you lost "Rahmat", Portia? Not your fault, I assure you. That case took on a life of its own. We were both left with omelettes on our faces, in a manner of speaking.' 'No, it's not that exactly. Look. I'd better tell you and see if you can offer any sort of explanation. You know I was going to lay a trap for Claude?' 'You told me. And I trembled for the fellow.' 'Well. It didn't really come off.' Our Portia settled herself in the client's chair in my room. I lit a small cigar and prepared to listen to her account which went more or less as follows. She had written an answer to the advertisement in Casanova to the box number indicated, in the following terms: Dear Barrister bored with married life, I am slim, intelligent and considered attractive. I am more than ready for the occasional fling, but I can think of better ways of spending an evening than going to the Opera. Sorry I haven't got a photograph, but I've had no complaints about my looks. Suggest we I meet at a place convenient to you, in the Temple churchyard by Oliver Goldsmith's tomb, 5.30 next Thursday week. We'll both wear red carnations. I look forward eagerly to the ensuing fun and games. I'm also in a rut and bored to tears with married life!

  She sent this missive, sure that it would trap the errant Claude and when he showed up, over-excited, with a flower in his button-hole, she would let him have it to some considerable f effect. 'The odd thing is, Rumpole, I went to the churchyard M with my red carnation and Claude never turned up. Do yo 200rhink he'd got wind of what I was up to? You didn't say anything to him, did you?' 'Now, Portia. Would I?' 'I don't know. You men always stick together. I waited for about half an hour. In the drizzle. The churchyard was empty.' 'No one came?' 'Well, I didn't see a soul. Except that new pupil here.

  What's her name?' 'Mrs Whittaker.' 'Yes. She was hanging about, looking at the inscriptions on the tombs and, you know, it was rather a coincidence. She was wearing a red carnation.' 'Did you speak?' 'I think I said "hello" and she wandered off. Perhaps she'd been to a wedding or something.' 'Perhaps.' And then a vague memory struck me. I looked up Claude's alleged advertisement in the copy of Casanova I had brought back with my papers in the Rahmat case and read it through carefully. Then I read it through again.

  'Portia,' I said, 'you're a brilliant advocate and your courtroom manner is irresistible. But it's no good lightly skimming the written evidence. You haven't read every word, every letter. Just look at this again.' I handed her the document.

  'Read it aloud, if you'd be so kind.' 'Barrister. Good-looking and young at heart. In a rut. Bored with the humdrum of married life...' '
Just look carefully after the word barrister. Isn't there a small letter in brackets?' 'Well, yes. It looks like an "f".' It is an "f". You were so sure you had Claude in the frame that you didn't notice it. "F" for female. It's a lady barrister in arch of adventure. A lady barrister who shares Claude's room, which is why you found the magazine there. So it was a dy barrister who turned up wearing a carnation. I'm sorry, "rtia. I'm afraid you disappointed her.' 'Mrs Whittaker?' l evidence seems conclusive. Poor old Mr Whittaker. He 201 must be of the humdrum persuasion. You know, perhaps we should take out a subscription to Casanova. We've learnt a good deal, haven't we, from a single issue?' But Portia was off, smiling now, in search of her husband.

  She might even be going to buy him lunch at the Savoy.

  People only seek out Rumpole when they're in trouble.

  There is little more to tell. Bambi rang once more to tell me that she had had another little mishap with the white Volkswagen and was being done for dangerous driving. 'Can't help, I'm afraid,' I told her. 'What you need for that is a brilliant Q.C. Only way to get off with your record. There's an absolutely scintillating silk called Sam Ballard. I might get him to take you on.' 'Oh, really? Is he cuddly?' 'Sam Ballard? Well known for it.' And I told her, 'He cuddles for England. And there's something else, he's in a rut.

  Bored to tears with married life.' A week later I was in the clerk's room, talking to Uncle Tom, who, as usual, was practising putts into the wastepaper basket, when there was a tintinnabulation of costume jewellery, a clatter of high heels and Mrs Bambi Etheridge passed through on her way to Ballard's room. She flashed me a smile, but her mind was clearly on higher things, and she went up to her assignation leaving us with her lingering perfume.

  'Odd sort of pong.' Uncle Tom was thoughtful. 'A bit reminiscent of the red light district of Port Said.' 'It's Deadly Sins,' I told him, 'by St Just.' 'Is it, really? Of course, I've never been to Port Said. I say, Rumpole. What a lot you know about women!' 'Not much,' I admitted. 'I am continually surprised.' 'I say', Uncle Tom became so entranced by the thought that he failed to hole into the waste-paper basket in one, 'I wonder if Ballard'll make a play for her, and she'll come out 1:' screaming like the girl in your case! That'd liven things up a bit.' ' I 'm afraid', and I wasalready feeling a touch of pity for Soapy m Sam, 'that Ballard'll be the one who comes out screaming.' 202 [:i '• But all was silent from upstairs. I could only think I had brought two people together who needed, and deserved, each other.

  As anyone who has cast half an eye over these memoirs will know, the second of the Rumpole commandments consists of the simple injunction 'Thou shall not prosecute.' Number one is 'Thou shalt not plead guilty.' Down the line, of course, there are other valuable precepts such as 'Never pay for the drink Jack Pommeroy is prepared to put on the slate', 'Never trust a vegetarian', 'If Sam Ballard thinks it, then it must be wrong', 'Never go shopping with She Who Must Be Obeyed', 'Don't ask a question unless you're damn sure you know the answer', 'If a judge makes a particularly absurd remark, rub his nose in it, i.e. repeat it to the Jury with raised eyebrows every hour on the hour' and 'Never ask an instructing solicitor if his leg's better'. This last is as fatal as asking a client if he happens to be guilty; you run a terrible danger of being told.

  But the rule against prosecuting has been the lodestar of my legal career. I obey this precept for a number of reasons, all cogent. It seems to me that errant and misguided humanity has enough on its plate without running the daily risk of being driven, cajoled or hoodwinked into the nick by Rumpole in full flood, armed with an unparalleled knowledge of bloodstains and a remarkable talent for getting a jury to see things his way. As everyone, except a nun in a Trappist order and the Home Secretary, now knows, the prison system is bursting at the seams and it would be out of the question for even more captives to arrive at the gates thanks to my forensic skills.

  Then again, prosecuting counsel tend to be fawned on by Mr Justice Graves and his like, characters whom I prefer to keep in a state of healthy hostility. Finally, I should point out that it is the task of prosecuting counsel to present the facts in 204 a neutral manner and not try to score a victory. This duty (not always carried out, I may say, by those who habitually persecute down the Old Bailey) takes the fun out of the art of advocacy. There are many adjectives which might be used to describe Rumpole at work but 'neutral' is not among them. It is a sad but inescapable fact that as soon as I buckle on the wig and gown and march forth to war in the courtroom, the old adrenalin courses through my veins and all I want to do is win.

  Bearing all this in mind, you may find it hard to understand how, in the case that came to be known as the 'Mews Murder', I took the brief in a private prosecution brought by the dead girl's father.

  'All right, Mr Rumpole. You're out to protect the underdog, I understand that. I might say that I find it very sympathetic.

  You attack the establishment. Tease the judges. Give the police a hard time. Well, doesn't my daughter deserve defending as much as any of your clients?' I looked down at the pile of press-cuttings on my desk and at the photograph of Veronica Fabian. She was a big, rather plain girl in her early twenties. I imagined that she had a loud laugh and an untidy bedroom. There was also, in spite of her smile, a look of disappointment and a lack of confidence about her, and I thought she might have been a girl who often fell unhappily in love. Whatever she had been like, she had died, beaten to death in an empty mews house in Netting Hill Gate. I didn't altogether understand what I could do in her defence, or how such an earthbound tribunal as a judge and jury down the Old Bailey could now pass )dgment on her.

  B'You want me to defend your daughter?' 'Yes, Mr Rumpole. That's exactly what I want.' Gregory Fabian, senior partner in the firm of Fabian & Winchelsea, purveyors of discreet homes to the rich and famous, dealers in stately homes and ambassadorial dwellings, had aged, I imagined, since the death of his daughter. There is something squalid about murder which brings a sense of shame to e victim's as well as the killer's family. In spite of this, 205 Fabian spoke moderately and without rancour. He was a slim man, in his early sixties, short but handsome, clearfeatured, with creases at the sides of his eyes and the general appearance of someone who laughed a good deal in happier times.

  'Isn't it a little late for that? To defend her, I mean?' 'There's no time limit on murder is there?' He smiled at me gently as he said this, and I was prepared to accept that his interest went beyond mere reverse.

  'Justice! We haven't had mucli of that, sir. Not since they decided not to charge Jago. We just wanted to know how much that cost him. Whatever it was, tie could probably afford it.' Up spoke young Roger Fabian, the dead girl's brother and the one who, being very close in appearance to his father, seemed to have inherited all the good lofts in the family and left little for his sister. He looked what he probably had been, the most popular boy in whatever uncomfortable and expensive public school he had attended; but he bore his good fortune modestly, and even managed to slander llie fair name of the serious crimes squad with a certain inoffensive charm. His habit of calling me 'sir' made me feel uncomfortably respectable. I wondered if all prosecuting counsel get called 'sir' at conferences.

  'Why did the police let him go? That's what we want you to find out.' 'You were recommended to is as a barrister who didn't mind having a go at a man lile Detective Chief Inspector Brush.' Brush? The very copper who, in his salad days, had been the hammer of the Timsons and ny constant sparring partner down the Bailey, now promoted id giddy heights in charge of a West London area, where he had brilliantly failed to solve the 'Mews Murder' and let Christopher Jago, the number one suspect, out of his clutches.

  (. 'They say you'll never be a judge, so you're not afraid of going for the police, Mr Rumpole.' Fabian senior managed to make it sound like a compliment 'They said we weren't to mind about the soup on the tie or 206 the cigar ash down the waistcoat.' Fabian junior was even more complimentary. 'And you don't care a toss for the establishment.' 'They said you'd do this job far bet
ter than the usual sort of polite and servile Q.C.' And when I asked George Fabian who they were, who spoke so highly of Rumpole, and he gave the name of Pyecraft & Wensleydale, our instructing solicitor and one of the poshest firms in the city, I could hardly forbear to preen myself visibly.

  In answer to repeated inquiries from Pyecraft, Detective Chief Inspector Brush and his men had disclosed the gist of Christopher Jago's statement to them. He said he was a local estate agent, who had seen the For Sale notices outside i3A Gissing Mews, off Westbourne Grove, and wanted to view the property for a client of his own. He had rung Fabian & Winchelsea, and been put through to a young lady, believed to have been Veronica Fabian, who worked with her brother and father in the family business. He made an appointment to meet her at the house in question at eight thirty the following morning. The time was set by Jago, who was leaving that day to do a deal in some time-share apartments on the Costa del Sol.

  When Jago got to i3A Gissing Mews, the front door was open.

  He went in, expecting to meet Miss Fabian, whom he told the police he had never met before. The little mews house was still half-furnished and decorated, apparently, with African rugs and carvings. There were some spears fixed to the wall of the hallway, and a weighted knobkerrie, a three-foot black club, had been torn down and caused the fatal blow to the girl.