Rumpole Misbehaves

by John Mortimer

  There was a silence then. The witness, a middle-aged woman who might have been a hospital nurse, was looking round the court as if in the hope of finding some reasonable way of escape. She needn’t have bothered. Barnes, of course, came to her rescue.

  ‘It is my duty to remind you that you are not bound to answer any question which might incriminate you. Do you wish to answer Mr Rumpole’s question?’

  ‘It’s an impertinence!’ the witness said with obvious relief.

  ‘I’m sure we would all agree with that,’ Barnes couldn’t resist saying. ‘Do you intend to answer?’

  ‘Certainly not.’

  ‘There, Mr Rumpole.’ Barnes gave me a mirthless smile. ‘You’ve done your best!’

  ‘My best, or my worst? I’ll let the jury decide. I have no more questions.’

  So I sat down, not altogether displeased with my cross-examination.

  ‘That woman was lying!’ That was my client’s comment when I met him in the cells at lunchtime.

  ‘Not at all. I made her tell the truth. It was very helpful.’

  ‘And that judge! He’s got no respect for you, Mr Rumpole.’

  ‘The feeling is entirely mutual,’ I assured him.

  ‘Maybe he’ll respect you a bit more when the QC comes through.’

  ‘I don’t expect so.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I’m afraid the judge is out for a conviction. I’ll have to disappoint him.’

  As I left the cell my client slapped his forehead and said, ‘Before I forget, Mr Rumpole. Helsing.’

  ‘What do you mean exactly?’

  ‘You asked me if I remembered the name. It came to me after you’d gone. It was a small firm of estate agents. We used them for accommodation when I was with human resources at the Home Office.’

  ‘Thank you for that.’ I was genuinely grateful but I tried not to sound too over-optimistic, even though I was beginning to feel that we might be in the clear. But there was still a lot to do and I had yet to cross-examine the police doctor.

  ‘Dr Plater, you first saw the body of Ludmilla Ravenskaya when you arrived at about two-thirty. What did you find?’

  ‘That death had been due to manual strangulation.’

  ‘I think we’re all agreed about that. What else did you notice?’

  The doctor was a middle-aged man with a high forehead and a nervous smile. ‘I’m not quite sure what you’re referring to.’

  ‘Well, for instance, were there signs of rigor mortis?’

  ‘I did notice some stiffening of the joints, yes.’

  ‘Some stiffening? Are you telling us that the stiffening was quite far advanced?’

  ‘I thought it was. But I’d been told the time of death was only an hour before. So I felt I’d been mistaken.’

  ‘And what if you weren’t mistaken?’

  ‘I’m not quite sure what you mean…’

  ‘Neither am I, Mr Rumpole. You could put it more clearly to the doctor.’ Mr Justice Barnes added his pennyworth.

  ‘I mean that would have meant death two or three hours before your examination of the body.’

  ‘Put like that, I suppose it’s possible.’

  ‘Did you notice anything about the girl’s eyes?’

  ‘Did I notice what about the eyes?’

  ‘Did you notice, for example, black spots in her eyes?’

  ‘Someone had shut her eyes. I opened them.’

  ‘And were there black spots?’

  ‘Something like that. Yes,’ the doctor admitted reluctantly.

  ‘And that would indicate death some three hours previously?’

  ‘That is usually so, yes.’

  ‘All you saw of that girl’s body would indicate a death much longer before your examination than one hour?’

  ‘In the usual course of events, yes.’

  ‘In the usual course of events,’ I repeated his answer to the jury.

  Barnes told me not to attempt to make a speech until later. I didn’t think the jury welcomed this intervention.

  ‘I wasn’t asked to consider the time of death.’ The doctor looked apologetic.

  ‘Well, you’ve been asked to consider it here and you have been extremely helpful. Thank you.’

  28

  I have left out many of the details in Wetherby. Statements of the accused had been produced, all of which protested his innocence.

  The next day brought us Detective Inspector Belfrage, a large, avuncular figure. My job was to get him to be as helpful as possible without launching an all-out attack. A cosy chat between old friends was what I was aiming for.

  ‘So, Detective Inspector Belfrage,’ I started off, ‘you have a long experience of cases of this sort, isn’t that so?’

  ‘I certainly have. And you’ve knocked around the criminal courts for a fairly long stretch as well.’

  This brought a titter from the jury box, which was immediately silenced by the intervention of the gloomy Barnes.

  ‘Mr Rumpole,’ he said, ‘this is a very serious case, so please make sure it proceeds in a serious manner.’

  ‘Of course, My Lord. Nothing could be more serious than the wrongful conviction of an innocent man.’ Then I turned to the inspector. ‘I imagine you have traced the course of Ludmilla’s life from the time of her arrival in England to her death in Flyte Street? You know that she was imported from Russia in a crate on the back of a lorry, like a consignment of chutney? And that when she was discovered at Dover she was allowed to stay here provided she reported to the police? Do you think it might be said that Home Office officials were being particularly lenient in her case?’

  ‘Mr Rumpole, how can the officer possibly answer that?’ Barnes had adopted his usual look of disapproval.

  ‘Very well, My Lord. But would you agree, Inspector, that there are various criminal organizations dealing with the importation of foreign girls to be sent to work as prostitutes?’

  ‘There are indeed. Young girls who have paid good money to be smuggled into England, where they have been promised good jobs and tempting wages. Once here they are forced into prostitution. That is happening, yes.’

  ‘So let us look at this case. A Home Office official allowed her in. She’s then taken to a building in the Canary Wharf area of London, where I shall prove that girls of her sort are temporarily confined. The ownership of the building has been traced to Helsing, a firm of estate agents occasionally used by the Home Office. From here she’s put to work as a prostitute in Flyte Street. Does not all of that suggest that a serious and efficient organization was at work?’

  ‘It certainly would seem so,’ the inspector agreed.

  ‘An organization of people who know their business?’

  ‘I would say so, yes.’

  ‘Perhaps an organization with connections to the Home Office itself?’

  ‘Mr Rumpole! That’s an outrageous suggestion!’ The camel-like judge threw back his head and snorted with anger.

  ‘This is an outrageous crime, My Lord.’

  ‘I shall warn the jury to disregard anything you’ve said about the Home Office.’

  ‘And I’m sure that the members of the jury will consider your advice very carefully before they decide whether or not to act upon it.’ I paused then, before going on to my final question.

  ‘If Ludmilla was about to tell her story to a journalist, the organization controlling her would have done everything in their power to stop this happening, wouldn’t they?’

  ‘I expect they would.’

  ‘They might even not have stopped short of murder?’

  There was what seemed like an endless pause while the inspector considered an answer which might win or lose the case.

  ‘I suppose that is a possibility, yes.’

  ‘Thank you, Inspector.’ I sat down with a great sigh of relief. ‘You’ve been extremely helpful.’

  29

  ‘Do you find it difficult to get girls to sleep with you?’

  ‘With th
is on my face, what do you think?’

  Graham Wetherby touched his spreading birthmark and I hoped the jury understood. They sat stolidly and gave nothing away.

  ‘Is that why you had to resort to sex with girls like Ludmilla Ravenskaya?’

  ‘Yes, and I’ve usually found them very kind and understanding.’

  ‘Is that how you expected to find Ludmilla?’

  ‘Yes, but instead of that I found her dead.’

  ‘And what did you feel when you found her dead?’

  ‘Terribly sorry for her and angry with whoever did it.’

  It wasn’t a bad answer. Wetherby had proved to be an excellent witness. Even Noakes’s earlier cross-examination, which seemed to go on forever, hadn’t shaken him.

  Was that because he was innocent, or because he was too good a liar? That was the question the jury would have to ask themselves.

  When Wetherby left the box I started to enliven the proceedings by calling Fig Newton, who gave evidence about the premises near Canary Wharf.

  ‘How is all this relevant to the present case, Mr Rumpole?’ asked the judge. ‘You’re not suggesting that this witness saw Ludmilla at any point?’

  ‘No, My Lord. An essential part of my case is that there was an efficient organization dealing in these unfortunate imported girls. This organization killed Ludmilla when they thought that she was about to tell her story to the press. Is Your Lordship suggesting that the jury should be denied this evidence?’

  ‘I certainly am suggesting that, Mr Rumpole, and I’m looking at the clock. I shall rise now and come back into court at two o’clock, members of the jury.’

  ‘Would Your Lordship say half past two? That’ll give me time to get up to Fleet Street and make an application to the Court of Appeal.’

  I saw a look of apprehension, even fear, flit across the camel’s features, as though he felt he was about to step into some nasty hole in the desert sand.

  ‘I will give a considered judgement on this matter at two o’clock. Perhaps you will delay your application to the Court of Appeal until you have heard what I have got to say.’

  ‘If Your Lordship pleases.’

  I gave the poor lost camel an encouraging pat and retired to the Old Bailey canteen to consume sausage, egg and chips with Bonny Bernard.

  ‘I think we’re on a winner,’ I told him. ‘A newly appointed judge doesn’t want to have his decisions pissed upon by the Appeal Court.’

  My forecast was right. The learned camel returned from his lunch with the judges and, with a sigh of resignation, said, ‘You may call your evidence, Mr Rumpole, but keep it short.’

  So, happily, the jury heard of girls imprisoned in the Canary Wharf building and then being driven round London and handed out like bottles of milk to customers. I even managed to get in the story of Mrs Englefield, who had now been questioned by the police.

  When it was time for the final speeches, Noakes took the jury back through the evidence and then I got slowly to my feet.

  After half an hour of commentary on all the facts, including the unanswerable question of why Graham Wetherby should have stayed there if he had committed the crime, I reached my peroration.

  ‘Possible, members of the jury. I want you to have that word in your mind through all your deliberations. You have heard of the organization that ruthlessly controlled the lives of these girls. Is it not possible that when they thought Ludmilla was going to reveal their secret, they decided to silence her forever? You can’t convict Wetherby unless you find him guilty beyond reasonable doubt. Once you find that another explanation of these events is possible, then you are left in a state of doubt. Above all things, remember what the police inspector in charge of this case said. It’s a possibility, Detective Inspector Belfrage told us, that it was not Wetherby but this secret and illegal organization that put an end to the unhappy but young life of Ludmilla Ravenskaya. If you agree with this police officer, then you must be left in some doubt. It will then be your duty, and I trust it will be your pleasure, to acquit this young man of a horrible crime.’

  So I sat down, hoping that I was leaving Barnes with no alternative but to agree to my definition of reasonable doubt.

  He gathered up his papers and spent an hour and a half trying to avoid my irresistible conclusion, but in the end he failed. I hoped and thought that he still had an eye on the Court of Appeal.

  Waiting for a jury to come back is always the worst time at the Old Bailey. There is nothing you can do other than consume too many cups of coffee and listen once again to Bonny Bernard’s riveting account of his daughter’s success in the interschool netball semi-finals. This account was thankfully interrupted by a visit from our clerk, Henry, who’d come specially down to the Old Bailey with what he called ‘an important spot of news’.

  ‘It’s about your application for QC, Mr Rumpole,’ he said.

  ‘They’re about to wrap me in silk, are they?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, Mr Rumpole. The Minister for Constitutional Affairs, he gets called the Minister of Justice now, has turned down your application.’

  ‘Peter Plaistow, QC?’

  ‘That’s the one. They’re saying around the Temple that you shouldn’t have asked those questions about the Home Office.’

  Further conversation on this matter was interrupted by the tannoy in the canteen announcing that the jury were going back to Court Number One.

  As they came in, the members of the jury were looking at Wetherby in the dock. If they had failed to meet his eyes it would have been a sure sign of a conviction, but in ten minutes the case which had worried me, and I had lived with, for so long was over and Wetherby was a free man.

  When I said goodbye, I told him, ‘You see, it didn’t make any difference my not getting a silk gown.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Wetherby looked more saddened by this than at any other time during the trial.

  ‘Never mind,’ I said. ‘I can still be the oldest junior barrister around the Temple and I can win cases alone and without a leader.’

  I suppose the words were brave, but I have to say that at that moment I found them entirely unconvincing.

  30

  What is there left to tell? The Fortress ran a story about the alleged involvement of a group within the Home Office in importing girls for prostitution. The Prime Minister told Parliament that this was an outrageous suggestion and he had every faith in the integrity of all civil servants.

  Walking back to the Temple from the Law Courts one afternoon, I was caught up by Mrs Justice Erskine-Brown, who told me that she had just spent a weekend at a conference on sentencing at a country house near Winchester. ‘It was all tremendous fun,’ she said, ‘and I have to tell you, Rumpole, that Leonard Bullingham has the most irresistible thighs.’ Not wishing to hear any more about Mr Justice Bullingham’s thighs, or indeed any other part of him, I turned off abruptly and sought sanctuary in Equity Court.

  Scottie Thompson’s friend Fred Atkins was at last apprehended by the police and in his statement after caution he admitted that he had never told Scottie about his human cargo. The case against Scottie was dropped after this rare example of honour among thieves.

  One evening in Froxbury Mansions we were discussing young Peter Timson’s ASBO case. I told Hilda that I had managed to get all the evidence in by telling the magistrate that the then Minister for Constitutional Affairs, Peter Plaistow, had said that witnesses in breach of ASBO cases should be cross-examined.

  ‘And was that true?’ Hilda asked me.

  ‘Well, not exactly,’ I had to admit, ‘but that’s what he ought to have said.’

  Hilda shook her head sadly. ‘Your profession has no sense of morality, Rumpole.’

  ‘It was morally right that young Peter was acquitted.’

  ‘I’ve come to a decision, Rumpole. After the way that you and Leonard have behaved, I’m going to give up my idea of reading for the Bar. I’m going down to Cornwall instead, where Dodo Mackintosh says we could have a grea
t deal of fun sketching.’

  So now I am back at my desk in Chambers, consuming an illegal sandwich and quaffing an illegal glass of wine. The life of an Old Bailey hack, I think to myself, has more ups and downs in it than the roller-coaster on the end of Brighton Pier. This is where it will all begin again.