The Collected Stories of Rumpole

by John Mortimer

  ‘Thank you, Nick. Thank you. I’m glad you told me. So there’s no question of … the police?’

  ‘The police?’ Nick was laughing. ‘Of course not. Bagnold doesn’t want any trouble. After all, we’re still at school.’

  I watched Nick as he finished his fish and chips, and then turned my thoughts to Jim Timson, who had also been at school; but with no kindly Bagnold to protect him.

  Back in Court I was cross-examining that notable grass, Peanuts Molloy, a skinnier, more furtive edition of Jim Timson. The cross-examination was being greatly enjoyed by the Timsons and Nick, but not much by Featherstone or Chief Detective Inspector ‘Persil’ White who sat at the table in front of me. I also thought that Mr Justice ‘Florrie’ Everglade was thinking that he would have been happier snoozing in the Athenaeum, or working on his gros-point in Egerton Terrace, than listening to me bowling fast in-swingers at the juvenile chief witness for the prosecution.

  ‘You don’t speak. The Molloys and the Timsons are like the Montagues and the Capulets,’ I put it to Peanuts.

  ‘What did you say they were?’ The Judge had, of course, given me my opportunity. I smacked him through the slips for a crafty single. ‘Not ejusdem generis, my Lord,’ I said.

  Nick joined in the laughter and even the ranks of Featherstone had to stifle a smile. The usher called ‘Silence’. We were back to the business in hand.

  ‘Tell me, Peanuts … How would you describe yourself?’

  ‘Is that a proper question?’ Featherstone uncoiled himself gracefully. I ignored the interruption.

  ‘I mean artistically. Are you a latter-day Impressionist? Do all your oils in little dots, do you? Abstract painter? White squares on a white background? Do you indulge in watches melting in the desert like dear old Salvador Dali?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Peanuts played a blocking shot and Featherstone tried a weary smile to the Judge.

  ‘My Lord, neither, I must confess, do I.’

  ‘Sit quietly, Featherstone,’ I muttered to him. ‘All will be revealed to you.’ I turned my attention back to Peanuts. ‘Are you a dedicated artist? The Rembrandt of the Remand Centre?’

  ‘I hadn’t done no art before.’ Peanuts confirmed my suspicions.

  ‘So we are to understand that this occasion, when Jim poured out his heart to you, was the first painting lesson you’d ever been to?’

  Peanuts admitted it.

  ‘You’d been at the Remand Centre how long?’

  ‘Couple of months. I was done for a bit of an affray.’

  ‘I didn’t ask you that. And I’m sure the reason you were on remand was entirely creditable. What I want to know is, what inspired you with this sudden fascination for the arts?’

  ‘Well, the chief screw. He suggested it.’

  Now we were beginning to get to the truth of the matter. Like his old grandfather in the Streatham Co-op days, Jim had been banged up with a notable grass.

  ‘You were suddenly told to join the painting class, weren’t you … and put yourself next to Jim?’

  ‘Something like that, yeah.’

  ‘What did he say?’ Florrie frowned. It was all very strange to him and yet he was starting to get the hint of something that wasn’t quite cricket.

  ‘Something like that, my Lord,’ I repeated slowly, giving the judge a chance to make a note. ‘And you were sent there, not in the pursuit of art, Peanuts, but in the pursuit of evidence! You knew that and you supplied your masters with just what they wanted to hear – even though Jim Timson didn’t say a word to you!’

  Everyone in Court, including Nick, looked impressed. DI White bit hard on a polo mint and Featherstone oozed to his feet in a rescue bid.

  ‘That’s great, Dad!’

  ‘Thanks, Nick. Sorry it’s not a murder.’

  ‘I don’t know quite what my learned friend is saying. Is he suggesting that the police …’

  ‘Oh, it’s an old trick,’ I said, staring hard at the Chief Inspector. ‘Bang the suspect up with a notable grass when you’re really pushed for evidence. They do it with grown-ups often enough. Now they’re trying it with children!’

  ‘Mr Rumpole,’ the Judge sighed, ‘you are speaking a language which is totally foreign to me.’

  ‘Let me try and make myself clear, my Lord. I was suggesting that Peanuts was put there as a deliberate trap.’

  By now, even the Judge had the point. ‘You are suggesting that Mr Molloy was not a genuine “amateur painter”?’

  ‘No, my Lord. Merely an amateur witness.’

  ‘Yes.’ I actually got a faint smile. ‘I see. Please go on, Mr Rumpole.’

  Another day or so of this, I felt, and I’d get invited to tea at the Athenaeum.

  ‘What did you say first to Jim? As you drew your easel alongside?’

  ‘Don’t remember.’

  ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘I think we was speaking about the Stones.’

  ‘What “stones” are these?’ The Judge’s ignorance of the life around him seemed to be causing him some sort of wild panic. Remember this was 1965, and I was in a similar state of confusion until Nick, whispering from behind me, gave me the clue.

  ‘The Rolling Stones, my Lord.’ The information meant nothing to him.

  ‘I’m afraid a great deal of this case seems to be taking place in a foreign tongue, Mr Rumpole.’

  ‘Jazz musicians, as I understand it, my Lord, of some notoriety.’ By courtesy of Nick, I filled his Lordship in on ‘the scene’.

  ‘Well, the notoriety hasn’t reached me!’ said the Judge, providing the obedient Featherstone with the laugh of the year, if not the century. When the learned prosecuting Counsel had recovered his solemnity, Peanuts went rambling on.

  ‘We was talking about the Stones concert at the Hammersmith Odeon. We’d both been to it, like. And, well … we talked about that. And then he said … Jim said … Well, he said as how he and the other blokes had done the butchers.’

  The conversation had now taken a nasty turn. I saw that the Judge was writing industriously. ‘Jim said … that he and the other blokes … had done the butchers.’ Florrie was plying his pencil. Then he looked up at me, ‘Well, Mr Rumpole, is that a convenient moment to adjourn?’

  It was a very convenient moment for the prosecution, as the evidence against us would be the last thing the jury heard before sloping off to their homes and loved ones. It was also a convenient moment for Peanuts. He would have his second wind by the morning. So there was nothing for it but to take Nick for a cup of tea and a pile of crumpets in the ABC, and so home to She Who Must Be Obeyed.

  So picture us three that evening, finishing dinner and a bottle of claret, celebrating the return of the Young Master at Hack Hall, Counsel’s Castle, Rumpole Manor, or 25B Froxbury Court, Gloucester Road. Hilda had told Nick that his grandpa had sent his love and expected a letter, and also dropped me the encouraging news that old C. H. Wystan was retiring and quite appreciated that I was the senior man. Nick asked me if I was really going to be Head of Chambers, seeming to look at me with a new respect, and we drank a glass of claret to the future, whatever it might be. Then Nick asked me if I really thought Peanuts Molloy was lying.

  ‘If he’s not, he’s giving a damn good imitation.’ Then I told Hilda as she started to clear away, ‘Nick enjoyed the case. Even though it was only a robbery. Oh, Nick … I wish you’d been there to hear me cross-examine about the bloodstains in the “Penge Bungalow Murders”.’

  ‘Nick wasn’t born, when you did the “Penge Bungalow Murders”.’

  My wife is always something of a wet blanket. I commiserated with my son. ‘Bad luck, old boy.’

  ‘You were great with that Judge!’

  I think Nick had really enjoyed himself.

  ‘There was this extraordinary Judge who was always talking Latin and Dad was teasing him.’

  ‘You want to be careful,’ Hilda was imposing her will on the pudding plates. ‘How you tease judges. If
you’re to be Head of Chambers.’ On which line she departed, leaving Nick and I to our claret and conversation. I began to discuss with Nick the horrifying adventure of The Speckled Band.

  ‘You’re still reading those tales, are you?’ I asked Nick.

  ‘Well … not lately.’

  ‘But you remember. I used to read them to you, didn’t I? After She had ordered you to bed.’

  ‘When you weren’t too busy. Noting up your murders.’

  ‘And remember we were Holmes and Watson? When we went for walks in Hyde Park.’

  ‘I remember one walk.’

  That was odd, as I recall it had been our custom ever at a weekend, before Nick went away to boarding school. I lit a small cigar and looked at the Great Detective through the smoke.

  ‘Tell me, Holmes. What did you think was the most remarkable piece of evidence given by the witness Peanuts Molloy?’

  ‘When he said they talked about the Rolling Stones.’

  ‘Holmes, you astonish me.’

  ‘You see, Watson. We were led to believe they were such enemies I mean, the families were. They’d never spoken.’

  ‘I see what you’re driving at. Have another glass of claret – stimulates the detective ability.’ I opened another bottle, a clatter from the kitchen telling me that the lady was not about to join us.

  ‘And there they were chatting about a pop concert. Didn’t that strike you as strange, my dear Watson?’

  ‘It struck me as bloody rum, if you want to know the truth, Holmes.’ I was delighted to see Nick taking over the case.

  ‘They’d both been to the concert … Well, that doesn’t mean anything. Not necessarily … I mean, I was at that concert.’

  ‘Were you indeed?’

  ‘It was at the end of the summer holidays.’

  ‘I don’t remember you mentioning it.’

  ‘I said I was going to the Festival Hall.’

  I found this confidence pleasing, knowing that it wasn’t to be shared with Hilda.

  ‘Very wise. Your mother no doubt feels that at the Hammersmith Odeon they re-enact some of the worst excesses of the Roman Empire. You didn’t catch sight of Peanuts and young Jimbo, did you?’

  ‘There were about two thousand fans – all screaming.’

  ‘I don’t know if it helps …’

  ‘No.’

  ‘If they were old mates, I mean. Jim might really have confided in him. All the same, Peanuts is lying. And you noticed it! You’ve got the instinct, Nick. You’ve got a nose for the evidence! Your career at the Bar is bound to be brilliant.’ I raised my glass to Nick. ‘When are you taking silk?’

  Shortly after this She entered with news that Nick had a dentist’s appointment the next day, which would prevent his reappearance down the Bailey. All the same, he had given me a great deal of help and before I went to bed I telephoned Bernard the solicitor, tore him away from his fireside and instructed him to undertake some pretty immediate research.

  Next morning, Albert told me that he’d had a letter from old C. H. Wystan, Hilda’s Daddy, mentioning his decision to retire.

  ‘I think we’ll manage pretty well, with you, Mr Rumpole, as Head of Chambers,’ Albert told me. ‘There’s not much you and I won’t be able to sort out, sir, over a glass or two in Pommeroy’s Wine Bar … And soon we’ll be welcoming Master Nick in Chambers?’

  ‘Nick? Well, yes.’ I had to admit it. ‘He is showing a certain legal aptitude.’

  ‘It’ll be a real family affair, Mr Rumpole … Like father, like son, if you want my opinion.’

  I remembered Albert’s words when I saw Fred Timson waiting for me outside the Court. But before I had time to brood on family tradition, Bernard came up with the rolled-up poster for a pop concert. I grabbed it from him and carried it as unobtrusively as possible into Court.

  ‘When Jim told you he’d done up the butchers … He didn’t tell you the date that that had happened?’ Peanuts was back, facing the bowling, and Featherstone was up to his usual tricks, rising to interrupt.

  ‘My Lord, the date is set out quite clearly in the indictment.’

  The time had come, quite obviously, for a burst of righteous indignation.

  ‘My Lord, I am cross-examining on behalf of a sixteen-year-old boy on an extremely serious charge. I’d be grateful if my learned friend didn’t supply information which all of us in Court know – except for the witness.’

  ‘Very well. Do carry on, Mr Rumpole.’ I was almost beginning to like Mr Justice Everglade.

  ‘No. He never told me when, like. I thought it was sometime in the summer.’ Peanuts tried to sound co-operative.

  ‘Sometime in the summer? Are you a fan of the Rolling Stones, Peanuts?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Remind me … they were …’ Still vaguely puzzled the Judge was hunting back through his notes.

  Sleek as a butler with a dish of peas, Featherstone supplied the information. ‘The musicians, my Lord.’

  ‘And so was Jim a fan?’ I ploughed on, ignoring the gentleman’s gentleman.

  ‘He was. Yes.’

  ‘You had discussed music, before you met in the Remand Centre?’

  ‘Before the nick. Oh yes.’ Peanuts was following me obediently down the garden path.

  ‘You used to talk about it at school?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘In quite a friendly way?’ I was conscious of a startled Fred Timson looking at his son, and of Jim in the dock looking, for the first time, ashamed.

  ‘We was all right. Yes.’

  ‘Did you ever go to a concert with Jimbo? Please think carefully.’

  ‘We went to one or two concerts together,’ Peanuts conceded.

  ‘In the evening?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What would you do? … Call at his home and collect him?’

  ‘You’re joking!’

  ‘Oh no, Peanuts. In this case I’m not joking at all!’ No harm, I thought, at that stage, in underlining the seriousness of the occasion.

  ‘Course I wouldn’t call at his home!’

  ‘Your families don’t speak. You wouldn’t be welcomed in each other’s houses?’

  ‘The Montagues and the Capulets, Mr Rumpole?’ The old sweetheart on the bench had finally got the message. I gave him a bow, to show my true love and affection.

  ‘If your Lordship pleases … Your Lordship puts it extremely aptly.’ I turned back to Peanuts. ‘So what would you do, if you were going to a concert?’

  ‘We’d leave school together, like – and then hang around the caffs.’

  ‘Hang around the caffs?’

  ‘Cafays, Mr Rumpole?’ Mr Justice Everglade was enjoying himself, translating the answer.

  ‘Yes, of course, the cafays. Until it was time to go up West? If my Lord would allow me, up to the “West End of London” together?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So you wouldn’t be separated on these evenings you went to concerts together?’ It was one of those questions after which you hold your breath. There can be so many wrong answers.

  ‘No. We hung around together.’

  Rumpole breathed a little more easily, but he still had the final question, the great gamble, with all Jim Timson’s chips firmly piled on the red. Fait vos jeux, m’sieurs et mesdames of the Old Bailey jury. I spun the wheel.

  ‘And did that happen … When you went to the Rolling Stones at the Hammersmith Odeon?’

  A nasty silence. Then the ball rattled into the hole.

  Peanuts said, ‘Yes.’

  ‘That was this summer, wasn’t it?’ We were into the straight now, cantering home.

  ‘In the summer, yeah.’

  ‘You left school together?’

  ‘And hung around the caffs, like. Then we went up the Odeon.’

  ‘Together … All the time?’

  ‘I told you – didn’t I?’ Peanuts looked bored, and then amazed as I unrolled the poster Bernard had brought, rushed by taxi from Hammersmith, with the d
ate clearly printed across the bottom.

  ‘My Lord. My learned friend might be interested to know the date of the only Rolling Stones concert at the Hammersmith Odeon this year.’ I gave Featherstone an unwelcome eyeful of the poster.

  ‘He might like to compare it with the date so conveniently set out in the indictment.’

  When the subsequent formalities were over, I went down to the cells. This was not a visit of commiseration, no time for a ‘sorry old sweetheart, but …’ and a deep consciousness of having asked one too many questions. All the same, I was in no gentle mood, in fact, it would be fair to say that I was bloody angry with Jimbo.

  ‘You had an alibi! You had a proper, reasonable, truthful alibi, and, joy of joys, it came from the prosecution! Why the hell didn’t you tell me?’

  Jim, who seemed to have little notion of the peril he had passed, answered me quite calmly, ‘Dad wouldn’t’ve liked it.’

  ‘Dad! What’s Dad got to do with it?’ I was astonished.

  ‘He wouldn’t’ve liked it, Mr Rumpole. Not me going out with Peanuts.’

  ‘So you were quite ready to be found guilty, to be convicted of robbery, just because your Dad wouldn’t like you going out with Peanuts Molloy?’

  ‘Dad got the family to alibi me.’ Jim clearly felt that the Timsons had done their best for him.

  ‘Keep it in the family!’ Though it was heavily laid on, the irony was lost on Jim. He smiled politely and stood up, eager to join the clan upstairs.

  ‘Well, anyway. Thanks a lot, Mr Rumpole. Dad said I could rely on you. To win the day, like. I’d better collect me things.’

  If Jim thought I was going to let him get away as easily as that, he was mistaken. Rumpole rose in his crumpled gown, doing his best to represent the majesty of the law. ‘No! Wait a minute. I didn’t win the day. It was luck. The purest fluke. It won’t happen again!’

  ‘You’re joking, Mr Rumpole.’ Jim thought I was being modest. ‘Dad told me about you … He says you never let the Timsons down.’

  I had a sudden vision of my role in life, from young Jim’s point of view and I gave him the voice of outrage which I use frequently in Court. I had a message of importance for Jim Timson.

  ‘Do you think that’s what I’m here for? To help you along in a career like your Dad’s?’ Jim was still smiling, maddeningly. ‘My God! I shouldn’t have asked those questions! I shouldn’t have found out the date of the concert! Then you’d really be happy, wouldn’t you? You could follow in Dad’s footsteps all your life! Sharp spell of Borstal training to teach you the mysteries of housebreaking, and then a steady life in the nick. You might really do well! You might end up in Parkhurst, Maximum Security Wing, doing a glamorous twenty years and a hero to the screws.’