The Collected Stories of Rumpole

by John Mortimer

  ‘It’s interesting,’ Nick sounded apologetic.

  ‘You astonish me.’

  ‘Old Bagnold was talking about what I should read if I get into Oxford.’

  ‘Of course you’re going to read law, Nick. We’re going to keep it in the family.’ Hilda the barrister’s daughter was clearing away deafeningly.

  ‘I thought perhaps PPE and then go on to Sociology.’ Nick sounded curiously confident. Before Hilda could get in another word I made my position clear.

  ‘PPE, that’s very good, Nick! That’s very good indeed! For God’s sake. Let’s stop keeping things in the family!’

  Later, as we walked across the barren stretches of Liverpool Street Station, with my son in his school uniform and me in my old striped trousers and black jacket, I tried to explain what I meant.

  ‘That’s what’s wrong, Nick. That’s the devil of it! They’re being born around us all the time. Little Mr Justice Everglades … Little Timsons … Little Guthrie Featherstones. All being set off … to follow in father’s footsteps.’ We were at the barrier, shaking hands awkwardly. ‘Let’s have no more of that! No more following in father’s footsteps. No more.’

  Nick smiled, although I have no idea if he understood what I was trying to say. I’m not totally sure that I understood it either. Then the train removed him from me. I waved for a little, but he didn’t wave back. That sort of thing is embarrassing for a boy. I lit a small cigar and went by tube to the Bailey. I was doing a long firm fraud then; a particularly nasty business, out of which I got a certain amount of harmless fun.

  Rumpole and the Heavy Brigade

  The story of my most recent murder, and my defence of Petey Delgardo, the youngest, and perhaps the most appalling of the disagreeable Delgardo brothers, raises several matters which are painful, not to say embarrassing for me to recall. The tale begins with Rumpole’s reputation at its lowest, and although it has now risen somewhat, it has done so for rather curious and not entirely creditable reasons, as you shall hear.

  After the case of the ‘Dartford Post Office Robbery’, which I have recounted in the previous chapter, I noticed a distinct slump in the Rumpole practice. I had emerged, as I thought, triumphant from that encounter with the disciplinary authority; but I suppose I was marked, for a while, as a barrister who had been reported for professional misconduct. The quality of briefs which landed on the Rumpole corner of the mantelpiece in our clerk’s room was deteriorating and I spent a great deal more time pottering round Magistrates’ Courts or down at Sessions than I did in full flood round the marble halls of the Old Bailey.

  So last winter picture Rumpole in the November of his days, walking in the mists, under the black branches of bare trees to Chambers, and remembering Thomas Hood.

  ‘No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease,/No comfortable feel in any member,/No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,/No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds, – November!’

  As I walked, I hoped there might be some sort of trivial little brief waiting for me in Chambers. In November an old man’s fancy lightly turned to thoughts of indecent assault, which might bring briefs at London Sessions and before the Uxbridge Justices. (Oh God! Oh, Uxbridge Justices!) I had started forty years ago, defending a charge of unsolicited grope on the Northern Line. And that’s what I was back to. In my end is my beginning.

  I pushed open the door of my Chambers and went into the clerk’s room. There was a buzz of activity, very little of it, I was afraid, centring round the works of Rumpole, but Henry was actually smiling as he sat in his shirtsleeves at his desk and called out, ‘Mr Rumpole.’

  ‘Stern daughter of the Voice of God! Oh, duty! Oh my learned clerk, what are the orders for today, Henry? Mine not to reason why. Mine but to do or die, before some Court of Summary Jurisdiction.’

  ‘There’s a con. Waiting for you, sir. In a new matter, from Maurice Nooks and Parsley.’

  Henry had mentioned one of the busiest firms of criminal solicitors, who had a reputation of being not too distant from some of their heavily villainous clients. In fact the most active partner was privately known to me as ‘Shady’ Nooks.

  ‘New matter?’

  ‘ “The Stepney Road Stabbing”. Mr Nooks says you’ll have read about it in the papers.’

  In fact I had read about it in that great source of legal knowledge, the News of the World. The Delgardo brothers, Leslie and Basil, were a legend in the East End; they gave copiously to charity, they had friends in ‘show business’ and went on holiday with a certain Police Superintendent and a well-known Member of Parliament. They hadn’t been convicted of any offence, although their young brother, Peter Delgardo, had occasionally been in trouble. They ran a club known as the Paradise Rooms, a number of protection rackets and a seaside home for orphans. They were a devoted family and Leslie and Basil were said to be particularly concerned when their brother Peter was seen by several witnesses kneeling in the street outside a pub called the Old Justice beside the bloodstained body of an East End character known as Tosher MacBride. Later a knife, liberally smeared with blood of MacBride’s group, was found beside the driver’s seat of Peter Delgardo’s elderly Daimler. He was arrested in the Paradise Rooms to which he had apparently fled for protection after the death of Tosher. The case seemed hopeless but the name ‘Delgardo’ made sure it would hit the headlines. I greeted the news that it was coming Rumpole’s way with a low whistle of delight. I took the brief from Henry.

  ‘My heart leaps up when I behold … a rainbow in the sky. Or a murder in the offing. I have to admit it.’

  I suddenly thought of the fly in the ointment.

  ‘I suppose they’re giving me a leader – in a murder?’

  ‘They haven’t mentioned a leader,’ Henry seemed puzzled.

  ‘I suppose it’ll be Featherstone. Well, at least it’ll get me back to the Bailey. My proper stamping ground.’

  I moved towards the door, and it was then my clerk Henry mentioned a topic which, as you will see, has a vital part to play in this particular narrative, my hat. Now I am not particularly self-conscious as far as headgear is concerned and the old black Anthony Eden has seen, it must be admitted, a good many years’ service. It has travelled to many far-flung courts in fair weather and foul, it once had a small glowing cigar-end dropped in it as it lay under Rumpole’s seat in Pommeroy’s, it once blew off on a windy day in Newington Causeway and was run over by a bicycle. The hat is therefore, it must be admitted, like its owner, scarred and battered by life, no longer in its first youth and in a somewhat collapsed condition. All the same it fits me comfortably and keeps the rain out most of the time. I have grown used to my hat and, in view of our long association, I have a certain affection for it. I was therefore astonished when Henry followed me to the door and, in a lowered tone as if he were warning me that the coppers had called to arrest me, he said,

  ‘The other clerks were discussing your hat, sir. Over coffee.’

  ‘My God! They must be hard up for conversation, to fill in a couple of hours round the ABC.’

  ‘And they were passing the comment, it’s a subject of a good many jokes, in the Temple.’

  ‘Well, it’s seen some service.’ I took off the offending article and looked at it. ‘And it shows it.’

  ‘Quite frankly, Mr Rumpole, I can’t send you down the Bailey, not on a top-class murder, in a hat like it.’

  ‘You mean the jury might get a peep at the titfer, and convict without leaving the box?’ I couldn’t believe my ears.

  ‘Mr Featherstone wears a nice bowler, Mr Rumpole.’

  ‘I am not leading Counsel, Henry,’ I told him firmly. ‘I am not the Conservative-Labour MP for somewhere or other, and I don’t like nice bowlers. Our old clerk Albert managed to live with this hat for a good many years.’

  ‘There’s been some changes made since Albert’s time, Mr Rumpole.’

  Henry had laid himself open, and I’m afraid I made the unworthy comment.

  ‘Oh, ye
s! I got some decent briefs in Albert’s time. The “Penge Bungalow Murders”, the Brighton forgery. I wasn’t put out to grass in the Uxbridge Magistrates’ Court.’

  The chairs in my room in Chambers have become a little wobbly over the years and my first thought was that the two large men sitting on them might be in some danger of collapse. They both wore blue suits made of some lightweight material, and both had gold wristwatches and identity bracelets dangling at their wrists. They had diamond rings, pink faces and brushed-back black hair. Leslie Delgardo was the eldest and the most affable, his brother Basil had an almost permanent look of discontent and his voice easily became querulous. In attendance, balanced on my insecure furniture, were ‘Shady’ Nooks, a silver-haired and suntanned person who also sported a large gold wristwatch, and his articled clerk, Miss Stebbings, a nice-looking girl fresh from law school, who had clearly no idea what area of the law she had got into.

  I lit a small cigar, looked round the assembled company and said, ‘Our client is not with us, of course.’

  ‘Hardly, Mr Rumpole,’ said Nooks. ‘Mr Peter Delgardo has been moved to the prison hospital.’

  ‘He’s never been a well boy, our Petey.’ Leslie Delgardo sounded sorrowful.

  ‘Our client’s health has always been an anxiety to his brothers,’ Nooks explained.

  ‘I see.’ I hastily consulted the brief. ‘The victim of the murder was a gentleman called Tosher MacBride. Know anything about him?’

  ‘I believe he was a rent collector.’ Nooks sounded vague.

  ‘Not a bad start. The jury’ll be against murder but if someone has to go it may as well be the rent collector.’ I flipped through the depositions until I got to the place where I felt most at home, the forensic report on the blood.

  ‘Bloodstains on your brother’s sleeve.’

  ‘Group consistent with ten per cent of the population,’ said Nooks.

  ‘Including Tosher MacBride? And Exhibit 1, a sheath knife. Mr MacBride’s blood on that, or, of course, ten per cent of the population. Knife found in your brother’s ancient Daimler. Fallen down by the driver’s seat. Bloodstains on his coat sleeve? Bloodstained sheath knife in his car?’

  ‘I know it looks black for young Peter.’ Leslie shook his head sadly.

  I looked up at him sharply. ‘Let’s say it’s evidence, Mr Delgardo, on which the prosecution might expect to get a conviction, unless the Judge has just joined the Fulham Road Anarchists – or the jury’s drunk.’

  ‘You’ll pull it off for Petey.’ It was the first time Basil Delgardo had spoken and his words showed, I thought, a touching faith in Rumpole.

  ‘Pull it off? I shall sit behind my learned leader. I presume you’re going to Guthrie Featherstone, QC, in these Chambers?’

  Then Nooks uttered words which were, I must confess, music to my ears.

  ‘Well, actually, Mr Rumpole. On this one. No.’

  ‘Mr Rumpole. My brothers and I, we’ve heard of your wonderful reputation,’ said Basil.

  ‘I did the “Penge Bungalow Murder” without a leader,’ I admitted. ‘But that was thirty years ago. They let me loose on that.’

  ‘We’ve heard golden opinions of you, Mr Rumpole. Golden opinions!’ Leslie Delgardo made an expansive gesture, rattling his identity bracelet. I got up and looked out of the window.

  ‘No one mentioned the hat?’

  ‘Pardon me?’ Leslie sounded puzzled, and Nooks added his voice to the vote of confidence.

  ‘Mr Delgardo’s brothers are perfectly satisfied, Mr Rumpole, to leave this one entirely to you.’

  ‘Now is the Winter of my Discontent, Made Glorious Summer by a first-class murder.’ I turned back to the group, apologetic. ‘I’m sorry, gentlemen. Insensitive, I’m afraid. All these months round the Uxbridge Magistrates’ Court have blunted my sensitivity. To your brother it can hardly seem such a sign of summer.’

  ‘We’re perfectly confident, Mr Rumpole, you can handle it.’ Basil lit a cigarette with a gold lighter and I went back to the desk.

  ‘Handle it? Of course I can handle it. As I always say, murder is nothing more than common assault, with unfortunate consequences.’

  ‘We’ll arrange it for you to see the doctor.’ Nooks was businesslike.

  ‘I’m perfectly well, thank you.’

  ‘Doctor Lewis Bleen,’ said Leslie, and Nooks explained patiently, ‘The well-known psychiatrist. On the subject of Mr Peter Delgardo’s mental capacity.’

  ‘Poor Petey. He’s never been right, Mr Rumpole. We’ve always had to look after him,’ Leslie explained his responsibilities, as head of the family.

  ‘You could call him Peter Pan,’ Basil made an unexpected literary reference. ‘The little boy that never grew up.’

  I doubted the accuracy of this analogy. ‘I don’t know whether Peter Pan was actually responsible for many stabbings down Stepney High Street.’

  ‘But that’s it, Mr Rumpole!’ Leslie shook his head sadly. ‘Peter’s not responsible, you see. Not poor old Petey. No more responsible than a child.’

  Doctor Lewis Bleen, Diploma of Psychological Medicine from the University of Edinburgh, Head-Shrinker Extraordinaire, Resident Guru of ‘What’s Bugging You’ answers to listeners’ problems, had one of those accents which remind you of the tinkle of cups and the thud of dropped scones in Edinburgh tea-rooms. He sat and sucked his pipe in the interview room at Brixton and looked in a motherly fashion at the youngest of the Delgardos who was slumped in front of us, staring moodily at nothing in particular.

  ‘Remember me, do you?’

  ‘Doctor B … Bleen.’ Petey had his brothers’ features, but the sharpness of their eyes was blurred in his, his big hands were folded in his lap and he wore a perpetual puzzled frown. He also spoke with a stammer. His answer hadn’t pleased the good doctor, who tried again.

  ‘Do you know the time, Petey?’

  ‘N … N … No.’

  ‘Disorientated … as to time!’ Better pleased, the doctor made a note.

  ‘That might just be because he’s not wearing a watch,’ I was unkind enough to suggest.

  The doctor ignored me. ‘Where are you, Peter?’

  ‘In the n … n …’

  ‘Nick?’ I suggested.

  ‘Hospital wing.’ Peter confirmed my suggestion.

  ‘Orientated as to place!’ was my diagnosis. Doctor Bleen gave me a sour look, as though I’d just spat out the shortcake.

  ‘Possibly.’ He turned back to our patient. ‘When we last met, Peter, you told me you couldn’t remember how MacBride got stabbed.’

  ‘N … No.’

  ‘There appears to be a complete blotting out of all the facts,’ the doctor announced with quiet satisfaction.

  ‘Mightn’t it be worth asking him whether he was there when Tosher got stabbed?’ I was bold enough to ask, at which Nooks chipped in.

  ‘Mr Rumpole. As a solictor of some little experience, may I interject here?’

  ‘If you have to.’ I sighed and fished for a small cigar.

  ‘Doctor Bleen will correct me if I’m wrong but, as I understand, he’s prepared to give evidence that at the relevant moment …’

  ‘So far I have no idea when the relevant moment was.’ I lit the cigar, Nooks carried on regardless.

  ‘Mr Delgardo’s mind was so affected that he didn’t know the nature and quality of his act, nor did he know that what he was doing was wrong.’

  ‘You mean he thought he was giving Tosher a warm handshake, and welcome to the Rent Collectors’ Union?’

  ‘That’s not exactly how I suggest we put it to the learned Judge.’ Nooks smiled at me as though at a wayward child.

  ‘Then how do you suggest we tell it to the old sweetheart?’

  ‘Guilty but insane, Mr Rumpole. We rather anticipated your advice would be that, guilty but insane in law.’

  ‘And have you anticipated what the prosecution might say?’

  ‘Peter has been examined by a Doctor Stotter from the Home Off
ice. I don’t think you’ll find him unhelpful,’ said Doctor Bleen. ‘Charles Stotter and I play golf together. We’ve had a word about this case.’

  ‘Rum things you get up to playing golf. It always struck me as a good game to avoid.’ I turned and drew Peter Delgardo into the conversation. ‘Well, Peter. You’ll want to be getting back to the telly.’

  Peter stood up. I was surprised by his height and his apparent strength, a big pale man in an old dressing-gown and pyjamas.

  ‘Just one question before you go. Did you stab Tosher MacBride?’

  The doctor smiled at me tolerantly. ‘Oh I don’t think the answer to that will be particularly reliable.’

  ‘Even the question may strike you as unreliable, Doctor. All the same, I’m asking it.’ I moved closer to Peter. ‘Because if you did, Peter, we can call the good shrink here, and Doctor Stotter fresh from the golf course, and they’ll let you off lightly! You’ll go to Broadmoor at Her Majesty’s Pleasure, and of course Her Majesty will be thinking of you constantly. You’ll get a lot more telly, and some exciting basket-weaving, and a handful of pills every night to keep you quiet, Petey, and if you’re very good they might let you weed the doctors’ garden or play cricket against the second eleven of male warders … but I can’t offer you these delights until I know. Did you stab Tosher?’

  ‘I think my patient’s tired.’

  I turned on the trick cyclist at last, and said, ‘He’s not your patient at the moment. He’s my client.’

  ‘Doctor Bleen has joined us at great personal inconvenience.’ Nooks was distressed.

  ‘Then I wouldn’t dream of detaining him a moment longer.’ At which point Doctor Lewis Bleen DPM (Edinburgh) left in what might mildly be described as a huff. When he’d been seen off the premises by a helpful trusty, I repeated my question.

  ‘Did you do it, Peter?’

  ‘I c … c … c …’ The answer, whatever it was, was a long time in coming.

  Nooks supplied a word. ‘Killed him?’ but Peter shook his head.

  ‘Couldn’t of. He was already c … cut. When I saw him, like.’

  ‘You see, I can’t let you get sent to hospital unless you did it,’ I explained as though to a child. ‘If you didn’t, well … just have to fight the case.’