‘Mr Whelpton. I take it you haven’t given this evidence in any spirit of enmity against the man in the dock?’
The man in the dock looked, as usual, as if he’d just been struck between the eyes with a heavy weight. Bernie Whelpton smiled charmingly, and said indiscreetly, ‘No. I’m Petey’s friend. We was at university together.’
At which Rumpole rose up like thunder and, to Prestcold, J’s intense displeasure, asked for the jury to be removed so that he could lodge an objection. When the jury had gone out the Judge forced himself to look at me.
‘What is the basis of your objection, Mr Rumpole? On the face of it the evidence that this gentleman was at university with your client seems fairly harmless.’
‘This may come as a surprise to your Lordship.’
‘May it, Mr Rumpole?’
‘My client is not an old King’s man. He didn’t meet Mr “Four Eyes” Whelpton at a May Ball during Eights Week. The university referred to is, in fact, Parkhurst Prison.’
The judge applied his razor-sharp mind and saw a way of overruling my objection.
‘Mr Rumpole! I very much doubt whether the average juryman has your intimate knowledge of the argot of the underworld.’
‘Your Lordship is too complimentary.’ I gave him a bow and a brassy flash of the collar-stud.
‘I think no harm has been done. I appreciate your anxiety to keep your client’s past record out of the case. Shall we have the jury back?’
Before the jury came back I got a note from Leslie Delgardo telling me, as I knew very well, that Whelpton had a conviction for perjury. I ignored this information, and did my best to make a friend of the little Cockney who gazed at me through spectacles thick as ginger-beer bottles.
‘Mr Whelpton, when you saw my client, Peter Delgardo, kneeling beside Tosher MacBride, did he have his arm round Mr MacBride’s neck?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Supporting his head from behind?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Rather in the attitude of a nurse or a doctor who was trying to bring help to the wounded man?’
‘I didn’t know your client had any medical qualifications!’ Mr Justice Prestcold was trying one of his glacial jokes. I pretended I hadn’t heard it, and concentrated on Bernie Whelpton.
‘Were you able to see Peter Delgardo’s hands when he was holding Tosher?’
‘Yes.’
‘Anything in them, was there?’
‘Not as I saw.’
‘He wasn’t holding this knife, for instance?’ I had the murder weapon on the desk in front of me and held it up for the jury to see.
‘I tell you. I didn’t see no knife.’
‘I don’t know whether my learned friend remembers.’ Hilary Painswick uncoiled himself beside me. ‘The knife was found in the car.’
‘Exactly!’ I smiled gratefully at Painswick. ‘So my client stabbed Tosher. Ran to his car. Dropped the murder weapon in by the driver’s seat and then came back across the pavement to hold Tosher in his arms and comfort his dying moments.’ I turned back to the witness. ‘Is that what you’re saying?’
‘He might have slipped the knife in his pocket.’
‘Mr Rumpole!’ Prestcold, J, had something to communicate.
‘Yes, my Lord?’
‘This is not the time for arguing your case. This is the time for asking questions. If you think this point has any substance you will no doubt remind the jury of it when you come to make up your final address; at some time in the no doubt distant future.’
‘I’m grateful. And no doubt your Lordship will also remind the jury of it in your summing-up, should it slip my memory. It really is such an unanswerable point for the defence.’
I saw the Prestcold mouth open for another piece of snappy repartee, and forestalled him by rapidly restarting the cross-examination.
‘Mr Whelpton. You didn’t see Tosher stabbed?’
‘I was in the Old Justice wasn’t I?’
‘You tell us. And when you came out, Tosher …’
‘Might it not be more respectful to call that good man, the deceased, “Mr MacBride”?’ the Judge interrupted wearily.
‘If you like. “That good man Mr MacBride” was bleeding in my client’s arms?’
‘That was the first I saw of him. Yes.’
‘And when he saw you Mr Delgardo let go of Tosher, of that good man Mr MacBride, ran to his car and got into it?’
‘And then he drove away.’
‘Exactly. You saw him get into his car. How did he do it?’
‘Just turned the handle and pulled the door open.’
‘So the car was unlocked?’
‘I suppose it was. I didn’t really think.’
‘You suppose the door was unlocked.’ I looked at the Judge who appeared to have gone into some sort of a trance. ‘Don’t go too fast, Mr Whelpton. My Lord wants an opportunity to make a note.’ At which the Judge returned to earth and was forced to take up his pencil. As he wrote, Leslie Delgardo leaned forward from the seat behind me and said,
‘Here, Mr Rumpole. What do you think you’re doing?’
‘Having a bit of fun. You don’t grudge it to me, do you?’
The next item on the agenda was the Officer-in-Charge of the case, a perfectly reasonable fellow with a grey suit, who looked like the better type of bank manager.
‘Detective Inspector. You photographed Mr Delgardo’s antique Daimler when you got it back to the station?’
‘Yes.’ The officer leafed through a bundle of photographs.
‘Was it then exactly as you found it outside the Old Justice?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Unlocked? With the driver’s window open?’
‘Yes. We found the car unlocked.’
‘Then it would have been easy for anyone to have thrown something in through the driver’s window, or even put something in through the door?’
‘I don’t follow you, sir. Something?’
I found my prop and held it up. Exhibit 1, a flick knife. ‘Something like this knife could have been dropped into Peter Delgardo’s car, in a matter of moments?’
I saw the Judge actually writing.
‘I suppose it could, sir.’
‘By the true murderer, whoever it was, when he was running away?’
The usher was beside me, handing me the fruit of Mr Justice Prestcold’s labours; a note to Counsel which read, ‘Dear Rumpole. Your bands are falling down and showing your collar-stud. No doubt you would wish to adjust accordingly.’ What was this, a murder trial, or a bloody fashion parade? I crumpled the note, gave the bands a quick shove in a northerly direction and went back to work.
‘Detective Inspector. We’ve heard Tosher MacBride described as a rent collector.’
‘Is there to be an attack on the dead man’s character, Mr Rumpole?’
‘I don’t know, my Lord. I suppose there are charming rent collectors, just as there are absolute darlings from the Income Tax.’
Laughter in Court, from which the Judge remained aloof.
‘Where did he collect rents?’
‘Business premises.’ The officer was non-committal.
‘What sort of business premises?’
‘Cafés, my Lord. Pubs. Minicab offices.’
‘And if the rent wasn’t paid, do you know what remedies were taken?’
‘I assume proceedings were taken in the County Court.’ The Judge sounded totally bored by this line of cross-examination.
‘Alas, my Lord, some people have no legal training. If the rents weren’t paid, sometimes those minicab offices caught on fire, didn’t they, Detective Inspector?’
‘Sometimes they did.’ I told you, he was a very fair officer.
‘To put it bluntly, that “good man” Tosher MacBride was a collector for a protection racket.’
‘Well, Officer, was he?’ said Prestcold, more in sorrow than in anger.
‘Yes, my Lord. I think he was.’
For t
he first time I felt I was forcing the Judge to look in a different direction, and see the case from a new angle. I rubbed in the point. ‘And if he’d been sticking to the money he’d collected, that might have provided a strong motive for murder by someone other than my client? Stronger than a few unkind words about an impediment in his speech?’
‘Mr Rumpole, isn’t that a question for the jury?’ I looked at the jury then, they were all alive and even listening, and I congratulated the old darling on the Bench.
‘You’re right! It is, my Lord. And for no one else in this Court!’
I thought it was effective, perhaps too effective for Leslie Delgardo, who stood up and left Court with a clatter. The swing doors banged to after him.
By precipitously leaving Court, Leslie Delgardo had missed the best turn on the bill, my double act with Mr Entwhistle, the forensic expert, an old friend and a foeman worthy of my steel.
‘Mr Entwhistle, as a scientific officer I think you’ve lived with bloodstains as long as I have?’
‘Almost.’
The jury smiled, they were warming to Rumpole.
‘And you have all the clothes my client was wearing that night. Have you examined the pockets?’
‘I have, my Lord.’ Entwhistle bowed to the Judge over a heap of Petey’s clothing.
‘And there are no bloodstains in any of the pockets?’
‘There are none.’
‘So there can be no question of a bloodstained knife having been hidden in a pocket whilst my client cradled the deceased in his arms?’
‘Of course not.’ Entwhistle smiled discreetly.
‘You find that a funny suggestion?’
‘Yes, I do. The idea’s ridiculous.’
‘You may be interested to know that it’s on that ridiculous idea the prosecution are basing their case.’
Painswick was on his feet with a well-justified moan. ‘My Lord …’
‘Yes. That was a quite improper observation, Mr Rumpole.’
‘Then I pass from it rapidly, my Lord.’ No point in wasting time with him, my business was with Entwhistle. ‘Had Mr Delgardo stabbed the deceased, you would expect a spray of blood over a wide area of clothing?’
‘You might have found that.’
‘With small drops spattered from a forceful blow?’
‘I should have expected so.’
‘But you found nothing like it?’
‘No.’
‘And you might have expected blood near the area of the cuff of the coat or the shirt?’
‘Most probably.’
‘In fact, all we have is a smear or soaked patch in the crook of the arm.’
Mr Entwhistle picked up the overcoat, looked and, of course, admitted it.
‘Yes.’
‘Totally consistent with my client having merely put an arm round the deceased when he lay bleeding on the pavement.’
‘Not inconsistent.’
‘A double negative! The last refuge of an expert witness who doesn’t want to commit himself. Does “not inconsistent” translated into plain English mean consistent, Mr Entwhistle?’
I could have kissed old Entwhistle on the rimless specs when he turned to the jury and said, ‘Yes, it does.’
So when I got outside and saw Leslie Delgardo sitting on a bench chewing the end of a cigar, I thought he would wish to congratulate me. I didn’t think of a gold watch, or a crinkly fiver, but at least a few warm words of encouragement. So I was surprised when he said, in a tone of deep hostility, ‘What’re you playing at, Mr Rumpole? Why didn’t you use Bernie’s conviction?’
‘You really want to know?’ Other members of the family were thronging about us, Basil and a matronly person in a mink coat, dabbing her eye make-up with a minute lace hanky.
‘We all want to know,’ said Basil, ‘all the family.’
‘I know I’m only the boy’s mother,’ sobbed the lady in mink.
‘Don’t underestimate yourself, madam,’ I reassured her. ‘You’ve bred three sons who have given employment to the legal profession.’ Then I started to explain. ‘Point one. I spent all this trial trying to keep your brother’s record out. If I put in the convictions of a prosecution witness the jury’ll get to know about Peter’s stretch for unlawful wounding, back in 1970. You want that?’
‘We thought it was helpful,’ Basil grumbled.
‘Did you?’ I looked at him. ‘I’m sure you did. Well, point two, the perjury was forging a passport application. I’ve already checked it. And point three.’
‘Point three, Mr Rumpole. You’re sacked.’ Leslie’s voice was high with anger. I felt grateful we weren’t in a turning off Stepney High Street on a dark night.
‘May I ask why?’
‘You got that Judge’s back up proper. He’ll do for Petey. Good afternoon, Mr Rumpole. I’m taking you off the case.’
‘I don’t think you can do that.’ He’d started to walk away, but now turned back with a look of extreme hostility.
‘Oh, don’t you?’
‘The only person who can take me off this case is my client, Mr Peter Delgardo. Come along, Nooks, we’d better go down to the cells.’
‘Your brother wants to sack me.’
Petey looked at me with his usual lack of understanding. Nooks acted as a smooth interpreter.
‘The position is, Mr Leslie Delgardo is a little perturbed at the course this case is taking.’
‘Mr Leslie Delgardo isn’t my client,’ I reminded Peter.
‘He thinks we’ve got on the wrong side of the Judge.’
I was growing impatient. ‘Would he like to point out to me, strictly for my information, the right side of Mr Justice Prestcold? What does that Judge imagine he is? Court correspondent for The Tailor and Cutter?’ I stamped out my small cigar. ‘Look, Peter, dear old sweetheart. I’ve abandoned the Judge. He’ll sum up dead against you. That’s obvious. So let the jury think he’s nothing but a personal anti-pollution programme who shoves Air Wick up his nostrils every time he so much as smells a human being and we might have got somewhere.’
‘Mr Leslie Delgardo is definitely dissatisfied. This puts me in a very embarrassing position.’ Nooks looked suitably embarrassed.
‘Cheer up, Nooks!’ I smiled at him. ‘Your position’s nothing like so embarrassing as Peter’s.’ Then I concentrated on my client. ‘Well. What’s it going to be? Do I go or stay?’
Peter began to stammer an answer. It took a long time to come but, when it did, it meant that just one week later, on the day of the Scales of Justice ball, I was making a final speech to the jury in the case of the Queen against Delgardo. I may say that I never saw Leslie, or Basil, or their dear old Mum again.
‘Members of the jury, may I call your attention to a man we haven’t seen. He isn’t in the dock. He has never gone into that witness-box. I don’t know where he is now. Perhaps he’s tasting the delights of the Costa Brava. Perhaps he’s very near this Court waiting for news. I’ll call him Mr X. Did Mr X employ that “good man” Tosher MacBride to collect money in one of his protection rackets? Had Tosher MacBride betrayed his trust and was he to die for it? So that rainy night, outside the Old Justice pub in Stepney, Mr X waited for Tosher, waited with this knife and, when he saw his unfaithful servant come out of the shadows, he stabbed. Not once. Not twice. But you have heard the evidence. Three times in the neck.’
The jury was listening enrapt to my final speech; I was stabbing violently downwards with my prop when Prestcold cleared his throat and pointed to his own collar meaningfully. No doubt my stud was winking at him malevolently, so he said, ‘Hm! … Mr Rumpole.’
I ignored this, no judge alive was going to spoil the climax of my speech, and I could tell that the jury were flattered, not to say delighted, to hear me tell them,
‘Of course you are the only judges of fact in this case. But if you find Peter Delgardo guilty, then Mr X will smile, and order up champagne. Because, wherever he is, he will know … he’s safe at last!’
&n
bsp; Frank Prestcold summed up, as I knew he would, dead against Petey. He called the prosecution evidence ‘overwhelming’ and the jury listened politely. They went out just after lunch, and were still out at 6.30 when I telephoned Hilda and told her that I’d change in Chambers, and meet her at the Savoy, and I wanted it clearly understood that I wasn’t dancing. I was just saying this when the usher came out and told me that the jury were back with a verdict.
After it was all over, I looked round in vain for Nooks. He had apparently gone to join the rest of the Delgardos in the great unknown. So I went down to say ‘goodbye’ to Peter in the cells. He was sitting inert, and staring into the middle distance.
‘Cheer up, Peter.’ I sat down beside him. ‘Don’t look so bloody miserable. My God. I don’t know how you’d take it if you’d lost.’
Peter shook his head, and then said something I didn’t wholly understand. ‘I was … meant to l … l … lose.’
‘Who meant you to? The prosecution? Of course. Mr Justice Prestcold? Undoubtedly, Fate. Destiny. The Spirit of the Universe? Not as it turned out. It was written in the stars. “Not Guilty of Murder. And is that the verdict of you all?” ’
‘That’s why they ch … chose you. I was meant to lose.’
What the man said puzzled me. I admit I found it enigmatic. I said, ‘I don’t follow.’
‘Bloke in the cell while I was w … w … waiting. Used to be a mate of Bernie “Four Eyes”. He told me why me brothers chose you to defend me.’
Well, I thought I knew why I had been chosen for this important case. I stood up and paced the room.
‘No doubt I have a certain reputation around the Temple, although my crown may be a little tarnished; done rather too much indecent assault lately.’
‘He heard them round the P … P … Paradise Rooms. Talking about this old feller Rumpole.’ Peter seemed to be pursuing another line of thought.
‘The “Penge Bungalow Murders” is in Notable British Trials. I may have become a bit of a household name, at least in criminal circles.’
The Collected Stories of Rumpole Page 8