The Collected Stories of Rumpole

by John Mortimer

  ‘Yes, I do see that,’ said the Judge. ‘Have you seen that, Mr Rumpole? Most interesting! Usher, let Mr Rumpole have a look at that. Do you wish to borrow my glass, Mr Rumpole?’

  ‘No, my Lord. I think I can manage with the naked eye.’ I was brought the picture by the usher and sat staring at it, as though waiting for some sudden revelation.

  ‘Tell us,’ Erskine-Brown asked the witness. ‘Is “Nancy” a model who appears in any of Cragg’s works known to you?’

  ‘In none, my Lord.’ Gandolphini shook his head, almost sadly.

  ‘Did Cragg paint most of his models many times?’

  ‘Many, many times, my Lord.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Gandolphini.’

  Erskine-Brown sat, apparently satisfied and I rose up slowly, and slowly turned the picture so the witness could see it. ‘You said, did you not, Mr Gandolphini, that this is a beautiful painting.’ I began in a way that I was pleased to see the witness didn’t expect.

  ‘It’s very fine. Yes.’

  ‘Has it not at least sixty thousand pounds’ worth of beauty?’ I asked and then gave the jury a look.

  ‘I can’t say.’

  ‘Can you not? Isn’t part of your trade reducing beauty to mere cash!’

  ‘I value pictures, yes.’ I could see that Gandolphini was consciously keeping his temper.

  ‘And would you not agree that this is a valuable picture, no matter who painted it?’

  ‘I have said …’ I knew that he was going to try and avoid answering the question, and I interrupted him. ‘You have said it’s beautiful. Were you not telling this jury the truth, Mr Gandolphini?’

  ‘Yes, but …’

  ‘ “Beauty is truth, truth beauty,” – that is all

  Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.’

  I turned and gave the jury their two bobs’ worth of Keats.

  ‘Is that really all we need to know, Mr Rumpole?’ said a voice from on high.

  ‘In this case, yes, my Lord.’

  ‘I think I’ll want to hear legal argument about that, Mr Rumpole.’ Featherstone appeared to be making some form of minor joke, but I answered him seriously. ‘Oh, you shall. I promise you, your Lordship.’ I turned to the witness. ‘Mr Gandolphini, by “beauty” I suppose you mean that this picture brings joy and delight to whoever stands before it?’

  ‘I suppose that would be a definition.’

  ‘You suppose it would. And let us suppose it turned out to have been painted by an even more famous artist than Septimus Cragg. Let us suppose it had been done by Degas or Manet.’

  ‘Who, Mr Rumpole?’ I seemed to have gone rather too fast for his Lordship’s pencil.

  ‘Manet, my Lord. Edouard Manet,’ I explained carefully. ‘If it were painted by a more famous artist it wouldn’t become more of a thing of beauty and a joy to behold, would it?’

  ‘No … but …’

  ‘And if it were painted by a less famous artist – Joe Bloggs, say, or my Lord the learned Judge, one wet Sunday afternoon …’

  ‘Really, Mr Rumpole!’ Featherstone, J, smiled modestly, but I was busy with the con-o-sewer. ‘It wouldn’t become less beautiful, would it, Mr Gandolphini? It would have the same colourful shadows, the same feeling of light and air and breeze from the harbour. The same warmth of the human body?’

  ‘Exactly the same, of course, but …’

  ‘I don’t want to interrupt …’ Erskine-Brown rose to his feet, wanting to interrupt.

  ‘Then don’t, Mr Erskine-Brown!’ I suggested. The suggestion had no effect. Erskine-Brown made a humble submission to his Lordship. ‘My Lord, in my humble submission we are not investigating the beauty of this work, but the value, and the value of this picture depends on its being a genuine Septimus Cragg. Therefore my learned friend’s questions seem quite irrelevant.’

  At which Erskine-Brown subsided in satisfaction, and his Lordship called on Rumpole to reply.

  ‘My learned friend regards this as a perfectly ordinary criminal case,’ I said. ‘Of course it isn’t. We are discussing the value of a work of art, a thing of beauty and a joy forever. We are not debating the price of fish!’

  There was a sound of incipient applause from the dock, so I whispered to Myersy, and instructed him to remind Brittling that he was not in the pit at the Old Holborn Empire but in the dock at the Old Bailey. I was interrupted by the Judge saying that perhaps I had better pursue another line with the witness.

  ‘My Lord,’ I said. ‘I think we have heard enough – from Mr Gandolphini.’ So I sat and looked triumphantly at the jury, as though I had, in a way they might not have entirely understood, won a point. Then I noticed, to my displeasure, that the learned Judge was engaged in some sort of intimate tête-à-tête with the man Gandolphini, who had not yet left the witness-box.

  ‘Mr Gandolphini, just one point,’ said the Judge.

  ‘Yes, my Lord.’

  ‘I happen myself to be extremely fond of Claude Lorrain,’ said Featherstone, pronouncing the first name ‘Clode’ in an exaggerated Frog manner of speaking.

  ‘Oh, my Lord, I do so agree.’ Gandolphini waxed effusive.

  ‘Absolutely super painter, isn’t he? Now, I suppose, if you saw a good, a beautiful picture which you were assured came from a reputable source, you might accept that as a “Clode” Lorrain, mightn’t you?’

  ‘Certainly, my Lord.’

  ‘But if you were later to learn that the picture had been painted in the seventeenth century and not the eighteenth! Well, you might change your opinion, mightn’t you?’

  Featherstone looked pleased with himself, but the turn of the conversation seemed to be causing Gandolphini intense embarrassment. ‘Well, not really, my Lord,’ he murmured.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. Will you tell us why not?’ The learned Judge looked nettled and prepared to take a note.

  Gandolphini hated to do it, but as a reputable art expert he had to say, ‘Well. You see. Claude Lorrain did paint in the seventeenth century, my Lord.’

  It was almost the collapse of the Judge’s morale. However, he started to talk rather quickly to cover his embarrassment. ‘Oh, yes. Yes, that’s right. Of course he did. Perhaps some of the jury will know that … or not, as the case may be.’ He smiled at the jury, who looked distinctly puzzled, and then at the witness. ‘We haven’t all got your expertise, Mr Gandolphini.’

  All I could think of to say was a warning to Mr Justice Featherstone to avoid setting himself up as any sort of con-o-sewer. Wiser counsels prevailed and I didn’t say it.

  For our especial delight we then had an appearance in the witness-box by Mrs DeMoyne, a well-manicured lady in a dark, businesslike suit, with horn-rimmed glasses and a voice like the side of a nail file. Mrs DeMoyne spoke with the assurance of an art lover who weighs up a post-Impressionist to the nearest dollar, and gives you the tax advantage of a gift to the Museum of Modern Art without drawing breath. She gave a brief account of her visit to the auction room to preview the Cragg in question, of her being assured that the picture had a perfect pedigree, having come straight from the artist’s niece with no dealers involved, and described her successful bidding against stiff competition from a couple of Bond Street galleries and the Italian agent of a collector in Kuwait.

  Erskine-Brown asked the witness if she believed she had been buying a genuine Septimus Cragg. ‘Of course I did,’ rasped Mrs DeMoyne. ‘I was terribly deceived.’ So Erskine-Brown sat down, I’m sure, with a feeling of duty done.

  ‘Mrs DeMoyne. Wouldn’t you agree,’ I asked as I rose to cross-examine, ‘that you bought a very beautiful picture?’

  ‘Yes,’ Mrs DeMoyne admitted.

  ‘So beautiful you were prepared to pay sixty thousand pounds for it?’

  ‘Yes, I was.’

  ‘And it is still the same beautiful picture? The picture hasn’t changed since you bought it, has it, Mrs DeMoyne? Not by one drop of paint! Is the truth of the matter that you’re not interested in art but merely in collectin
g autographs!’

  Of course this made the jury titter and brought Erskine-Brown furiously to his hind legs. I apologized for any pain and suffering I might have caused, and went on. ‘When did you first doubt that this was a Cragg?’ I asked.

  ‘Someone rang me up.’

  ‘Someone? What did they say?’

  ‘Do you want to let this evidence in, Mr Rumpole?’ The learned Judge was heard to be warning me for my own good.

  ‘Yes, my Lord. I’m curious to know,’ I reassured him. So Mrs DeMoyne answered the question. ‘That was what made me get in touch with the police,’ she said. ‘The man who called me said the picture wasn’t a genuine Cragg, and it never had belonged to Cragg’s niece. He also said that I’d got a bargain.’

  ‘A bargain. Why?’

  ‘Because it was better than a Cragg.’

  ‘Did he give you his name?’ It was a risky question, dangerous to ask because I didn’t know the answer.

  ‘He did, yes. But I was so upset I didn’t pay too much attention to it. I don’t think I can remember it.’

  ‘Try,’ I encouraged her.

  ‘White. I think it had “white” in it.’

  ‘Whiting? Whitehead?’ I tried a few names on her.

  ‘No.’ Mrs DeMoyne shook her head defeated. ‘I can’t remember.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs DeMoyne.’ When I sat down I heard a gentle voice in my ear whisper, ‘You were wonderful! Harold said you would be.’ It was the girl Pauline, who had left her seat to murmur comforting words to Rumpole.

  ‘Oh nonsense,’ I whispered back, but then had to add, for the sake of truthfulness, ‘Well, just a bit wonderful, perhaps. How do you think it’s going, Myersy?’

  The knowing old legal executive in front of me admitted that we were doing better than he expected, which was high praise from such a source, but then he looked towards the witness-box and whispered, ‘That’s the one I’m afraid of.’

  The fearful object in Mr Myers’s eyes was a small, grey-haired lady with wind-brightened cheeks and small glittering eyes, wearing a tweed suit and sensible shoes, who took the oath in a clear voice and gave her name as Miss Marjorie Evangeline Price, of 31 Majuba Road, Worthing, and admitted that the late Cragg, RA, had been her Uncle Septimus.

  ‘Do you know the defendant Brittling?’ Erskine-Brown began his examination-in-chief, and I growled, ‘Mister Brittling,’ insisting on a proper respect for the prisoner at the Bar. I don’t think the jury heard me. They were all listening eagerly to Miss Marjorie Evangeline Price, who talked to them as though she were having a cup of afternoon tea with a few friends she’d known for years.

  ‘He came to see me in Worthing. He said he had one of Uncle Septimus’s paintings to sell and he wanted me to put it into the auction for him. The real seller didn’t want his name brought into it.’

  ‘Did Mr Brittling tell you why?’

  ‘He said it was a businessman who didn’t want it to be known that he was selling his pictures. People might have thought he was in financial trouble, apparently.’

  ‘So did you agree to the picture being sold in your name?’

  ‘I’m afraid it was very wrong of me, but he was going to give me a little bit of a percentage. An ex-schoolmistress does get a very small pension.’ Miss Price smiled at the jury and they smiled back, as though of course they understood completely. She was, unhappily for old Brittling, the sort of witness that the jury love, a sweet old lady who’s not afraid to admit she’s wrong.

  ‘Did you have any idea that the picture wasn’t genuine?’

  ‘Oh no, of course not. I had no idea of that. Mr Brittling was very charming and persuasive.’

  At which Miss Price looked at my client in the dock and smiled. The jury also looked at him, but they didn’t smile.

  ‘And how much of the money did Mr Brittling allow you to keep?’

  ‘I think, I’m not sure, I think it was ten per cent.’

  ‘How very generous. Thank you, Miss Price.’

  Erskine-Brown had shot his bolt and sat down. I rose and put on the sweetest, gentlest voice in the Rumpole repertoire. Cross-examining Miss Price was going to be like walking on eggs. I had to move towards any sort of favourable answer on tiptoe. ‘Miss Price, do you remember your Uncle Septimus Cragg?’ I started to move her gently down Memory Lane.

  ‘I remember him coming to our house when I was a little girl. He had a red beard and a very hairy tweed suit. I remember sitting on his lap.’

  His Lordship smiled at her – he was clearly pro-Price.

  ‘Is that all you can remember about him?’ I was still probing gently.

  ‘I remember Uncle Septimus telling me that there were two sorts of people in the world – nurses and patients. He seemed to think I’d grow up to be a nurse.’

  ‘Oh, really? And which was he?’

  ‘My Lord, can this possibly be relevant?’ Erskine-Brown seemed to think the question was fraught with danger, when I was really only making conversation with the witness.

  ‘I can’t see it at the moment, Mr Erskine-Brown,’ the Judge admitted.

  ‘Which did he say he was?’ I went on, ignoring the unmannerly interruption.

  ‘Oh, he said he could always find someone to look after him. I think he was a bit of a spoiled baby really.’

  The jury raised a polite titter, and Erskine-Brown sat down. I looked as though I’d got an answer of great importance.

  ‘Did he? Did he say that? Tell me, Miss Price, do you know who Nancy was?’

  ‘Nancy?’ Miss Price looked puzzled.

  ‘This picture is of Nancy, apparently. In an hotel bedroom in Dieppe. Who was Nancy?’

  ‘I’m afraid I have no idea. I suppose she must have been a’ – she gave a small, meaningful pause – ‘a friend of Uncle Septimus.’

  ‘Yes. I suppose she must have been.’ I pointed to the picture which had brought us all to the Old Bailey. ‘You’ve never seen this picture before?’

  ‘Oh no. I didn’t ask to see it. Mr Brittling told me about it and, well, of course I trusted him, you see.’ Miss Price smiled sweetly at the jury and I sat down. There’s no doubt about it. There’s nothing more like banging your head against a brick wall than cross-examining a witness who’s telling nothing but the truth.

  Later that afternoon the usher came to Counsel engaged on the case with a message. The learned Judge would be glad to see us for a cup of tea in his room. So we were received amongst the red leather armchairs, the Law Reports, the silver-framed photographs of Marigold and the Featherstone twins, Simon and Sarah.

  The Judge was hovering over the bone china, dispensing the Earl Grey and petits beurres, and the Clerk of the Court was lurking in the background to make sure there was no hanky-panky, I suppose, or an attempt to drop folding money into the Judge’s wig.

  ‘Come along, Horace. Sit you down, Claude. Sit you down. You’ll take a dish of tea, won’t you? What I wanted to ask you fellows is … How long is this case going to last?’

  ‘Well, Judge … Guthrie …’ said Erskine-Brown, stirring his tea. ‘That rather depends on Rumpole here. He has to put the defence. If there is a defence.’

  ‘I don’t want to hurry you, Horace. The point is, I may not be able to sit next Monday afternoon.’ The Judge gave a secret sort of a smile and said modestly, ‘Appointment at the Palace, you know what these things are …’

  ‘Marigold got a new outfit for it, has she?’ I couldn’t resist asking.

  ‘Well, the girls like all that sort of nonsense, don’t they?’ he said, as though the whole matter were almost too trivial to mention. ‘It’s not so much an invitation as a Royal command. You know the type of thing.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I assured him. ‘My only Royal command was to join the RAF Ground Staff, as I remember it.’

  ‘Yes, Horace, of course. You old warhorse!’ There was a pause while we all had a gulp of tea and a nibble of biscuit. ‘How much longer are you going to be?’ the Judge asked.

  �
��Well, not long, I suppose. It’s rather an absurd little case, isn’t it? Bit of a practical joke, really. Isn’t that what it is? Just a prank, more or less.’ I was working my way towards a small fine should the old idiot Brittling go down; but to my dismay Mr Justice Featherstone looked extremely serious.

  ‘I can’t pretend that I find it a joke, exactly,’ he said, in his new-found judicial manner.

  ‘Well, I don’t suppose that the shades of the prison house begin to fall around the wretched Brittling, do they? I mean, all he did was to pull the legs of a few so-called con-o-sewers.’

  ‘And made himself a considerable sum of money in the process,’ said Erskine-Brown, who was clearly anxious to be no sort of help.

  ‘It’s deceit, Horace. And forgery for personal profit. If your client’s convicted I’m afraid I couldn’t rule out a custodial sentence.’ The Judge bit firmly into the last petit beurre.

  ‘You couldn’t?’ I sounded incredulous.

  ‘How could I?’

  ‘Not send him to prison for a little bit of “let’s pretend”? For a bit of a joke on a pompous profession?’ I put down my cup and stood. My outrage was perfectly genuine. ‘No. I don’t suppose you could.’

  Tea with the Judge was over, and I was about to follow Erskine-Brown and the learned clerk out of his presence, when Mr Justice Featherstone called me back. ‘Oh, Horace,’ he said, ‘a word in your ear.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ve noticed you’ve fallen into rather a bad habit.’

  ‘Bad habit?’ What on earth, I wondered, was he about to accuse me of – being drunk in charge of a forgery case?

  ‘Hands in pockets when you’re addressing the Court. It looks so bad, Horace. Such a poor example to the younger men. Keep them out of the pockets, will you? I’m sure you don’t mind me pulling you up about it?’

  It was the old school prefect speaking. I left him without comment.

  The hardest part of any case, I have always maintained, comes when your client enters the witness-box. Up until that moment you have been able to protect him by attacking those who give evidence against him, and by concealing from the jury the most irritating aspects of his personality. Once he starts to give evidence, however, the client is on his own. He is like a child who has left its family on the beach and is swimming, in a solitary fashion, out to sea, where no cries of warning can be heard.