The Collected Stories of Rumpole

by John Mortimer

  ‘Mr Lampitt, Mr Rumpole.’ His Lordship addressed us both in deeply serious tones before the jury was summoned into Court. ‘I feel I have a duty to raise a matter of a personal nature.’ I said I hoped he wasn’t in pain.

  ‘No. Not that, Mr Rumpole … Not that … The fact is, Mr Lampitt … Mr Rumpole … Gentlemen. I feel very strongly that I should not try this case. I should retire and leave the matter to some other judge.’

  ‘Of course, we should be most reluctant to lose your Lordship,’ I flattered Guthrie, and Brinsley Lampitt chimed in with ‘Most reluctant.’

  ‘Well, there it is. I’ll rise now and …’ Guthrie started to make his escape.

  ‘May we ask … why?’ I stopped him.

  ‘May you ask what?’

  ‘Why, my Lord. I mean, it’s nothing about my client, I hope.’

  ‘Oh no, Mr Rumpole. Nothing at all to do with him.’ The Judge was back, despondently, in his seat.

  ‘I can’t imagine that your Lordship knows my client.’

  ‘Know him? Certainly not!’ The Judge was positive. ‘Not that I’m suggesting I’d have anything against knowing your client. If I did, I mean. Which I most certainly don’t!’

  ‘Then, with the greatest respect, my Lord, where’s the difficulty?’

  ‘Where’s the what, Mr Rumpole?’ The Judge was clearly in some agony of mind.

  ‘The difficulty, my Lord.’

  ‘You wish to know where the difficulty is?’

  ‘If your Lordship pleases!’

  ‘And you, Mr Lampitt. You wish to know where the difficulty is?’

  ‘If your Lordship pleases,’ said the old darling for the Crown.

  ‘It’s a private matter. As you know, Mr Rumpole,’ was the best the Judge could manage after a long pause.

  ‘As I know, my Lord? Then it can’t be exactly private.’

  ‘Perhaps I should make this clear in open Court. I happened to have lunch at my club with Counsel for the defence.’

  ‘The oysters were excellent! I’m grateful to your Lordship.’

  There was a flutter of laughter and Harold called for silence as the Judge went on: ‘And I happened to discuss this case, in purely general terms, with Counsel for the defence.’ In the ensuing silence Lampitt was whispering to the police. I asked, ‘Is that all, my Lord?’

  ‘Yes. Isn’t it enough?’ The Judge sounded deeply depressed. Lampitt didn’t cheer him up by telling him that he’d spoken to the Officer-in-Charge of the case, who had no objection whatever to the Judge trying Dr Horridge. He was sure that no lunchtime conversation with Mr Rumpole could possibly prejudice his Lordship in any way. ‘In fact,’ Brinsley Lampitt ended, to the despair of the Judge, ‘the prosecution wish your Lordship to retain this case.’

  ‘And so do the defence.’ I drove in another nail.

  ‘In fact I urge your Lordship to do so,’ Lampitt urged.

  ‘So do I, my Lord,’ from Rumpole. ‘It would be a great waste of public money if we had to fix a new date before a different judge. And in view of the Lord Chancellor’s recent warnings about the high cost of legal aid cases …’

  The Judge clearly felt caught then. He looked with horror at the exhibits and thought with terror of the Lord Chancellor. ‘Mr Lampitt, Mr Rumpole,’ he asked us without any real hope, ‘are you insisting I try this case?’

  ‘With great respect, yes,’ from Lampitt.

  ‘That’s what it comes to, my Lord,’ from me.

  So the twelve honest citizens were summoned in and one of the strangest trials I have ever known began, because I could not tell who was more fearful of the outcome, the prisoner at the Bar, or the learned Judge.

  Picture Guthrie after the first day in Court, returning to play a little autumn tennis with his wife. Unfortunately the game was rained off, and he sat with Marigold in the bar of the tennis club and told her, when she asked if he’d had a good day, that he was sorry to say he had not. Then he looked out of the window at the grey sky and asked her if she didn’t sometimes long to get away from it all. ‘Fellow I was at school with runs a little bar in Ibiza. Wouldn’t you like to run a little bar in Ibiza, Marigold?’

  ‘I think I should hate it.’

  ‘But you don’t want to hang about around Kensington, in the rain, married to a Judge who’s away all day, sitting.’

  ‘I like you being a Judge, Guthrie,’ Marigold explained patiently. ‘I like you being away all day, sitting. And what’s wrong with Kensington? It’s handy for Harrods.’

  ‘Marigold,’ he started again after a thoughtful silence.

  ‘Yes, Guthrie.’

  ‘I was just thinking about that Cabinet Minister. You know. The fellow who had to resign. Over some scandal.’

  ‘Did he run a little bar in Ibiza?’

  ‘No. But what I remember about him is his wife stood by him. Through thick and thin. Would you stand by me, Marigold? Through thick and thin?’

  ‘What’s the scandal, Guthrie?’ She was curious to know, but he answered, ‘Nothing. Oh, no. Just a theoretical question. I just wondered if you’d stand by me. That’s all.’

  ‘Don’t count on it, Guthrie,’ she told him. ‘Don’t ever count on it.’

  Meanwhile, back at 3 Equity Court, Liz Probert was working late, sorting through the prosecution exhibits of which we had not yet made a full list. Hearthstoke saw the light on in my room and, suspecting me of wasting electricity, called in to inspect. He apparently offered to help Liz with her task and, sitting beside her, started to sort out the credit-card slips. She remembered asking him why he was helping her, and hoping it had nothing to do with her eyes. She told him that Claude Erskine-Brown had taken her to the opera and complimented her on her eyes, a moment she had found particularly embarrassing.

  ‘Erskine-Brown’s old-fashioned, like everything else in these Chambers,’ he told her.

  ‘Just because I’m a woman! I mean, I bet no one mentions your eyes. And Hoskins told me I could only do petty larceny and divorce; quite honestly he thinks that’s all women are fit for.’

  ‘Out of the ark, Hoskins. Liz, I know we’d disagree about a lot of things.’

  ‘Do you?’ She looked at him; I suppose it was not an entirely hostile gaze.

  ‘I’m standing as a Conservative for Battersea Council,’ he told her. ‘And your father’s Red Ron of South-east London! But we’re both young. We both want things changed. When we’ve finished this, why don’t you buy yourself a Chinese at the Golden Gate in Chancery Lane?’

  ‘Why on earth?’

  ‘I could buy one too. And we might even eat them at the same table. Oh, and I do promise you not to mention your eyes.’

  ‘You can if you want to.’

  ‘Mention your eyes?’

  ‘No, you fool! Eat your Chinese at my table.’ She was laughing as I came in after a little refreshment at Pommeroy’s Wine Bar. I took in the scene with some surprise. ‘Hearthrug! What’s this, another deputation about my tailoring?’

  ‘I was helping out your pupil, Rumpole.’ He was staring, with some distaste, at my old mac.

  ‘Very considerate of you. I can take over now, after a pit stop at Pommeroy’s for refuelling. Why don’t you two young things go home?’ Liz Probert went, after Hearthstoke told her to wait for him downstairs. And then he revealed some of the results of his snooping round our Chambers. ‘I was just going to ask you about Henry.’

  ‘What about Henry?’ I lit a small cigar.

  ‘I was looking at his PAYE returns. He is married, isn’t he?’

  ‘To a lady tax inspector in Bromley. That’s my belief.’

  ‘So what exactly is his relationship with Dianne, the typist?’

  ‘Friendly, I imagine.’

  ‘Just friendly?’

  ‘That is a question I have never cared to ask.’

  ‘There are lots of questions like that, aren’t there, Rumpole?’ With that, the appalling Hearthrug left me. I pulled the box of documents towards me and started workin
g on them angrily. In the morning I would have to deal with further snoopers: police officers in plain clothes, or rather, in no clothes at all, as they lay on various massage tables and pretended to be in need of affection.

  ‘Detective Constable Marten,’ I asked the solid-looking copper with the moustache, ‘that is not a note you made at the time?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Of course not! At the time this incident occurred, you were deprived of your clothing and no doubt of your notebook also?’

  ‘I made the note on my return to the station.’

  ‘After these exciting events had taken place?’

  ‘After the incident complained of, yes.’

  ‘And your recollection was still clear?’

  ‘Quite clear, Mr Rumpole.’

  ‘It started off with the lady therapist.’

  ‘The masseuse, yes.’

  ‘Passing an entirely innocent remark.’

  ‘She asked me if I was going anywhere nice on holiday.’

  ‘She asked you that?’ The evidence seemed to have awakened disturbing memories in the Judge.

  ‘Yes, my Lord.’

  ‘Up to that time it appeared to be a perfectly routine, straight-forward massage?’ I put it to the officer.

  ‘I informed the young lady that I had a certain pain in the knee from playing football.’

  ‘Was that the truth?’ I asked severely.

  ‘No, my Lord,’ DC Marten told the Judge reluctantly.

  ‘So you were lying, Officer?’

  ‘Yes. If you put it that way.’

  ‘What other way is there of putting it? You are an Officer who is prepared to lie?’

  ‘In the course of duty, yes.’

  ‘And submit to sexual advances in massage parlours. In the course of duty.’ I was rewarded by a ripple of laughter from the jury, and a shocked sign from the Judge. ‘Mr Rumpole,’ he said politely, ‘can I help?’

  ‘Of course, my Lord.’ I was suitably grateful.

  ‘When the massage started, you told the young lady you had a pain in your knee?’ The Judge recapped, rubbing in the point.

  ‘Yes, my Lord.’

  ‘From playing tennis?’

  ‘Football, my Lord.’

  ‘Yes. Of course. Football. I’m much obliged.’ His Lordship made a careful note. ‘So far as the lady masseuse was concerned, that might have been the truth?’

  ‘She might have believed it, my Lord,’ the Detective Constable admitted grudgingly.

  ‘And so far as you know, quite a number of perfectly decent, respectable, happily married men may visit these … health centres simply because they have received injuries in various sporting activities. Football … tennis and the like!’ The Judge was moved to express his indignation.

  ‘Some may, I suppose, my Lord.’ DC Marten was still grudging.

  ‘Many may!’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Very well.’ The Judge turned from the officer with distaste. ‘Yes, Mr Rumpole. Thank you.’

  ‘Oh, thank you, my Lord. If your Lordship pleases.’ I stopped smiling then and turned to the witness. ‘So at first sight this appeared to be an entirely genuine health centre?’

  ‘At first sight. Yes.’

  ‘An entirely genuine health centre.’ The Judge was actually writing it down, paying a quite unusual compliment to the defence. ‘Those were your words, Mr Rumpole?’

  ‘My exact words, your Lordship. No doubt your Lordship is writing them down for the benefit of the jury.’

  ‘I am, Mr Rumpole. I am indeed.’

  I saw Lampitt looking bewildered. Judges who brief themselves for the accused are somewhat rare birds down the Bailey.

  ‘And the whole thing was as pure as the driven snow. In fact it was the normal treatment of a football injury until you made a somewhat distasteful suggestion?’

  ‘Distasteful?’ DC Marten appeared to resent the adjective.

  ‘Just remind the jury of what you said, Officer. As you lay on that massage table, clad only in a towel.’

  ‘I said, “Well, my dear” ’ – the officer read carefully from his notebook – ‘ “How about a bit of the other?” ’

  ‘The what, Officer?’ The Judge was puzzled.

  ‘The other, my Lord.’

  ‘The other what?’

  ‘Just. The other …’

  ‘I must confess I don’t understand.’ His Lordship turned to me for assistance.

  ‘You were using an expression taken from the vernacular,’ I suggested to the Detective Constable.

  ‘Meaning what, Mr Rumpole?’ The Judge was still confused.

  ‘Hanky-panky, my Lord.’

  ‘I’m much obliged. I hope that’s clear to the jury?’ Guthrie turned to the twelve honest citizens, who nodded wisely.

  ‘You suggested some form of sexual intimacy might be possible?’ The Judge was now master of the facts.

  ‘I did, my Lord. Putting it in terms I felt the young lady would understand.’

  ‘And if you hadn’t made this appalling suggestion, the massage might have continued quite inoffensively?’

  ‘It might have done.’

  ‘To the considerable benefit of your knee!’

  ‘There was nothing wrong with my knee, my Lord.’

  ‘No. No, of course not! You were lying about that!’ And then, high on his success, Guthrie asked the question that would have been better to leave unsaid. ‘When you asked the young lady about “the other”, what did she reply?’

  ‘Her answer was, my Lord, “That’ll be twenty pounds.” ’

  ‘Very well, Officer,’ Guthrie said hastily. ‘No one wants to keep this officer, do they? The witness may be released.’

  And as DC Marten left the box, Brinsley Lampitt whispered to me, ‘Have you any idea why the Judge is batting so strenuously for the defence?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ I whispered back, ‘it must be my irresistible charm.’

  Two wives, Marigold Featherstone and Hilda ‘She Who Must Be Obeyed’ Rumpole, bumped into each other in Harrods, and had tea together, swapping news of their married lives. Hilda said she had been after a hat to wear when Rumpole was sitting. ‘I thought I might be up beside him on the Bench occasionally.’

  ‘Rumpole sitting?’ For some reason Marigold appeared surprised.

  ‘Yes. It was your Guthrie that mentioned it to him actually, when they took a spot of lunch together at the Sheridan Club. Rumpole said that it rather depended on his behaving himself in this case that’s going on. But if he’s a bit careful … well, Deputy County Court Judge! For all the world to see. It’ll be one in the eye for Claude Erskine-Brown. That’s what he’s always wanted.’

  ‘Guthrie seems to want to give up sitting.’ Marigold told Hilda of their mysterious conversation. ‘He speaks of going to Ibiza and opening a bar.’

  ‘Ibiza!’

  ‘Terrible place. Full of package tours and Spaniards.’

  ‘Oh dear. I don’t think Rumpole and I would like that at all.’

  ‘Tell me, Mrs Rumpole. May I call you Helen?’

  ‘Hilda, Marigold. And you and Guthrie always have.’

  ‘Guthrie’s been most peculiar lately. I wonder if I should take him to the doctor.’

  ‘Oh dear. Nothing terribly serious, I hope.’

  ‘He keeps asking me if I’d stand by him. Through thick and thin. Would you do that for Rumpole?’

  ‘Well. Rumpole and I’ve been together nearly forty years …’ she began judicially.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And I’d stand by him, of course.’

  ‘Would you?’

  ‘But thick and thin. No, I’m not sure about that.’

  ‘Neither am I, Hilda. I’m not sure at all.’

  ‘Have another scone, dear’ – my wife passed the comforting plate – ‘and let’s hope it never comes to that.’

  The next morning, Marigold’s husband asked Rumpole (for the defence) and Brinsley Lampitt (for the prosecution) to see hi
m in his room. ‘I thought I’d just ask you fellows in to find out how much longer this case is going to last. Time’s money you know. I don’t think we should delay matters by going into a lot of unnecessary documents. Will you be producing documents, Lampitt?’

  ‘Just Dr Horridge’s bank accounts. Nothing else.’ The words clearly brought great comfort to his Lordship. ‘I don’t think anything else is necessary.’

  ‘Oh no. Absolutely right! I do so agree. I seem to remember hearing something about customers using credit cards. You won’t be putting in any of the credit-card slips? Nothing of that nature?’

  ‘No, Judge. I don’t think we need bother with that evidence.’

  ‘No. Of course not. That’d just be wasting the jury’s time. I’m sure you agree, don’t you, Rumpole?’

  ‘Well, yes.’ I was more doubtful. ‘That is. Not quite.’

  ‘Not quite?’

  ‘About the credit-card evidence.’

  ‘Yes?’ The Judge’s spirits seemed to have sunk to a new low.

  ‘I think I’d like to keep my options open.’

  ‘Keep them … open?’

  ‘You see, my argument is that no one who wasn’t completely insane would pay by credit card in a disorderly house.’

  ‘That’s your argument?’

  ‘So the fact that credit cards were used may indicate my client’s innocence. It’s a matter I’ll have to consider, Judge. Very carefully.’

  ‘Yes. Oh, yes. I suppose you will.’ His Lordship seemed to have resigned himself to certain disaster.

  ‘Was that all you wanted to see us about?’ I asked cheerfully.

  ‘How much longer?’ was all the Judge could bring himself to say.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry, Judge. It’ll soon be over!’

  After we left, I imagined that Mr Justice Featherstone got out his Spanish Phrase Book and practised saying, ‘Este vaso no esta limpio. This glass is not clean.’

  It must have been after the prosecution case was closed, and immediately before I had to put my client in the witness-box, that Guthrie Featherstone’s view of life underwent a dramatic change. He had brought in the envelope containing his American Express accounts, a document that he had not dared to open. But, in the privacy of his room and after a certain amount of sherry and claret at the Judge’s luncheon, he steeled himself to open it. Summoning up a further reserve of courage, he looked and found the entry, his payment to the Good Life Health Centre. ‘Good Life’? A wild hope rose in an unhappy Judge, and he snatched up the papers in the case he was trying. There was no doubt about it. Maurice Horridge was charged with running a number of disorderly houses known as the Good Line Health Centre. It was clearly a different concern entirely. Guthrie felt like a man given six months to live, who discovers there’s been a bit of a mix-up down the lab and all he’s had is a cold in the head. He had never been to one of Dr Horridge’s establishments, and there was no record of any judicial payment among the prosecution exhibits. ‘I have no doubt,’ he shouted, ‘I’m in the clear’, and down the Bailey they still speak of the little dance of triumph Guthrie was executing when Harold the new usher came to take him into Court.