The Collected Stories of Rumpole

by John Mortimer

  I have spoken elsewhere, and on frequent occasions, of my patrons the Timsons, that extended family of South London villains for whom, over the years, I have acted as Attorney-General. Some of you may remember Tony Timson, a fairly mild-mannered receiver of stolen video recorders, hi-fi sets and microwave ovens, married to that April Timson who once so offended her husband’s male chauvinist prejudices by driving a getaway car at a somewhat unsuccessful bank robbery.* Tony and April lived in a semi on a large housing estate with their offspring, Vincent Timson, now aged eight, who I hoped would grow up in the family business and thus ensure a steady flow of briefs for Rumpole’s future. Their house was brightly, not to say garishly, furnished with mock tiger-skin rugs, Italian-tile-style linoleum and wallpaper which simulated oak panelling. (I knew this from a large number of police photographs in various cases.) It was also equipped with almost every labour-saving device which ever dropped off the back of a lorry. On the day when my story starts this desirable home was rent with screams from the bathroom and a stream of soapy water flowing out from under the door. In the screaming, the word ‘murderer’ was often repeated at a volume which was not only audible to young Vincent, busy pushing a blue-flashing toy police car round the hallway, but to the occupants of the adjoining house and those of the neighbours who were hanging out their washing. Someone, it was not clear who it was at the time, telephoned the local cop shop for assistance.

  In a surprisingly short while a real, flashing police car arrived and the front door was flung open by a wet and desperate April Timson, her leopard-skin-style towelling bathrobe clutched about her. As Detective Inspector Brush, an officer who had fought a running battle with the Timson family for years, came up the path to meet her she sobbed out, at the top of her voice, a considerable voice for so petite a redhead, ‘Thank God, you’ve come! He was only trying to bloody murder me.’ Tony Timson emerged from the bathroom a few seconds later, water dripping from his ear-lobe-length hair and his gaucho moustache. In spite of the word RAMBO emblazoned across his bathrobe, he was by no means a man of formidable physique. Looking down the stairs, he saw his wife in hysterics and his domestic hearth invaded by the Old Bill. No sooner had he reached the hallway than he was arrested and charged with attempted murder of his wife, the particulars being, that, while sharing a bath with her preparatory to going to a neighbour’s party, he had tried to cause her death by drowning.

  In course of time I was happy to accept a brief for the defence of Tony Timson and we had a conference in Brixton Prison where the alleged wife-drowner was being held in custody. I was attended, on that occasion, by Mr Bernard, the Timsons’ regular solicitor, and that up-and-coming young radical barrister, Mizz Liz Probert, who had been briefed to take a note and generally assist me in the cause célèbre.

  ‘Attempted murderer, Tony Timson?’ I opened the proceedings on a somewhat incredulous note. ‘Isn’t that rather out of your league?’

  ‘April told me,’ he began his explanation, ‘she was planning on wearing her skintight leatherette trousers with the revealing halterneck satin top. That’s what she was planning on wearing, Mr Rumpole!’

  ‘A somewhat tasteless outfit, and not entirely haute couture,’ I admitted. ‘But it hardly entitles you to drown your wife, Tony.’

  ‘We was both invited to a party round her friend Chrissie’s. And that was the outfit she was keen on wearing …’

  ‘She says you pulled her legs and so she became submerged.’ Bernard, like a good solicitor, was reading the evidence.

  ‘ “The Brides in the Bath”!’ My mind went at once to one of the classic murders of all times. ‘The very method! And you hit on it with no legal training. How did you come to be in the same bath, anyway?’

  ‘We always shared, since we was courting.’ Tony looked surprised that I had asked. ‘Don’t all married couples?’

  ‘Speaking for myself and She Who Must Be Obeyed the answer is, thankfully, no. I can’t speak for Mr Bernard.’

  ‘Out of the question.’ Bernard shook his head sadly. ‘My wife has a hip.’

  ‘Sorry, Mr Bernard. I’m really sorry.’ Tony Timson was clearly an attempted murderer with a soft heart.

  ‘Quite all right, Mr Timson,’ Bernard assured him. ‘We’re down for a replacement.’

  ‘April likes me to sit up by the taps.’ Tony gave us further particulars of the Timson bathing habits. ‘So I can rinse off her hair after a shampoo. Anyway, she finds her end that much more comfortable.’

  ‘She makes you sit at the tap end, Tony?’ I began to feel for the fellow.

  ‘Oh, I never made no objection,’ my client assured me. ‘Although you can get your back a bit scalded. And those old taps does dig into you sometimes.’

  ‘So were you on friendly terms when you both entered the water?’ My instructing solicitor was quick on the deductions. ‘She was all right then. We was both, well, affectionate. Looking forward to the party, like.’

  ‘She didn’t object to what you planned on wearing?’ I wanted to cover all the possibilities.

  ‘My non-structured silk-style suiting from Toy Boy Limited!’ Tony protested. ‘How could she object to that, Mr Rumpole? No. She washed her hair as per usual. And I rinsed it off for her. Then she told me who was going to be at the party, like.’

  ‘Mr Peter Molloy,’ Bernard reminded me. ‘It’s in the brief, Mr Rumpole.’ Now I make it a rule to postpone reading my brief until the last possible moment so that it’s fresh in my mind when I go into Court, so I said, somewhat testily, ‘Of course I know that, but I thought I’d like to get the story from the client. Peanuts Molloy! Mizz Probert, we have a defence. Tony Timson’s wife was taking him to a party attended by Peanuts Molloy.’

  The full implications of this piece of evidence won’t be apparent to those who haven’t made a close study of my previous handling of the Timson affairs. Suffice it to say the Molloys are to the Timsons as the Montagues were to the Capulets or the Guelphs to the Ghibellines, and their feud goes back to the days when the whole of South London was laid down to pasture, and they were quarrelling about stolen sheep. The latest outbreak of hostilities occurred when certain Molloys, robbing a couple of elderly Timsons as they were robbing a bank, almost succeeded in getting Tony’s relatives convicted for an offence they had not committed. Peter, better known as ‘Peanuts’, Molloy was the young hopeful of the clan Molloy and it was small wonder that Tony Timson took great exception to his wife putting on her leatherette trousers for the purpose of meeting the family enemy.

  Liz Probert, however, a white-wig at the Bar who knew nothing of such old legal traditions as the Molloy–Timson hostility, said, ‘Why should Mrs Timson’s meeting Molloy make it all right to drown her?’ I have to remind you that Mizz Liz was a pillar of the North Islington Women’s Movement.

  ‘It wasn’t just that she was meeting him, Mr Rumpole,’ Tony explained. ‘It was the words she used.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘I’d rather not tell you if you don’t mind. It was humiliating to my pride.’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Tony. Let’s hear the worst.’ I had never known a Timson behave so coyly.

  ‘She made a comparison like, between me and Peanuts.’

  ‘What comparison?’

  Tony looked at Liz and his voice sank to a whisper. ‘Ladies present,’ he said.

  ‘Tony,’ I had to tell him, ‘Mizz Liz Probert has not only practised in the Criminal Courts, but in the family division. She is active on behalf of gay and lesbian rights in her native Islington. She marches, quite often, in aid of abortion on demand. She is a regular reader of the woman’s page of the Guardian. You and I, Tony, need have no secrets from Mizz Probert. Now, what was this comparison your wife made between you and Peanuts Molloy?’

  ‘On the topic of virility. I’m sorry, Miss.’

  ‘That’s quite all right.’ Liz Probert was unshocked and unamused.

  ‘What we need, I don’t know if you would agree, Mr Rumpole,’ M
r Bernard suggested, ‘is a predominance of men on the jury.’

  ‘Underendowed males would condone the attempted murder of a woman, you mean?’ The Probert hackles were up.

  ‘Please. Mizz Probert.’ I tried to call the meeting to order. ‘Let us face this problem in a spirit of detachment. What we need is a sympathetic judge who doesn’t want to waste his time on a long case. Have we got a fixed date for this, Mr Bernard?’

  ‘We have, sir. Before the Red Judge.’ Mr Bernard meant that Tony Timson was to be tried before the High Court Judge visiting the Old Bailey.

  ‘They’re pulling out all the stops.’ I was impressed.

  ‘It is attempted murder, Mr Rumpole. So we’re fixed before Mr Justice Featherstone.’

  ‘Guthrie Featherstone.’ I thought about it. ‘Our one-time Head of Chambers. Now, I just wonder …’

  We were in luck. Sir Guthrie Featherstone was in no mood to try a long case, so he summoned me and Counsel for the prosecution to his room before the start of the proceedings. He sat robed but with his wig on the desk in front of him, a tall, elegant figure who almost always wore the slightly hunted expression of a man who’s not entirely sure what he’s up to – an unfortunate state of mind for a fellow who has to spend his waking hours coming to firm and just decisions. For all his indecision, however, he knew for certain that he didn’t want to spend the whole day trying a ticklish attempted murder.

  ‘Is this a long case?’ the Judge asked. ‘I am bidden to take tea in the neighbourhood of Victoria. Can you fellows guess where?’

  ‘Sorry, Judge. I give up.’ Charles Hearthstoke, our serious-minded young prosecutor, seemed in no mood for party games.

  ‘The station buffet?’ I hazarded a guess.

  ‘The station buffet!’ Guthrie enjoyed the joke. ‘Isn’t that you all over, Horace? You will have your joke. Not far off, though.’ The joke was over and he went on impressively. ‘Buck House. Her Majesty has invited me – no, correction – “commanded” me to a Royal Garden Party.’

  ‘God Save The Queen!’ I murmured loyally.

  ‘Not only Her Majesty,’ Guthrie told us, ‘more seriously one’s lady wife, would be extremely put out if one didn’t parade in grey top-hat order!’

  ‘He’s blaming it on his wife!’ Liz Probert, who had followed me into the presence, said in a penetrating aside.

  ‘So naturally one would have to be free by lunchtime. Hearthstoke, is this a long case from the prosecution point of view?’ The Judge asked.

  ‘It is an extremely serious case, Judge.’ Our prosecutor spoke like a man of twice his years. ‘Attempted murder. We’ve put it down for a week.’ I have always thought young Charlie Hearthstoke a mega-sized pill ever since he joined our Chambers for a blessedly brief period and tried to get everything run by a computer.

  ‘I’m astonished,’ I gave Guthrie a little comfort, ‘that my learned friend Mr Hearthrug should think it could possibly last so long.’

  ‘Hearthstoke,’ young Charlie corrected me.

  ‘Have it your own way. With a bit of common sense we could finish this in half an hour.’

  ‘Thereby saving public time and money.’ Hope sprang eternal in the Judge’s breast.

  ‘Exactly!’ I cheered him up. ‘As you know, it is an article of my religion never to plead guilty. But, bearing in mind all the facts in this case, I’m prepared to advise Timson to put his hands up to common assault. He’ll agree to be bound over to keep the peace.’

  ‘Common assault?’ Hearthstoke was furious. ‘Binding over? Hold on a minute. He tried to drown her!’

  ‘Judge.’ I put the record straight. ‘He was seated at the tap end of the bath. His wife, lying back comfortably in the depths, passed an extremely wounding remark about my client’s virility.’

  It was then I saw Mr Justice Featherstone looking at me, apparently shaken to the core. ‘The tap end,’ he gasped. ‘Did you say he was seated at the tap end, Horace?’

  ‘I’m afraid so, Judge.’ I confirmed the information sorrowfully.

  ‘This troubles me.’ Indeed the Judge looked extremely troubled. ‘How does it come about that he was seated at the tap end?’

  ‘His wife insisted on it.’ I had to tell him the full horror of the situation.

  ‘This woman insisted that her husband sat with his back squashed up against the taps?’ The Judge’s voice rose in incredulous outrage.

  ‘She made him sit in that position so he could rinse off her hair.’

  ‘At the tap end?’ Guthrie still couldn’t quite believe it.

  ‘Exactly so.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘There can be no doubt about it.’

  ‘Hearthrug … I mean, stoke. Is this one of the facts agreed by the prosecution?’

  ‘I can’t see that it makes the slightest difference.’ The prosecution was not pleased with the course its case was taking.

  ‘You can’t see! Horace, was this conduct in any way typical of this woman’s attitude to her husband?’

  ‘I regret to say, entirely typical.’

  ‘Rumpole …’ Liz Probert, appalled by the chauvinist chatter around her, seemed about to burst, and I calmed her with a quiet ‘Shut up, Mizz.’

  ‘So you are telling me that this husband deeply resented the position in which he found himself.’ Guthrie was spelling out the implications exactly as I had hoped he would.

  ‘What married man wouldn’t, Judge?’ I asked mournfully.

  ‘And his natural resentment led to a purely domestic dispute?’

  ‘Such as might occur, Judge, in the best bathrooms.’

  ‘And you are content to be bound over to keep the peace?’ His Lordship looked at me with awful solemnity.

  ‘Reluctantly, Judge,’ I said after a suitable pause for contemplation, ‘I would agree to that restriction on my client’s liberty.’

  ‘Liberty to drown his wife!’ Mizz Probert had to be ‘shushed’ again.

  ‘Hearthstoke.’ The Judge spoke with great authority. ‘My compliments to those instructing you and in my opinion it would be a gross waste of public funds to continue with this charge of attempted murder. We should be finished by half past eleven.’ He looked at his watch with the deep satisfaction of a man who was sure that he would be among those present at the Royal Garden Party, after the ritual visit to Moss Bros to hire the grey topper and all the trimmings. As we left the sanctum, I stood aside to let Mizz Probert out of the door. ‘Oh, no, Rumpole, you’re a man,’ she whispered with her fury barely contained. ‘Men always go first, don’t they?’

  So we all went into Court to polish off R. v. Timson and to make sure that Her Majesty had the pleasure of Guthrie’s presence over the tea and strawberries. I made a token speech in mitigation, something of a formality as I knew that I was pushing at an open door. Whilst I was speaking, I was aware of the fact that the Judge wasn’t giving me his full attention. That was reserved for a new young shorthand writer, later to become known to me as a Miss (not, I’m sure in her case, a Mizz) Lorraine Frinton. Lorraine was what I believe used to be known as a ‘bit of an eyeful’, being young, doe-eyed and clearly surrounded by her own special fragrance. When I sat down, Guthrie thanked me absent-mindedly and reluctantly gave up the careful perusal of Miss Frinton’s beauty. He then proceeded to pass sentence on Tony Timson in a number of peculiarly ill-chosen words.

  ‘Timson,’ his Lordship began harmlessly enough. ‘I have heard about you and your wife’s habit of taking a bath together. It is not for this Court to say that communal bathing, in time of peace when it is not in the national interest to save water, is appropriate conduct in married life. Chacun à son goût, as a wise Frenchman once said.’ Miss Frinton, the shorthand writer, looked hopelessly confused by the words of the wise Frenchman. ‘What throws a flood of light on this case,’ the Judge went on, ‘is that you, Timson, habitually sat at the tap end of the bath. It seems you had a great deal to put up with. And your wife, she, it appears from the evidence, washed her
hair in the more placid waters of the other end. I accept that this was a purely domestic dispute. For the common assault to which you have pleaded guilty you will be bound over to keep the peace …’ And the Judge added the terrible words, ‘… in the sum of fifty pounds.’

  So Tony Timson was at liberty, the case was over and a furious Mizz Liz Probert banged out of Court before Guthrie was halfway out of the door. Catching up with her, I rebuked my learned junior. ‘It’s not in the best traditions of the Bar to slam out before the Judge in any circumstances. When we’ve just had a famous victory it’s quite ridiculous.’