The Collected Stories of Rumpole

by John Mortimer

  ‘Because he’s rich enough to afford very small portions of food.’

  ‘So you’re living by yourself? You must be terribly lonely.’ ‘

  Society is all but rude,’ I assured her, ‘To this delicious solitude.’

  There was a pause and then Liz took a deep breath and offered her assistance. ‘You know, Rumpole. Dave and I have founded the Y.R.L. Young Radical Lawyers. We don’t only mean to reform the legal system, although that’s part of it, of course. We’re going to take on social work as well. We could always get someone to call and take a look at your flat every morning.’

  ‘To make sure it’s still there?’

  ‘Well, no, Rumpole. As a matter of fact, to make sure you are.’

  Those who are alone have great opportunities for eavesdropping, and Liz and Dave weren’t the only members of our Chambers I heard engaged in a heart-to-heart that day. Before I took the journey back to the She-less flat, I dropped into Pommeroy’s and was enjoying the ham roll and bottle of Château Thames Embankment which would constitute my dinner, seated in one of the high-backed, pew-like stalls Jack Pommeroy has installed, presumably to give the joint a vaguely medieval appearance and attract the tourists. From behind my back I heard the voices of our Head of Chambers and Claude Erskine-Brown, who was saying, in his most ingratiating tones, ‘Ballard. I want to have a word with you about the case you’ve got against La Maison Jean-Pierre.’

  To this, Ballard, in thoughtful tones, replied unexpectedly, ‘A strong chain! It’s the only answer.’ Which didn’t seem to follow.

  ‘It was just my terrible luck, of course,’ Erskine-Brown complained, ‘that it should happen at my table. I mean, I’m a pretty well-known member of the Bar. Naturally I don’t want my name connected with, well, a rather ridiculous incident.’

  ‘Fellows in Chambers aren’t going to like it.’ Ballard was not yet with him. ‘They’ll say it’s a restriction on their liberty. Rumpole, no doubt, will have a great deal to say about Magna Carta. But the only answer is to get a new nail-brush and chain it up. Can I have your support in taking strong measures?’

  ‘Of course, you can, Ballard. I’ll be right behind you on this one.’ The creeping Claude seemed only too anxious to please. ‘And in this case you’re doing, I don’t suppose you’ll have to call the couple who actually got the mouse?’

  ‘The couple?’ There was a pause while Ballard searched his memory. ‘The mouse was served – appalling lack of hygiene in the workplace – to a table booked by a Mr Claude Erskine-Brown and guest. Of course he’ll be a vital witness.’ And then the penny dropped. He stared at Claude and said firmly, ‘You’ll be a vital witness.’

  ‘But if I’m a witness of any sort, my name’ll get into the papers and Philly will know I was having dinner.’

  ‘Why on earth shouldn’t she know you were having dinner?’ Ballard was reasoning with the man. ‘Most people have dinner. Nothing to be ashamed of. Get a grip on yourself, Erskine-Brown.’

  ‘Ballard. Sam.’ Claude was trying the appeal to friendship. ‘You’re a married man. You should understand.’

  ‘Of course I’m married. And Marguerite and I have dinner. On a regular basis.’

  ‘But I wasn’t having dinner with Philly.’ Claude explained the matter carefully. ‘I was having dinner with an instructing solicitor.’

  ‘That was your guest?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘A solicitor?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Ballard seemed to have thought the matter over carefully, but he was still puzzled when he replied, remembering his instructions. ‘He apparently leapt on to a chair, held down his skirt and screamed three times!’

  ‘Ballard! The solicitor was Tricia Benbow. You don’t imagine I’d spend a hundred and something quid on feeding the face of Mr Bernard, do you?’

  There was another longish pause, during which I imagined Claude in considerable suspense, and then our Head of Chambers spoke again. ‘Tricia Benbow?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is that the one with the long blonde hair and rings?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘And your wife knew nothing of this?’

  ‘And must never know!’ For some reason not clear to me, Claude seemed to think he’d won his case, for he now sounded grateful. ‘Thank you, Ballard. Thanks awfully, Sam. I can count on you to keep my name out of this. I’ll do the same for you, old boy. Any day of the week.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary.’ Ballard’s tone was not encouraging, although Claude said, ‘No? Well, thanks, anyway.’

  ‘It will be necessary, however, for you to give evidence for the prosecution.’ Soapy Sam Ballard pronounced sentence and Claude yelped, ‘Have a heart, Sam!’

  ‘Don’t you “Sam” me.’ Ballard was clearly in a mood to notice the decline of civilization as we know it. ‘It’s all part of the same thing, isn’t it? Sharp practice over the nail-brush. Failure to assist the authorities in an important prosecution. You’d better prepare yourself for Court, Erskine-Brown. And to be cross-examined by Rumpole for the defence. Do your duty! And take the consequences.’

  A moment later I saw Ballard leaving for home and his wife, Marguerite, who, you will remember, once held the position of matron at the Old Bailey. No doubt he would chatter to her of nail-brushes and barristers unwilling to tell the whole truth. I carried my bottle of plonk round to Claude’s stall in order to console the fellow.

  ‘So,’ I said, ‘you lost your case.’

  ‘What a bastard!’ I have never seen Claude so pale.

  ‘You made a big mistake, old darling. It’s no good appealing to the warm humanity of a fellow who believes in chaining up nail-brushes.’

  So the intrusive mouse continued to play havoc with the passions of a number of people, and I prepared myself for its day in Court. I told Mr Bernard to instruct Ferdinand Isaac Gerald Newton, known in the trade as ‘Fig’ Newton, a lugubrious scarecrow of a man who is, without doubt, our most effective private investigator, to keep a watchful eye on the staff of La Maison. And then I decided to call in at the establishment on my way home one evening, not only to get a few more facts from my client but because I was becoming bored with Pommeroy’s ham sandwiches.

  Before I left Chambers an event occurred which caused me deep satisfaction. I made for the downstairs lavatory, and although the door was open, I found it occupied by Uncle Tom who was busily engaged at the basin washing his collection of golf balls and scrubbing each one to a gleaming whiteness with a nail-brush. He had been putting each one, when cleaned, into a biscuit tin and as I entered he dropped the nail-brush in also.

  ‘Uncle Tom!’ – I recognized the article at once – ‘that’s the Chambers nail-brush! Soapy Sam’s having kittens about it.’

  ‘Oh, dear. Is it, really? I must have taken it without remembering. I’ll leave it on the basin.’

  But I persuaded him to let me have it for safe keeping, saying I longed to see Ballard’s little face light up with joy when it was restored to him.

  When I arrived at La Maison the disputes seemed to have become a great deal more dramatic than even in Equity Court. The place was not yet open for dinner, but I was let in as the restaurant’s legal adviser and I heard raised voices and sounds of a struggle from the kitchen. Pushing the door open, I found Jean-Pierre in the act of forcibly removing a knife from the hands of Ian, the sous chef, at whom an excited Alphonse Pascal, his lock of black hair falling into his eyes, was shouting abuse in French. My arrival created a diversion in which both men calmed down and Jean-Pierre passed judgement on them. ‘Bloody lunatics!’ he said. ‘Haven’t they done this place enough harm already? They have to start slaughtering each other. Behave yourselves. Soyez sages! And what can I do for you, Mr Rumpole?’

  ‘Perhaps we could have a little chat,’ I suggested as the tumult died down. ‘I thought I’d call in. My wife’s away, you see, and I haven’t done much about dinner.’

  ‘Then what would you l
ike?’

  ‘Oh, anything. Just a snack.’

  ‘Some pâté, perhaps? And a bottle of champagne?’ I thought he’d never ask.

  When we were seated at a table in a corner of the empty restaurant, the patron told me more about the quarrel. ‘They were fighting again over Mary Skelton.’

  I looked across at the desk, where the unmemorable girl was getting out her calculator and preparing for her evening’s work. ‘She doesn’t look the type, exactly,’ I suggested.

  ‘Perhaps,’ Jean-Pierre speculated, ‘she has a warm heart? My wife Simone looks the type, but she’s got a heart like an ice cube.’

  ‘Your wife. The vengeful woman?’ I remembered what Mr Bernard had told me.

  ‘Why should she be vengeful to me, Mr Rumpole? When I’m a particularly tolerant and easy-going type of individual?’

  At which point a couple of middle-aged Americans, who had strayed in off the street, appeared at the door of the restaurant and asked Jean-Pierre if he were serving dinner. ‘At 6.30? No! And we don’t do teas, either.’ He shouted across at them, in a momentary return to his old ways, ‘Cretins!’

  ‘Of course,’ I told him, ‘you’re a very parfait, gentle cook.’

  ‘A great artist needs admiration. He needs almost incessant praise.’

  ‘And with Simone,’ I suggested, ‘the admiration flowed like cement?’

  ‘You’ve got it. Had some experience of wives, have you?’

  ‘You might say, a lifetime’s experience. Do you mind?’ I poured myself another glass of unwonted champagne.

  ‘No, no, of course. And your wife doesn’t understand you?’

  ‘Oh, I’m afraid she does. That’s the worrying thing about it. She blames me for being a “character”.’

  ‘They’d blame you for anything. Come to divorce, has it?’

  ‘Not quite reached your stage, Mr O’Higgins.’ I looked round the restaurant. ‘So, I suppose you have to keep these tables full to pay Simone her alimony.’

  ‘Not exactly. You see she’ll own half La Maison.’ That hadn’t been entirely clear to me and I asked him to explain.

  ‘When we started off, I was a young man. All I wanted to do was to get up early, go to Smithfield and Billingsgate, feel the lobsters and smell the fresh scallops, create new dishes and dream of sauces. Simone was the one with the business sense. Well, she’s French, so she insisted on us getting married in France.’

  ‘Was that wrong?’

  ‘Oh, no. It was absolutely right, for Simone. Because they have a damned thing there called “community of property”. I had to agree to give her half of everything if we ever broke up. You know about the law, of course.’

  ‘Well, not everything about it.’ Community of property, I must confess, came as news to me. ‘I always found knowing the law a bit of a handicap for a barrister.’

  ‘Simone knew all about it. She had her beady eye on the future.’ He emptied his glass and then looked at me pleadingly. ‘You’re going to get us out of this little trouble, aren’t you, Mr Rumpole? This affair of the mouse?’

  ‘Oh, the mouse!’ I did my best to reassure him. ‘The mouse seems to be the least of your worries.’

  Soon Jean-Pierre had to go back to his kitchen. On his way, he stopped at the cash desk and said something to the girl, Mary. She looked up at him with, I thought, unqualified adoration. He patted her arm and went back to his sauces, having reassured her, I suppose, about the quarrel that had been going on in her honour.

  I did justice to the rest of the champagne and pâté de foie and started off for home. In the restaurant entrance hall I saw the lady who minded the cloaks take a suitcase from Gaston Leblanc, who had just arrived out of breath and wearing a mackintosh. Although large, the suitcase seemed very light and he asked her to look after it.

  Several evenings later I was lying on my couch in the living room of the mansion flat, a small cigar between my fingers and a glass of Château Fleet Street on the floor beside me. I was in vacant or in pensive mood as I heard a ring at the front doorbell. I started up, afraid that the delights of haute cuisine had palled for Hilda, and then I remembered that She would undoubtedly have come armed with a latchkey. I approached the front door, puzzled at the sound of young and excited voices without, combined with loud music. I got the door open and found myself face to face with Liz Probert, Dave Inchcape and five or six other junior hacks, all wearing sweatshirts with a picture of a wig and YOUNG RADICAL LAWYERS written on them. Dianne was also there in trousers and a glittery top, escorted by my clerk Henry, wearing jeans and doing his best to appear young and swinging. The party was carrying various bottles and an article we know well down the Bailey (because it so often appears in lists of stolen property) as a ghetto blaster. It was from this contraption that the loud music emerged.

  ‘It’s a surprise party!’ Mizz Liz Probert announced with considerable pride. ‘We’ve come to cheer you up in your great loneliness.’

  Nothing I could say would stem the well-meaning invasion. Within minutes the staid precincts of Froxbury mansions were transformed into the sort of disco which is patronized by under-thirties on a package to the Costa del Sol. Bizarre drinks, such as rum and blackcurrant juice or advocaat and lemonade, were being mixed in what remained of our tumblers, supplemented by toothmugs from the bathroom. Scarves dimmed the lights, the ghetto blaster blasted ceaselessly and dancers gyrated in a self-absorbed manner, apparently oblivious of each other. Only Henry and Dianne, practising a more old-fashioned ritual, clung together, almost motionless, and carried on a lively conversation with me as I stood on the outskirts of the revelry, drinking the best of the wine they had brought and trying to look tolerantly convivial.

  ‘We heard as how Mrs Rumpole has done a bunk, sir.’ Dianne looked sympathetic, to which Henry added sourly, ‘Some people have all the luck!’

  ‘Why? Where’s your wife tonight, Henry?’ I asked my clerk. The cross he has to bear is that his spouse has pursued an ambitious career in local government so that, whereas she is now the Mayor of Bexleyheath, he is officially her Mayoress.

  ‘My wife’s at a dinner of South London mayors in the Mansion House, Mr Rumpole. No consorts allowed, thank God!’ Henry told me.

  ‘Which is why we’re both on the loose tonight. Makes you feel young again, doesn’t it, Mr Rumpole?’ Dianne asked me as she danced minimally.

  ‘Well, not particularly young, as a matter of fact.’ The music yawned between me and my guests as an unbridgeable generation gap. And then one of the more intense of the young lady radicals approached me, as a senior member of the Bar, to ask what the hell the Lord Chief Justice knew about being pregnant and on probation at the moment your boyfriend’s arrested for dope. ‘Very little, I should imagine,’ I had to tell her, and then, as the telephone was bleating pathetically beneath the din, I excused myself and moved to answer it. As I went, a Y.R.L. sweatshirt whirled past me; Liz, dancing energetically, had pulled it off and was gyrating in what appeared to be an ancient string-vest and a pair of jeans.

  ‘Rumpole!’ The voice of She Who Must Be Obeyed called to me, no doubt from the banks of Duddon. ‘What on earth’s going on there?’

  ‘Oh, Hilda. Is it you?’

  ‘Of course it’s me.’

  ‘Having a good time, are you? And did Cousin Everard enjoy his sliver of whatever it was?’

  ‘Rumpole. What’s that incredible noise?’

  ‘Noise? Is there a noise? Oh, yes. I think I do hear music. Well …’ Here I improvised, as I thought brilliantly. ‘It’s a play, that’s what it is, a play on television. It’s all about young people, hopping about in a curious fashion.’

  ‘Don’t talk rubbish!’ Hilda, as you may guess, sounded far from convinced. ‘You know you never watch plays on television.’

  ‘Not usually, I grant you,’ I admitted. ‘But what else have I got to do when my wife has left me?’

  Much later, it seemed a lifetime later, when the party was over, I settled down to read t
he latest addition to my brief in the O’Higgins case. It was a report from Fig Newton, who had been keeping observation on the workers at La Maison. One afternoon he followed Gaston Leblanc, who left his home in Ruislip with a large suitcase, with which he travelled to a smart address at Egerton Crescent in Knightsbridge. This house, which had a bunch of brightly coloured balloons tied to its front door, Fig kept under surveillance for some time. A number of small children arrived, escorted by nannies, and were let in by a manservant. Later, when all the children had been received, Fig, wrapped in his Burberry with his collar turned up against the rain, was able to move so he got a clear view into the sitting room.

  What he saw interested me greatly. The children were seated on the floor watching breathlessly as Gaston Leblanc, station waiter and part-time conjuror, dressed in a black robe ornamented with stars, entertained them by slowly extricating a live and kicking rabbit from a top hat.

  For the trial of Jean-Pierre O’Higgins we drew the short straw in the shape of an Old Bailey judge aptly named Gerald Graves. Judge Graves and I have never exactly hit it off. He is a pale, long-faced, unsmiling fellow who probably lives on a diet of organic bran and carrot juice. He heard Ballard open the proceedings against La Maison with a pained expression, and looked at me over his half-glasses as though I were a saucepan that hadn’t been washed up properly. He was the last person in the world to laugh a case out of Court and I would have to manage that trick without him.

  Soapy Sam Ballard began by describing the minor blemishes in the restaurant’s kitchen. ‘In this highly expensive, allegedly three-star establishment, the Environmental Health Officer discovered cracked tiles, open waste-bins and gravy stains on the ceiling.’

  ‘The ceiling, Mr Ballard?’ The Judge repeated in sepulchral tones.

  ‘Alas, yes, my Lord. The ceiling.’

  ‘Probably rather a tall cook,’ I suggested, and was rewarded with a freezing look from the Bench.

  ‘And there was a complete absence of nail-brushes in the kitchen handbasins.’ Ballard touched on a subject dear to his heart. ‘But wait, members of the jury, until you get to the—’ ‘Main course?’ I suggested in another ill-received whisper and Ballard surged on ‘—the very heart of this most serious case. On the night of May the 18th, a common house mouse was served up at a customer’s dinner table.’