The First Rumpole Omnibus

by John Mortimer

  ‘The other clerks were discussing your hat, sir. Over coffee.’

  ‘My God! They must be hard up for conversation, to fill in a couple of hours round the ABC.’

  ‘And they were passing the comment, it’s a subject of a good many jokes in the Temple.’

  ‘Well, it’s seen some service.’ I took the offending article and looked at it. ‘And it shows it.’

  ‘Quite frankly, Mr Rumpole, I can’t send you down the Bailey, not on a top-class murder, in a hat like it.’

  ‘You mean the jury might get a peep at the titfer, and convict without leaving the box?’ I couldn’t believe my ears.

  ‘Mr Featherstone wears a nice bowler, Mr Rumpole.’

  ‘I am not leading counsel, Henry,’ I told him firmly. ‘I am not the Conservative-Labour M.P. for somewhere or other, and I don’t like nice bowlers. Our old clerk Albert managed to live with this hat for a good many years.’

  ‘There’s been some changes made since Albert’s time, Mr Rumpole.’

  Henry had laid himself open, and I’m afraid I made the unworthy comment.

  ‘Oh, yes! I got some decent briefs in Albert’s time. The “Penge Bungalow Murder”, the Brighton forgery. I wasn’t put out to grass in the Uxbridge Magistrates Court.’

  The chairs in my room in Chambers have become a little wobbly over the years and my first thought was that the two large men sitting on them might be in some danger of collapse. They both wore blue suits made of some lightweight material, and both had gold wrist watches and identity bracelets dangling at their wrists. They had diamond rings, pink faces and brushed back black hair. Leslie Delgardo was the eldest and most affable, his brother Basil had an almost permanent look of discontent and his voice easily became querulous. In attendance, balanced on my insecure furniture, were ‘Shady’ Nooks, a silver haired and suntanned person who also sported a large gold wristwatch, and his articled clerk, Miss Stebbings, a nice-looking girl fresh from law school, who had clearly no idea what area of the law she had got into.

  I lit a small cigar, looked round the assembled company, and said, ‘Our client is not with us, of course.’

  ‘Hardly, Mr Rumpole,’ said Nooks. ‘Mr Peter Delgardo has been moved to the prison hospital.’

  ‘He’s never been a well boy, our Petey.’ Leslie Delgardo sounded sorrowful.

  ‘Our client’s health has always been an anxiety to his brothers,’ Nooks explained.

  ‘I see.’ I hastily consulted the brief. ‘The victim of the murder was a gentleman called Tosher MacBride. Know anything about him?’

  ‘I believe he was a rent collector.’ Nooks sounded vague.

  ‘Not a bad start. The jury’ll be against murder but if someone has to go it may as well be the rent collector.’ I flipped through the depositions until I got to the place where I felt most at home, the forensic report on the blood.

  ‘Bloodstains on your brother’s sleeve.’

  ‘Group consistent with ten per cent of the population,’ said Nooks.

  ‘Including Tosher MacBride? And Exhibit i, a sheath knife. Mr MacBride’s blood on that, or, of course, ten per cent of the population. Knife found in your brother’s ancient Daimler. Fallen down by the driver’s seat. Bloodstains on his coat sleeve? Bloodstained sheath knife in his car?’

  ‘I know it looks black for young Peter.’ Leslie shook his head sadly.

  I looked up at him sharply. ‘Let’s say it’s evidence, Mr Del-gardo, on which the prosecution might expect to get a conviction, unless the judge has just joined the Fulham Road Anarchists - or the jury’s drunk.’

  ‘You’ll pull it off for Petey.’ It was the first time Basil Delgardo had spoken and his words showed, I thought, a touching faith in Rumpole.

  ‘Pull it off? I shall sit behind my learned leader. I presume you’re going to Guthrie Featherstone, Q.c, in these Chambers?’

  Then Nooks uttered words which were, I must confess, music to my ears.

  ‘Well, actually, Mr Rumpole. On this one. No.’

  ‘Mr Rumpole. My brothers and I, we’ve heard of your wonderful reputation,’ said Basil.

  ‘I did the “Penge Bungalow Murder” without a leader,’ I admitted. ‘But that was thirty years ago. They let me loose on that.’

  ‘We’ve heard golden opinions of you, Mr Rumpole. Golden opinions!’ Leslie Delgardo made an expansive gesture, rattling his identity bracelet. I got up and looked out of the window.

  ‘No one mentioned the hat?’

  ‘Pardon me?’ Leslie sounded puzzled, and Nooks added his voice to the vote of confidence. ‘Mr Delgardo’s brothers are perfectly satisfied, Mr Rumpole, to leave this one entirely to you.’

  ‘Now is the Winter of my Discontent, Made Glorious Summer by a first-class murder.’ I turned back to the group, apologetic. ‘I’m sorry, gentlemen. Insensitive, I’m afraid. All these months round the Uxbridge Magistrates Court have blunted my sensitivity. To your brother it can hardly seem such a sign of summer.’

  ‘We’re perfectly confident, Mr Rumpole, you can handle it.’ Basil lit a cigarette with a gold lighter and I went back to the desk.

  ‘Handle it? Of course I can handle it. As I always say, murder is nothing more than common assault, with unfortunate consequences.’

  ‘We’ll arrange it for you to see the doctor.’ Nooks was businesslike.

  ‘I’m perfectly well, thank you.’

  ‘Doctor Lewis Bleen,’ said Leslie, and Nooks explained patiently, ‘The well-known psychiatrist. On the subject of Mr Peter Delgardo’s mental capacity.’

  ‘Poor Petey. He’s never been right, Mr Rumpole. We’ve always had to look after him,’ Leslie explained his responsibilities, as head of the family.

  ‘You could call him Peter Pan,’ Basil made an unexpected literary reference. ‘The little boy that never grew up.’

  I doubted the accuracy of this analogy. ‘I don’t know whether Peter Pan was actually responsible for many stabbings down Stepney High Street.’

  ‘But that’s it, Mr Rumpole!’ Leslie shook his head sadly. ‘Peter’s not responsible, you see. Not poor old Petey. No more responsible than a child.’

  Doctor Lewis Bleen, Diploma of Psychological Medicine from the University of Edinburgh, Head-Shrinker Extraordinaire, Resident Guru of ‘What’s Bugging You’ answers to listeners’ problems, had one of those accents which remind you of the tinkle of cups and the thud of dropped scones in Edinburgh tearooms. He sat and sucked his pipe in the interview room at Brixton and looked in a motherly fashion at the youngest of the Delgardos who was slumped in front of us, staring moodily at nothing in particular.

  ‘Remember me, do you?’

  ‘Doctor B… Bleen.’ Petey had his brothers’ features, but the sharpness of their eyes was blurred in his, his big hands were folded in his lap and he wore a perpetual puzzled frown. He also spoke with a stammer. His answer hadn’t pleased the good doctor, who tried again.

  ‘Do you know the time, Petey?’

  ‘N… N… No.’

  ‘Disorientated… as to time!’ Better pleased, the doctor made a note.

  ‘That might just be because he’s not wearing a watch,’ I was unkind enough to suggest.

  The doctor ignored me. ‘Where are you, Peter?’

  ‘In the n… n…’

  ‘Nick?’ I suggested.

  ‘Hospital wing.’ Peter confirmed my suggestion.

  ‘Orientated as to place!’ was my diagnosis. Doctor Bleen gave me a sour look, as though I’d just spat out the shortcake.

  ‘Possibly.’ He turned back to our patient. ‘When we last met, Peter, you told me you couldn’t remember how MacBride got stabbed.’

  ‘N… No.’

  ‘There appears to be a complete blotting out of all the facts,’ the doctor announced with quiet satisfaction.

  ‘Mightn’t it be worth asking him whether he was there when Tosher got stabbed?’ I was bold enough to ask, at which Nooks chipped in.

  ‘Mr Rumpole. As a solicitor of so
me little experience, may I interject here?’

  ‘If you have to.’ I sighed and fished for a small cigar.

  ‘Doctor Bleen will correct me if I’m wrong but, as I understand, he’s prepared to give evidence that at the relevant moment…’

  ‘So far I have no idea when the relevant moment was.’ I lit the cigar, Nooks carried on regardless.

  ‘Mr Delgardo’s mind was so affected that he didn’t know the nature and quality of his act, nor did he know that what he was doing was wrong.’

  ‘You mean he thought he was giving Tosher a warm handshake, and welcome to the Rent Collectors’ Union?’

  ‘That’s not exactly how I suggest we put it to the learned judge.’ Nooks smiled at me as though at a wayward child.

  ‘Then how do you suggest we tell it to the old sweetheart?’

  ‘Guilty but insane, Mr Rumpole. We rather anticipated your advice would be that, guilty but insane in law.’

  ‘And have you anticipated what the prosecution might say?’

  ‘Peter has been examined by a Doctor Stotter from the Home Office. I don’t think you’ll find him unhelpful,’ said Doctor Bleen. ‘Charles Stotter and I play golf together. We’ve had a word about this case.’

  ‘Rum things you get up to playing golf. It always struck me as a good game to avoid.’ I turned and drew Peter Delgardo into the conversation. ‘Well, Peter. You’ll want to be getting back to the telly.’

  Peter stood up. I was surprised by his height and his apparent strength, a big pale man in an old dressing gown and pyjamas.

  ‘Just one question before you go. Did you stab Tosher Mac-Bride?’

  The doctor smiled at me tolerantly. ‘Oh I don’t think the answer to that will be particularly reliable.’

  ‘Even the question may strike you as unreliable, doctor. All the same, I’m asking it.’ I moved closer to Peter. ‘Because if you did, Peter, we can call the good shrink here, and Doctor Stotter fresh from the golf course, and they’ll let you off lightly! You’ll go to Broadmoor at Her Majesty’s Pleasure, and of course Her Majesty will be thinking of you constantly. You’ll get a lot more telly, and some exciting basket-weaving, and a handful of pills every night to keep you quiet, Petey, and if you’re very good they might let you weed the doctors’ garden or play cricket against the second eleven of male warders… but I can’t offer you these delights until I know. Did you stab Tosher?’

  ‘I think my patient’s tired.’

  I turned on the trick cyclist at last, and said, ‘He’s not your patient at the moment. He’s my client.’

  ‘Doctor Bleen has joined us at great personal inconvenience.’ Nooks was distressed.

  ‘Then I wouldn’t dream of detaining him a moment longer.’ At which point Doctor Lewis Bleen d.p.m. (Edinburgh) left in what might mildly be described as a huff. When he’d been seen off the premises by a helpful trusty, I repeated my question.

  ‘Did you do it, Peter?’

  ‘I c… c… c…’ The answer, whatever it was, was a long time in coming. .

  Nooks supplied a word. ‘Killed him?’ but Peter shook his head.

  ‘Couldn’t of. He was already c… cut. When I saw him, like.’

  ‘You see, I can’t let you get sent to hospital unless you did it,’ I explained as though to a child. ‘If you didn’t, well… just have to fight the case.’

  ‘I wants you to f… f… fight it. I’m not going into any nut house.’ Peter Delgardo’s instructions were perfectly clear.

  ‘And if we fight we might very well lose. You understand that?’

  ‘My b… b… brothers have told me… You’re hot stuff, they told me… Tip top I… awyer.’

  Once again I was puzzled by the height of my reputation with the Delgardos. But I wasn’t going to argue. ‘Tip top? Really? Well, let’s say I’ve got to know a trick or two, over the years… a few wrinkles… Sit down, Peter.’

  Peter sat down slowly, and I sat opposite him, ignoring the restive Nooks and his articled clerk.

  ‘Now, hadn’t you better tell me exactly what happened, the night Tosher MacBride got stabbed?’

  I was working overtime a few days later when my door opened and in walked no less a person than Guthrie Featherstone, Q.C,M.P., our Head of Chambers. My relations with Featherstone, ever since he pipped me at the post for the position of Head, have always been somewhat uneasy, and were not exactly improved when I seized command of the ship when he was leading me in the matter of the ‘Dartford Post Office Robbery’. We have little enough in common. Featherstone, as Henry pointed out, wears a nice bowler and a black velvet collar on his overcoat; his nails are well manicured, his voice is carefully controlled, as are his politics. He gets on very well with judges and solicitors and not so well with the criminal clientele. He has never been less than polite to me, even at my most mutinous moments, and now he smiled with considerable bonhomie.

  ‘Rumpole! You’re a late bird!’

  ‘Just trying to feather my nest. With a rather juicy little murder.’

  Featherstone dropped into my tattered leather armchair, reserved for clients, and carefully examined his well-polished black brogues.

  ‘Maurice Nooks told me, he’s not taking in a leader.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I know the last time I led you wasn’t succès fou.’

  ‘I’m a bit of a back seat driver, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Of course, you’re an old hand at crime,’ Featherstone conceded.

  ‘An old lag you might say.’

  ‘But it’s a question of tactics in this case. Maurice said, if I appeared, it might look as if they’d rather over-egged the pudding.’

  ‘You think the jury might prefer – a bit of good plain cooking?’ I looked at him and he smiled delightfully.

  ‘You put things rather well, sometimes.’

  There was a pause, and then the learned leader got down to what was, I suppose, the nub and the purpose of his visit.

  ‘Horace. I’m anxious to put an end to any sort of rift between the two senior men in Chambers. It doesn’t make for a happy ship.’

  ‘Aye aye sir.’ I gave him a brief nautical salute from my position at the desk.

  ‘I’m glad you agree. Sérieusement, Horace, we don’t see enough of each other socially.’ He paused again, but I could find nothing to say. ‘I’ve got a couple of tickets for the Scales of Justice ball at the Savoy. Would you join me and Marigold?’

  To say I was taken aback would be an understatement. I was astonished. ‘Let’s get this quite clear, Featherstone.’

  ‘Oh “Guthrie”, please,’

  ‘Very well Guthrie. You’re asking me to trip the light fantastic toe… with your wife?’

  ‘And if you’d like to bring your good lady.’

  I looked at Featherstone in total amazement. ‘My…’

  ‘Your missus.’

  ‘Are you referring, at all, to my wife? She Who Must Be Obeyed? Do I take it you actually want to spend an evening out with She!’

  ‘It’ll be great fun.’

  ‘Do you really think so?’ He had lost me now. I went to the door and unhooked the mac and the old hat, preparatory to calling it a day. However, Featherstone had some urgent matter to communicate, apparently of an embarrassing nature.

  ‘Oh, and Horace… this is rather embarrassing. It’s just that… It’s well… your name came up on the bench at our Inn only last week. I was lunching with Mr Justice Prestcold.’

  ‘That must have been a jolly occasion,’ I told him. ‘Like dinner with the Macbeths.’ I knew Mr Justice Prestcold of old, and he and I had never hit it off, or seen eye to eye. In fact you might say there was always a cold wind blowing in court between counsel and the bench whenever Rumpole rose to his feet before Prestcold J. He could be guaranteed to ruin my cross-examination, interrupt my speech, fail to sum up the defence and send any Rumpole client down for a hefty six if he could find the slightest excuse for it. Prestcold was an extraordinarily clean man, hi
s cuffs and bands were whiter than white, he was forever polishing his rimless glasses on a succession of snowy handkerchiefs. They say, and God knows what truth there is in it, that Prestcold travels on circuit with a portable loo seat wrapped in plastic. His clerk has the unenviable job of seeing that it is screwed in at the lodgings, so his Lordship may not sit where less fastidious judges have sat before.

  ‘He was asking who we had in Chambers and I was able to tell him Horace Rumpole, inter alia.’

  ‘I can’t imagine Frank Prestcold eating. I suppose he might just be brought to sniff the bouquet of a grated carrot.’

  ‘And he said, “You mean the fellow with the disgraceful hat?’ ”

  ‘Mr Justice Prestcold was talking about my hat?’ I couldn’t believe my ears.

  ‘He seemed to think, forgive me for raising this, that your hat set the worst possible example to younger men at the Bar.’

  With enormous self-control I kept my temper. ‘Well, you can tell Mr Justice Prestcold – the next time you’re sharing the Benchers’ Vegetarian Platter… That when I was last before him I took strong exception to his cuff links. They looked to me just as cheap and glassy as his eyes!’

  ‘Don’t take offence, Horace. It’s just not worth it, you know, taking offence at Her Majesty’s judges. We’ll look forward to the Savoy. Best to your good lady.’

  I crammed on the hat, gave him a farewell wave and left him. I felt, that evening, that I was falling out of love with the law. I really couldn’t believe that Mr Justice Prestcold had been discussing my hat. I mean, wasn’t the crime rate rising? Wasn’t the State encroaching on our liberties? Wasn’t Magna Carta tottering? Whither Habeus Corpus? What was to be done about the number of 12-year-old girls who are making advances to old men in cinemas? What I thought was, hadn’t judges of England got enough on their plates without worrying about my hat! I gave the matter mature consideration on my way home on the Inner Circle, and decided that they probably hadn’t.