The First Rumpole Omnibus

by John Mortimer

  Meanwhile Mr Bernard the solicitor, who shared with me the honour of being permanent legal adviser to the Timsons, had dropped in on Noreen in answer to her almost hysterical calls, a hysteria brought about by the supernatural quality of the manifestation in the garage rather than by the everyday occurrence of Uncle Percy being taken down to the nick.

  ‘Percy’s got too old for it, Mr Bernard!’ she told him, over a nice cup of tea from the rescued Georgian silver pot. ‘The whole family told him. He’s got too old altogether. He ought to retire. Fancy keeping Jesus in his lock-up garage. He’s getting that careless!’

  ‘Not sufficiently careless, let’s hope Mrs Timson, to give D.I. Broome his autograph.’ At which point Bernard managed to get hold of the Detective Inspector on the phone. The answers he got were only to be expected. Mr Broome was unable to say where Percy Timson was being held incommunicado. All he could say was that he was not prepared to let Percy see, or speak to, or have any dealings with a lawyer for the reason, which seemed good to the D.I., that if Percy were guilty he’d only be stopped confessing, and if he were innocent why did he need a lawyer anyway?

  Having satisfactorily disposed of the legal profession Broome returned to where Percy was sitting being fed tea and biscuits by D.C. Wood (playing the sympathetic role) and briskly informed him that his wife Noreen was in the cells below, about to be charged with conspiracy to receive Jesus, unless Percy at once supplied his autograph. The fact that this statement was an outrageous lie was merely one of the sacrifices the eager Inspector was prepared to make in his devoted pursuit of law and order.

  ‘Tell me,’ Broome speculated. ‘Just how long is it since your old woman saw the inside of Holloway? We want a statement signed in your own words, Percy.’ What were his own words, exactly? Constable Wood read out the composition on which he had been working.

  ‘I received the religious art-work in my garage, well knowing it to be stolen by a person whose name I am not prepared to divulge.’

  ‘Which of them was it, Percy? Which of the Timson family was it, exactly?’ Broome asked.

  ‘I am not prepared to divulge.’ Although prepared to do almost anything to save Noreen, Percy was not, by nature, a grass, any more than he was a signer of confessions.

  ‘No doubt on the advice of his bloody lawyer,’ Broome commented.

  ‘I was intending to dispose of this picture at the earliest opportunity,’ Wood read on, and Percy interrupted.

  ‘Like when I went up the King’s Elm Saturday and met a few of my contacts, I want that in.’

  ‘Like when I went up the King’s Elm Saturday and met a few of my contacts.’ Wood read on obediently, and then the document, calculated to stop the boldest, bentest barrister dead in his tracks, was put before Uncle Percy for signature. So, when the brief arrived at my Chambers, I was faced with a clearly signed confession of guilt plus an inexplicable picture of Jesus in the garage. Apart from that little difficulty, the defence seemed moderately plain sailing.

  As I walked down to the Temple tube station some weeks later, on my way home to Casa Rumpole, I saw a large figure flitting like some bloated white moth through the twilight along the Embankment. It was Julius Kramer, jogging in a track-suit.

  ‘Professor Kramer!’ I called out, hoping for news of my son Nick in Baltimore. Nick and I were extremely close when he was a young lad, in fact we formed some sort of unholy alliance against the constant attacks made by She Who Must Be Obeyed on our peace and privacy. Nick would stop her growing restive if I called in at Pommeroy’s for a glass of Chateau Fleet Street on my way home, and I would do my best to frustrate her attempts to send Nick to the hairdresser or the dentist, or to other unwelcome destinations. We used to enjoy a good walk across Hampstead Heath, during which I would play ‘Holmes’ and Nick ‘Watson’, and we would search for clues. Since Nick married an American girl (a young lady who indulged herself on an extremely dangerous diet of organic vegetation and iced water) and since he took up his lectureship in Sociology, I had seen little of Nick, and to be perfectly frank, I missed his company and that instant rapport it seemed to me that we had when he was about ten years of age.

  ‘Professor Kramer!’ I called again; but my voice was lost in the shadows, the cry of the seagulls and the roar of the traffic, and the large man trundled out of view.

  When I got home I was amazed to find that She Who Must Be Obeyed not only smiled at me in a way which was clearly meant to be welcoming. She sat me down in front of the glowing plastic coal of our electric fire, pushed a footstool towards my legs and actually poured me a generous G and T.

  ‘Are you tired, dear?’ She asked, solicitously.

  ‘Are you feeling quite well, Hilda?’ I was puzzled enough to ask.

  ‘A day in Court is so hard for man of your age. Daddy always said it was such physical labour, standing up in Court.’

  ‘Perhaps that’s why your Daddy always sat down so remarkably quickly, particularly if anyone raised the subject of bloodstains. He couldn’t stand the mention of blood, your Daddy.’

  ‘Look at the danger to your health, Rumpole,’ Hilda continued, unperturbed.

  ‘I know. It’s like bloody mountaineering. You take your life in your hands in the law. There’s always the risk of falling down the last two steps of the Gents in Pommeroy’s Wine Bar.’

  ‘Anyway, Rumpole. You won’t want to die in harness. You know poor old Daddy died in harness.’

  ‘Really? I thought he died in the Tonbridge Hospital.’

  At which point she produced a bag full of fluffy white knitting-wool and the room was filled with the unusual click of needles.

  ‘Rumpole. You must take things seriously,’ warned the gloomy tricoteuse. ‘You don’t want to drop dead in Court.’

  I supposed she was right. I didn’t fancy the idea of pegging out in the unconcerned presence of Mr Justice Vosper. Harness may be all right, but dying in a wig! To introduce a less depressing topic I asked She what garment she was constructing. Was it, perhaps, bedsocks?

  ‘It’s for Mrs Erskine-Brown’s baby. Your Miss Phillida Trant as was. That nice girl in your Chambers. She’ll have to give up the Bar, now she’s got the baby.’

  ‘Birth and death. They silence us all in the end. What are you knitting for it? A dust sheet?’

  ‘No. A matinee jacket. Oh, I forgot. There’s a letter for you.’ ‘Will the baby go to many matinees?’ I asked, and didn’t get a laugh. Instead She handed me the letter which announced that it came ‘From the desk of Prof Julius Kramer, of Baltimore University,’ and continued, ‘Dear Mr Rumpole. Your name has long been known to us as a legal luminary. We would wish to invite you, and of course your good lady, to visit us on campus during the autumn semester and deliver a series of lectures on the alienation factor in the psychological aspects of owner deprivation…’ ‘What does that mean, Rumpole?’ ‘Owner deprivation? Presumably nicking things.’ ‘It’s from Baltimore University,’ Hilda reminded me, quite unnecessarily, ‘Nick’s University. What a coincidence!’

  There was a further coincidence. Later that evening the phone rang and my son Nick’s voice came to me, not frozen by the Atlantic breakers, but clear as a bell. He was flying over to England, it seemed on University business, and he would stay with us. I was, of course, delighted; it was going to be like the old days when he came up for half-term and visited the Old Bailey to listen to one of my murders (always so much more suitable, I thought, than the cinema). He could come and watch my performance in Court and I could give him lunch. Life was distinctly improving.

  The prosecution of Uncle Percy Timson was in the hands of that recent father and married man, Claude Erskine-Brown. As we gathered outside Court Number 2 in the Old Bailey my heart sank. Once again the wheel of fortune had spun and turned up a disaster for the gambler Rumpole. The case was to be tried by Mr Justice Vosper.

  As I stood reeling under this blow Erskine-Brown came bust- ling up and showed me the photograph of a somewhat elderly- looking baby. In fa
ct it looked even older than I felt.

  ‘It’s an extraordinarily talented baby. For its age,’ Erskine- Brown boasted. ‘It has an amazingly powerful grip!’

  ‘That will be for hanging on to its mother’s tail as they spring from bough to bough,’ I said, forgetting at the moment that the mother was one of my learned friends. Erskine-Brown put away the photograph reluctantly.

  ‘I think it has a remarkably intelligent look. I can’t get Philly to see it.’

  ‘Quite remarkable. Any day now it should be picking up a few briefs in the Chancery Division,’ I assured him.

  ‘Rumpole. You’re not being serious!’

  ‘Perfectly serious! With an expression like that we might find it a place on the Circuit Bench. I shouldn’t be at all surprised.’

  Erskine-Brown looked at a bench-load of stolid well-fed and dishonest citizens, the Timson family, who had come to lend comfort and support to their Uncle Percy. I recognized Noreen and such old clients as Fred, Dennis, Cyril and Fred’s wife, Vi Timson. The men were smartly dressed in blazers and flannels; the women had elaborate perms.

  ‘Are those all your witnesses?’ Erskine-Brown asked as the clan Timson gave me warm smiles of encouragement.

  ‘Oh no. My client’s family. They’re the sort to breed from, the Timsons. Their activities have kept me in work for years.’

  ‘This isn’t a fight, is it?’ Erskine-Brown asked as we moved into Court.

  ‘Oh, my dear Erskine-Brown. Claude! Shall we say… just a little skirmish?’

  ‘But the picture was in your garage. And you signed a confession!’

  ‘That means I start with a considerable handicap. Which is probably fair, considering the difference in our form.’ I told him that with an optimism I hardly felt. Erskine-Brown looked disappointed.

  ‘I was hoping for a quick plea. You see, I rather like to get back in time for the afternoon feed.’

  ‘Really? You indulge in a high-tea, Erskine-Brown?’

  ‘Oh no. Not my feed. The baby’s!’

  Among the prosecution witnesses Erskine-Brown called a Mr Rowland, a man with a bald, skull-like head, who was, it seemed, an art expert.

  ‘I would say that work is quite priceless,’ Rowland told Erskine-Brown, pointing to the picture in the well of the Court.

  ‘But if you had to name a figure…’

  ‘How can you put a price on beauty?’ The death’s head appealed to the allegedly learned judge.

  ‘It has been done in the past, Mr Rowland, by some quite well-known ladies.’ Oh dear, we were all most amused by his Lordship’s little jokes. There was obedient laughter in Court.

  ‘Shall we say, a quarter of a million?’ Mr Rowland dropped his bombshell, turning poor old Uncle Percy, the small-time fence, into a major criminal. ‘Pounds not dollars.’ Uncle Percy looked about to faint dead away, and the rest of the Timsons were still whistling under their breath as I rose to cross-examine.

  ‘Mr Rowland. You say this is an undoubted painting by Taddeo di Bartolo…” I waved in a casual manner at Our Lord, who had been made Exhibit One, ‘nicknamed “II Zoppo”, the lame one.’ I gave him back his learning. ‘A Siennese master of the fourteenth century?’

  ‘The Quattrocento.’

  ‘The Quattrocento. I’m obliged. And it is a good example of the master’s work?’

  ‘I would say an excellent example,’ Mr Rowland gave me what might have been a smile had it appeared on a living face.

  ‘II Zoppo. “The lame one.” Is he a painter well known to the general public?’ I asked politely.

  ‘He is extremely well known to connoisseurs.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure he is. I just wondered, if his work was instantly recognizable by the crowd who get in the King’s Elm on a Saturday night?’

  ‘My Lord…’ Erskine-Brown had risen to his hind legs protesting. I ignored him.

  “Well. What’s the answer?’

  ‘I should imagine… Probably not.’

  ‘And…’ I went on at increased volume, to drown any interruption. ‘Any drinker in the saloon bar who did recognize II Zoppo’s work and wanted to buy it would have to be provided with a half a million pounds in his hip pocket to complete the transaction?’

  ‘My Lord. I really don’t know what the relevance of these questions is,’ Erskine-Brown bleated, and then sat down ex-

  hausted.

  I picked up Uncle Percy’s signed confession and looked at it with disgust. ‘The relevance, my Lord, is that in his so-called voluntary statement Mr Timson said he proposed to flog the art-work up the King’s Elm next Saturday night! Even judicial knowledge, my Lord, must encompass the fact that the King’s Elm is not Sotheby’s.’

  The judge, however, gave me a brisk return. ‘And even your extensive knowledge of crime, Mr Rumpole,’ he said, ‘must encompass the possibility that your client himself had no idea of how valuable the painting was.’

  So, with the score at fifteen-all, a small diversion was caused by Henry bringing my son Nick Rumpole into Court and finding him a seat behind me. Nick had arrived the night before and gone to bed before we had more than a couple of jars, a short chat and some coloured slides of his lovely home, his wife Erica, the swimming-pool and a number of visiting academics cooking a meal on some sort of open fire (although I assumed the house had a reasonably equipped kitchen). Nick had kept his promise to come down to the Bailey for a morning’s entertainment and a spot of lunch, and I thought as I turned to look at him, how extraordinary it was that he was so large: I always think of Nick as a solemn boy in a school blazer sitting in silent fascination in the back row of a murder. However I was resolved to give my son an entertaining day at the Bailey, and I entered with enthusiasm into the mano e mano with Detective Inspector Broome.

  I was asking the officer about the call he had from Mr Bernard, my instructing solicitor. He smiled tolerantly at the jury, as if to warn them that we were now coming to the suspect evidence of bent lawyers, and lied effectively.

  ‘Mr Bernard did not ring me,’ he said.

  ‘Mr Bernard will say that he did.’

  ‘I expect he will.’ A nudge-nudge, wink-wink at the jury.

  ‘And that he was denied access to his client.’

  ‘Does he say that?’ Broome sounded bored.

  ‘You told him that Percy Timson couldn’t see a solicitor.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Would you have allowed Percy Timson to see a solicitor, at the time this precious document was signed?’

  ‘No, I would not.’

  I turned and gave Nick a quick smile, and got his nod of approval. Then I re-attacked the witness.

  ‘So if Mr Bernard had telephoned he would have been refused access?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘No doubt you were still making your inquiries, were you not, Inspector?’ Mr Justice Vosper supplied the answer.

  ‘That is so, my Lord,’ said Broome.

  ‘Or was it because you knew that his solicitor wouldn’t have allowed him to make a statement?’ I asked, and once more the judge interposed himself between the D.I. and Rumpole’s steel.

  ‘I suppose in your experience lawyers don’t encourage loquacity in a subject,’ he said.

  ‘That is one of their disadvantages, my Lord,’ Broome agreed.

  ‘So that this elderly man, with no legal experience, was left absolutely without legal advice?’ I did my best to sound outraged, but was somewhat deflated by a dangerous thrust from the judge.

  ‘Are you putting your client forward as a man with no legal experience, Mr Rumpole?’ he asked. Well, as Percy had a good fifty years of legal experience in and out of various Courts I could not do that. I decided that it was time for Rumpole to skate off to some thicker ice.

  ‘Well, this elderly man…’

  ‘Yes. Clearly he is elderly.’ Mr Justice Vosper appeared to be enjoying himself. I picked up Percy’s admission with renewed distaste.

  ‘Can you explain, Off
icer, why Mr Percy Timson should have signed this confession, in the absence of his solicitor?’

  ‘I don’t know, Mr Rumpole. People sometimes tell the truth.’ Broome was delighted by his answer. ‘In the absence of their solicitor.’

  ‘And people sometimes want to protect their wives, don’t they, Inspector?’

  ‘I suppose they may,’ the D.I. sounded less happy.

  ‘You know my client has been married to his wife Noreen for almost thirty years?’

  ‘Are you putting your client forward as a perfect husband, Mr Rumpole?’ The judge weighed in, no doubt sensing danger.

  ‘No, my Lord. Merely as a loving husband.’ This shut his Lordship up for a moment and I turned to the witness.

  ‘Did you tell Percy Timson that you had his wife downstairs in the station?’

  ‘It’s possible. I can’t remember. I do have other cases, you know, Mr Rumpole.’ The witness answered carelessly.

  ‘Did you say she was in the station?’ I pressed him.

  ‘I may have done.’

  ‘I have here the station book.’ I lifted the ledger which the confident Broome had not bothered to read.

  ‘Have you?’

  ‘There is no record whatsoever of Mrs Noreen Timson being taken into the station on that or any other day.’

  ‘I accept that.’

  ‘Why did you lie to my client, Inspector?’

  ‘I didn’t lie to him!’ The bizarre suggestion that police officers are ever less than a hundred per cent truthful appeared to have disconcerted the witness.

  ‘Why did you tell him Noreen had been brought into the station and charged?’

  ‘I expect I said it, because I intended to do exactly that,’ Broome said, as though that explained everything.

  ‘You intended to charge her?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why did you change your mind?’