Of course I should have remembered Miss Trant’s letter giving me the low-down on our new ‘radical’ barrister. I don’t know how it was that it slipped my memory, and I was tactless enough to say, ‘You’re new in the clerk’s room, aren’t you, Ken? I hope Henry hasn’t been caught with his ringers in the coffee money. Oh, by the way, I’m Horace Rumpole.’
‘I’m not a clerk!’ For an egalitarian barrister with no side Cracknell seemed immoderately outraged. ‘I’m a member of the Bar. I was a squatter.’
‘Well, I hope you’re not going to squat in here.’ I looked round my old room, fearful of an invasion of my privacy.
‘I was a squatter until they knew you were retiring for good,’ Cracknell told me. ‘Then they gave me a place in Chambers. Your place, Rumpole. I share this room with Owen Glendour-Owen.’
‘They gave you my place?’ I couldn’t believe it. ‘Who gave you my place?’
‘The Head of Chambers. It’s a squeeze in here for two. We certainly couldn’t manage a third.’
‘Guthrie Featherstone, Q.c, M.P., gave you my place!’ I knew then how Julius Caesar felt when he saw his learned friend Brutus whip out the knife.
‘With the full support of a Chambers meeting,’ Cracknell added, bringing in the full cast of conspirators. ‘That’s my brief you’re covering with your cigar ash. R. v. Simpson. It’s a murder.’
‘A case where, I gather from Miss Phillida Trant, you are a little out of your depth? I came over to see if I couldn’t help out a little, on the question of blood.’
‘Thank you.’ Cracknell didn’t sound particularly grateful. ‘It’s my first murder, and I intend to cope with it on my own.’
They were brave words, as even I had to recognize. I moved to young Cracknell and gave him an encouraging clap on the shoulder, at which he flinched visibly. ‘That’s the spirit, Ken! That’s the spirit in which I took on the Penge Bungalow Murder. Of course, in that case I’d also worked out my own line of defence. What’s yours?’
When I put the question, he looked at me with continued and blank hostility. The truth of the matter, of course, was that he hadn’t worked out a defence at all. I didn’t mean to take immediate advantage of this weakness.
‘We’ll talk about it in the morning, shall we?’ I said. ‘Two heads are always better than one.’ Then I picked up one of the magazines devoted to elderly schoolgirls. ‘Oh, I’d be obliged if you’d keep your private reading matter at home. I get some rather sensitive criminals in here for conferences. Safe-blowers are great supporters of Mrs Whitehouse. I must try not to shock them.’
‘That’s not my private reading matter!’ Cracknell appeared to be making an effort to speak and suppressing considerable rage. ‘Those are exhibits in an obscene publications case I’ve got up in the north of England. Grimble Crown Court, as it so happens.’
I put on my hat to leave him then, but I didn’t go before I had congratulated him on an excellent start at the Bar. ‘Obscenity. Murder. You’re leading an exciting life, aren’t you, Ken? For one so young.’ I moved to the door and smiled. ‘I’ll speak to our Head of Chambers about you in the morning. See if he can’t fix up a little annexe for you somewhere.’ And before young Cracknell could explode I was off to savour the pleasures of a solitary evening at Froxbury Mansions, many miles away from She Who Must Be Obeyed.
The next morning, when I presented myself in the clerk’s room, my appearance produced what I can only describe as a stunned and embarrassed silence. It was not until I had gone upstairs to announce the glad news of my return to our learned Head of Chambers, Guthrie Featherstone, Q.c, M.P., that Henry recovered himself sufficiently to speak to the assembled company of Miss Trant, Ken Cracknell, Dianne and Uncle Tom.
‘I can’t believe it!’ Henry sounded, according to Miss Trant, as though he’d just witnessed some sort of rising from the dead.
‘If he’s back already, I don’t know why he ever left.’ Dianne made her puzzled contribution.
‘He left because he lost ten cases in a row before Judge Bull-ingham. He got terribly depressed about it,’ Miss Trant explained to them. ‘Oh dear. I only wrote him a letter.’ She looked round at their solemn faces and added, as a cheerful afterthought, ‘Probably just a visit. He won’t be staying long.’
‘I gave you good warning.’ Uncle Tom nodded wisely. ‘He’ll always be bobbing back like a bloody opera singer, making his “positively last appearance”.’
‘Mr Featherstone wants to see him. He’ll sort it out, I’m sure.’ Henry shelved the problem of Rumpole and then leafed through his diary to check on the future plans of the rest of his stable of hacks and thoroughbreds. He asked Cracknell how long he gave the long firm fraud he was starting that morning, working in double harness with Miss Phillida Trant.
‘At least four weeks,’ Cracknell said with satisfaction, and Miss Trant nodded; she was also thinking of the fine pile of refreshers.
Henry shook his head doubtfully. ‘I’m afraid it’s going to clash with your obscenity up north,’ he said. ‘We’ll have to return the brief. And then there’s the murder coming up.’
‘You’ll be getting awfully rich for a radical barrister.’ Miss Trant smiled at Cracknell in a proud and almost proprietorial way.
‘I can’t leave the fraud, Henry.’ Ken Cracknell was clear where his duty lay. ‘So I may have to give up the dirty books. Come on, Phillida. Time we got down to the Bailey.’
As the growing friendship between Phillida and Ken led them down Fleet Street together, towards the shining dome of the Edwardian Palais de Justice and the joint defence of a couple of over-optimistic second-hand car salesmen, I was closeted with our Head of Chambers who rose, on my arrival, with the air of a somewhat more heroic Macbeth who is forcing himself to invite Banquo’s ghost to take a seat, and would he care for a cigarette.
‘Horace! My dear old Horace. How good of you to look us up while you’re in England. We’ve all missed you terribly. As everyone says, “Chambers just isn’t Chambers without old Horace Rumpole.”’
Is that what they say?’ Personally I had some doubts about it.
‘And you look so well!’ Featherstone went on, I thought over-eagerly. ‘So remarkably well! I’ve never seen you looking better. Hilda enjoying it out there, is she? I’m sure she is.’
‘She Who Must Be Obeyed is perfectly contented. She was never particularly interested in blood.’ I sat down and lit a small cigar, apparently to Featherstbne’s disappointment.
‘I’m not quite with you, Horace?’
‘I’ve had quite enough of compassionate leave, Featherstone. I’ve decided to come back and fight it out down the Old Bailey.’
‘Horace,’ Featherstone gulped like a man fighting for breath. ‘Is that really wise? You were getting dreadfully tired, as I remember.’
I blew out smoke and gave him a sample of Ben Jonson’s ‘Farewell to the World’.
‘Nor for my peace will I go far,
As wanderers do, that still do roam;
But make my strengths, such as they are,
Here in my bosom, and at home.’
I wandered to the window and looked out at the green grass, the last damp autumn roses and the familiar grey clouds. ‘This is my home, Featherstone. These Chambers have been my home for over forty years. And, as you so eloquently put it, “Chambers just isn’t Chambers without old Horace Rumpole.”‘
‘Rumpole…’ Featherstone, to my annoyance, was doing his best to interrupt my flow.
‘I’m glad you said that, Featherstone! Up to now I haven’t noticed the red carpet, or the cut flowers on my desk with the compliments of the management. When I put my nose into the clerk’s room this morning, they failed to uncork the Moet and Chandon. The champagne was flowing like cement!’
‘Well. The fact is…” Feather tried to sound confidential. ‘You see, Rumpole, your coming back would rather rock the boat of Chambers.’
I wasn’t sure I liked the drift of his argument. ‘It would?’ I
said. ‘What do you mean, it would? I am back!’
Featherstone cleared his throat, I’m glad to say in some embarrassment. ‘Since your departure we’ve taken on two new members. We reckoned you were worth at least two other barristers, so we’ve put two in your room. Glendour-Owen has joined us from Cardiff, and young Ken Crack-nell…’
‘I’ve met Cracknell,’ I assured him. ‘He’s got himself a nice little murder. I might just be able to help him.’
‘Ken’s got your room, Rumpole.’ Featherstone was becoming more determined, no doubt in desperation.
‘My room? Oh yes, I saw him hanging about in my room. Quite welcome, I’m sure. Provided he doesn’t litter the place with licentious comics.’
Featherstone went over to the defensive. ‘Well, how were we to know you were coming back? It’s a fait accompli. We’ve given Ken a seat. And Glendour-Owen, who has a huge practice in motor insurance. “Knock-for-Knock” Owen they call him on the Welsh circuit. We’ve promised them both seats.’
‘Can’t you find them seats in some convenient passage?’ I didn’t see the difficulty.
‘We’ve promised them a room.’ Featherstone looked pained.
‘Then rent some more accommodation. Think big, Featherstone! Expand!’
‘We can’t afford that, Horace.’ Now he looked particularly gloomy. ‘We’ve all got to cut back, reduce our cash flow. England’s in for four hard years.’
‘Is there no mitigation?’ Featherstone said nothing and I gave him a long, accusing look, which I was pleased to see made him squirm visibly. Then I spoke more in sorrow than in anger. ‘Are you trying to tell me, Featherstone, in your devious and political kind of way, that there is no room for Rumpole at the Inn?’
‘I’m afraid, Horace, that is exactly it!’ Featherstone’s gloom was impenetrable.
I took a long pause and then said cheerfully, ‘I know exactly what I shall do.’
‘Go back to Florida?’ The good Guthrie seemed to see a glimpse of light at the end of the tunnel. ‘Of course you should. I’m sure we all envy you the sunshine, and wish you many long and happy years in your retirement.’
But I interrupted him in a way that clearly dashed his fragile hopes. ‘Go back to Florida? Certainly not. I’m going to give up being an orange.’ I moved to the door, and then turned back to smile at Featherstone. ‘I shall squat.’
Chapter Eight
It was all very well. I had made my position clear. I was a squatter, and I intended to squat; but as I contemplated empty days ahead, stuck with the Times crossword and always in the way, I have to confess that the first fine burst of excitement which had sent me winging over the Atlantic on the Gaelic contraption began to dry to a mere dribble. How foolish should I begin to feel after three weeks of squatting with no work; and should I finally be forced back to the Sunshine State, and She Who Must Be Obeyed, with my tail between my legs? There was nothing I could do about it, of course, except to push open the door of the clerk’s room and make it clear that Rumpole was himself again, and available for contested breathalysers. I comforted myself once more with Ben Jonson.
‘But what we are born for we must bear:
Our frail condition it is such
That what to all may happen here,
If’t chance to me, I must not grutch.
Else I my state should much mistake
To harbour a divided thought
From all my kind: that for my sake
There should a miracle be wrought.’
And then a miracle, of a sort, happened. As I pushed open the door of the clerk’s room, Henry was on the telephone, and as I loitered, lighting a small cigar, I distinctly heard him say, ‘Is that Grimble 43021? Austin, Swink and Pardoner? Oh, could I speak to Mr Handyside please?’
Henry was on the phone to Albert Handyside. Albert had been my old clerk, but had left us after what I felt to be a quite unnecessary inquiry into his management -of the petty cash by that infernal busybody Claude Erskine-Brown. Albert had then crossed the Great Divide and gone to work as a solicitor’s clerk in a grey and wind-blasted town called Grimble, in the north of England. It was from his firm there that Albert had sent me that unusual little murder in which I had defended the leading lady of the Grimble Rep. with a result which was certainly in her interest, if not in the interest of justice; and I knew that, all else being equal, Albert Handyside might have a leading part to play in the resurrection of Rumpole’s practice.
‘Oh, Albert.’ Henry had got through to his great predecessor whom he was addressing in a somewhat patronizing manner. ‘This is Henry. Yes, old boy, Henry. Mr Cracknell’s clerk. It’s about our obscenity up north, in your neck of the woods. I’m afraid Mr Cracknell’s tied up at the Old Bailey for the next two weeks. Miss Trant’s in the case with him. Mr Glendour-Owen? He’s doing a long rape in Swansea. I’m terribly sorry I can’t oblige you. There just isn’t anyone in Chambers.’
No one in Chambers! I can only suppose that Henry wasn’t aware of the familiar figure standing behind him, smoking a small cigar and ready to fulfil any mission however daring or distant, even in the Grimble Crown Court.
‘Henry,’ I said loudly, and when he didn’t move increased the decibels with, ‘A moment of your valuable time, Henry.’
‘Yes, Mr Rumpole. What is it?’ Henry said testily as he covered the mouthpiece with his hand. ‘I’m just on the telephone.’
‘On the telephone to old Albert Handyside? Who used to be my head clerk when you didn’t know Bloomsbury County Court from London Sessions,’ I reminded him. ‘Put him through to me, will you, Henry. I’d be glad of a word or two with old Albert. I’ll be upstairs,’ and I made for the door so that I could speak in private to my old clerk.
‘You’ll be in Mr Cracknell’s room?’ Henry asked, and I put him right, quite firmly.
‘No, Henry. I’ll be in my room.’
‘Mr Rumpole! Good to hear your voice, sir. I thought you’d retired.’
‘Good to hear your voice, Albert. Retired? No. Whatever gave you that idea? I just popped over to the States, you know. My wife’s gone out there to be with young Nick and his family. But I’m back now, foot-loose, fancy-free and ready for any crime you care to mention.’
‘Well, Mr Rumpole. I don’t know…’
‘And I’m delighted,’ I cut him off before he could become even more doubtful, ‘really delighted we’re doing this little obscenity case together in the north of England. Have a bit of fun. Quite like old times, eh, Albert?’
‘You’re doing it, Mr Rumpole?’ Albert sounded puzzled, and not quite as overjoyed as I’d anticipated.
‘Oh yes. Didn’t Henry tell you? I expect it slipped his mind. You see, there’s no one else to do it. Ken Cracknell’s so terribly busy these days.’
‘Perhaps I’d better have a word with your clerk again, sir. I’d be glad to have you up here again.’
‘Yes, of course. I’ll put you back to Henry. I’m snowed under with work, of course, quite snowed under.’ I looked round at the briefs marked Glendour-Owen and K. Cracknell, not one bearing the welcome name of Rumpole. ‘But I’ll manage to squeeze your little obscenity in. Look forward to it. Give my love to Grimble.’
I then jiggled the instrument and when I heard Henry’s distracted voice I told him that Albert Handyside wanted a word with him, and that it was all quite like old times. Then I replaced the receiver and relaxed with a sense of something accomplished, something done.
As I sat back in my old chair (creaking, swivelling and leaking stuffing), I glanced across at that magnet which had drawn me across the Atlantic, the brief in R. v. Simpson, the Notting Hill Gate underground stabbing, labelled, by some oversight of fate, Mr K. Cracknell. I heaved myself to my feet, went over to it and slid off the tape.
The first thing I saw was a coloured photostat of the sheet of paper with the letters said to have been scrawled in the victim’s blood. The blood itself would no doubt provide infinite opportunities for speculation and debate, an
d it was the problem of the blood on which I had first been consulted by Miss Phillida Trant. What interested me now was the message. It was the first time I had read it; it was short but somewhat obscure, scrawled but possible to read, and it ran: SUNLIGHT TO CHILDREN OF SUN, BLOOD TO CHILDREN OF DARK.
Well now I realized why fate and Gaelic Airlines and Miss Trant’s letter had all combined to bring me winging back to England. I was the only member of Chambers with a chance of helping the unfortunate Simpson. I had the knowledge, and I must be careful how I handled it in acquiring my next Notable British Trial.
‘Isn’t that Cracknell’s brief?’
I turned to find the room inhabited by a small, smiling, grey-haired Celt in a black jacket and pinstripes.
You must be Glendour-Owen by the sound of you, I speculated as the intruder put his briefcase down on my desk and started to pollute the area with a number of briefs in trumpery running-down cases. I decided to avoid any immediate confrontation.
‘Well, of course you’re welcome, Glendour-Jones.’
‘Owen.’
‘Well, of course you’re welcome, Owen. Any time. If you can find yourself a corner. Be a bit of a squash, I’m afraid, until we get things sorted out.’
‘Rumpole…’ The Welsh wizard of the car insurance racket seemed about to protest, but he was interrupted by a knock and the entrance of Henry carrying a brief. It was in the Grimble Crown Court, entitled R. v. Meacher, and on it I was satisfied to see that the name ‘CracknelF had been struck out and ‘Rum-pole’ substituted.
‘It seems Mr Handyside wants to instruct you in this obscenity, sir,’ said Henry, with no particular enthusiasm. ‘Mr Cracknell being in a difficulty.’
‘Does he really?’ I thought it best to affect complete surprise.
‘Oh well, I’ll do my best to fit it in. I don’t mind doing returned briefs, just until things get going again, Henry.’ At which point I reached out and grabbed the brief firmly before there was any chance of Henry changing his mind.
The First Rumpole Omnibus Page 47
