I have always found it useful, before forming a view about a case, to inspect the scene of the crime. Accordingly I visited La Maison Jean-Pierre one evening to study the ritual serving of dinner.
Mr Bernard and I stood in a corner of the kitchen at La Maison Jean-Pierre with our client. We were interested in the two waiters who had attended table eight, the site of the Erskine-Brown assignation. The senior of the two was Gaston, the station waiter, who had four tables under his command. ‘Gaston Leblanc,’ Jean-Pierre told us, as he identified the small, fat, cheerful, middle-aged man who trotted between the tables. ‘Been with me for ever. Works all the hours God gave to keep a sick wife and their kid at university. Does all sorts of other jobs in the daytime. I don’t enquire too closely. Georges Pitou, the head waiter, takes the orders, of course, and leaves a copy of the note on the table.’
We saw Georges move, in a stately fashion, into the kitchen and hand the order for table eight to a young cook in a white hat, who stuck it up on the kitchen wall with a magnet. This was Ian, the sous-chef. Jean-Pierre had ‘discovered’ him in a Scottish hotel and wanted to encourage his talent. That night the bustle in the kitchen was muted, and as I looked through the circular window into the dining-room I saw that most of the white-clothed tables were standing empty, like small icebergs in a desolate polar region. When the prosecution had been announced, there had been a headline in the Evening Standard which read GUESS WHO’S COMING TO DINNER? MOUSE SERVED IN TOP LONDON RESTAURANT and since then attendances at La Maison had dropped off sharply.
The runner between Gaston’s station and the kitchen was the commis waiter, Alphonse Pascal, a painfully thin, dark-eyed young man with a falling lock of hair who looked like the hero of some nineteenth-century French novel, interesting and doomed. ‘As a matter of fact,’ Jean-Pierre told us, ‘Alphonse is full of ambition. He’s starting at the bottom and wants to work his way up to running a hotel. Been with me for about a year.’
We watched as Ian put the two orders for table eight on the serving-table. In due course Alphonse came into the kitchen and called out, ‘Number eight!’
‘Ready, frog-face,’ Ian told him politely, and Alphonse came back with, ‘Merci, idiot.’
‘Are they friends?’ I asked my client.
‘Not really. They’re both much too fond of Mary.’
‘Mary?’
‘Mary Skelton. The English girl who makes up the bills in the restaurant.’
I looked again through the circular window and saw the unmemorable girl, her head bent over her calculator. She seemed an unlikely subject for such rivalry. I saw Alphonse pass her with a tray, carrying two domed dishes and, although he looked in her direction, she didn’t glance up from her work. Alphonse then took the dishes to the serving-table at Gaston’s station. Gaston looked under one dome to check its contents and then the plates were put on the table. Gaston mouthed an inaudible ‘Un, deux, trois!’, the domes were lifted before the diners and not a mouse stirred.
‘On the night in question,’ Bernard reminded me, ‘Gaston says in his statement that he looked under the dome on the gentleman’s plate.’
‘And saw no side order of mouse,’ I remembered.
‘Exactly! So he gave the other to Alphonse, who took it to the lady.’
‘And then … Hysterics!’
‘And then the reputation of England’s greatest maître de cuisine crumbled to dust!’ Jean-Pierre spoke as though announcing a national disaster.
‘Nonsense!’ I did my best to cheer him up. ‘You’re forgetting the reputation of Horace Rumpole.’
‘You think we’ve got a defence?’ my client asked eagerly. ‘I mean, now that you’ve looked at the kitchen?’
‘Can’t think of one for the moment,’ I admitted, ‘but I expect we’ll cook up something in the end.’
Unencouraged, Jean-Pierre looked out into the dining-room, muttered, ‘I’d better go and keep those lonely people company,’ and left us. I watched him pass the desk, where Mary looked up and smiled and I thought, however brutal he was with his customers, at least Jean-Pierre’s staff seemed to find him a tolerable employer. And then, to my surprise, I saw him approach the couple at table eight, grinning in a most ingratiating manner, and stand chatting and bowing as though they could have ordered doner kebab and chips and that would have been perfectly all right by him.
‘You know,’ I said to Mr Bernard, ‘it’s quite extraordinary, the power that can be wielded by one of the smaller rodents.’
‘You mean it’s wrecked his business?’
‘No. More amazing than that. It’s forced Jean-Pierre O’Higgins to be polite to his clientele.’
After my second visit to La Maison events began to unfold at breakneck speed. First our head of chambers, Soapy Sam Ballard, made it known to me that the brief he had accepted on behalf of the Health Authority, and of which he had boasted so flagrantly during the nail-brush incident, was in fact the prosecution of J.-P. O’Higgins for the serious crime of being in charge of a rodent-infested restaurant. Then She Who Must Be Obeyed, true to her word, packed her grip and went off on a gastronomic tour with the man from Saskatoon. I was left to enjoy a lonely high-calorie breakfast, with no fear of criticism over the matter of a fourth sausage, in the Taste-Ee-Bite Café, Fleet Street. Seated there one morning, enjoying the company of The Times crossword, I happened to overhear Mizz Liz Probert, the dedicated young radical barrister in our chambers, talking to her close friend, David Inchcape, whom she had persuaded us to take on in a somewhat devious manner – a barrister as young but, I think, at heart, a touch less radical than Mizz Liz herself.
‘You don’t really care, do you, Dave?’ she was saying.
‘Of course, I care. I care about you, Liz. Deeply.’ He reached out over their plates of muesli and cups of decaff to grasp her fingers.
‘That’s just physical.’
‘Well. Not just physical. I don’t suppose it’s just. Mainly physical, perhaps.’
‘No one cares about old people.’
‘But you’re not old people, Liz. Thank God!’
‘You see. You don’t care about them. My dad was saying there’s old people dying in tower blocks every day. Nobody knows about it for weeks, until they decompose!’
And I saw Dave release her hand and say, ‘Please, Liz. I am having my breakfast.’
‘You see! You don’t want to know. It’s just something you don’t want to hear about. It’s the same with battery hens.’
‘What’s the same about battery hens?’
‘No one wants to know. That’s all.’
‘But surely, Liz, battery hens don’t get lonely.’
‘Perhaps they do. There’s an awful lot of loneliness about.’ She looked in my direction. ‘Get off to court then, if you have to. But do think about it, Dave.’ Then she got up, crossed to my table, and asked what I was doing. I was having my breakfast, I assured her, and not doing my yoga meditation.
‘Do you always have breakfast alone, Rumpole?’ She spoke, in the tones of a deeply supportive social worker, as she sat down opposite me.
‘It’s not always possible. Much easier now, of course.’
‘Now. Why now exactly?’ She looked seriously concerned.
‘Well. Now my wife’s left me,’ I told her cheerfully.
‘Hilda!’ Mizz Probert was shocked, being a conventional girl at heart.
‘As you would say, Mizz Liz, she is no longer sharing a one-on-one relationship with me. In any meaningful way.’
‘Where does that leave you, Rumpole?’
‘Alone. To enjoy my breakfast and contemplate the crossword puzzle.’
‘Where’s Hilda gone?’
‘Oh, in search of gracious living with her cousin Everard from Saskatoon. A fellow with about as many jokes in him as the Dow Jones Average.’
‘You mean, she’s gone off with another man?’ Liz seemed unable to believe that infidelity was not confined to the young.
‘That’s about the
size of it.’
‘But, Rumpole. Why?’
‘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 YRL, 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 s
ee, and I haven’t done much about dinner.’
‘Then what would you like?’
‘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 six-thirty? 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.
Forever Rumpole Page 20
