Forever Rumpole

by John Mortimer

  ‘Why not? They tell me he has the best lines.’

  ‘Defending devil-worshippers, in a children’s case! That’s really not on, is it, Rumpole?’

  ‘I really can’t think of anyone I wouldn’t defend. That’s what I believe in. I was just on my way to Pommeroy’s. Mizz Liz, old thing, will you join me in a stiffener?’

  ‘I don’t really think we should be seen drinking together, not now I’m appearing for the local authority.’

  ‘For the local authority, of course!’ I gave her a respectful bow on leaving. ‘A great power in the land! Even if they do rather interfere with the joy of living.’

  No sooner had I got to Pommeroy’s Wine Bar and chalked up the first glass of Jack Pommeroy’s Very Ordinary when Claude Erskine-Brown of our chambers came into view in a state of considerable excitement about the new typist. ‘An enormous asset, don’t you think? Dot will bring a flood of spring sunshine into our clerk’s room.’

  ‘Dot?’ I was puzzled. ‘What are you babbling about?’

  ‘Her name’s Dot, Rumpole. She told me that. I said it was a beautiful name.’

  I didn’t need to tell the fellow he was making a complete ass of himself; this was a fact too obvious to mention.

  ‘I’ve told her she must come to me if she has any problems workwise.’ Claude is, of course, married to Phillida Erskine-Brown, QC, the attractive and highly competent Portia of our chambers. Perhaps it’s because he has to play second fiddle to this powerful advocate that Claude is forever on the lookout for alternative company, a pursuit which brings little but embarrassment to himself and those around him. I saw nothing but trouble arising from the appearance of this Dot upon the Erskine-Brown horizon, but now the fellow completely changed the subject and said, ‘You know Charlie Wisbeach?’

  ‘I’ve never heard of him.’

  ‘Wisbeach, Bottomley, Perkins & Harris.’ Erskine-Brown spoke in an awestruck whisper as though repeating a magic formula.

  ‘Good God! Are they all here?’

  ‘I rather think Claude’s talking about my dad’s firm.’ This came from a plumpish but fairly personable young man who was in the offing, holding a bottle of champagne and a glass, which he now refilled and also gave a shower of bubbles to Erskine-Brown.

  ‘Just the best firm in the City, Rumpole. Quality work. And Charlie here’s come to the Bar. He wants a seat in chambers.’ Erskine-Brown sounded remarkably keen on the idea, no doubt hoping for work from the firm of Wisbeach, Bottomley, Perkins & Harris.

  ‘Oh, yes?’ I sniffed danger. ‘And where would he like it? There might be an inch or two available in the downstairs loo. Didn’t we decide we were full up at the last chambers meeting?’

  ‘I say, you must be old Rumpole!’ Young Wisbeach was looking at me as though I were some extinct species still on show in the Natural History Museum.

  ‘I’m afraid I’ve got very little choice in the matter,’ I had to admit.

  ‘You’re not still practising, are you?’ Charlie Wisbeach had the gall to ask.

  ‘Not really. I suppose I’ve learnt how to do it by now.’

  ‘Oh, but Claude Erskine-Brown told me you’d soon be retiring.’

  ‘Did you, Claude? Did you tell young Charlie that?’ I turned upon the treacherous Erskine-Brown the searchlight eyes and spoke in the pained tones of the born cross-examiner.

  ‘Well, no. Not exactly, Rumpole.’ The man fumbled for words. ‘Well, of course, I just assumed you’d be retiring sometime.’

  ‘Don’t count on it, Erskine-Brown. Don’t you ever count on it!’

  ‘And Claude told me that when you retired, old chap, there might be a bit of space in your chambers.’ The usurper Wisbeach apparently found the situation amusing. ‘A pretty enormous space is what I think he said. Didn’t you, Claude?’

  ‘Well no, Charlie. No … Not quite.’ Erskine-Brown’s embarrassment proved his guilt.

  ‘It sounds like an extremely humorous conversation.’ I gave them both the look contemptuous.

  ‘Charlie has a pretty impressive CV, Rumpole.’ Erskine-Brown tried to change the subject as his new-found friend gave him another slurp.

  ‘See what?’

  ‘Curriculum vitae. Eton …’

  ‘Oh. Good at that as well, is he? I thought it was mainly drinkin’.’

  ‘Claude’s probably referring to the old school.’ Wisbeach could not, of course, grasp the Rumpole joke.

  ‘Oh, Eton! Well, I’ve no doubt you’ll rise above the handicaps of a deprived childhood. In somebody else’s chambers.’

  ‘As a matter of fact Claude showed me your room.’ Wisbeach gave the damning evidence. ‘Very attractive accommodation.’

  ‘You did what, Claude?’

  ‘Charlie and I … Well, we … called in to see you. But you were doing that long arson in Snaresbrook.’

  ‘Historic spot, your room!’ Wisbeach told me as though I’d never seen the place before. ‘Fine views over the churchyard. Don’t you look straight down at Dr Johnson’s tomb?’

  ‘It’s Oliver Goldsmith’s, as it so happens.’ Eton seemed to have done little for the man’s store of essential knowledge.

  ‘No, Johnson’s!’ You can’t tell an old Etonian anything.

  ‘Goldsmith,’ I repeated, with the last of my patience.

  ‘Want to bet?’

  ‘Not particularly.’

  ‘Your old room needs a good deal of decorating, of course. And some decent furniture. But the idea is, we might share. While you’re still practising, Rumpole.’

  ‘That’s not an idea. It’s a bad dream.’ I directed my rejection of the offer at Erskine-Brown, who started up a babble of ‘Rumpole! Think of the work that Wisbeach could send us!’

  ‘And I would like to let it be known that I still have work of my own to do, and I do it best alone. As a free spirit! Wrongs are still to be righted.’ Here I drained my plonk to the dregs and stood up, umbrella in hand. ‘Mr Justice Graves is still putting the boot in. Chief Inspector Brush is still referring to his unreliable notebook. And an eight-year-old Timson has been banged up against her will, not in Eton College like you, Master Charlie, but in the tender care of the Crockthorpe local authority. The child is suspected of devil-worship. Can you believe it? An offence which I thought went out with the burning of witches.’

  ‘Is that your case, Rumpole?’ Erskine-Brown looked deeply interested.

  ‘Indeed, yes. And I have a formidable opponent. None other than Mizz Liz Probert, with the full might of the local authority behind her. So, while there are such challenges to be overcome, let me tell you, Claude, and you, Charlie Whatsit, Rumpole shall never sheath the sword. Never!’

  So I left the bar with my umbrella held aloft like the weapon of a crusader, and the effect of this exit was only slightly marred by my colliding with a couple of trainee solicitors who were blocking the fairway. As I apologized and lowered the umbrella I could distinctly hear the appalling Wisbeach say, ‘Funny old buffer!’

  In all my long experience down the Bailey and in lesser courts I have not known a villain as slithery and treacherous as Claude Erskine-Brown proved on that occasion. As soon as he could liberate himself from the cuckoo he intended to place in my nest, he dashed up to Equity Court in search of our head of chambers, Samuel Ballard, QC. Henry, who was working late on long-delayed fee notes, told him that Soapy Sam was at a service with his peer group, the Lawyers As Christians Society, in Temple Church. Undeterred, Claude set off to disturb the holy and devoutly religious Soapy at prayer. It was, he told a mystified Henry as he departed, just the place to communicate the news he had in mind.

  I am accustomed to mix with all sorts of dubious characters in pursuit of evidence and, when I bought a glass of Pommeroy’s for an LAC (member of the Lawyers As Christians Society), I received an astonishing account of Claude’s entry into evensong. Pushing his way down the pew he arrived beside our head of chambers, who had risen to his feet to an organ accompaniment and was about to give v
ent to a hymn. Attending worshippers were able to hear dialogue along the following lines.

  ‘Erskine-Brown. Have you joined us?’ Ballard was surprised.

  ‘Of course I’ve joined LACS. Subscription’s in the post. But I had to tell you about Rumpole, as a matter of urgency.’

  ‘Please, Erskine-Brown. This is no place to be talking about such matters as Rumpole.’

  ‘Devil-worshippers. Rumpole’s in with devil-worshippers,’ Claude said in a voice calculated to make our leader’s flesh creep.

  However, at this moment, the hymn-singing began and Ballard burst out with:

  ‘God moves in a mysterious way

  His wonders to perform;

  He plants his footsteps in the sea,

  And rides upon the storm.’

  Betraying a certain talent for improvisation, my informant told me that he distinctly heard Claude Erskine-Brown join in with:

  ‘Rumpole in his mischievous way

  Has taken on a case

  About some devil-worshippers.

  He’s had them in your place!

  Your chambers, I mean.’

  At which point Ballard apparently turned and looked at the conniving Claude with deep and horrified concern.

  It was a time when everyone seemed intent on investigating the alleged satanic cult. Mirabelle Jones continued to make films for showing before the Juvenile Court and this time she interviewed Tracy Timson in a room, also equipped with a camera and recording apparatus, in the children’s home.

  Mirabelle arrived, equipped with dolls, not glamorous pin-up girls, but a somewhat drab and unsexy family consisting of a Mum and Dad, Grandpa and Grandma, who looked like solemn New England farmworkers. Tracy was ordered to play with this group, and when, without any real interest in the matter, she managed to get Grandpa lying on top of Mum, Miss Jones sucked in her breath and made a note which she underlined heavily.

  Later, Tracy was shown a book in which there was a picture of a devil with a forked tail, who looked like an opera singer about to undertake Mephistopheles in Faust. The questioning, as recorded in the transcript, then went along these lines.

  ‘You know who he is, don’t you, Tracy?’ Mirabelle was being particularly compassionate as she asked this.

  ‘No.’

  ‘He’s the devil. You know about devils, don’t you?’ And she added, still smiling, ‘You put on a devil’s mask at school, didn’t you, Tracy?’

  ‘I might have done.’ Tracy made an admission.

  ‘So what do you think of the devil, then?’

  ‘He looks funny.’ Tracy was smiling, which I thought, in all the circumstances, was remarkably brave of her.

  ‘Funny?’

  ‘He’s got a tail. The tail’s funny.’

  ‘Who first told you about the devil, Tracy?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ the child answered, but the persistent inquisitor was not to be put off so easily.

  ‘Oh, you must know. Did you hear about the devil at home? Was that it? Did Dad tell you about the devil?’

  Tracy shook her head. Mirabelle Jones sighed and tried again. ‘Does that picture of the devil remind you of anyone, Tracy?’ Still getting no answer, Mirabelle resorted to a leading question, as was her way in these interviews. ‘Do you think it looks like your dad at all?’

  In search of an answer to Miss Jones’s unanswered question, I summoned Cary and Roz to my presence once again. When they arrived, escorted by the faithful Bernard, I put the matter as bluntly as I knew how. At the mention of evil, Tracy’s mother merely looked puzzled. ‘The devil? Tracy don’t know nothing about the devil.’

  ‘Of course not!’ Cary’s denial was immediate. ‘It’s not as if we went to church, Mr Rumpole.’

  ‘You’ve never heard of such a suggestion before?’ I looked hard at Tracy’s father. ‘The devil. Satan. Beelzebub. Are you saying the Timson family knows nothing of such matters?’

  ‘Nothing at all, Mr Rumpole.’

  ‘When they came that morning …’

  ‘When they came to get our Tracy?’ Roz’s eyes filled with tears as she relived the moment.

  ‘Yes. When they came for that. What did you think was going on exactly?’ I asked Cary the question.

  ‘I thought they come about that shop that got done over, Wedges, down Gunston Avenue. They’ve had me down the nick time and time again about it.’

  ‘And it wasn’t you?’

  ‘Straight up, Mr Rumpole. Would I deceive you?’

  ‘It has been known, but I’ll believe you. Do you know who did it?’ I asked Cary.

  ‘No, Mr Rumpole. No, I won’t grass. That I won’t do. I’ve had enough trouble being accused of grassing on Gareth Molloy when he was sent down for the Tobler Road supermarket job.’

  ‘The Timsons and the Molloys are deadly enemies. How could you know what they were up to?’

  ‘My mate Barry Peacock was driving for them on that occasion. They thought I knew something and grassed to Chief Inspector Brush. Would I do a thing like that?’

  ‘No, I don’t suppose you would. So you thought the Old Bill were just there about ordinary, legitimate crime. You had no worries about Tracy?’

  ‘She’s a good girl, Mr Rumpole. Always has been,’ Roz was quick to remind me.

  ‘Always cheerful, isn’t she, Roz?’ Her husband added to the evidence of character. ‘I enjoys her company.’

  ‘So where the devil do these ideas come from? Sorry, perhaps I shouldn’t’ve said that … You know Dominic Molloy told the social worker you taught a lot of children satanic rituals.’

  ‘You ever believed a Molloy, have you, Mr Rumpole, in court or out of it?’ Cary Timson had a good point there, but I rather doubted if I could convince the Juvenile Court of the wisdom learnt at the Old Bailey.

  When our conference was over I showed my visitors out and I thought I saw, peering from a slightly open doorway at the end of the corridor, the face of Erskine-Brown, as horrified and intent as a passerby who suddenly notices that, on the other side of the street, a witches’ coven is holding its annual beano. The door shut as soon as I clocked him and Claude vanished within. Twenty minutes later I received a visit from Soapy Sam Ballard, QC, our so-called head of chambers. I don’t believe that these events were unconnected. As soon as he got in, Ballard sniffed the air as though detecting the scent of brimstone and said, ‘You’ve had them in here, Rumpole?’

  ‘Had who in here, Bollard?’

  ‘Those who owe allegiance to the Evil One.’

  ‘You mean the Mr Justice Graves fan club? No. They haven’t been near the place.’

  ‘Rumpole! You know perfectly well who I mean.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Of course.’ I decided to humour the fellow. ‘They were all here. Lucifer, Beelzebub, Belial. All present and correct.

  ‘High on a throne of royal state, which far

  Outshone the wealth of Ormus and of Ind,

  Or where the gorgeous East with richest hand

  Showers on her kings barbaric pearl and gold,

  Satan exalted sat, by merit raised

  To that bad eminence; and from despair

  Thus high uplifted beyond hope.

  ‘Grow up, Bollard! I am representing an eight-year-old child who’s been torn from the bosom of her family and banged up without trial. You see here Rumpole, the protector of the innocent.’

  ‘The protector of devil-worshippers!’ Ballard said.

  ‘Those too. If necessary.’ I sat down at the desk and picked up the papers in a somewhat tedious affray.

  ‘Rumpole. Every decent chambers has to draw the line somewhere.’

  ‘Does it?’

  ‘There are certain cases, certain clients even, which are simply, well, not acceptable.’

  ‘Oh, I do agree.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I agree entirely.’

  ‘Well, then. I’m glad to hear it.’ Soapy Sam looked as gratified as a cleric hearing a deathbed confession from a lifelong hea
then.

  ‘Didn’t I catch sight of you prosecuting an accountant for unpaid VAT?’ I asked the puzzled QC. ‘Some cases are simply unacceptable. Far too dull to be touched by a decent barrister with a bargepole. Don’t you agree, old darling?’

  ‘Rumpole, there’s something I meant to raise with you.’ The saintly Sam was growing distinctly ratty.

  ‘Then buck up and raise it, I’m busy.’ I returned to the affray.

  ‘Young Charlie Wisbeach wants to come into these chambers. He’d bring us a great deal of high-class, commercial work from his father’s firm. Unfortunately we have no room for him at the moment.’

  ‘Has he thought of a cardboard box in Middle Temple Lane?’ I thought this a helpful suggestion; Bollard didn’t agree.

  ‘This is neither the time nor the place for one of your jokes, Rumpole. You have a tenancy here and tenancies can be brought to an end. Especially if the tenant in question is carrying on a practice not in the best traditions of 3 Equity Court. There is something in this room which makes me feel uneasy.’

  ‘Oh, I do so agree. Perhaps you’ll be leaving shortly.’

  ‘I’m giving you fair warning, Rumpole. I expect you to think it over.’ At which our leader made for the door and I called after him, ‘Oh, before you go, Bollard, why don’t you look up “exorcism” in the Yellow Pages? I believe there’s an unfrocked bishop in Stepney who’ll quote you a very reasonable price. And if you call again, don’t forget the holy water!’

  But the man had gone and I was left alone to wonder exactly what devilment Cary Timson had been up to.

  I have, or at a proper moment I will have, a confession to make. At this time I was presenting She Who Must Be Obeyed with a mystery which she no doubt found baffling, although I’m afraid a probable solution presented itself to her mind far too soon. I had reason to telephone a Miss Tatiana Fern and, not wishing to do so with Hilda’s knowledge, and as the lady in question left her house early, I called when I thought She was still asleep. I now suspect Hilda was listening in on the bedroom extension, although she lay motionless and with her eyes closed when I came back to bed. Later I discovered that when Hilda went off to shop in Harrods she spotted me coming out of Knightsbridge tube station, a place far removed from the Temple and the Old Bailey, and sleuthed me to a house in Mowbray Crescent which she saw me enter when the front door was opened by the aforesaid Tatiana Fern. So it came about that She met Marigold, Mr Justice Featherstone’s outspoken wife, and together they formed the opinion that Rumpole was up to no good whatsoever.