Forever Rumpole

by John Mortimer

  ‘Mr Rumpole’ – Tracy’s dad looked round and lowered his voice – ‘you know I can’t –’

  ‘Grass? It’s the code of the Timsons, isn’t it? Well, let me tell you, Cary. There’s something even more important than your precious code.’

  ‘I don’t know it, then.’

  ‘Oh, yes, you do. You know it perfectly well. Get that wallet out, why don’t you? Look at the photographs you were so pleased to show me. Look at them, Cary!’

  Cary took out his wallet and looked obediently at the pictures of the much-loved Tracy.

  ‘Is she less important than honour among thieves?’ I asked them both. Roz looked at her husband, her jaw set and her eyes full of determination. I knew then what the answer to my question would have to be.

  The afternoon’s proceedings dragged on without any new drama, and although Cary had told me what I needed to know I hadn’t yet got his leave to use the information. The extended Timson family would have to be consulted. When the day’s work was done I took the tube back to the Temple and, with my alcohol content having sunk to a dangerous low, I went at once to Pommeroy’s for first aid.

  Then I was unfortunate enough to meet my proposed cuckoo, the old Etonian Charlie Wisbeach, who, being not entirely responsible for his actions, was administering champagne to a toothy and Sloaney girl solicitor called, if I can bring myself to remember the occasion when she instructed me in a robbery and forgot to summon the vital witness, Miss Arabella Munday. Wisbeach greeted me with a raucous cry of ‘Rumpole, old man! Glass of Bolly?’

  ‘Why? What are you celebrating?’ I did my best to sound icy; all the same I possessed myself of a glass, which he filled unsteadily.

  ‘Ballard asked me in for a chat. It seems there may be a vacancy in your chambers, Rumpole.’

  ‘Wherever Ballard is there’s always a vacancy. What do you mean exactly?’

  ‘Pity you blotted your copybook.’

  ‘My what?’

  ‘Not very clever of you, was it? Defending devil-worshippers with such a remarkably devout head of chambers. It seems I may soon be occupying your room, old man, looking down on Temple Church and Oliver Goldsmith’s tomb.’

  I looked at the slightly swaying Wisbeach for a long time and then, as I sized up the enemy, a kind of plot began to form itself in my mind. ‘Dr Johnson’s,’ I corrected the man again.

  ‘You told me it was Oliver Goldsmith’s.’

  ‘No, I told you it was Dr Johnson’s.’

  ‘Goldsmith’s.’

  ‘Johnson’s.’

  ‘You want to bet?’ Charlie Wisbeach’s face moved uncomfortably close to mine. ‘Does old roly-poly Rumpole want to put his money where his mouth is, does he?’

  ‘Ten quid says it’s Johnson.’

  ‘I’m going to give you odds.’ Charlie was clearly an experienced gambler. ‘Three to one against Johnson. Olly Goldsmith evens. Twenty to one the field. Since I’m taking over the room we’ll check on it tomorrow.’

  ‘Why not now?’ I challenged him.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Why not check on it now?’ I repeated. ‘Thirty quid in my pocket and I can take a taxi home.’

  ‘Ten quid down and you’ll walk. All right, then. Come on, Arabella. Bring the bottle, old girl.’

  As they left Pommeroy’s, I hung behind and then went to the telephone on the wall by the gents. I had seen the light in Ballard’s window when I came up from Temple station. He usually worked late, partly because he was a slow study so far as even the simplest brief was concerned and partly, I believe, because of a natural reluctance to go home to his wife, Marguerite, a trained nurse, who had once been the Old Bailey’s merciless matron. I put in a quick telephone call to Soapy Sam and advised him to look out of his window in about five minutes’ time and pay particular attention to any goings on in the Temple churchyard. Then I went to view the proceedings from a safe distance.

  What I saw, and what Sam Ballard saw from his grandstand view, was Charlie Wisbeach holding a bottle and a blonde. He gave a triumphant cry of ‘Oliver Goldsmith!’ and then mounted the tomb as though it were a hunter and, alternately swigging from the bottle and kissing Miss Arabella Munday, he laughed loudly at his triumph over Rumpole. It was a satanic sound so far as our head of chambers was concerned, and this appalling graveyard ritual convinced him that Charlie Wisbeach, who no doubt spent his spare moments reciting the Lord’s Prayer backwards, was a quite unsuitable candidate for a place in a Christian chambers such as 3 Equity Court.

  That night important events were also taking place in my client’s home in Morrison Close, Crockthorpe. Numerous Timsons were assembled in the front room, assisted by minor villains and their wives. Cary’s uncle Fred, the undisputed head of the family, was there, as was Uncle Dennis, who should long ago have retired from a life of crime to his holiday home on the Costa del Sol. I have done my best to reconstruct the debate from the account given to me by Roz. After a general family discussion and exchange of news, Uncle Fred gave his opinion of the Wedges job. ‘Bloody joke shop. I always said it was a bad idea, robbing a joke shop.’

  ‘There was always money left in the till overnight. Our info told us that. And the security was hopeless. Through the back door, like.’ Uncle Dennis explained the thinking behind the enterprise.

  ‘What you want to leave the stuff round my place for?’ Cary was naturally aggrieved because the booty had, it transpired, included a box of satanic masks to which, as they were left in her father’s garage, young Tracy had easy access. ‘You should have known how dangerous them things were, what with young kids and social workers about.’

  ‘Well, Fred’s was under constant surveillance,’ Uncle Dennis explained. ‘As was mine. And seeing as you and Roz was away on Monday …’

  ‘Oh, thank you very much!’ Cary was sarcastic.

  ‘And Den knowing where you kept your garage key …’ Uncle Fred was doing his best to protect Uncle Dennis from charges of carelessness.

  ‘Lucky the Bill never thought of looking there,’ Cary pointed out.

  ‘I meant to come back for the stuff sometime. It was a bit of a trivial matter. It slipped my memory, quite honestly.’ Uncle Dennis was notoriously forgetful, once having left his Fisherman’s Diary containing his name and address at the scene of a crime.

  ‘Well, it wasn’t no trivial matter for our Tracy.’

  ‘No, I knows, Roz. Sorry about that.’

  ‘Look, Den,’ Cary started, ‘we’re not asking you to put your hands up to Chief Inspector Brush …’

  ‘Yes, we are, Cary.’ Roz was in deadly earnest. ‘That’s just what we’re asking. You got to do it for our Tracy.’

  ‘Hang about a bit.’ Uncle Dennis looked alarmed. ‘Who says we got to?’

  And then Roz told him, ‘Mr Rumpole.’

  So the next morning Dennis Timson gave evidence in the Juvenile Court. Although I had been careful to explain his criminal record, he looked, in his comfortable tweed jacket and cavalry twill trousers, the sort of chap that might star on Gardeners’ Question Time and I could see that Madam Chair took quite a shine to him. After some preliminaries we got to the heart of the matter.

  ‘I was after the money, really,’ Dennis told the Bench. ‘But I suppose I got a bit greedy, like. I just shoved a few of those boxes in the back of the vehicle. Then I didn’t want to take them round to my place, so I left them in Cary’s garage.’

  ‘Why did you do that?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, young Cary didn’t have anything to do with the Wedges job, so I thought they’d be safe enough there. Of course, I was under considerable pressure of work at that time, and it slipped my mind to tell Cary and Roz about it.’

  ‘Did you see what was in any of those cases?’

  ‘I had a little look-in. Seemed like a lot of carnival masks. That sort of rubbish.’

  ‘So young Tracy getting hold of the devil’s masks was just the usual Timson cock-up, was it?’

  ‘What did you say, Mr Rumpole?�
� The chairwoman wasn’t quite sure she could believe her ears.

  ‘It was a stock-up, for Christmas, Madam Chair,’ I explained. ‘Oh, one more thing, Mr Dennis Timson. Do you know why young Dominic Molloy has accused Tracy and her father of fiendish rituals in a churchyard?’

  ‘Course I do.’ Uncle Den had no doubt. ‘Peggy Molloy told Barry Peacock’s wife and Barry’s wife told my Doris down the Needle Arms last Thursday.’

  ‘We can’t possibly have this evidence!’ Liz Probert rose to object. Perhaps she’d caught the habit from me.

  ‘Oh, really, Mizz Probert?’ I looked at her in amazement. ‘And why ever not?’

  ‘What Barry’s wife told Mrs Timson is pure hearsay.’ Mizz Probert was certain of it.

  ‘Of course it is.’ And I gave her back her own argument. ‘And pure hearsay is totally acceptable in the Juvenile Court. Where the interest of the child is at stake we are not bound by legal quibbles. I agree, Madam Chair, with every word which has fallen from your respected and highly learned clerk. Now then, Mr Timson, what did you hear exactly?’

  ‘Gareth thought Cary had grassed on him over the Tobler Road supermarket job. So they got young Dominic to put the frame round Tracy and her dad.’

  ‘So what you are telling us, Mr Timson, is that this little boy’s evidence was a pure invention.’ At last Madam Chair seemed to have got the message.

  Uncle Dennis gave her the most charming and friendliest of smiles as he said, ‘Well, you can’t trust the Molloys, can you, my Lady? Everyone knows they’re a right family of villains.’

  There comes a time in many cases when the wind changes, the tide turns and you’re either blown on to the rocks or make safe harbour. Uncle Dennis’s evidence changed the weather, and after it I noticed that Madam Chair no longer returned Miss Mirabelle Jones’s increasingly anxious smile, Mizz Probert’s final address was listened to in stony silence and I was startled to hear a distinct ‘thank you’ from the Bench as I sat down. After a short period of retirement the powers that were to shape young Tracy Timson’s future announced that they were dissatisfied by the evidence of any satanic rituals and she was, accordingly, to be released from custody forthwith. Before this judgment was over, the tears which Roz had fought to control since the dawn raid were released and, at her moment of joy, she cried helplessly.

  I couldn’t resist it. I got into Mr Bernard’s car and followed the Timson Cortina to the children’s home. We waited until we saw the mother and father emerge from that gaunt building, each holding one of their daughter’s hands. As they came down the steps to the street they swung her in the air between them, and when they got into the car they were laughing. Miss Mirabelle Jones, who had brought the order for release, stood in the doorway of the Lilacs and watched without expression, and then Tracy’s legal team drove away to do other cases with less gratifying results.

  When I got home, after a conference in an obtaining credit by fraud and a modest celebration at Pommeroy’s Wine Bar, Hilda was not in the best of moods. When I told her that I brought glad tidings all She said was, ‘You seem full of yourself, Rumpole. Been having a good time, have you?’

  ‘A great time! Managed to extricate young Tracy Timson from the clutches of the caring society and she’s back in the bosom of her family. And I’ll be getting another brief defending Dennis Timson on a charge of stealing from Wedges Carnival Novelties. Well, I expect I’ll think of something.’

  I poured myself a glass of wine to lighten the atmosphere and Hilda said, somewhat darkly, ‘You never wanted to be a judge, did you, Rumpole?’

  ‘Judging people? Condemning them? No, that’s not my line, exactly. Anyway, judges are meant to keep quiet in court.’

  ‘And they’re much more restricted, aren’t they?’ It may have sounded an innocent question on a matter of general interest, but her voice was full of menace.

  ‘Restricted?’ I repeated, playing for time.

  ‘Stuck in court all day, in the public eye and on their best behaviour. They have far less scope than you to indulge in other activities …’

  ‘Activities, Hilda?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Perhaps it’s about time we really talked for once, Rumpole. Is there something that you feel you ought to tell me?’

  ‘Well. Yes, Hilda. Yes. As a matter of fact there is.’ I had in fact done something which I found it strangely embarrassing to mention.

  ‘I suppose you’ve had time to think up some ridiculous defence.’

  ‘Oh, no. I plead guilty. There are no mitigating circumstances.’

  ‘Rumpole! How could you?’ The court was clearly not going to be moved by any plea for clemency.

  ‘Temporary insanity. But I did it at enormous expense.’

  ‘You had to pay!’ It would scarcely be an exaggeration to say that Hilda snorted.

  ‘Well. They don’t give these things away for nothing.’

  ‘I imagine not!’

  ‘One hundred smackers. But it is your birthday next week.’

  ‘Rumpole! I can’t think what my birthday’s got to do with it.’ At least I had managed to puzzle her a little.

  ‘Everything, Hilda. I’ve just bought us two tickets for the Scales of Justice Ball. Now, what was it you wanted us to talk about?’

  All I can say is that Hilda looked extremely confused. It was as though Mr Injustice Graves was just about to pass a stiff sentence of chokey and had received a message that, as it was the Queen’s birthday, there would be a general amnesty for all prisoners.

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘not at the moment. Perhaps some other time.’ And she rescued the lamb chops from the oven with the air of a woman suddenly and unexpectedly deprived of a well-justified and satisfactory outburst of rage.

  Matters were not altogether resolved when we found ourselves at a table by the dance floor in the Savoy Hotel in the company of Sam Ballard and his wife, Marguerite, who always, even in a ball gown, seemed to carry with her a slight odour of antiseptic and sensible soap. Also present were Marigold Featherstone, wife of a judge whose foot was never far from his mouth, Claude Erskine-Brown and Liz Probert with her partner, co-mortgagee and fellow member of 3 Equity Court, young Dave Inchcape.

  ‘Too bad Guthrie’s sitting at Newcastle!’ Claude commiserated with Marigold Featherstone on the absence of her husband and told her, ‘Philly’s in Swansea. Prosecuting the Leisure Centre Murder.’

  ‘Never mind, Claude.’

  And Marguerite Ballard added menacingly, ‘I’ll dance with you.’

  ‘Oh, yes, Erskine-Brown’ – her husband was smiling – ‘you have my full permission to shake a foot with my wife.’

  ‘Oh, well. Yes. Thank you very much. I say, I thought Charlie Wisbeach and his girlfriend were going to join us?’ Claude seemed unreasonably disappointed.

  ‘No, Erskine-Brown.’ The Ballard lips were even more pursed than usual. ‘Young Wisbeach won’t be joining us. Not at the ball. And certainly not in chambers.’

  ‘Oh, really? I thought it was more or less fixed.’

  ‘I think, Claude, it’s become more or less unstuck,’ I disillusioned him. In the ensuing chatter I could hear Marigold Featherstone indulging in some whispered dialogue with my wife which went something like this.

  ‘Have you faced him with it yet, Hilda?’

  ‘I was just going to do it when he told me we were coming here. He behaved well for once.’

  ‘They do that, occasionally. Don’t let it put you off.’

  Further whispers were drowned as Erskine-Brown said to Ballard in a loud and challenging tone, ‘May I ask you why Charlie Wisbeach isn’t joining us, after all?’

  ‘Not on this otherwise happy occasion, Erskine-Brown. I can only say … Practices.’

  ‘Well, of course he practises. In the commercial court.’ And Claude turned to me, full of suspicion. ‘Do you know anything about this, Rumpole?’

  ‘Me? Know anything? Nothing whatever.’ I certainly wasn’t prepared to incriminate myself.

  ‘I
have told Wisbeach we simply have no accommodation. I do not regard him as a suitable candidate to share Rumpole’s room. It will be far better for everyone if we never refer to the matter again.’ So our head of chambers disposed of the case of Rumpole v. Wisbeach and the band played an old number from the days of my youth called ‘Smoke Gets in Your Eyes’.

  ‘Now, as head of chambers’ – Ballard claimed his alleged rights – ‘I think I should lead my wife out on to the floor.’

  ‘No. No, Ballard. With all due respect’ – I rose to my feet – ‘as the longest-serving chambers wife, She, that is Mrs Rumpole, should be led out first. Care for a dance, Hilda?’

  ‘Rumpole! Are you sure you can manage it?’ Hilda was astonished.

  ‘Perfectly confident, thank you.’ And, without a moment’s hesitation, I applied one hand to her waist, seized her hand with the other, and steered her fearlessly out on to the parquet, where, though I say it myself, I propelled my partner for life in strict time to the music. I even indulged in a little fancy footwork as we cornered in front of a table full of solicitors.

  ‘You’re chasséing, Rumpole!’ She was astounded.

  ‘Oh, yes. I do that quite a lot nowadays.’

  ‘Wherever did you learn?’

  ‘To be quite honest with you …’

  ‘If you’re capable of such a thing.’ She had not been altogether won over.

  ‘From a Miss Tatiana Fern. I looked her up in the Yellow Pages. One-time Southern Counties Ballroom Champion. I took a few lessons.’

  ‘Where did you take lessons?’

  ‘Place called Mowbray Crescent.’

  ‘Somewhere off Sloane Street?’

  ‘Hilda! You knew?’

  ‘Oh, don’t ever think you can do anything I don’t know about.’ At which point the Ballards passed us, not dancing in perfect harmony. ‘You’re really quite nippy on your feet, Rumpole. Marguerite Ballard’s looking absolutely green with envy.’ And then, after a long period of severity, she actually smiled at me. ‘You are an old devil, Rumpole!’ she said.