Forever Rumpole

by John Mortimer

  ‘Roy Netherborn. It’s his van,’ Gavin volunteered.

  ‘Is he the hairless gentleman with the earrings?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘And did Mr Netherborn pack the things in the van? The tools and so on?’

  ‘He did, didn’t he, Den?’ Gavin had been answering the questions. When he was asked one, Dennis Pearson was silent.

  ‘Had you taken wire with you before?’

  ‘We’d discussed it,’ Den admitted. ‘There’d been some talk of using it to trip up the horses.’

  ‘Did you know there was wire in the van that day?’ I asked Den the question direct, but Gavin intervened, ‘I don’t think you did, did you?’

  Den said nothing but shook his head.

  ‘Did you know that exactly the same wire was used as a death-trap in Fallows Wood?’

  ‘Den didn’t know that. No.’ Gavin was positive.

  ‘When did you arrive in Wayleave village? And that’s a question for Mr Dennis Pearson,’ I invited.

  ‘We came up the morning before. We were staying with Janet Freebody who lives in the village. Janet’s a schoolteacher.’

  ‘And chair of our activist committee.’ Gavin was finding it difficult to keep quiet.

  ‘Where was the van parked?’

  ‘In front of Janet’s house.’

  ‘From what time?’

  ‘About midday.’

  ‘You hadn’t taken a trip in it to Fallows Wood before then?’

  ‘Den tells me he hadn’t.’ Once again, Gavin took on the answering.

  ‘Was the van kept locked?’

  ‘Supposed to be. Roy’s a bit careless about this, isn’t he, Den?’

  ‘Roy’s careless about everything,’ Den agreed.

  There were a lot more questions that required answering, but I didn’t want them all answered by way of the protective Gavin Garfield.

  ‘There’s one other thing I should tell you,’ I said as I gathered up my papers. ‘I know Rollo Eyles. I met him when he was at the Bar. And I was staying with him the night before … Well, the night before the fatal accident. I’ll have to tell him I’m defending the man accused of murdering his wife. If you don’t want me to defend you, you know that, of course, I shall understand.’ I was giving them a chance to sack me even before my precious murder case had begun. I kept my fingers crossed under the table.

  ‘I’d like you to carry on with the case, Mr Rumpole,’ Den was now speaking for himself. ‘Seeing what you did for that dog, I don’t think I’ll cause you much trouble.’

  ‘Oh, why’s that?’

  ‘Well, you see …’ Dennis Pearson was still smiling pleasantly, imperturbably.

  Gavin looked at him anxiously and started off, ‘Den …’

  But my client interrupted him, ‘You see, I did it.’

  ‘You knew he was going to do that?’ Gavin was driving me from the prison to Gloucester station in a car littered with bits of comics, old toys, empty crisp packets and crumpled orange juice cartons with the straws still stuck in them. I supposed that, in his pale, vegetarian way, he had fathered many children.

  ‘I had an idea. Yes,’ Gavin admitted it. ‘What do we do now?’

  ‘We’re entitled to cross-examine the prosecution witnesses and see if they prove the case. We can’t call Dennis to deny the charge, so, if the prosecution holds up, we’ll have to plead guilty at half-time.’

  ‘Is that what you’d advise him to do?’

  ‘I’d advise him to tell us the truth.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because I don’t believe he is.’

  I wanted to work on the case away from the garrulous Gavin and the uncommunicative Den. I thought that they lurked somewhere between the world of human communication and the secret and silent kingdom of animals, and I didn’t feel either of them would be much help. The case seemed to me to raise certain awkward and interesting questions, not to say a matter of legal ethics and private morality which was, not to put too fine a point upon it, devilishly tricky to cope with.

  As I sat in chambers I decided it was better for a legal hack like me to stop worrying about such things as ideas of proper or improper behaviour and concentrate on the facts. I lit a small cigar and opened a volume of police photographs. As I did so, I stooped for a moment to pat the head of the gloomy Lancelot, who had become my close companion, and then realized he was gone, ferreting for disgusting morsels, no doubt, at the edge of the sea while Dodo Mackintosh sat at her easel and perpetrated a feeble watercolour. I felt completely alone in the defence of Den Pearson, who didn’t even want to be defended.

  I hurried past the mortuary shots of Dorothea and her fatal injuries, and got to a picture of a path through trees. It was a narrow strip hardly wide enough for two people to pass in comfort, so the beech trees on either side were not much more than six feet apart. A closer shot showed the wire, then still stretched between nails driven into the trees. The track was muddy, with patches of grass and the bare earth. I picked up a magnifying glass and looked at the photo carefully. Then I rang little Marcus Pitcher, who, I had discovered, was to be in charge of the prosecution. ‘Listen, old darling,’ I said, when I got his chirrup on the line, ‘what about you and me organizing a visit to the locus in quo?’ When he asked me what I meant, I said, ‘There was once a road through the woods.’

  ‘A day out in the country?’ Marcus sounded agreeable. ‘Why ever not. I’ll drive you.’

  My learned friend was a small man with a round face, slightly protruding teeth and large, horn-rimmed glasses, so that he looked like an agreeable mouse, although he could be a cunning little performer in court. Marcus owned a bulky old Jaguar and had to sit up very straight to peer out of the windscreen. In the back seat a white bull-terrier sat, pink-eyed and asthmatic, looking at me as though she wondered why I’d come to ruin the day out.

  ‘Meet Bernadette,’ Marcus introduced us. ‘As soon as she heard about the trip to the Cotswolds, she had to come. Hope you don’t mind.’

  ‘Not at all. In fact I might have brought my own dog, but Lancelot’s away at the moment.’

  At the scene of the crime Bernadette went bounding off into the undergrowth, while Marcus, his solicitor from the DPP’s office, and I stood with the detective inspector in charge of the case. D. I. Palmer was a courteous officer who lacked the tendency of the Metropolitan force to imitate the coppers they’ve seen on television. He led us to the spot where death had taken place. The wire and nails had been removed to be exhibited in the case, and the hoof marks had been rubbed out by the rain.

  ‘ “There was once a road through the woods,” ’ I told the inspector, ‘ “Before they planted the trees./It is underneath the coppice and heath,/And the thin anemones …” But this one isn’t, is it, Inspector?’

  ‘I’m not quite sure that I follow you, Mr Rumpole.’

  ‘This road hasn’t disappeared so that

  ‘Only the keeper sees

  That, where the ring-dove broods,

  And the badgers roll at ease,

  There was once a road through the woods.’

  ‘It’s a footpath here as I understand it, Mr Rumpole.’ The DI was ever helpful. ‘Mr Eyles is very good about keeping open the footpaths on his land.’ It did seem that the edges of the path had been trimmed and the brambles cut back.

  ‘Is the footpath used a lot? Did you ever find that out, Inspector?’

  ‘Ramblers use it. It was ramblers that found Mrs Eyles. A shocking experience for them.’

  ‘It must have been. Don’t know why they call it rambling, do you? We used to call it going for a walk. So people don’t ride down here much?’

  ‘I wouldn’t think a lot. You’d have to be a good horseman to jump that.’

  We had come to a stile at the end of the narrow track. Beside it there was a green signpost showing that the footpath continued across the middle of a broad field dotted with sheep. The stile had a single pole to hold on to and a wide step
set at right angles to the top bar. I supposed it would have been a difficult jump but I saw a scar in the wood. Could that have been the mark of a hoof that had just managed it?

  Marcus Pitcher called Bernadette and she came lolloping over the brambles and started to root about in the long grass at the side of the stile.

  ‘You gents seen all you want?’ the DI asked us.

  Marcus was satisfied. I wasn’t. I thought that if we waited we might learn something else about that cold, sunny day in March when Dorothea died as quickly as she’d said she’d always wanted to. And then I was rewarded. Bernadette pulled some weighty object out of the grass, carried it in her mouth and laid it, as a tribute, at the feet of Marcus Pitcher. I said I’d like a note made of exactly where we found the horseshoe.

  ‘I don’t see what it can possibly prove.’ Marcus was doubtful. ‘It might have been dropped from any horse at any time.’

  ‘Let’s just make a note,’ I asked. ‘We’ll think about what it proves later.’

  So the polite inspector took charge of the horseshoe and he, Marcus and Bernadette moved on across the field on their way back to the road. I sat on the stile to recover my breath and looked into the darkness of the wood. What was it at night? A sort of killing field – owls swooping on mice, foxes after small birds – a place of unexpected noises and sudden death? Was it a site for killing people or killing animals? I remembered Dorothea, old and elegant, handing down with a smile to Den what she said was a flask of fox’s blood. I thought about the hunters and the antis shouting at each other and Den’s yell: ‘One of you is going to die for all the dead animals.’ And I tried to see Dorothea, elated, excited, galloping down the narrow path and her sudden, unlooked-for near-decapitation. From somewhere in the shadows under the trees, I seemed to hear the sound of hoofs and I remembered more of Kipling, a grumpy old darling but with a marvellous sense of rhythm. I chanted to myself:

  ‘You will hear the beat of a horse’s feet,

  And the swish of a skirt in the dew,

  Steadily cantering through

  The misty solitudes,

  As though they perfectly knew

  The old lost road through the woods.

  But there is no road through the woods.’

  But there was no swish of a skirt. It was Rollo Eyles who came cantering down the track, reined in his horse and sat looking down on me as I sat on his stile.

  ‘Horace! You here? I heard the police were in the wood.’

  I looked up at him. He was getting near my age but healthier and certainly thinner than me. He was not a tall man, but he sat up very straight in the saddle. His reins were loose and his hands relaxed; his horse snorted but hardly moved. He wore a cap instead of a hard riding-hat, regardless of danger, and an old tweed jacket. His voice was surprisingly deep and there was little grey in the hair that showed.

  ‘I was having a look at the scene of the crime.’ Then I told him, as I had to, ‘I’m defending the man who’s supposed to have killed your wife.’

  ‘Not the man who killed her?’

  ‘We won’t know that until the jury get back. Do you mind?’

  ‘That he killed Dorothea?’

  ‘No. That I’m defending him.’

  ‘You have to defend even the most disgusting clients, don’t you?’ His voice never lost its friendliness and there was no hint of anger. ‘It’s in the best traditions of the Bar.’

  ‘That’s right. I’m an old taxi.’

  ‘Well, I wish you luck. Who’s your judge?’

  ‘We’re likely to get stuck with Jamie MacBain.’

  ‘ “I was not born yesterday, y’know, Mr Rumpole. I think I’m astute enough to see through that argument!” ’ Rollo had lost none of his talents as a mimic and did a very creditable imitation of Mr Justice MacBain’s carefully preserved Scottish accent. ‘Why don’t you come down to the house for a whisky and splash?’ he asked in his own voice.

  ‘I can’t. They’ll be waiting for me in the car. You’re sure you don’t mind me taking on the case?’

  ‘Why should I mind? You’ve got to do your job. I’ve no doubt justice will be done.’

  I climbed over the stile, then walked away. When I looked back, he wasn’t going to jump but turned the horse and trotted back the way he had come. He had said justice would be done but I wasn’t entirely sure of it.

  I kept all of this to myself and said nothing to She Who Must Be Obeyed, although I knew well enough that the time would come when I’d certainly have to tell her. As the trial of Dennis Pearson drew nearer, I decided that the truth could no longer be avoided and chose breakfast time as, when the expected hostilities broke out, I could retreat hastily down the tube and off to chambers and so escape prolonged exposure to the cannonade.

  ‘By the way,’ I said casually over the last piece of toast, ‘I’ll probably be staying down in the Gloucester direction before the end of the month.’

  ‘Has Rollo Eyles invited us again?’

  ‘Well, not exactly.’

  ‘Why exactly, then?’ With Hilda you can never get away with leaving uncomfortable facts in a comforting blur.

  ‘I’ve got a trial.’

  ‘What sort of a trial?’

  ‘A rather important murder as it so happens. You’ll be glad to know, Hilda, that when it comes to the big stuff, the questions of life and death, the cry is still “Send for Rumpole!” ’

  ‘Who got murdered?’

  The question had been asked casually, but I knew the moment of truth had come. ‘Well, someone you’ve met, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘Who?’

  My toast was finished. I took a last gulp of coffee, ready for the off.

  ‘Dorothea Eyles.’

  ‘You’re defending that horrible little hunt saboteur?’

  ‘Well, he’s not so little. Quite tall actually.’

  ‘You’re defending the man who murdered the wife of your friend?’

  ‘I suppose someone has to.’

  ‘Well! It’s no wonder you haven’t got any friends, Rumpole.’

  Was it true? Hadn’t I any friends? Enemies, yes. Acquaintances. Opponents down the Bailey. Fellow members of chambers. But friends? Bonny Bernard? Fred Timson? Well, I suppose we only met for work. Who was my real friend? I could only think of one. ‘I got on fairly well with the dog Lancelot. Of course he’s no longer with us.’

  ‘Just as well. If you defend people who kill your friends’ wives, you’re hardly fit company for a decent dog.’ You have to admit that when Hilda comes to a view she doesn’t mince words on the matter.

  ‘We don’t know if he killed her. He’s only accused of killing her.’

  ‘No hair and earrings? You only had to take a look at him to know he was capable of anything!’

  ‘They didn’t arrest the one with no hair,’ I told her. ‘I’m defending another one.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. I expect they’re all much of a muchness. Can you imagine what Rollo’s going to say when he finds out what you’re doing?’

  ‘I know what he thinks.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That it’s in the best tradition of the Bar to defend anyone, however revolting.’

  ‘How do you know that’s what he thinks?’

  ‘Because that’s what he said when I told him.’

  ‘You told him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I must say, Rumpole, you’ve got a nerve!’

  ‘Courage is the essential quality of an advocate.’

  ‘And I suppose it’s the essential quality of an advocate to be on the side of the lowest, most contemptible of human beings?’

  ‘To put their case for them? Yes.’

  ‘Even if they’re guilty?’

  ‘That hasn’t been proved.’

  ‘But you don’t know he’s not.’

  ‘I think I do.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because of what he told me.’

  ‘He told you he wasn’t guilty?’

&
nbsp; ‘No, he told me he was. But, you see, I didn’t believe him.’

  ‘He told you he was guilty and you’re still defending him? Is that in the best traditions of the Bar?’

  ‘Only just,’ I had to admit.

  ‘Rumpole!’ She Who Must Be Obeyed gave me one of her unbending looks and delivered judgement. ‘I suppose that, if someone murdered me, you would defend them?’

  There was no answer to that so I looked at my watch. ‘Must go. Urgent conference in chambers. I won’t be late home. Is it one of your bridge evenings?’ I asked the question, but answer came there none. I knew that for that day, and for many days to come, as far as She Who Must Be Obeyed was concerned, the mansion flat in Froxbury Mansions would be locked in the icy silence of the tomb.

  During the last weeks before the trial Hilda was true to her vow of silence and the mansion flat offered all the light-hearted badinage of life in a Trappist order. Luckily I was busy and even welcomed the chance of a chat with Gavin Garfield whom, although I had excluded him from my visit to the Cotswolds, I now set to work. I told him his first job was to get statements from the other saboteurs in the van, and when he protested that we’d never get so far as calling evidence in view of what Den had told us, I said we must be prepared for all eventualities. So Gavin took statements, not hurriedly, but with a surprising thoroughness, and in time certain hard facts emerged.

  What surprised me was the age and respectability of the saboteurs. Shaven-headed Roy Netherborn was forty and worked in the accounts department of a paper cup factory. He had toyed with the idea of being a schoolmaster and had met Janet Freebody, who was a couple of years older, at a teacher training college. Janet owned the cottage in Wayleave where the platoon of fearless saboteurs had put up for the night. She taught at a comprehensive school in the nearby town where we had fled from the dreaded hotel. Angela Ridgeway, the girl with the purple lock, was a researcher for BBC Wales. Sebastian Fells and Judy Caspar were live-in partners and worked together in a Kensington bookshop, and Dennis Pearson, thirty-five, taught sociology at a university which had risen from the ashes of a polytechnic. They all, except Janet, lived in London and were on the committee of a society of animal rights activists.