As we sat with Bernard in the Old Bailey canteen, with coffee from a machine, and went through the medical evidence, I noticed he was strangely excited, as though he had something to communicate but was not sure when, or if indeed ever, to communicate it.
‘I’m right in thinking Alzheimer’s is not a killer in itself, although those who contract it usually die within ten years?’
‘That’s right,’ Eames agreed. ‘They contract bronchitis or have a stroke, or perhaps they just lose their wish to live.’
‘There’s no evidence of bronchitis or a stroke here?’
‘Apparently not.’
‘So it seems likely that death was hurried on in some way?’
There was a silence, then Dr Eames said, ‘I think that must follow.’
‘My old friend and opponent, Dr Ackerman of the morgue, the Home Office pathologist, estimates death as between ten p.m. and one a.m.’
‘I read that.’
‘At any rate, he was dead by seven-thirty a.m. when Nurse Pargeter came to look after him. Dick Chippenham says that Chippy was alive and sleeping well at around eleven the night before. If Dr Betty had just given him an overdose …’
‘The pills might not have taken their effect until some time later.’
‘I was afraid you’d say that.’ I took a gulp from the machine’s coffee, which is pretty indistinguishable from the machine’s tea, or the machine’s soup if it comes to that. ‘When you stopped being the Chippenhams’ doctor …’
‘When I was sacked, you mean?’
‘If you like. Had you had a row with Chippy? I mean, did he sack you?’
‘Not really. As far as I remember, it was Mr Chippenham who told me his uncle wanted me to go.’
‘There was no question of you having had a row with Chippy about drinking whisky?’
‘No. I can’t remember anything like that.’ The doctor looked puzzled and I felt curiously encouraged and lit a small cigar.
‘Tell me, Doctor, did you know Nurse Pargeter?’
‘Only too well.’
‘And did you like her?’
‘Pro-Life nurses can be a menace. They seem to think of themselves as avenging angels.’
‘And she didn’t care for Dr Betty?’
‘She hated her! I think she thought of her as a potential murderess.’
I wondered if that might be helpful. Then I said, ‘One more thing, Dr Eames, now that I’ve got you here …’
‘What are you up to now, Rumpole? Talking to potential witnesses? Is that in the best tradition of the Bar?’ Wasn’t Stentor some old Greek military man whose voice, on the battlefield, was louder than fifty men together? No doubt his direct descendant was the stentorian Cut Above, who now stood with his wig in his hand, his thick hair interrupted by a little tonsure of baldness so that he looked like a muscular monk.
‘I am consulting with an expert witness. A doctor of medicine,’ I told Cut Above. ‘And for counsel to see expert witnesses is certainly in the best tradition of the Bar.’
‘I’m warning you. Just watch it, Rumpole. Watch it extremely carefully. I don’t want to have to report you to her lovely Ladyship for unprofessional conduct.’ My opponent gave a bellow of laughter which rattled the coffee cups and passed on with his myrmidons, a junior barrister and a wiry little scrum-half from the DPP’s office.
‘Who’s that appalling bully?’ Dr Eames appeared shocked.
‘Cut Above, QC, counsel for the prosecution.’
‘I’ve known surgeons like that. Full of themselves and care nothing for the patient. Doesn’t he want me to talk to you?’ I think it was Cut Above’s appearance and interruption which persuaded Dr Eames to tell me all he eventually did.
‘Probably not. I want to talk to you, though. Aren’t you treating young Andrew? He seemed a charming boy!’
‘I’m not sure what’s the matter with him. Some sort of nervous trouble. Something’s worrying him terribly.’ Dr Eames also looked worried.
‘I spoke to him in the street, and a schoolmistress ticked me off for it. But that couldn’t have had anything to do with his illness, could it?’
‘I’m afraid you reminded him of something.’ I felt a prickle of excitement. Dr Eames was about to reveal some evidence of great importance.
‘What exactly?’
‘I think I know. It was something you’d said before, when you came to the house. It reminded him of his dream.’
At a nearby table Cut Above was yelling orders to his junior. If Dr Eames hadn’t taken such an instant dislike to my opponent he might never have told me about young Andrew’s dream.
Without doubt, the jury took strongly to Ursula Chippenham and I have to say that I also liked her. Standing in the box with her honey-coloured hair a little untidy, a scarf floating about her neck, her gentle voice sounding touchingly brave, yet clearly audible, she was the perfect prosecution witness. She showed no hatred of Dr Betty; she spoke glowingly of her care and friendship for the old judge; and she was only saddened by what the doctor’s principles had led her to do. ‘I’m quite sure that Dr Betty was only doing what she thought was right and merciful,’ she said. Having got this perfect, and unhappily convincing, answer, even Cut Above had the good sense to shut up and sit down.
If I’d wanted to lose Dr Betty’s case I’d’ve gone in to the attack on Ursula with my guns blazing. Of course I didn’t. I started by roaring as gently as any sucking dove, showing the jury how much more polite and considerate I could be than Cut Above at his most gentlemanly.
‘Mrs Chippenham, I hope it won’t offend you if I call the deceased judge, Chippy?’
‘Not at all, Mr Rumpole.’ Ursula’s smile could win all hearts. ‘We both knew and loved him, I know. I’m sure he would have liked us to call him that.’
‘And that’s how he was affectionately known at the Bar,’ Portia added to the warmth of the occasion.
‘And Chippy was extremely ill?’
‘Yes, he was.’
‘And, entirely to your credit, you and your husband looked after him? With medical help?’
‘We did our best. Yes.’
‘He was unlikely to recover?’
‘He wasn’t going to recover. I don’t think there’s a cure for Alzheimer’s.’
‘Can we come to the time when Dr Betty started to treat Chippy? Was Nurse Pargeter coming in then?’
‘Yes, she was.’
‘And Nurse Pargeter strongly disapproved of Dr Betty’s support for legalizing euthanasia?’
‘She warned us about Dr Betty, yes.’
‘And you discussed the matter with your husband?’
‘Oh, yes. We thought about it very carefully. And then I had a talk about it with Dr Betty.’
‘Did you?’ I looked mildly, ever so mildly, surprised. ‘Was your husband present?’
‘No, I didn’t want it to be too formal. We just chatted over coffee, and Dr Betty promised me she wouldn’t give Chippy … Well, give him anything to stop keeping him alive, without discussing it with the family.’
I looked around at the dock where Dr Betty was shaking her head decisively. So I was put in the embarrassing position of having to call the witness a liar.
‘Mrs Chippenham, I have to remind you that you said nothing about this conversation with Dr Betty in your original statement to the police.’
‘Didn’t I? I’m afraid I was upset and rather flustered at that time.’ Ursula turned to the judge, ‘I do hope you can understand?’
‘Of course,’ Portia understood, ‘but can I just ask you this, Mrs Chippenham? If Dr Ireton had come to you and recommended ending Chippy’s life what would you have said?’
‘Neither Dick nor I would have agreed to it. Not in any circumstances. We may not go to church very much, but we do believe that life is sacred.’
‘ “We do believe that life is sacred,” ’ Portia repeated as she wrote the words down, and we all waited in respectful silence. ‘Yes, Mr Rumpole?’
‘W
e’ve heard that it was Nurse Pargeter who found Chippy dead.’
‘Yes, she called for me and I joined her.’
‘And it was Nurse Pargeter who reported the circumstances of Chippy’s death to the police?’
‘She insisted on doing so.’
‘And you agreed?’
‘I think I was too upset to agree or disagree.’
‘I see. Now, that morning, when the nurse found Chippy dead, the whisky bottle was almost empty and the bottle of sleeping pills empty. You don’t know how that came about?’
‘I assumed that Dr Betty gave Chippy the overdose and the whisky.’
‘You assumed that because she’s a well-known supporter of euthanasia?’
‘Well, yes, I suppose so.’ Ursula frowned a little then and looked puzzled, but as attractive as ever.
‘Because she believes in euthanasia, she’s the most likely suspect?’
‘Isn’t that obvious, Mr Rumpole?’ Portia answered the question for the witness.
‘And because she was the most likely suspect, is that why you decided to ask her to look after Chippy?’ I asked Ursula the first hostile question with my usual charm.
‘I’m not sure I understand what you mean?’ Ursula smiled in a puzzled sort of way at the jury, and they looked entirely sympathetic.
‘I’m not sure I understand either.’ Portia sounded distinctly unfriendly to counsel for the defence.
‘I’ll come back to it later, if I may. Mrs Chippenham, we’ve got a copy of Chippy’s will. Nurse Pargeter does quite well out of it, doesn’t she? She gets a substantial legacy.’
‘Twenty thousand pounds. She did a great deal for Chippy.’
‘And let me ask you this. Your husband’s in business as an estate agent, is he not?’
‘Marcellus & Chippenham, yes.’
‘It’s going through a pretty difficult time, isn’t it?’
‘I think the housing market is having a lot of difficulty, yes.’
‘As we all know, Mr Rumpole.’ The Erskine-Browns were trying to get rid of a house in Islington and move into central London, so the learned judge spoke from the heart.
‘Let’s say that the freehold of the house in Dettingen Road and the residue of Chippy’s estate might solve a good many of your problems. Isn’t that right?’
The jury looked at me as though I had suggested that Mother Teresa was only in it for the money and Ursula gave exactly the right answer. ‘We were both extremely grateful for what Chippy decided to do for us.’ Then she spoilt it a little by adding, ‘When he made that will, he understood it perfectly.’
‘And I am sure he was conscious of all you and your husband were doing for him?’ Portia was firmly on Ursula’s side.
‘Thank you, my Lady.’ Ursula didn’t bob a curtsey, but it seemed, for a moment, as if she was tempted to do so.
‘Mrs Chippenham, you know the way the Lethe organization recommends helping sufferers out of this wicked world?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t.’
‘Are you sure? Didn’t Nurse Pargeter give you a pamphlet like this when she was trying to persuade you not to engage Dr Betty?’ I handed her the Lethe pamphlet which Bonny Bernard had got me and it was made Defence Exhibit One. Then I asked the witness to turn to page three where a recipe for easeful death was set out. I read it aloud: ‘ “The method recommended is a large dose of sleeping pills which are readily obtainable on prescription and a strong alcoholic drink such as whisky or brandy. When the patient is asleep, a long plastic bin-liner is placed over the head and pulled over the shoulders. Being deprived of air, the sleep is gentle, painless and permanent.” Did you read that when Nurse Pargeter gave you the pamphlet?’
There was a silence and the courtroom seemed to have become suddenly chilly. Then Ursula answered, more quietly than before, ‘I may have glanced at it.’
‘You may have glanced at it. But I suggest that someone in your house remembered it quite clearly when old Chippy was helped out of this troubled world.’
Of course there was an immediate hullabaloo. Cut Above trumpeted that there was no basis at all for that perfectly outrageous suggestion, and Portia, in more measured tones, asked me to make it clear what my suggestion was. I said I was perfectly prepared to do so.
‘I suggest someone woke Chippy up, around midnight. He hadn’t remembered taking his pills, of course, so he was given a liberal overdose, washed down with a large whisky. One of the long black bin-liners that your dustmen provide so generously was then made use of.’
Ursula was silent, but counsel for the prosecution wasn’t. ‘I hope, my Lady, that Mr Rumpole will be calling evidence to support this extraordinary charge?’
I didn’t answer him, but asked the witness, ‘Your son Andrew hasn’t been well lately?’
‘I’m afraid not.’ Ursula recovered her voice, thinking I’d passed to another subject.
‘Mr Rumpole’ – Portia was clearly displeased – ‘the court would also like to know if you are going to call evidence to support the charge you have made.’
‘I’m happy to deal with that, my Lady, when I’ve asked a few more questions.’ I turned back to the witness. ‘Is Dr Eames treating young Andrew?’
‘Yes, Dr Eames has come back to us.’
‘Is Andrew’s illness of a nervous nature? I mean, has he become worried about something?’
‘I don’t know. He’s had sick headaches and we’ve kept him out of school. Dr Eames isn’t sure what the trouble is exactly.’
‘Is Andrew worried by something he might have seen the night Chippy died? Remember, he sleeps with his door open and Chippy’s room is immediately opposite. He saw something that night which has worried him ever since. Perhaps that’s why he collects the plastic bags from the dustbins and hides them away. Is it because he knows bin bags can cause accidents?’
Ursula’s voice slid upwards and became shrill as she asked, ‘You say he saw … What did he see?’
‘He thought it was a dream. But it wasn’t a dream, was it?’
‘My Lady, are we really being asked to sit here while Mr Rumpole trots out the dreams of a ten-year-old child?’ Cut Above boomed, but I interrupted his cannonade.
‘I’m not discussing dreams! I’m discussing facts. And the fact is’ – I turned to Ursula – ‘that you were coming out of Chippy’s room that night, perhaps to take the empty bottle of pills back to the bathroom. It was then Andrew saw Chippy propped up on the pillows. Shrouded, Mrs Chippenham. Suffocated, Mrs Chippenham, with a black plastic bag pulled down over his head.’
The court was cold now, and silent. Ursula looked at the judge who said nothing, and at the jury who said nothing either. Her beauty had gone as she became desperate, like a trapped animal. I saw Hilda watching and she appeared triumphant. I saw Dr Betty lean forward as though concerned for a patient who had taken a turn for the worse. When Ursula spoke, her voice was hoarse and hopeless. She said, ‘You’re not going to bring Andrew here to say that about the plastic bag, are you?’
I hated my job then. Chippy was dying anyway, so why should either Dr Betty, or this suffering woman, be cursed for ever by his death? I felt tired and longed to shut up and sit down, but if I had to choose between Ursula and Dr Betty, I knew I had to protect my client. So I took in a deep breath and said, ‘That entirely depends, Mrs Chippenham, on whether you’re going to tell us the truth.’
To her credit she didn’t hesitate. She was determined to spare her son, so she turned to Portia and said quietly, ‘I don’t think he suffered and he would have died anyway. When I thought of doing it, I got Dr Ireton to treat Chippy so she would be blamed. That’s all I have got to say.’ Then she stood, stunned, like the victim of an accident, as though she didn’t yet understand the consequences of any of the things she’d done or said.
When I came out of court, I felt no elation. Cut Above, almost, for him, pianissimo, had offered no further evidence after Ursula’s admission, and the case was over very quickly. I had notched a wi
n, but I felt no triumph. I saw the inspector in charge of the case talking to Dick and Ursula, and when I thought of their future, and Andrew’s, I hated what I had done. The merciful tide of forgetfulness which engulfs disastrous days in court, sinking them in fresh briefs and newer troubles, would be slow to come. Then I saw Hilda embrace Dr Betty and give her one of She Who Must Be Obeyed’s rare kisses. My wife turned to me with a look of approval which was also rare; it was as though I were some sort of domestic appliance, a food blender perhaps, or an electric blanket, she had lent to an old friend and which, for once, worked satisfactorily. They asked me to join them for coffee and went away as happy as they must have been when young Betty Ireton led the school team to another victory. Bonny Bernard went about his business and I stood alone, outside the empty court.
‘Rumpole, a word with you, if you please, in a matter of urgency.’
Soapy Sam Ballard had paused, wigged and gowned, in full flight to another court. He looked pale and agitated to such an extent that I was about to greet him with a quotation I thought might be appropriate: ‘The devil damn thee black, thou cream-fac’d loon! Where gott’st thou that goose look?’ Before I could speak, however, Soapy Sam started to burble. ‘Bad news, I’m afraid. Very bad news indeed. We shall not be entering into a contract of service with Vincent Blewitt.’
I managed to restrain my tears. ‘But Bollard,’ I protested, ‘didn’t you think he was the very man for the job?’
‘I did. Until he came to me with an idea for a chambers party. Did you know anything about this, Rumpole?’ The man was suddenly suspicious.
‘He told me he wanted to give Henry some kind of a send-off. I thought it was rather generous of him.’
‘But did he tell you exactly what sort of send-off he had in mind?’
‘A chambers party, I think he said. I can’t remember the details.’
‘He described it as a singles party. At first, I thought he was suggesting tennis.’
‘A natural assumption.’
‘And then he asked me to leave my ham sandwich at home – I wondered what on earth the man was talking about. I mean, it’s never been my custom to bring any sort of sandwich to a chambers party. Your wife’s friend, Dodo Mackintosh, usually provides the nibbles.’
Forever Rumpole Page 40
