‘He says he didn't do it,’ Hermione reminded her husband.
‘Of course he does. And we've stood by him. That's why we've come to you, Mr Rumpole.’
The Swithins were involved with the law because of a girl called Prunella Haviland, just seventeen and also at Hartscombe College. ‘Everyone says she's so attractive but Chris thinks she's nothing out of the ordinary,’ Hermione told me. ‘He used to pick her up on the school run, until suddenly her father decided to take her. That was when the e-mails started coming to Prunella.’ It was the e-mails that constituted the harassment and supplied the evidence of guilt in the case of the teenage werewolf. In the earliest days they were amorous, then openly obscene, lecherous and full of promises to perform eccentric and sometimes dangerous acts of love. At one stage, walking through a lane in Hartscombe after dark, Prunella had felt she was being followed and someone close behind her fastened his arms round her. It lasted only a few seconds, but she felt a kiss on the back of her neck before she struggled free and ran. After that she never walked alone through the town, by day or by night. She was not molested again, but the e-mails continued thick and fast. They clearly emerged from the computer bought, at considerable expense, to propitiate the werewolf one Christmas and installed, among other costly technology, in his bedroom at Merrivale.
‘We knew he was difficult, selfish, utterly incapable of caring about how his mother or I felt. We didn't know he was a criminal. Do what you can for him, Mr Rumpole.’
‘You see how it is.’ Hermione gave her husband a small, sad smile. ‘Chris loves Ben. He's the only son he's never had.’
And then, it seemed, the conversation dried. Neither of the concerned adults had any more to say about the accused werewolf except that he had been given the address, and the telephone number, and even a map of the Outer Temple so that he could find Equity Court and meet his defender. He'd been to a party in London the night before and had promised them he'd be at the conference in my Chambers but, by now, it was time to give him up. It had happened before and would probably happen again, and yet again. He was on bail and kept away from school for the sake of Prunella. Perhaps he'd gone home by now, perhaps they'd find him there, perhaps not. Hermione looked at me, apologetic, confused, as though she had no reasonable explanation to offer for the human being she had brought into the world.
In the silence that followed I was looking once again at the printed-out e-mails.
‘It's interesting,’ I said. ‘They're outrageous, of course. But some of these messages are quite poetic.’
Chris Swithin was looking at me with deep disapproval. Clearly I had said the wrong thing, and soon after this the couple left.
When were teenagers invented? I tried to remember myself slightly spotty, a great deal thinner, in a cold boarding school beside an unfriendly sea, with a headmaster whose role model appeared to have been Captain Bligh of the Bounty. Despite all the discomforts, and the occasional terrors of the place, I had no thought of leaving it. I tolerated my parents, and my father's often-repeated stories. I understood his reluctance to spend more time than was absolutely essential with an adolescent whose favourite reading was Notable British Trials. I put up with my mother's resigning herself, with a sigh, to the fact that my failure to keep my room tidy would make it unlikely that I would ever marry. I kept the other boys friendly by telling them stories and provided defences for them when they were faced with serious charges of giggling in chapel or introducing white mice into the divinity class. I sent no obscene communications to girls, indeed I knew hardly any girls to send them to. On the whole, I would say I was a more conventional character, politer, more easily imposed upon and with a respect for authority which had dwindled, rather than increased, over the years.
‘Were you a teenage werewolf?’ I asked Mizz Liz Probert as we sat together in the Tast-Ee-Bite in Fleet Street. I was fortifying myself with a bite of breakfast before making my way down to Ludgate Circus, the Palais de Justice and my customers in the cells.
‘I told my mother she was stupid,’ Mizz Liz admitted. ‘I did that quite a lot.’
‘Are you ashamed of that?’
‘Not really. It was perfectly true. Someone had to say it. My father didn't dare.’
‘Then I suppose,’ I told her, ‘teenagers were invented around the date of your birth.’
‘Not all teenagers are terrible.’ Mizz Liz sprang to their defence. ‘Although I must say I've got one odd one now.’
‘You've got one?’ She seemed too young. ‘Is he, or she perhaps, giving you hell as a mother?’
‘Don't be silly, Rumpole. Not my child, my client! At least I've been told I'm going to get the case. Nasty charges of harassment and assault. I got rung up by a firm of solicitors in Hartscombe.’
‘Is the boy called Ben Swithin?’
‘You've got it, Rumpole!’
The teenage werewolf was Mizz Liz's client? This was deeply disturbing and I sought for the only possible explanation. ‘You'll be my junior?’ I asked her. ‘I'm going to need all the help I can get.’
‘Oh, they didn't say anything about that. I got the feeling they want me to do it on my own.’
With this Mizz Liz got up, leaving me puzzled. As she left, she was immediately replaced by Soapy Sam Ballard, carrying his meagre breakfast of muesli, with hot water and lemon on the side, on a tray which he held with as much care as if he was transporting caviar and some rare wine in a cut-glass decanter. As he put down his tray and laid out his feast, he looked after Mizz Liz Probert's retreating figure.
‘Nice little bottom she's got to her, our Mizz Probert. Wouldn't you say so, Rumpole?’
I was profoundly shocked at what Mizz Liz and the sisterhood of young women lawyers would have regarded as outrageously offensive. If made by our clerk, Henry, or one of the Timsons, or even my most regular client and solicitor, Bonny Bernard, it would have seemed no more than a background noise in the meaningless chatter of everyday life. None of those people would have thought of making any sort of amorous approach to Mizz Liz. Had she turned to face them, they would have been almost deferential in their approach. But this was Soapy Sam, leading light of the Lawyers as Christians, tied, you might say cocooned, by his marriage to Matey, the formidable nursing sister who manned the casualty room at the Old Bailey, ready with cough sweets or Elastoplasts and calming words for lawyers attacked by disappointed clients or the victims of bungled attempts at suicide. To hear Ballard, who had adopted self-righteousness as a way of life and regarded the lighting up of a small cheroot as a breakdown in public morality, use such an expression about any member of the Bar was like hearing a bishop break out into a couple of verses of ‘The Good Ship Venus' during evensong. But now Liz was gone, and Ballard was staring at the less potentially erotic subject of his plate of muesli.
‘I've been a little unsettled, Rumpole. Since you found that old photograph of the Pithead Stompers.’
‘Forget it,’ I advised him. ‘We've all made mistakes in the past.’
‘I don't regard it as a mistake, Rumpole. Perhaps… as a matter of regret. I can't help feeling that I enjoyed life more then.’
‘You want to pick up the guitar again? Assemble the old drum kit?’ I couldn't believe that Matey would welcome sessions from ageing Stompers in the Ballard home.
‘Not that. Of course I'm happily married now.’
‘Of course.’ Why should I dispel his illusions?
‘And I have my work. And the Lawyers as Christians to look after. But when I look at that photograph you so kindly gave me, I can't help remembering girls dancing the Shake. Did you ever dance the Shake, Rumpole?’
‘Not within living memory.’
‘Happy days. When we were young.’
‘Not always.’
‘No, I suppose not.’
‘I've got a client now known as a teenage werewolf. Got himself involved in serious crime because of a girl. You're far safer living quietly in Belsize Park with Matey. Your days with the guitar are
over. Are you going to eat that stuff, by the way?’ Ballard had been toying with his muesli, putting a spoon in as tentatively as the toe of a swimmer confronted by an icy pool.
‘Of course I'm going to eat it, Rumpole.’ And he crunched a mouthful of what appeared to be wet, flavoured stubble. ‘We all need roughage.’
I had, I felt, quite enough roughage in my life without having recourse to muesli.
As soon as I got back to Chambers, I rang the Swithins' solicitor. We had done various jobs together of an unsensational and rural nature – careless drivings, closed footpaths, stolen piglets, receiving stolen diesel – in all of which I had achieved a satisfactory level of success.
‘Oh, is it you, Mr Rumpole?’ The country lawyer sounded startled, as though he'd been peacefully reading Trout and Stream and enjoying life until he heard a voice which must have pricked his conscience.
‘What do you imagine you're up to, Beazely? Have you entirely forgotten the rules of ethical behaviour which apply even to solicitors? Or was your head turned by the scrumpy or whatever it is you drink in the countryside?’
‘Mr Rumpole…’
I could tell the man was already somewhat shaken, so I twisted the dagger in the wound. ‘I have been practising at the Bar almost as long as living memory and on no occasion – you hear that? – on no other occasion has a case in which I have been briefed been offered to a junior white wig, a girl to whom the Penge Bungalow Murders may seem an historical event as distant as the Battle of Waterloo. I refer, as of course you know, to Mizz Liz Probert and the case of the teenage werewolf.’
‘The point was…’ Here Beazely attempted a stammering defence. ‘The client thought…’
‘What do you mean “The client thought”? Have you met the client? Has he spoken to you? Is he in some way related to Mizz Probert?’
‘I've never met him. No. But the Swithins thought…’
‘I know what they think. I've had an opportunity of studying the Swithins in depth.’
‘They think the boy might react better to someone of his own age.’
‘The boy, as you call him, has had no opportunity of reacting to me.’
‘They can't persuade him to come to London for a conference.’
‘Then Mahomet must come to the mountain.’
‘Who did you say?’
‘Don't concern yourself, Beazely, with Mahomet. A figure of speech. Just find out which evening this week it would be convenient for me to come down to Hartscombe. I can easily manage tonight. You and I will talk to the client together.’
It wasn't until the end of the week that the Swithins could take time off from their charity committees, their book-club gatherings, Chris's prison visiting and Hermione's quiz in the village hall to support the handicapped. Ben was helping out in a Hartscombe restaurant the night I visited Merrivale.
‘If he wants a younger brief, I can understand that.’ This was Rumpole at his most reasonable. ‘But I want to hear it from the client in person. Neither of you…’ I looked at the werewolf's mother and stepfather, comfortable but no doubt deeply concerned people, ‘neither of you is in danger of youth custody.’
‘He promised he'd be here by ten.’ Hermione's wail was muted and polite, but it had its own brand of desperation.
‘It's really too bad of Ben.’
‘He sometimes stays in the restaurant talking,’ Christopher told me, ‘even after it's closed.’
‘He talks to someone, that's encouraging,’ I told them. ‘If he does that there's no good reason why he shouldn't talk to me.’
‘No consideration for others. No manners. Wherever young Ben came from, he didn't arrive from heaven, trailing clouds of glory.’ Chris's knowledge of Wordsworth put him up a notch in my estimation.
We were waiting, this time, in Chris's study. All his computer technology was, he assured me, in the barn, and the room had an old-fashioned comfort, with a crackling log fire, armchairs, an impressive collection of books lining the walls, with the lights shining on their golden titles. We had been drinking brandy, listening to Schubert on the CD player, enjoying all the delights of a civilization which had not, apparently, rubbed off on Hermione's son. As we waited for him, conversation seemed to run out with the brandy until Chris, after prolonged and careful thought, said, ‘I don't think he'll ever talk to you, Mr Rumpole.’
‘We'll have to see about that.’ I decided the time had come to track the werewolf to its lair. ‘Oh, by the way, could I borrow your loo before I go?’
‘I'm so sorry.’ Hermione, who apologized for most things, was also sorry about her bathroom. ‘It's up the stairs.’
‘First on the left when you get to the landing.’ Chris was more practical.
The bathroom, when I got to it, needed no apologies. The air had been freshened with a no doubt chemical but pleasant smell of fresh apples. The porcelain gleamed, the loo seat was of dark mahogany. The towels looked soft and inviting. Glass shelves on one side of the washbasin supported Hermione's array of lotions and unguents, her shampoos, perfumes, cottonwool buds, tweezers and electric toothbrush. The shelves on the other side were clearly Chris's, displaying his silver-backed brushes, his electric razor, Floris soap and anti-dandruff shampoo and a more masculine perfume clearly labelled ‘For Men’. I suppose it was a small part of me that wanted, like the Timsons, to get something for nothing that tempted me to sprinkle a little of this on the Rumpole handkerchief. The smell was fresh, strong and reassuringly male. Smelling like that, I felt, entirely qualified me to meet and tame the werewolf.
Il Paradiso in Hartscombe marketplace was closed, but the lights still shone behind drawn blinds. After Beazely had rattled the door, it was opened by a woman in a black trouser suit. Apparently she knew my instructing solicitor as a regular customer and she was full of apologies.
‘Such a shame! We've taken the last orders and the kitchen's closed. We could perhaps do you and your friend a plate of antipasti.’ She sounded entirely English and had brought Tuscany to Hartscombe by way of the Sunday supplements.
‘That's very kind of you,’ I told her, ‘but we've really come to meet one of your waiters. Ben Swithin.’
‘Ben? Of course. I think he's still here. Come in, both of you.’ My heart warmed to this polite hostess when she led us to a corner table and offered the apparently popular Beazely a bottle of Chianti on the house. I watched her as she went to a long table where teenage waiters, making a few pounds after school hours, were laughing together. After some persuasion she detached one of them and brought him to our table. He approached in slow motion, frowning deeply.
‘Who are you?’ he said. ‘What do you want?’
‘I want you to sit down. And have a glass of wine.’
‘I don't drink. Who are you? Or what?’
‘I'm a lawyer,’ I had to admit, ‘but don't let that put you off.’
‘Mum and Dad wanted me to see a lawyer. It's like… I can't be bothered.’
‘Why can't you be bothered?’
‘Because it's useless.’
‘Why is it useless?’
‘Because you can't help me.’
‘Suppose I told you you're innocent.’ The effect was surprising. He looked at me, a long, wondering look. He was a boy, thin, narrow-shouldered, a little short for his age. His hair looked as though it had been almost shaved and was growing back to an untidy stubble. He had the eyes of his mother, large and luminous with sculptured eyelids. He sat down then, the scowl faded and he looked younger than his years and quite defenceless.
‘What did you say?’
‘I said you're innocent. Until they prove you guilty.’
‘They won't have much trouble. Right?’
‘How do you know?’
‘Dad told me.’
‘You call Christopher Swithin “Dad”?’
‘Yes. He asked me to.’
‘I see.’ For a werewolf, he seemed to be singularly obliging. ‘Tell me about this girl, this Prunella. She goes to your college
.’
‘I don't go near her. I'm not allowed. I'm not allowed to go within miles of her. Like I'm a sort of fatal disease.’ All these sentences ended on a rising inflection, as though they were questions, but he required no answer. I knew about his bail conditions.
‘Tell me more about Prunella.’
He picked up a table knife and, quite ineffectually, tried to saw at the edge of the table. This occupied him seriously for a while and suddenly, unexpectedly, he smiled at me. ‘Old Prune? She's all right.’
‘You've known her a long time?’
‘Forever. Since primary school.’ Again he made it sound like a question.
‘Did you fancy her at all?’
‘Prune? Like I've known her since we were young. We were just friends. Mates. Dad used to pick her up on the school run and I'd see her every day. Mates. That's all we were. Right?’
‘They say you sent her messages.’
‘Why would I want to send her messages when I saw her all the time? There wouldn't have been a whole lot of point in it.’
‘So you didn't send her e-mails?’
He was working again with his knife on the edge of the table. ‘You believe I did, don't you?’
‘I never said that.’
‘Like everyone believes I did.’
‘Not everyone.’
‘Who doesn't then?’
‘I told you. I don't. I'm in no hurry to believe anything. Now, as I told you, I assume you are innocent.’
He stopped sawing then, having done the edge of the table little visible damage. He put the knife down and looked at me. ‘No one's said that to me before. You going to speak up for me? Like in Court?’
‘If you want me to.’
‘There's nothing much you could do.’
‘Oh yes there is. I'd see if they could prove it.’ He was silent then and I felt I had to say, ‘Your parents think you might want someone younger.’
He flicked the knife with a finger and spun it as it lay on the table. I remembered, at his age, spinning knives to make decisions or answer questions, even to point out a guilty party. It came to rest pointing at me.
Rumpole Rests His Case Page 14
