The Second Rumpole Omnibus

by John Mortimer

  ‘After my time.’

  ‘I know it was. The point is I was up the other night. Giving a talk to the Law Society on my famous cases.’

  ‘Must have been a pretty short talk.’

  ‘Horace! Of course I don’t get the sort of sensational stuff you do. I don’t hit the headlines, or the News of the World. I don’t think I’d care to either. What I meant to say is, I had dinner with the Principal. What a perfectly charming fellow.’

  ‘Oh charming. I agree.’

  ‘The point is, of course he’s being enormously brave about it, but Michael is most frightfully embarrassed about this case.’

  ‘Not half as embarrassed as my client.’

  ‘It really is an appalling thing to happen, to a man who has the Order of Merit.’

  ‘Well, if he didn’t want it to happen, Sir Michael Tuffnell, O.M., shouldn’t have rushed round to the Old Bill to pour out his soul.’

  ‘What could he do? He was being blackmailed.’

  ‘Isn’t that for the jury to decide?’

  ‘Horace.’ Guthrie Featherstone essayed the boyish smile which he puts on before he’s going to attempt something unusually devious. ‘How do you feel about defending blackmailers?’

  ‘Much as I feel about defending anyone. Glad of the money.’

  ‘But blackmail’s such an extra loathsome crime.’

  ‘Perhaps that’s why Peter Vernon needs to be defended extra carefully. You wouldn’t like him convicted out of prejudice?’

  ‘I really think,’ Guthrie was choosing his words carefully, as though he were a Judge at first instance and utterly scared of the Court of Appeal, ‘I really do think that Michael is just a little wee bit upset at the fact that Vernon’s being defended by an old St Joseph’s man.’

  ‘I can’t think why. Peter Vernon’s a St Joseph’s man too, after all. He’s a St Joseph’s gardener.’

  ‘Oh well, Horace, if that’s the attitude.’ And Guthrie Featherstone started to beat a measured retreat.

  ‘Don’t come to dinner next week, Guthrie, will you?’

  ‘Have you asked me?’

  ‘No. So please don’t come. If you do I’ll simply have to spend a fortune on loose covers.’ Guthrie then withdrew, feeling perhaps, that his mission on behalf of Sir Michael Tuffnell had not been a total success.

  When our Head of Chambers had gone off to govern the country (or at least to sit in moody silence through an all-night sitting), I turned my attention back to the brief, and a thought, as yet no bigger than a very small man’s hand, appeared on the horizon. I lifted the telephone and asked Harry to put me through to Miss Sue Galton of the Oxford solicitors. After we had exchanged pleasantries and I had inquired after her fiancé’s health (‘Bit worried now the trial’s next week, actually.’ He was worried – what on earth did she think I was?), I asked Miss Galton to remind me of the date when Sir Michael first went to the police and complained that he was being blackmailed.

  ‘November the first last year.’

  ‘And what are the dates on the cheques?’ I heard the rustling as she consulted her file.

  ‘August, September. One in October.’

  ‘All before the Principal went to the police?’

  ‘Before that, yes.’

  ‘Listen. I want you to find out about the gold cigarette case. Get a photograph of it or something. Go round Oxford jewellers. Find out when Sir Michael bought it.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Yes. The date’s important. Find out when.’

  ‘Do you think that’s going to help us?’ Miss Galton asked me.

  ‘I really don’t know. Something has to.’

  I went back to Oxford the day before the trial for a final conference. Miss Sue Galton had, she told me, drawn a blank with the Oxford jewellers. I sent her up to London. I had an idea that Sir Michael might have bought the case when he stayed at his Club in St James, just across the road from Bond Street and the Burlington Arcade. It seemed a forlorn hope, and she hadn’t returned the next morning when I sat gloomily in Court, listening to the opening of Her Majesty’s case against Peter Vernon.

  The Oxford Crown Court was full of students – perhaps they were all learning law and anxious to perfect their knowledge of ‘demanding money with menaces’. Perhaps they merely wanted to see a distinguished academic in a spot of bother. The Red Judge in charge of the proceedings was Mr Justice Everglades, known to his few friends as ‘Florrie’, a highly educated old sweetheart with no affection for the criminal classes, who were mainly the sort of people he never bumped into at Glyndebourne. When Peter Vernon pleaded not guilty to the charge of blackmail, the Judge looked at him with a kind of bored disgust; he had not yet had occasion to acknowledge the presence of Rumpole. He listened to Bernard Crompton, Q.C., opening the case for the Crown, with obvious satisfaction.

  ‘Members of the jury,’ old Bernard started, after the usual formal introductions. ‘We may be able to forgive some forms of criminal activity. The man who steals because his wife or his children are in need, the man who loses his self-control and commits an assault, may even deserve our sympathy. But blackmail, you may think is a truly unforgivable crime. Blackmail is a slow poison which feeds on its victims’ fear and, of course, members of the jury, the higher position a man reaches in his public life, the further he has to fall, and the more he’s got to lose. And no one, you may think, is in a more vulnerable position than the distinguished head of a great Oxford college, a man like Sir Michael Tuffnell, whom you probably all know well from your television screens.

  ‘Sir Michael is, of course, Professor of Moral Philosophy and Principal of St Joseph’s College in this ancient university.’

  Bernard Crompton was my contemporary and a member of the old Oxford circuit. He was a dangerous prosecutor, covering his considerable intelligence with a bluff and common-sense manner, and being able to talk to the jury as though he were one of them, sitting not in counsel’s benches, but beside them in their jury-box.

  ‘But the mere fact that blackmail is a crime which we all hate and despise mustn’t make you more ready to assume that this young man, Peter Vernon, is guilty. In all criminal trials, the prosecution bring the case and they have to prove it. If you’re in any doubt about it, at the end of the day, say “not guilty”.’

  Bernard was the most dangerous sort of advocate because he was entirely fair. It was a deadly method of prosecuting and the way he got his convictions.

  ‘And remember,’ counsel for the Crown reached his peroration, ‘these allegations of sexual misconduct are horribly easy to bring and terribly hard to refute. But if you are sure,’ he fixed the jury with a frank and serious stare, ‘when you’ve heard all our evidence, that young Vernon threatened to make these dreadful accusations and so extracted money from Sir Michael, and you will have evidence of the cheques actually paid into Vernon’s bank account and the valuable gold cigarette case found in his possession, then your only verdict, according to your oath, must be one of guilty.’

  The jury looked impressed and deeply conscious of their duty. They tried not to lick their lips as Bernard announced that he was about to call the evidence with the assistance of his learned junior. At which moment, there was a small stir in the bench behind me. Miss Sue Galton, had returned, not a moment too soon, from the jewellers’ shops of London. I leant back and she whispered into my ear:

  ‘I found the shop finally. In the Burlington Arcade. I’m going upstairs to get a witness summons.’

  ‘Tell me the date he bought it, just the date.’

  She told me while Sir Michael Tuffnell, having stepped modestly into the witness-box, held up the New Testament, and swore by Almighty God that the evidence he was about to give would be the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Florrie Everglades glared at us for whispering at this solemn moment, and then turned his attention to the distinguished witness. Having seen so many leather-jacketed tear-aways, and polo-necked villains in witness-boxes, Florrie was clearly delight
ed with the appearance of a grey-haired and good-looking holder of the Order of Merit, wearing a double-breasted blue suit and a spotted bow tie, who could speak the Queen’s English and didn’t think Rigoletto was something you eat with tomato sauce. Although a Cambridge man, Mr Justice Everglades clearly had every sympathy with the embarrassing position in which the Principal of St Joseph’s found himself. He gave the witness a welcoming smile and said, ‘Sir Michael, you understand that in blackmail cases, the victim can remain anonymous, and merely be referred to as Mr X. I will direct the reporters in Court to refer to you in that way.’

  ‘My Lord, I am extremely grateful.’ Sir Michael gave the Judge a small but gracious bow. I was sure Everglades, j., was delighted and I saw no chance of poor old Peter Vernon being referred to as ‘Mr X’. Bernard Crompton interrupted my reverie by launching into his examination in chief.

  ‘Sir Michael, you are the Principal of St Joseph’s College?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘You are the Oxford Professor of Moral Philosophy, a Fellow of the Royal Society and hold the Order of Merit.’

  ‘Yes, I do.’ The admission couldn’t have been made more modestly. Bernard went on to trickier matters.

  ‘Sir Michael, when did you get to know the defendant, Vernon?’

  ‘About eighteen months ago, my Lord.’ Sir Michael Tuffnell turned respectfully to the Judge as a good witness should. ‘When he came to us as an under-gardener and general handyman.’

  ‘Did you have any relationship with him, other than as a college servant?’

  There was a slight pause. The witness was clearly choosing his words, but he made an excellent choice. ‘I think he became a friend. I hope all the college servants are my friends.’

  ‘Did you offer him any particular form of friendship?’

  ‘My Lord. May I explain?’

  Florrie Everglades seemed almost flattered to be spoken to by the witness. The old sweetheart answered with more than usual unction.

  ‘Please, Sir Michael. And do take your time. Would you care to sit down?’

  I was only surprised he didn’t offer him a glass of port and a nibble of biscuit.

  ‘I got talking to Peter Vernon…’ There was another slight hesitation, and Bernard helped out.

  ‘In the garden was that?’

  ‘In the garden, yes,’ the witness agreed. ‘I found that he was a very intelligent young man, with genuine, if unformed, musical tastes. He had done well at school, but his parents had opposed him going on to higher education. And he’d been unable to find a job which suited his very real talents. I thought that he might be feeling jealous of the young men of his age who were enjoying academic life at St Joseph’s.’

  ‘So?’ Bernard nudged the evidence in gently.

  ‘So I felt I should invite him to take some part, at least, in the intellectual life of our community.’

  I looked at him; what a dear old philanthropist the great man was!

  ‘I invited him to my rooms. We talked.’

  ‘About?’ Bernard was astute enough to ask my best question, and so anticipate my cross-examination.

  ‘About music. And philosophy. I tried to have the sort of discussion with him I would normally have with an undergraduate.’

  The Judge was nodding with approval and writing it all down. Dear old Bernard took another brave step forward.

  ‘Did he ever stay the night in your lodge?’

  I looked up, wondering if Sir Michael would be fool enough to deny it. Of course he wasn’t.

  ‘Once or twice. When we were talking late. I put him up in my spare bedroom.’

  ‘And did you go to London together?’

  ‘Again, I think it was once or twice. I took him to Covent Garden and dinner at my Club.’

  ‘Did your friendship continue happily?’

  Sir Michael, with a look of genuine distress at the Judge, said with deep regret, ‘I’m afraid it didn’t.’

  ‘What happened?’ Bernard nudged again.

  ‘One day, Peter Vernon came to me in the garden and said that if I didn’t give him money he would write round to all my colleagues at St Joseph’s and tell them we had been sleeping together.’

  ‘And had you?’

  Sir Michael looked at the jury then, and became the perfect English gent making the perfectly frank denial.

  ‘Certainly not.’

  ‘How did you react?’

  ‘I’m afraid foolishly. I knew I was innocent of what he was suggesting, my Lord, but I was afraid of the scandal.’

  ‘Naturally.’ Florrie looked at the jury and explained the obvious to them – ‘A man in your very vulnerable position.’ I should have chucked a glass of water at the old darling then, but I refrained.

  ‘And I was afraid that one of my colleagues, at least, might say, “There’s no smoke without a fire.” ’ Sir Michael’s explanation sounded perfectly reasonable, and I knew who he was talking about – Grice, the academic lawyer.

  ‘So you gave him the cheques which we have seen?’ Bernard was relaxed; his examination was a coast downhill all the way from then on.

  ‘Yes. And sometimes cash.’

  ‘Amounting to some six hundred pounds. And the gold cigarette case which was, how much?’

  ‘I think that was five hundred, my Lord.’

  ‘About five hundred…’ Florrie was writing it all down.

  ‘And then?’ Bernard moved him on gently.

  ‘Then I began to think about it and realized that if I went on paying Vernon, he would blackmail me for ever. I decided that I must face up to the possibility of scandal and go to the police.’

  ‘I’m sure we all realize that required considerable courage, Sir Michael,’ said the Judge, and I wondered if he was going to give him his V.C. then or after the trial.

  ‘Yes. Thank you, Sir Michael. Just wait there, will you? In case my learned friend has any questions.’

  Bernard Crompton subsided with an air of great satisfaction, and the Judge looked with distaste at counsel for the defence. He sighed and said: ‘Have you any questions, Mr Rumpole?’

  ‘A few, my Lord.’ I was hoisting myself on to my hind legs, preparatory to going into my act. ‘Just a few.’

  The Judge looked at the distinguished witness in an apologetic sort of way, and the jury viewed me with the vague interest they always accord to a new character in the drama, as Sir Michael prepared himself with a smile of almost amused cooperation.

  ‘In your book, Morality and Modern Man, you said something to this effect. “Modern man will do good, and tell the truth for its own sake, not out of fear or respect for a possibly non-existent deity.” ’

  I had done my homework, but I didn’t feel that the jury were immediately grabbed by the question.

  ‘I did, yes.’

  ‘And yet you began your evidence by swearing on the Bible?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why did you do that? Why didn’t you affirm, if you don’t believe in God?’

  Sir Michael dealt with my ignorance with patience, as though I were a serious but not over-bright pupil at a seminar.

  ‘I said God was possibly non-existent. That means I have to recognize that He possibly exists.’

  ‘And on that outside chance, you took the oath as you did?’ I was merely asking for information, but the Judge didn’t like it.

  ‘Mr Rumpole,’ he asked in a markedly unfriendly manner. ‘Are you criticizing Sir Michael for taking the oath in the usual fashion?’

  ‘Oh no, my Lord.’ This time I was giving the seminar. ‘I am criticizing Sir Michael for trying to present himself to this jury as something other than he is.’

  I turned to the witness and asked a brutally non-academic question. ‘You’re lying about yourself, aren’t you?’

  ‘Perhaps you could make clear what you mean, Mr Rumpole.’

  ‘The truth is that you and this young man were lovers.’

  ‘No. I have already told you…’ I knew quite well what he ha
d already told us. I battled on.

  ‘And as a lover, you gave him presents from time to time.’

  ‘Is that what they were…?’ Sir Michael smiled, and the Judge pursed his lips as though he expected nothing better from the defence.

  ‘Certainly that’s what they were,’ I suggested strongly. ‘The sort of expensive presents another man might give his mistress.’

  ‘I have no idea what a man might give his mistress.’ Sir Michael smiled at the jury, but I noticed they didn’t smile back.

  ‘I expect you haven’t! You never married, Sir Michael?’

  ‘No. I have been denied that happiness.’ I supposed some of us might say he’d been exceptionally lucky, but I let that pass.

  ‘So you have no one else to give presents to?’

  ‘It’s true that I have no immediate family…’

  ‘No one but young Peter Vernon?’

  ‘I’ve already told the Court why I gave him that money.’

  My Lord, the learned Judge, who had been listening to the exchange with growing impatience, nodded his agreement.

  ‘Because you were afraid of being accused of something you hadn’t done?’ I asked with an almost genuine bewilderment.

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘And you knew that Mr Humphrey Grice, your Senior Tutor in Academic Law, would use any scandal to have you dismissed as Principal, because he coveted your place?’

  I followed Sir Michael’s eye up to the public gallery, where the law don was leaning eagerly over the rail, waiting for the kill.

  ‘That was something I did have in mind, yes,’ the Principal admitted.

  ‘And you were particularly fearful, because you knew the charge was true?’

  ‘Mr Rumpole, this witness has already denied that unpleasant suggestion!’ Florrie intervened, and I toyed with the notion of asking the old darling if he’d care to go in to the witness-box and give evidence himself. I rejected the idea and persisted with the material available.

  ‘Sir Michael. We’ve heard my learned friend, in his opening speech, tell us the date when you went to the police to make this charge of alleged blackmail. It was November the first, was it not? Of last year.’