The Second Rumpole Omnibus

by John Mortimer

  ‘She seemed to want to speak to me, sir. On the subject of snacks.’

  ‘Snacks, Henry?’

  ‘Sausage rolls. Rolled-up asparagus. She said her friend, Mrs Mackintosh would provide us with little cheesy things, sir. I told her we weren’t having the Chambers party until after the meeting, and then we’d be able to welcome our new Head of Chambers.’

  ‘Head of Chambers! She Who Must Be Obeyed has set her heart on it. She won’t take no for an answer. You follow me?’ I looked hard and long at Henry. I wanted to be sure that the man was on my side in my bid for the leadership.

  It was a sunny morning on the day the Lees’ trial started, and I decided to take a slightly longer walk along the Embankment down to the Bailey. As the wind sent small white clouds chasing each other across the sky, and the seagulls came swooping in over Temple Gardens, I was put in mind of certain lines by the old sheep of the Lake District:

  Earth has not anything to show more fair:

  Dull would he be of soul who would pass by

  A sight so touching in its majesty…

  A sight not quite so touching in its majesty was likely to be his Honour Judge Bullingham. The Mad Bull had been picked by some practical joker on the Bailey staff to try the case of the frightfully nice bawdy house keepers. Did the Bull go to a public school? I wondered. I couldn’t remember. Probably he went to some establishment where they played soccer with a cannon ball and learning to read was an optional extra.

  I passed Ludgate Circus and turned up towards the dome of the Old Bailey. I was just about to cross the road and dive in through the swing doors, when I heard a panting sound at my elbow, and Hoskins, a fairly unmemorable barrister in our Chambers, was at my side.

  ‘Rumpole,’ said Hoskins, ‘You’ve got back from Africa!’

  ‘No, Hoskins. I’m still there, dispensing tribal justice in a loin cloth and a top hat. What’re you talking about?’

  ‘Just to let you know that I’m against you in the brothel case. Sam Ballard’s leading me.’

  ‘Who?’ The name was unknown to me.

  ‘Sam Ballard. The Q.C. from the North-East Circuit. You know, the one who’s coming to practise in London. Haven’t you been told?’

  ‘Yes. You’ve just told me.’ I was glad Hoskins was on the other side in our case and not helping me. His mind seemed to be wandering.

  ‘But you haven’t been told anything else about him?’ Hoskins looked surprisingly embarrassed.

  ‘No. What is there to tell?’

  ‘You’ll get on with him like a house on fire,’ Hoskins assured me. ‘He’s Chairman of L.A.C., you know – “Lawyers As Churchgoers”.’

  Having climbed laboriously into the wig and gown (did I detect, still hanging in the horsehair, the dry scented smell of Africa?), I made my way to Judge Bullingham’s Court attended by my small retinue consisting of Miss Fiona Allways and Mr Staines.

  When I got to the courtroom door, I found a tall, somewhat stooping figure waiting for me. He was, I supposed, younger than he looked. He seemed the sort of man who had felt the weight of heavy responsibilities in the nursery: his brow was furrowed by a look of anxiety and his mouth was drawn down in an expression of almost permanent disapproval. He wore his black Court coat and striped trousers like a suit of mourning and, in all the circumstances, his silk Q.C.’s gown seemed something of a frivolity. His face was pale, and when he spoke his tone was slow and sepulchral. I suppose you could sum the matter up by saying that he was a character who might have been quite nice looking, when he was alive.

  ‘Are you Horace Rumpole?’ The question seemed to contain a lurking accusation.

  ‘I suppose I must be.’

  ‘Sam Ballard.’ He introduced himself. ‘I’m leading for the Crown. In “Lee”. By the way, I passed Chambers this morning. In fact I dropped something in your tray.’

  ‘Did you, Bollard?’ I said airily. ‘Can’t say I noticed.’

  ‘It was about a meeting of LAC.’ He pronounced it as one word, like the place Sir Lancelot came from. ‘I do hope you can find time to join us. We should value your contribution.’

  ‘ “Lawyers As Churchgoers”? I may have to give that a miss, Bollard. My doctor has advised me to avoid all excitement.’

  ‘Ballard.’

  ‘Yes, of course. I imagine your little get-together might put considerable strain on the ticker. Where do you meet? Pentonville Women’s Institute? The whole orgy topped up by barn dancing and silent prayer?’

  ‘Henry warned me about you, Rumpole.’ The man was unsmiling.

  ‘Henry?’ I wondered why Henry had discussed my character with this lay reader.

  ‘Henry the clerk. He said you had a sense of humour.’

  ‘Only a mild one, Bollard. Nothing fatal. You’ve managed to keep free of it? What do you do? Jog a lot, I imagine.’ He looked at me in silence for a long time and then said, more in sorrow than in anger, ‘Some of our keenest members scoffed at the outset.’

  ‘I dare say they did.’ Fascinating as this conversation was, duty called. I had to tear myself away, and moved towards the door of the Court. As I did so, I uttered a pious thought. ‘Well, all I hope is that this little prosecution will be conducted in a thoroughly Christian spirit.’

  ‘You can rely on me for that.’

  I was almost through the door as I said, ‘Perhaps you’ll show a certain reluctance about casting the first stone.’

  Far from showing any reluctance in the stone-throwing department, the lugubrious Ballard fired off a volley of moderately lethal rocks in the course of his opening speech to the jury.

  There I sat facing Judge Bullingham, who glowered like a larger white (or rather purplish) Sir Worthington Banzana, and I looked round the Court to which I had come home from my travels. I saw the Lees, sitting calmly in the dock as though they had just been asked to drop in for a cup of tea. I glanced at the Press box which was more than usually full, R. v. Lee being, it seemed, a bit of a draw and likely to fill the Sunday papers for the next couple of weeks. Prominent among the journalists I saw a youngish girl in a boiler suit and glasses, who wore a button bearing the legend HOME COUNTIES TELEVISION. I thought that she was smiling at me and I smiled back, somewhat flattered, until I saw that the message was being beamed at Fiona Allways, who was sitting beside me, industriously writing down Ballard’s rubbish. Then I closed my eyes, hoping to indicate to the jury that nothing the prosecution said could possibly be of the slightest interest. Steadily, remorselessly, the voice of the Ballard droned on.

  ‘Decent men, family men, men who had earned the respect of the community and were placed in positions of trust, found themselves tempted by this house, 66 Barnardine Square, Victoria. Some of you may know Victoria, members of the jury, you may know its brightly lit streets and British Railway Terminal. I’m sure none of you know the darker streets, where the market is in human flesh. Men left that particular house, members of the jury, with their consciences burdened with guilt and their wallets lightened. In the case of one of the witnesses I am about to call, the financial gain to those who exercised this appalling trade was considerably more. This is the subject of Count Two of the indictment, my Lord.’

  I opened my eyes as the Judge weighed in with, ‘Yes, Mr Ballard. I am sure the jury understand. The blackmail!’ The Bull looked at the jury to remind them that this was a very grave charge indeed and then glowered at me as though it were all my fault.

  I smiled back at Bullingham in a friendly fashion.

  ‘Among the many respectable figures who fell to the temptations of 66 Barnardine Square…’ Ballard went on, and I began to speculate, in a random sort of way, as to who the many respectable figures might be. Doctors? Politicians? Police officers? Lawyers? Lawyers? Judges! I looked at his Honour Judge Roger Bullingham with a wild surmise. I thought I must ask my clients. Of course, they’d never tell me. But a Bull in a knocking shop! The idea was almost too good to be true. I couldn’t suppress a momentary gasp of merriment.
/>   ‘Did you say something, Mr Rumpole?’ The Bull cast a scowl in my direction.

  ‘Nothing at all, my Lord!’ I rose slightly and then sank into silence.

  ‘I should remind everyone in Court that this is a most serious case.’ The Judge made a pronouncement. ‘The charges are extremely grave, and if the evidence as outlined by Mr Ballard is true… Of course, I haven’t begun to make up my mind about it yet.’

  ‘Haven’t you, Bull?’ I muttered to myself in the most sotto of possible voces as his Lordship continued.

  ‘Then all I can say is that the activities at this property in Victoria were very wicked indeed. So we will have no laughter from anywhere in this Court.’ After a meaningful look at counsel for the defence, the Judge smiled on the prosecution. ‘Yes, Mr Ballard.’

  ‘If your Lordship pleases.’ My opponent bobbed a small bow to the learned Bull and then carried on with his work. ‘Members of the jury,’ he said. ‘A suitable motto to be written up over the door of 66 Barnardine Square is that which Dante chose for his Inferno…’ I didn’t think much of that for a legal reference. His Lordship probably thought that Dante was someone who did conjuring tricks on television, but Ballard soldiered on with: ‘ “Abandon hope all ye who enter here.” Because, of course, once he was in the door, and once the spiders got to know who he was, a fact which they took great pains to find out, the fly was trapped. He couldn’t get away, and if he was a man who enjoyed a high and responsible position, he would pay anything, you may think, to buy the silence of this brazen woman and her procuring husband…’

  The jury looked at the couple in the dock. Napier Lee had his hand cupped over his ear and a gently pained expression as a result of what he was able to hear. At which point Ballard announced that he would call his first witness. I noticed that this announcement was not accompanied by any name, and then the Usher went out of Court and returned, after a longer lapse of time than usual, with a tall, distinguished-looking, grey-haired man wearing a dark suit, a striped shirt with a stiff white collar, and a Guards tie. He walked across the Court with the stiff-upper-lipped expression of an officer and gentleman marching out to face a firing squad. Once in the box he lifted the Bible, raised his eyes to heaven and repeated the oath as though it were his last will and testament. When he had finished he put the Good Book down carefully on the ledge in front of him, and turned to face the fusillade of Ballard’s questions. Before he did so, I gave vent to a loud mutter of ‘Name please.’

  Triggered off by this perfectly normal request, Ballard made an application to the learned Judge.

  ‘My Lord,’ he started confidently, ‘I would like to make the usual application in a blackmail case. I ask that this witness should be known simply as Mr X and that your Lordship directs that the ladies and gentlemen of the Press should not repeat his name under any circumstances.’

  I glanced at the Press box and saw the young lady television reporter look up from her notebook and stare hard at the man in the witness-box. Meanwhile, the Judge was nodding his agreement. ‘That seems to be a very proper order to make, in view of this gentleman’s position,’ he said. ‘I imagine you have no objection, Mr Rumpole?’

  I rose slowly to my feet, glowing with helpfulness.

  ‘I would have no objection, my Lord, provided a similar concession is made for the benefit of my clients.’

  ‘My Lord.’ My words had clearly alarmed my learned friend. ‘Perhaps we should continue with this in the absence of the jury, if there is to be an argument.’ Well, he could bet his old hair shirt there was going to be an argument.

  ‘Very well. Members of the jury.’ Bullingham smiled in an ingratiating manner at the twelve good men and women and true. ‘Unfortunately, legal matters arise from time to time which have to be resolved. Would you go to your room? We shouldn’t have to detain you long.’

  The jury filed out, grateful for a smoke and a cup of Old Bailey coffee. The boiler-suited girl in the Press box was writing furiously in her notebook. As the door closed on the last jury member the Bull fixed me with a malevolent eye.

  ‘Now, Mr Rumpole,’ he said. ‘Did I hear a somewhat unusual argument with regard to the defendants in this case?’

  ‘That they should be known as Mr and Mrs Y? Why not, my Lord?’ I asked innocently. ‘My learned friend talks about embarrassment. Mr and Mrs Napier Lee have been spattered over the front pages of every newspaper in England. “Alleged Vice Queen Arrested”; “The Darby and Joan Who Owned the House of Shame”; “Charged with Being the Top People’s Madame”… and so on. They have had to submit to a barrage of prejudicial publicity whilst this client of theirs can creep into Court under cover of a letter of the alphabet and preserve his precious respectability intact!’

  ‘Mr Rumpole. There is no charge against this gentleman. He is innocent of any crime!’ His Lordship seemed to be turning a darker shade of purple.

  ‘So are my clients innocent!' I did my bit to match the Judge’s outrage. ‘Until they’re proven guilty. Or doesn’t that rule still apply in your Lordship’s Court?’ I was regarded with a look of admiration from Miss Fiona Allways and the boiler-suited television lady, and a trumpet of indignation from the Bench.

  ‘Mr Rumpole! This Court is entitled to some respect.’

  ‘I am so full of respect to this Court, my Lord, that I give it credit for still applying the law of England – or has that been changed while I was out of the country? I merely ask for information.’ I tried a charming smile, which was about as calming as a red rag to the Bull. He came charging to judgement. ‘Your application that your clients’ names should not be published is refused, Mr Rumpole,’ he said. ‘This case can be reported in full so far as they are concerned.’

  ‘And they will no doubt be delighted to contribute to the pleasures of the great British Breakfast.’ I bowed with great courtesy and sat. ‘If your Lordship pleases.’

  ‘Now, Mr Ballard.’ The Judge turned to the more congenial matter of dealing with the prosecution. ‘Your application for this witness to remain anonymous is made on good authority?’

  ‘Certainly, my Lord. The Contempt of Court Act gives your Lordship power to order that the witness’s name should never be published.’

  ‘In perpetuity?’ I grumbled from a seated position.

  ‘My learned friend says, “In perpetuity?” and the answer would be “yes”,’ Ballard answered without hesitation.

  ‘I suppose your argument would be,’ the Judge suggested helpfully, ‘that if this witness’s secrets are exposed to the public, then in effect the blackmail threat would have been successful. Is that your argument, Mr Ballard?’ Of course it was, once the Judge had told him.

  ‘Yes, it is, my Lord. And your Lordship puts it so much better than I can.’ At least Ballard’s religious integrity didn’t prevent a little grovelling on occasions.

  ‘What’s your answer to that, Mr Rumpole?’ His Lordship turned to the defence.

  ‘What blackmail?’ I rose with apparent reluctance. ‘What blackmail is your Lordship referring to? I merely ask for information.’

  ‘We all know what this case is about,’ Bullingham rumbled.

  I responded with another burst of carefully simulated outrage. ‘There hasn’t yet been a word of evidence about blackmail,’ I said. ‘Nothing has been proved. Nothing! In my submission your Lordship cannot make a decision based on unproven allegations. And one more thing…’

  ‘Yes, Mr Rumpole.’ The Judge looked pointedly at the clock and sighed.

  ‘One more principle of which this Court should be reminded. British justice is meant to take place in public. Justice is not to be seen cowering behind an initial.’

  ‘Is that all, Mr Rumpole?’ His Lordship sighed again.

  It was all that was fit for mixed company, so I bowed with elaborate courtesy. ‘If your Lordship pleases. With the greatest respect.’ I bowed again. ‘I think your Lordship has my argument.’ I did a final gesture of mock subservience and sat down.

  ‘Y
es, Mr Rumpole. I think I have. I see it’s nearly one o’clock, but I’ll give judgement on this point now, so that the witness may have his lunch with some degree of peace of mind.’ The Judge smiled at the silent figure in the witness-box, and continued. ‘The defendants, through their counsel, seem particularly anxious that this gentleman’s patronage of their alleged house of ill repute should become widely known to the public.’

  Turning round I saw Mrs Lee, deeply wounded, shake her head. Bullingham continued with grim determination. ‘If that were allowed it would be a blackmailer’s charter. No victim would ever dare to go to the police. I am determined that this witness’s high reputation shall be protected. He will give his evidence to the jury as “Mr X” after luncheon. Thank you, Mr Ballard.’

  The Usher called us to our feet and the Judge left us. I told Stainey to inform the Lee family that I would visit them in the cells shortly and gathered up my papers. When I got outside the Court I saw Fiona Allways, my learned note-taker, in close conversation with the lady from the Press box. When she saw me, Fiona said to her, ‘See you, Izzy. See you here after lunch,’ and joined me on my journey to the lifts.

  ‘Who was that?’ I asked by way of idle chatter.

  ‘Isobel Vincent. She was a prefect when I was at Benenden. I hero-worshipped her rather,’ Miss Allways admitted.

  ‘Do girls have an “Old Boy Net” too?’

  ‘Izzy works for Home Counties News,’ Fiona Allways sounded deeply impressed. ‘She’s tremendously into Women’s Liberation.’

  ‘So am I!’ I said as we waited for the lift.

  ‘You?’

  ‘All for Women’s Liberation. Particularly the liberation of Mrs Lorraine Lee.’

  The lift arrived and we stepped into it and sank towards the cells. As we did so Miss Allways was looking at me with the sort of admiration she had previously reserved for Izzy, the fearless television reporter.

  ‘I say, Rumpole. You were splendid. Really fighting.’

  ‘Let’s say – going through the motions towards a graceful defeat.’