The Second Rumpole Omnibus

by John Mortimer

  That night Hilda and I were sitting at leisure in the living room of our ‘mansion’ flat at 25B Froxbury Court in the Gloucester Road. She Who Must Be Obeyed was knitting some garment. I have no idea what it was, except that it was long and pink and was no doubt destined for her old school friend Dodo Mackintosh, and I was smoking a small cigar, watching the tide go down in a glass of Pommeroy’s very ordinary, when She asked me, not with the air of anyone who intended to listen too closely to the answer, ‘Went the day well?’ or words to that effect.

  ‘You could describe it as a nightmare,’ I confided in her, blowing out smoke.

  ‘You mean it’s not going well?’

  ‘Well.’ I gave one of my mirthless laughs. ‘We’ve got a prosecutor who wears a hair shirt and seems to have done his pupillage with the Inquisition. The Mad Bull is madder than ever. The chief witness has this in common with the late Lohengrin – no one must ever ask him his name. And my clients think it’s in the best public school tradition to get convicted of blackmail. There we are, all together at the Old Bailey,

  Rolled round in earth’s diurnal course,

  With rocks, and stones, and trees…

  It’s making my head ache.’

  My glass seemed to have drained itself during this monologue. I rose to refresh it from the bottle.

  ‘I mean in Chambers. The Headship, Rumpole! Is it going to be ours?’ Hilda asked with some impatience.

  ‘You have great legal ambitions, Hilda. I’m sorry, I can’t bring you back the Lord Chief Justice’s chain of office with a bottle of Pommeroy’s Château Plonkenheim.’ I raised my glass to her, in recognition of her fighting spirit, and drank.

  ‘I’m not looking for Lord Chancellor, Rumpole,’ Hilda told me patiently. ‘Just Head of Daddy’s old Chambers. Of course, I was brought up in the law.’ There was a pause. She looked at me with some suspicion, her knitting needles clicked, and then she asked, ‘There’s no one more senior than you, is there? No one else they might appoint?’

  ‘No one who has been longer in the bottle as an Old Bailey hack, no,’ I reassured her.

  ‘And no silks?’ For a moment, Hilda stopped knitting, as though her fingers were frozen in suspense. I gave her encouraging news. ‘Not as yet. Erskine-Brown’s application doesn’t come up till after the meeting.’

  ‘Then it’s in the bag, isn’t it?’ Hilda breathed a sigh of relief, and her knitting needles clicked again.

  ‘Fear not, Hilda. So far as I can see, your election is assured.’ I poured another glass to drink to her success. I must say, She Who Must Be Obeyed smiled with some satisfaction.

  ‘Dodo’s agreed to help me out at the party,’ she told me. ‘She does all sorts of dips.’

  ‘Damned versatile, old Dodo,’ I agreed, and then with a mind to see what, if anything, was going on in the world outside Froxbury Court, I switched on the small and misty television set we hire from Mr Mehta who keeps a shop full of electrical appliances on our corner of the Gloucester Road. Thanks to the wonders of science, I was immediately rewarded by the sight of Fiona Allways’s friend Isobel Vincent, who was clutching a microphone, wearing her boiler suit, standing under the dome of the Old Bailey, and giving a waiting world much too much news of the events that had occurred in Court during that eventful day.

  ‘The Top People’s Disorderly House Case,’ said Izzy. ‘Home Counties News can reveal the fact that Mr X is in fact the very senior civil servant at the Foreign Office, Sir Cuthbert Pericles. He is just one of the men, highly placed in public life, who are believed to have visited the house in Barnardine Square. This is Isobel Vincent, Home Counties News, at the Old Bailey.’

  I switched off the set, Isobel Vincent shrank to a small point of light and vanished, unhappily not off the face of the earth. I looked at Hilda, appalled. ‘My God,’ I said. ‘What a disaster!’

  ‘Whatever is it, Rumpole?’ Hilda sighed. Again she was not over-interested.

  ‘You were nearest the window, Hilda. Didn’t you hear a loud noise,’ I asked her, ‘coming from Kensington?’

  ‘What sort of noise?’

  ‘His Honour Judge Bullingham,’ I suggested, ‘blowing up?’

  The next day, his Honour was still in one piece, although sitting on the Bench breathing heavily and a darker purple than ever. I began to fear that we were about to witness one of the few recorded cases of spontaneous combustion. He was delivering a pretty decided judgement on Miss Isobel Vincent, who stood, still defiantly boiler-suited, in the well of the Court in front of him, about as apologetic as St Joan when called on to answer a nasty heresy charge before the Inquisition.

  ‘In almost half a century’s experience at the Bar and on the Bench, I have never known such a flagrant, wicked and inexcusable Contempt of Court!’ Bullingham boomed. I must say I wasn’t giving him my full attention. I was turning to the door hoping that at any minute Mr Staines, my instructing solicitor, might come into Court with the news I was hoping and praying for.

  Meanwhile Isobel was still looking noble, Fiona Allways was trying to look at no one in particular, and the Judge was still carrying on. ‘I have heard that your employers, Home Counties Television, had no idea that you were disobeying a Court Order. That will be investigated. If anyone who has been in this Court, anyone at all, had anything to do with this matter…’ At this point his Lordship could be seen glaring at Horace Rumpole. ‘They will be sought out and punished.’

  And then the miracle happened. Old Stainey filtered back into Court and whispered the news that the man I was waiting for was without, and he wanted to know if I would call him first.

  ‘Of course I’ll call him first,’ I whispered back. ‘It shouldn’t be long now. The Bull’s running out of steam.’

  ‘I will send the papers to the proper quarter in order that it may be decided what action shall be taken against this most foolish and wicked young woman…’ The Judge dismissed Isobel then, and she left the Court with her head held high and a look at Fiona which caused that young lady to blush slightly. Shortly thereafter the show was on the road again, and I was on my hind legs opening our defence to the jury.

  ‘Members of the jury. It is my duty to outline to you the evidence the defence is going to call. I’m going to call a witness…’ – well, I hoped to God I was going to call a witness – ‘who may be able to penetrate the pall of secrecy which has fallen over this case. Someone, perhaps, may have the bad manners and rotten taste to tell us the truth about the evidence. Someone may be able to cast aside the “Old Boy Net” and let the secret out. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I will now call…’ I paused long enough to stoop and whisper to old Staines, who was sitting in front of me, ‘Whom the hell will I now call, Stainey?’

  ‘Mr Stephen Lucas,’ Mr Staines whispered back.

  ‘I will now call Mr Simon…’ I started.

  ‘Stephen!’ Another whisper from Stainey.

  ‘Mr Stephen Lucas.’ I was confident at last.

  ‘Very well, Mr Rumpole.’ The Judge picked up his pencil with an air of resignation, and prepared to make a few jottings. And then a man came into Court, entered the witness-box as though he had a day full of far better things to do, and promised to tell us the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. He was a smaller, fatter, more jovial type of person than Mr X, but when he spoke it was with the impatient confidence of someone who had spent many years in a trusted position in the corridors of power. He gave his name as Stephen Lucas.

  ‘Are you a member of the Foreign Office Legal Department?’ I asked him.

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘And do you know the witness we have called “Mr X”? I have asked him to remain in Court so that you may identify him.’

  The witness looked down at the man who was sitting in front of Ballard with as much detachment as if Mr X were something that had just arrived in his ‘In tray’.

  ‘Yes, I do,’ he said.

  ‘Are you a friend of his?’

  ‘We meet, of course
, in the Foreign Office,’ Lucas said cautiously. ‘I would say I’ve known him fairly well, and over a long period.’

  ‘Of course. Do you remember having lunch with him at his Club about a year ago? Was that at his invitation?’

  ‘Yes, it was.’

  ‘What did he discuss, do you remember?’

  ‘Well, we discussed a number of things, the work of my department and so on, and then he asked me some questions about the recent Contempt of Court Act. He seemed to want my opinion about it, as a lawyer. It’s not really my subject, but I told him what I knew.’

  ‘What aspect of the Act was our “Mr X” particularly interested in?’

  ‘In the Court’s power to order that the name of a witness in a blackmail case should be kept secret, perhaps for ever.’ The witness paused. The jury were looking at him with interest and the Bull, I was pleased to see, was writing busily. Then Lucas went on with his story. ‘I remember his saying that if you didn’t want your name to come out in a particular scandal or something of that sort, all you would have to do would be to accuse someone of blackmail.’

  ‘Mr Lucas, what made you remember this conversation?’ I asked, to pre-empt a bit of Ballard’s cross-examination.

  ‘It was last night, when I heard Mr X’s name on the television news. I thought it might have some bearing on this case.’

  The Judge frowned, and I went on quickly to prevent any unfriendly comment from the Bench. ‘Tell us, Mr Lucas. You say you’ve known Mr X for a long time. You weren’t at school together, by any chance?’

  ‘No. I wasn’t at Lawnhurst,’ Lucas admitted.

  ‘Or at any public school?’

  ‘No.’

  Thank God, I thought, or we’d never have got a word out of him. I sat down and Ballard was up with his long black silk gown flapping with indignation.

  ‘So, Mr Lucas, you would never have come here to give evidence if there hadn’t been a flagrant Contempt of Court and Mr X’s name had not appeared on the television news.’

  ‘That’s right.’ Lucas seemed to be not in the least worried by the course of events.

  ‘It’s most unfortunate, I agree, Mr Ballard.’ The Judge looked sadly at the prosecutor. ‘But I don’t see what I can do about it. I can’t exclude this evidence.’

  ‘Oh no, my Lord. But it is most unfortunate.’ Ballard seemed to be regretting some huge historical disaster, like the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire.

  ‘Of course it is.’ The Judge cast a meaningful glance at the Rumpole faction. ‘But the harm’s been done.’ Whether it was harm or good, of course, depended on which side you were sitting.

  Well, in due course the Lees gave evidence and denied the blackmail in a pained sort of way, and answered Ballard’s passionate denunciations with excessively polite murmurs of dissent, as though they were regretfully declining the offer of more bread and butter. Later in the proceedings, my learned opponent gave the jury another two-hour sermon, during the course of which I was delighted to see them getting somewhat restive. And then, almost before I knew it, final speech time was round again.

  ‘Mr X couldn’t give up his visits to the friendly house in Barnardine Square, members of the jury,’ I told them. ‘But he was always terrified that the place might be raided and his name would come out in the ensuing scandal. So he hit on this somewhat over-ingenious device: a couple of cheques, a sure proof that he had paid money to the Lees, could lay the basis for a trumped-up blackmail charge that would keep his name a secret for ever! It was an elaborate plan, complicated, expensive and entirely futile. Just the sort of plan, you may think, that would occur to someone high in the government of our country. Why was it futile? Because Mr X need have had no fear. The Lees would never have betrayed his pathetic little secrets. You see, it was for them, as it never was for him, a question of morality. They had their code.’

  At the end of it all the Judge summed up with surprising moderation. The jury stayed out for three hours, and mugs of tea were being served in the cells when we got down to discuss the result with Mr and Mrs Napier Lee.

  ‘A great win on the blackmail, Mr Rumpole.’ Mr Staines, at least, could always be relied on to say the right thing.

  ‘Wasn’t it, Stainey! Six months for the disorderly house, I’m afraid,’ I said regretfully.

  ‘I just hope “Custard” doesn’t think we sneaked on him.’ Mr Lee looked extremely worried.

  ‘He knows we’d never do a thing like that!’ Mrs Lorraine Lee was consoling him.

  ‘Who the hell’s “Custard”?’ I felt I was losing my grip.

  ‘Pericles. His name’s Cuthbert, so we called him “Custard” at school.’

  ‘I suppose that follows,’ I admitted.

  ‘We know we didn’t break the code, Nappy. We’ve got that to comfort us,’ Lorraine told her husband. And I thought that I’d add my own two pennyworth of consolation for them both.

  ‘They’ll probably send you to an open Nick,’ I said. ‘You might meet some of the chaps from school.’

  ‘I never went to Lawnhurst,’ Mrs Lee said regretfully.

  ‘By Jove, that’s a point.’ Napier seemed suddenly depressed.

  ‘Daddy had set his heart on Roedean for me. But it was a question of the readies,’ Mrs Lee explained.

  But Napier seemed to realize quite suddenly that he was about to be separated from his wife. ‘It’s boys only where I’m going, I suppose?’ he said.

  ‘I’m afraid so. No co-education.’ I had to break it to him.

  ‘Sorry, old girl. We’ll be separated.’ He held out his hand to his wife, and she took it.

  ‘Not for long, Nappy,’ she said. ‘And we’ve had a marvellous offer for the freehold.’

  ‘Not to mention the good will!’

  ‘Then you’ve just got to bear it for six months,’ I said as I moved to the door, the rest of the legal team following behind me.

  ‘When a chap’s been to Lawnhurst, Mr Rumpole,’ Napier said, ‘he can’t really feel afraid of prison.’

  When we left them, they were still holding hands.

  Walking back to Chambers with Miss Fiona Allways, I could feel her deep embarrassment and fear of the subject which I knew perfectly well I would have to mention. There was a fine rain falling over Fleet Street then. The buses were roaring beside us, no one could hear what I had to say and, I hoped to goodness, no one had guessed Miss Allways’s secret; otherwise hers might have been one of the shortest careers in the history of the legal profession.

  ‘You’d better learn something quickly, Fiona,’ I told her. ‘If you want to be a barrister, keep the rules!’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean…’ she started unconvincingly, and then blushed beneath her headscarf.

  ‘Don’t you?’ I looked at her. ‘Don’t worry. I don’t imagine Mzz Isobel Vincent is going to reveal her sources. She’s all out for glorious martyrdom, and I bet she doesn’t want to share her publicity with anyone.’ We were turning into the Temple entrance, and I stopped, faced her, and said with all the power I could command, ‘But you have to keep the rules! You can swear at them, argue your way round them, do your damnedest to change them, but if you break the rules yourself, how the hell are you going to help the other idiots out of trouble?’

  Miss Allways looked at me for a long time, and I hoped to God I wasn’t going to see her in tears ever again. ‘I’ll never get a place in Chambers now,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t know. Perhaps you will. Perhaps you won’t,’ I said briskly and started to walk into our place of work. ‘You can help me out on another little cause or matter.’

  ‘Can I?’ Miss Allways trotted behind me eagerly. I told her what I had in mind. ‘Look up the cases on Contempt of Court, why don’t you?’ I suggested. ‘We may be having to cope with the defence of Mzz Vincent, and we’ve got to keep the good Mzz out of chokey. Martyrs make me exceedingly nervous.’

  When I got into the clerk’s room, Henry told me that a Chambers meeting was about to take place
– a forum, I instantly realized, for preliminary discussions on the Headship, at which the way would be smoothed for the Rumpole take-over at Number 3 Equity Court. So, in the shortest possible time, the ambitions of She Who Must Be Obeyed might be fulfilled. Before I went upstairs, Henry handed me a letter which, he said, had been delivered by hand as a matter of urgency. I stuffed it into my pocket and went upstairs to what had been Guthrie Featherstone’s room, and would now, I thought, be my room in perpetuity.

  As I got to the head of the stairs, I heard the buzz of voices and, for a moment, I was puzzled that the meeting should have started without my good self as the natural Chairperson and Master of Ceremonies. Then I supposed that they were merely chattering about the splendours and miseries of their days in various Courts. I advanced a couple of steps, threw open the door, entered the room, and then, it is no exaggeration to say, I was frozen in horror and dismay.

  Of all the nasty moments in Macbeth’s life, and they certainly came to him thick and fast after his encounter with the witches, I have always thought that by far the worst must have come when he went to take his old place at the dinner party and found that the ghost of Banquo had got there before him, and was glowering at the poor old Thane in a blood-bolter’d and accusing sort of way. So it was for me on the occasion of that Chambers meeting, only the person in the chair behind Guthrie’s old desk, the man in the seat of honour directing the proceedings, was not Banquo but Sam Ballard, One of Her Majesty’s Counsel and founder member of the Lawyers As Churchgoers Society.

  ‘Come along, Rumpole, you’re late.’ This spectre spoke. ‘And would you mind shutting the door.’

  ‘Bollard.’ I looked around the room which contained Claude Erskine-Brown, Hoskins, Uncle Tom (our oldest inhabitant) and five or six other assorted barristers. Mrs Phillida Erskine-Brown, our Portia, was apparently away doing a long firm fraud in York.

  ‘What’s this?’ I asked Ballard. ‘A prayer meeting or something? What on earth are you doing here?’

  ‘Hasn’t anyone told you?’ The man, Ballard, seemed genuinely puzzled. ‘Featherstone, J., said he’d written you a note as soon as he knew you were back from Africa.’