It must have been after the prosecution case was closed, and immediately before I had to put my client in the witness-box, that Guthrie Featherstone’s view of life underwent a dramatic change. He had brought in the envelope containing his American Express accounts, a document that he had not dared to open. But, in the privacy of his room and after a certain amount of sherry and claret at the Judge’s luncheon, he steeled himself to open it. Summing up a further reserve of courage, he looked and found the entry, his payment to the Good Life Health Centre. ‘Good Life’? A wild hope rose in an unhappy judge, and he snatched up the papers in the case he was trying. There was no doubt about it. Maurice Horridge was charged with running a number of disorderly houses known as the Good Line Health Centre. It was clearly a different concern entirely. Guthrie felt like a man given six months to live, who discovers there’s been a bit of a mix-up down the lab and all he’s had is a cold in the head. He had never been to one of Dr Horridge’s establishments, and there was no record of any judicial payment among the prosecution exhibits. ‘I have no doubt,’ he shouted, ‘I’m in the clear,’ and down the Bailey they still speak of the little dance of triumph Guthrie was executing when Harold, the new Usher, came to take him into Court.
Installed, happy now, on his Bench, Guthrie was treated to the Rumpole examination-in-chief of my distinctly shifty-looking client ‘Dr Horridge’. I was saying, “If any of these young ladies misconducted themselves in your Health Centres…’
‘They wouldn’t,’ the witness protested, ‘I’m sure they wouldn’t. They were spiritually trained, Mr Rumpole.’
‘All the same, if by any chance they did, was it with your knowledge and approval?’
‘Certainly not, my Lord. Quite certainly not!’ Horridge turned to Guthrie, from whom I expected a look of sympathy. Instead, the Judge uttered a sharpish, ‘Come now, Dr Horridge!’
‘Yes, my Lord?’ The theological doctor blinked.
‘Come, come! We have had the evidence from that young officer, Detective Constable Marten, that he suggested to one of your masseuses… something of “the other”!’
‘Something or other, my Lord?’
‘No, Dr Horridge.’ The Judge sounded increasingly severe. ‘Something of the other. I’m sure you know perfectly well what that means. To which the masseuse replied, “That will be twenty pounds”. A pretty scandalous state of affairs, I’m sure you’ll agree?’
‘Yes, my Lord.’ What else could the wretched massage pedlar say?
‘Are you honestly telling this jury that you had no idea whatever that was going on, in your so-called Health Centre?’
‘No idea at all, my Lord.’
‘And you didn’t make it your business to find out?’ Guthrie was now well and truly briefed for the Prosecution.
‘Not specifically, my Lord.’ It wasn’t a satisfactory answer and the Judge met it with rising outrage. ‘Not specifically! Didn’t you realize that decent, law-abiding citizens, husbands and rate-payers might be trapped into the most ghastly trouble just by injuring an elbow – I mean, a knee?’
‘I suppose so, my Lord,’ came the abject reply.
‘You suppose so! Well. The Jury will have heard your answer. What are you doing, Mr Rumpole?’ His Lordship had some reason to look at me. I had wet my forefinger and now held it up in the air.
‘Just testing the wind, my Lord.’
‘The wind?’ The Judge was puzzled.
‘Yes. It seems to have completely changed direction.’
When the case was concluded, I returned to Chambers exhausted. Thinking I might try my client’s recipe, I lay flat on the floor with my eyes closed. I heard the door open, and the voice of the Hearthrug from far away asking, ‘Rumpole! What’s the matter? Are you dead or something?’
‘Not dead. Just laid out spiritually.’ I opened my eyes. ‘Losing a case is always a tiring experience.’
‘I’m trying to see Ballard,’ Hearthstoke alleged.
‘Well, look somewhere else.’
‘He always seems to be busy. I wanted to tell him about Henry.’
I rose slowly, and with some difficulty, to a sitting position, and thence to my feet. ‘What about Henry?’
‘Kissing Dianne in the clerk’s room.’ The appalling Hearthrug did his best to look suitably censorious. ‘It’s just not on.’
‘Oh, I agree.’ I was upright by now, but panting slightly.
‘Do you?’ He seemed surprised. ‘I thought you’d say it was all just part of the freedom of the subject, or whatever it is you’re so keen on.’
‘Oh, good heavens, no! I really think he should stop rehearsing in his place of work.’
‘Rehearsing?’ He seemed surprised.
‘Didn’t you know? Henry’s a pillar of the Bromley amateur dramatics. He’s playing opposite Dianne in some light comedy or other. Of course, they both work so hard they get hardly any time to rehearse. I’ll speak to them about it. By the way, how’s the housemaid’s knee?’
‘The what?’ Clearly, my words had no meaning for the man.
‘The dicky ankle, dislocated elbow, bad back, tension in the neck. In a lot of pain, are you?’
‘Rumpole! What are you talking about? I am perfectly fit, thank you!’
‘No aches and pains of any sort?’ It was my turn to sound surprised.
‘None whatever.’
‘How very odd! And you’ve been having such a lot of massage lately.’
‘What on earth do you mean?’ Hearthrug, I was delighted to note, was starting to bluster.
‘Unfortunate case. The poor old theologian got two years, once the Judge felt he had a free hand in the matter. But we were looking through the evidence. Of course, you knew that. That was why you came in to give Mizz Probert a helping hand. I was after another name, as it so happens. But I kept finding yours, Charles Hearthstoke. In for a weekly massage at the Battersea Health Depot and Hanky-Panky Centre.’
‘It was entirely innocent!’ he protested.
‘Oh, good. You’ll be able to explain that to our learned Head of Chambers. When you can find him.’
But Hearthrug looked as though he was no longer eager to find Soapy Sam Ballard, or level his dreadful accusations against Henry and Dianne.
From time to time, and rather too often for my taste, we have Chambers parties, and shortly after the events described previously, Claude Erskine-Brown announced that he was to finance one such shindig; he had some particular, but unknown, cause for celebration. So we were all assembled in Ballard’s room, where Pommeroy’s most reasonably priced Méthode Champenoise was dished out by Henry and Dianne to the members of Chambers with their good ladies and a few important solicitors and such other distinguished guests as Mr Justice Featherstone, now fully restored to health both of mind and elbow. ‘Hear you potted Rumpole’s old brothel-keeper,’ Uncle Tom greeted Sir Guthrie, making a gesture as though playing snooker, ‘straight into the pocket!’
‘It was a worrying case,’ Guthrie admitted.
‘It must have been for you, Judge. Extremely worrying.’ I saw his point.
‘There used to be a rumour about the Temple’ – Uncle Tom was wandering down Memory Lane – ‘that old Helford-Davis’s clerk was running a disorderly house over a sweet-shop in High Holborn. Trouble was, no one could ever find it!’ At which point, Hilda, in a new hat, came eagerly up to Guthrie and said, ‘Oh, Judge. How we’re going to envy you all that sunshine!’ And she went on in spite of my warning growl. ‘Of course, we’d love to retire to a warmer climate. But Rumpole’s got all these new responsibilities. He feels he won’t be able to let the Lord Chancellor down.’
‘The Lord Chancellor?’ Guthrie didn’t seem quite to follow her drift.
‘He’s expecting great things, apparently, of Rumpole. Well’ – she raised her glass – ‘happy retirement.’
‘Mrs Rumpole. I’m not retiring.’
‘But Marigold distinctly told me that it was to be Ibiza.’
‘Well. I had toyed
with the idea of loafing about all day in an old pair of shorts and an old straw-hat. Soaking up the sun. Drinking Sangria. But no. I feel it’s my duty to go on sitting.’
‘Ibiza is no longer necessary,’ I explained to Hilda, but she had to say, ‘Your duty! Yes, of course. Rumpole is going to be doing his duty too.’ At which point, our Head of Chambers banged a glass on his desk for silence. ‘I think we are going to hear about Rumpole’s future now,’ Hilda said, and Ballard addressed the assembled company. ‘Welcome! Welcome everyone. Welcome Judge. It’s delightful to have you with us. Well, in the life of every Chambers, as in every family, changes take place. Some happy, others not so happy. To get over the sadness first. Young Charles Hearthstoke has not been with us long, only three months in fact.’ ‘Three months too long, if you want my opinion,’ I murmured to Uncle Tom, and Bollard swept on with his ill-deserved tribute. ‘But I’m sure we all came to respect his energy and drive. Charles has told me that he found the criminal side of our work here somewhat distasteful, so he is joining a commercial set in the Middle Temple.’ At this news, Henry applauded with enthusiasm. ‘I’m sure we’re all sorry that Charles had to leave us before he could put some of his most interesting ideas for the reform of Chambers into practice…’
At this point, I looked at Mizz Probert. I have no idea what transpired when she and Hearthrug had their Chinese meal together, but I saw Liz’s eyes wet with what I took for tears. Could she have been sorry to see the blighter go? I handed her the silk handkerchief from my top pocket, but she shook her head violently and preferred to sniff.
‘Now I come to happier news,’ Ballard told us. ‘From time to time, the Lord Chancellor confers on tried and trusty members of the Bar…’
‘Like Rumpole!’ This was from Hilda, sotto voce.
‘The honour of choosing them to sit as Deputy Circuit Judge.’
‘We know he does!’ Hilda again, somewhat louder.
‘So we may find ourselves appearing before one of our colleagues and be able to discover his wisdom and impartiality on the Bench.’
‘You may have Ballard before you, Rumpole,’ Hilda called out in triumph, to my deep embarrassment.
‘This little party, financed I may say,’ Ballard smiled roguishly, ‘by Claude Erskine-Brown…’
‘So kind of Claude to do this for Rumpole,’ was my wife’s contribution.
‘… Is to announce that he will be sitting, from time to time, at Snaresbrook and Inner London, where we wish him every happiness.’
Ballard raised his glass to Erskine-Brown, as did the rest of us, except for Hilda, who adopted a sort of stricken whisper to ask, ‘Claude Erskine-Brown will be sitting? Rumpole, what happened?’ ‘My sitting,’ I tried to explain to her, ‘like Guthrie Featherstone’s Ibiza, is no longer necessary.’ And then I moved over to congratulate the new Deputy Circus Judge.
‘Well done, Claude.’ And I told him, ‘I’ve only got one word of advice for you.’
‘What’s that, Rumpole? Let everyone off?’
‘Oh, no! Much more important than that. Always pay in cash.’
Rumpole and the Bright Seraphim
I know little of army life. It’s true that I was able to serve my country during the last war (sometimes it seems only yesterday, the years rush by with such extraordinary speed) in the R.A.F. at Dungeness (ground staff, they never sent me up in the air). It was there that I met Bobby O’Keefe in the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force, and was a little dashed in spirits when she was finally hitched to a pilot officer, ‘Three-Fingers Dogherty’ – events which I have described elsewhere.* Those years, in turn exciting, boring, alarming and uncomfortable, gave me no insight whatever into life in a ‘good’ cavalry regiment. I knew nothing of the traditions of the officers’ Mess, and I had never even appeared at a court martial until the extraordinary discovery of the body of Sergeant Jumbo Wilson in the 37th and 39th Lancers, clad in women’s attire outside the Rosenkavalier bar and discotheque in Badweisheim, West Germany, and the subsequent prosecution of Trooper Boyne for murder. It is a case which had its points of interest, notably in my cross-examination of an inexpert expert witness as to the time of death and the strange solution at which I arrived by an unaided process of deduction.
When we had any minor cause for celebration, or when the East wind was not blowing and conversation flowed freely between us, it was the practice of myself and She Who Must Be Obeyed to call in at the Old Gloucester pub (Good Food Reasonably Priced, Waitress Service and Bar Snacks), which is but the toss of a glass from our so-called ‘mansion’ flat at Froxbury Court. It was there we made the acquaintance of a major, recently retired and in his forties, named Johnnie Pageant, who had taken a flat in the Gloucester Road area, and who spent his days writing to various golf clubs, of which he would have liked to become secretary. I found him a most amiable fellow, an excellent listener to my fund of anecdotes concerning life at the Bailey, and never slow to stand his round consisting, invariably, of a large claret for me and jumbo-sized gin and tonics for himself and She.
One evening in the Old Gloucester I was holding forth as usual about the murderers and other friends I had made down the Bailey, explaining that those accused of homicide were usually less tiresome and ruthless customers than parties in divorce cases, and, having often killed the one person they found intolerable, they were mostly grateful for anything you could do for them. ‘You’ve done a lot of murders?’ the ex-Major wondered.
‘More, perhaps, than you’ve had hot dinners.’
‘Try not to show off, Rumpole,’ She Who Must Be Obeyed warned.
‘My nephew Sandy Ransom’s got a bit of a murder in his regiment in Germany. Young trooper out there in a spot of bother.’
‘Murder, in the Regiment, do you say?’
‘Mention the word “murder” and you can see Rumpole pricking up his ears.’ My wife, Hilda, of course, knew me of old. ‘Murder’s mother’s milk to Rumpole.’
‘Who’s this young lad supposed to have murdered?’ I wanted further and better particulars.
‘His Troop Sergeant, apparently.’
‘Murdered his sergeant; isn’t that justifiable homicide?’ I asked, being ignorant of army law.
‘You should know. You’ve done a court martial or two, I suppose. Perhaps even more than I’ve had hot dinners,’ Johnnie Pageant laughed.
‘Court martials? Of course!’ Then I thought it better to qualify the claim. ‘Perhaps not more than you’ve had gin and tonics…’
‘Point taken, Horace! Hilda, the other half?’
‘Well. Just perhaps the tiniest, weeniest, Johnnie.’ So, ex-Major Johnnie wandered off to the bar, and Hilda turned on me. ‘What are you talking about, Rumpole? You’ve never done a court martial in your life.’
‘Mum’s the word, Hilda,’ I warned her. ‘I thought I could sniff, for a moment, the odour of a distant brief.’
And I was right. A week or so later, when I went into our clerk’s room, Henry handed me the brief in a court martial in Germany, the charge being one of murder. I asked if there were any sort of rank attached: Lieutenant-Colonel or Major-General Rumpole? Henry said no, but there was a cheque under the tape and a first-class air ticket to Badweisheim. ‘First class?’ Well, it seemed only right and proper; an officer and a gent couldn’t huddle with other ranks in steerage.
‘The solicitors said it was a heavy sort of case and at first I thought they wanted a silk, Mr Ballard, perhaps, to lead you,’ Henry said, as I thought tactlessly.
‘Bollard to lead? He’d be following far behind.’
‘But then they said no. What they wanted was just an ordinary barrister.’
‘An ordinary barrister.’ I was, I confess, somewhat irked. ‘Then they’ve come to the wrong fellow!’
‘Shall I return the brief then, Mr Rumpole?’
‘No, Henry. We do not return briefs. When we are called to the colours, we do not hesitate. And if the Army needs me. Company… Atten—shun! Present Arms!’ So I marched out of t
he clerk’s room with my umbrella over my shoulder, chanting, ‘Boots, boots, boots, boots movin’ up and down again. There’s no discharge in the war!’ much to the consternation of Bollard and that grey barrister, Hoskins, who had just come in and no doubt thought that ‘Old Rumpole’ had taken leave of his senses.
The 37th and 39th Lancers, the Duke of Clarence’s Own, familiarly known as the Bright Seraphim because of the sky-blue plumes they still wore, in a somewhat diminished version, in their headgear, had been a crack cavalry regiment with a list of battle honours stretching back to the Restoration. Even now, when they were encased in rattling sardine tins and not mounted on horses, the Regiment was hugely proud of its reputation. Its officers ran to hunters, country estates and private incomes, its Mess silver and portraits were some of the most valuable, and its soldiers the best looked-after in the British forces stationed in Germany. Should one of the Bright Seraphim stray from the paths of righteousness, I learnt early in my preparation for the court martial, the whole regiment would close ranks to protect the boy in trouble and the high reputation of the Duke of Clarence’s Own.
The scandalous circumstances surrounding the death of Sergeant James ‘Jumbo’ Wilson were therefore particularly unwelcome. Military police touring the streets of Badweisheim, the German town close to the Bright Seraphim’s barracks, searched, as a result of a telephone call received at 3.45 a.m., an alleyway which ran by the side of the Rosenkavalier disco-bar. It was at 4 a.m. that they then found Sergeant Wilson’s body. His short haircut, florid face and moustache indicated his military occupation; the scarlet, low-cut frock he wore did not. He had received a stab wound in the stomach which had penetrated the aorta, but the time of his death was a matter which would become the subject of some controversy. One other matter – the Sergeant was an extremely unpopular N.C.O. and few of those who came under his immediate command seemed to have much reason to love him.
One wing of the barracks at Badweisheim consisted of married quarters for the non-commissioned officers and men; on the whole the officers lived in various houses in the town. Sergeant Wilson and his wife – they were a childless couple – occupied a flat up a short, iron staircase at one end of the wing. Next door, but on a lower level, lived Danny Boyne, a good-looking Glasgow Irish trooper in his early twenties, with his wife and baby son.
The Second Rumpole Omnibus Page 63
