‘Did yóu have any idea that Dennis was armed?’ She forgot it.
‘No idea at all.’ Cyril looked pained.
‘And what would you have said if you had known?’
‘My Lord’ – I had another go – ‘how can this be evidence? It’s pure speculation!’
‘Please, Mrs Erskine-Brown.’ Again, I was ignored. ‘Do ask the question.’
‘What would you have said?’
‘Leave that thing at home, Den.’ Cyril sounded extraordinarily righteous. ‘That’s not the way we carry on our business.’
‘Can you tell us if Dennis ever owned a firearm?’
‘I don’t object, my Lord. All objections are obviously perfectly useless.’ I rose to tell the Court and got a look from the Judge which meant ‘And that’s another one for the report’. But now Cyril was saying, ‘Dennis was always pretty keen on shooters. When he was a kid he had an airgun.’
‘And probably a catapult as well,’ I whispered as I subsided.
‘Did you say something, Mr Rumpole?’ the Judge was kind enough to ask.
‘Nothing whatever, my Lord.’
‘In his later years he bought a shotgun.’ Cyril added to the indictment of his cousin.
‘Did you know what he used that for?’ Phillida asked.
‘He said clay pigeons, my Lord.’
‘He said clay pigeons. Did you believe him?’ the judge asked and, looking up at the public gallery, I again saw Peanuts Molloy smiling.
‘I had no means of checking the veracity of cousin Den’s statement.’
‘Thank you, Mr Timson, just wait there.’ Phillida sat down, happily conscious of having done her worst, and I rose to cross-examine the witness. Bullingham sat back to enjoy further bloodshed.
‘Mr Timson. When you were removing some of the property from the safe, you suddenly ran out of the strong-room into the corridor. Why was that?’
‘We thought we heard a noise behind us.’ Cyril frowned, as though he still found the situation puzzling.
‘Coming from where?’
‘He said “behind us”, Mr Rumpole,’ Bullingham reminded me.
‘Thank you, your Lordship, so much! And it was that sound that made you retreat?’
‘We thought we was being copped, like.’
‘Why didn’t you retreat back into the tunnel you came from? Was it by any chance because the sound was coming from that direction?’
‘Yes. It might have been,’ Cyril admitted.
‘When you ran out into that corridor you were holding some boxes containing money and valuables.’
‘Yes, I was.’
‘And so was your cousin Dennis?’
‘Yes.’
‘You saw that?’
‘Yes.’
‘You never saw him with a gun in his hand?’
‘No. I never saw it, like. But I knew I didn’t have it.’
‘Mr Cyril Timson, may I say at once that I accept the truth of that statement…’ The Court went strangely silent; Bullingham looked disappointed, as though I had announced that throat-cutting was off and the afternoon would be devoted to halma. Phillida whispered to me, ‘Rumpole, have you gone soft in your old age?’
‘Not soft, Portia, I just thought it might be nice to win my last case,’ I whispered back. Then I spoke to the witness, ‘I agree that you didn’t have the gun, and Dennis certainly didn’t.’
‘So where did it come from, Mr Rumpole?’ The Judge gave me the retort sarcastic. ‘Did it drop from the sky?’
‘Yes, my Lord. In a manner of speaking, it did. Thank you, Mr Cyril Timson.’
I shot out of the Old Bailey, when Judge Bullingham rose at the end of that day, like a bat leaving hell. That was not my usual manner of departure, but careful inquiry at the sporting kiosk in the alley off Ludgate Circus had led me to believe that The Punter’s Guide, out late on Tuesday afternoon, carried a full print-out of that very afternoon’s results. If you can make one heap of all your winnings and risk it on one turn of pitch and toss, you will have some idea what I felt like as I hastened towards the news-stand and to what had rapidly become my favourite reading.
Meanwhile as Peanuts Molloy came out of the entrance of the Public Gallery, D.S. Garsington, an officer in plain clothes, peeled himself off a wall and followed at a discreet distance. When Peanuts mounted a bus going South of the river, the Detective Sergeant was also in attendance. This close watch on Peanuts’ movements was something that the Detective Inspector had authorized on the understanding that I would be leaving the Bar after the present case and so would trouble the authorities no more.
While Peanuts was off on his bus journey with D.S. Garsington in attendance, I was watching the elderly, partially blind lady with the bobble hat try to undo the newly arrived parcel of The Punter’s Guide, with swollen and arthritic fingers. At last I could bear it no longer. I seized the string and broke it for her. I fluttered The Punter’s pages for the fly-away leaf of that afternoon’s results, and there was the print-out from Yarmouth: 1.30 FIRST EVER SO GRATEFUL. ‘Oh, my God,’ I said devoutly as I paid the old lady. ‘Thanks most awfully!’
At about opening time Peanuts Molloy was in a gym used to train young boxers over the Venerable Bede pub along the Old Kent Road. Peanuts was neither sparring nor skipping; he was reporting back to another deeply interested member of the Clan Molloy. What he said, as later recalled by D.S. Garsington, went something like this: ‘Like I told you. No sweat. They’re still just blaming it on each other. There’s one old brief that thinks different, but the Judge don’t take a blind bit of notice. Not of him.’ At which point the Detective Sergeant intruded and asked, ‘Are you Peter James Molloy?’
‘What if I am?’ said Peanuts.
‘I must ask you to accompany me. My Inspector would like to ask you some questions.’
‘Oh yes. What about?’
‘I believe…’ – D.S. Garsington was suitably vague – ‘it’s about a fingerprint.’
Wednesday morning passed as slowly as a discourse on the Christian attitude to Tort from Soapy Sam Ballard, or an afternoon in a rain-soaked holiday hotel with She Who Must Be Obeyed.
First of all, Judge Bullingham had some applications in another case to deal with and so we started late, and then Phillida had some other evidence of a particularly unimportant nature to call. At last it was lunchtime and I was ready for the final throw; this was the crunch, the crisis, the moment to win or lose it all. I couldn’t get away to Newbury to cheer Kissogram on, but I had decided to do the next best thing. Discreet inquiries from the Ushers at the Bailey had revealed the fact that there was a betting shop recently opened by Blackfriars Station. I found it a curious establishment with painted-over windows and only a few visitors, who looked to be of no particular occupation, watching the television at lunchtime. They were joined by an ageing barrister in bands and a winged collar, who put a small cigar into his mouth but forgot to light it while watching the one-thirty.
I find it hard to recall my exact feelings while the race was going on and I supposed I have had worse times waiting for juries to come back with a verdict. Somewhere in the depths of my being I felt that I had come so far that nothing could stop me now, nor could it – Kissogram pulled it off by three lengths.
I hurried back to the Bailey repeating Dennis’s magic figure: ‘Let’s say, three hundred and thirty grand! Give or take a fiver.’ It was, of course, an extraordinary happening, and one which I intended to keep entirely to myself for the moment or God only knew how many learned friends would remember old Rumpole and touch him for a loan. Uppermost in my mind was the opening speech I was due to make of Dennis Timson’s defence when the Bull, full of the City of London’s roast beef and claret, returned to the seat of Judgement. It would be the last time I opened a defence in my positively last case. Why should I not do what a barrister who has his future at the Bar to think of can never do? Why should I not say exactly what I thought?
As I took the lift up to the robing ro
om, the idea appealed to me more and more; it became even more attractive than the prospect of wandering along palm-fringed beaches beside the booming surf, although, of course, I meant to do that as well. Phrases, heartfelt sentiments, began to form in my mind. I was going to make the speech of a lifetime, Rumpole’s last opening, and the Bull would have to listen. So, at exactly ten past two, I rose to my feet, glanced up at the Public Gallery, found that ‘Peanuts’ Molloy was no longer in his place, and began.
‘Members of the Jury. You heard the prosecution case opened by my learned friend Mr Hearth—stoke. And I wish, now, to make a few remarks of a general nature before calling Mr Dennis Timson into the witness-box. I hope they will be helpful.’
‘I hope so, too, Mr Rumpole. The Defence doesn’t have to indulge in opening speeches.’ The Judge was scarcely encouraging, but no power on earth was going to stop me now.
‘Members of the Jury. You have no doubt heard of the presumption of innocence, the golden thread that runs through British justice. Everyone in this fair land of ours is presumed to be innocent until they’re proved to be guilty, but against this presumption there is another mighty legal doctrine,’ I told them. ‘It is known as the Bullingham factor. Everyone who is put into that dock before this particular learned judge is naturally assumed to have done the deed, otherwise they wouldn’t be there. Not only are those in the dock presumed to be guilty, defending barristers are assumed to be only interested in wasting time so they can share in the rich pickings of the legal aid system, an organization which allows criminal advocates to live almost as high on the hog as well-qualified shorthand typists. For this princely remuneration, Members of the Jury, we are asked to defend the liberty of the subject, carry on the fine traditions of Magna Carta, make sure that all our citizens are tried by their peers and no man nor woman suffers unjust imprisonment, and knock our heads, day in day out, against the rock solid wall of the Bullingham factor! For this we have to contend with a judge who invariably briefs himself for the Prosecution…’
During the flow of my oratory, I had been conscious of two main events in Court. One was the arrival of Detective Inspector Broome, who was in urgent and whispered consultation with Charlie Hearthstoke. The other was the swelling of the Bull like a purple gas balloon, which I had been pumping up to bursting point. Now he exploded with a deafening ‘Mr Rumpole!’ But before he could deliver the full fury of his Judgement against me, Hearthstoke had risen and was saying, ‘My Lord. I wonder if I may intervene? With the greatest respect…’
‘Certainly, Mr Hearthstoke.’ The Judge subsided with a gentle hiss of escaping air. ‘Certainly you may. Perhaps you have a suggestion to offer on how I might best deal with this outrageous contempt?’
‘I was only about to say, my Lord, that what I am going to tell your Lordship may make the rest of Mr Rumpole’s opening speech unnecessary.’
‘I have no doubt that all of his opening speech is unnecessary!’ Judge Bullingham glared in my general direction.
‘I am informed by Detective Inspector Broome, my Lord, that, after further inquiries, we should no longer proceed on the allegation that either Cyril or Dennis Timson used, or indeed carried, the automatic pistol which wounded Mr Huggins the bankguard.’
‘Neither of them?’ The Bull looked as though his constitution might not stand another shock.
‘It seems that further charges will be brought, with regard to that offence, against another “firm”, if I may use that expression,’ Hearthstoke explained. ‘In those circumstances, the only charge is one of theft.’
‘To which Mr Cyril Timson has always been prepared to plead guilty,’ Phillida stood up and admitted charmingly.
‘Thank you, Mrs Erskine-Brown,’ the Judge cooed, and then turned reluctantly to me. ‘Mister Rumpole?’
‘Oh yes. Guilty to the theft, my Lord. With the very greatest respect!’ I had said most of what I had always longed to say in Bullingham’s Court, and my very last case was over.
‘Ferrets! The Molloys said the Timsons were ferrets. They called it out after your wives in the street.’ I was in the interview room again with Liz Probert and Mr Bernard, saying goodbye to our client Dennis Timson. ‘I wonder why he used that particular expression. Ferrets are little animals you send down holes in the ground. Of course, the Molloys found out what you were up to and they simply followed you down the burrow. And after you’d got through the wall, what were they going to do? Use the gun to get the money off you and Cyril when you’d opened the safe? Anyway, it all ended in chaos and confusion, as most crimes do, I’m afraid, Dennis. You heard the Molloys and thought they were the Old Bill and ran towards the passage. The Molloys got their hands on the rest of the booty. Then Mr Huggins, the bankguard, appeared, some Molloy shot at him and dropped the gun and they scarpered back down the tunnel, leaving you and Cyril in hopeless ignorance, blaming each other.’
‘But there weren’t any fingerprints.’ Liz Probert wondered about my cross-examination of Broome.
‘Oh no. But the D.I. told Peanuts Molloy he’d found his and got him talking. In fact, Peanuts grassed on the rest of the Molloys.’
‘Grassed on his family, did he?’ Dennis was shocked. ‘Bastard!’
‘I’m afraid things aren’t what they were in our world, Dennis. Standards are falling. When you’ve got this little stretch under your belt you’d do far better give it all up.’
‘Never. I’d miss the excitement. You’re all right, though, aren’t you, Mr Rumpole?’
‘What?’ I was wondering whether I would miss the excitement, and decided that I could live without the thrills and spills of life with Judge Bullingham. ‘I said you’re all right,’ Dennis repeated. ‘On the old four-horse accumulator.’
‘Oh yes, Dennis. I think I shall be all right. Thanks entirely to you. I shan’t forget it. You were my last case.’ I stood up and moved towards the door. ‘Give me a ring when you get out, if you’re ever passing through Lotus land.’
I had looked for Gerald as I arrived down the cells, but the gate had been opened by a thin turnkey without a sandwich. On my way out I asked for Gerald, anxious to collect my fortune, but was told ‘It’s Gerald’s day off, Mr Rumpole. He’ll be back tomorrow for sure.’
‘Back tomorrow? You don’t know the name of his bookmaker by any chance?’
‘Oh no, Mr Rumpole. Gerald don’t take us into his confidence, not as far as that’s concerned.’
‘Well, all right. I’ll be back tomorrow too.’
‘Dennis Timson well satisfied with his four years, was he?’ the thin warder said as he sprang me from the cells.
‘He seemed considerably relieved.’
‘I don’t know how you do it, Mr Rumpole. Honest, I don’t.’
‘Well,’ I told him. ‘I’m not going to do it any more.’
I gave the same news to Henry when I got back to our clerk’s room and he looked unexpectedly despondent. ‘I’ve done my positively last case, Henry,’ I told him. ‘I shan’t ever be putting my head round the door again asking if you’ve got a spare committal before the Uxbridge Magistrates.’
‘It’s a tragedy, Mr Rumpole,’ my former clerk said, and I must say I was touched. A little later he came up to see me in my room and explained the nature of his anxiety. ‘If you leave, Mr Rumpole, we’re going to have that Mr Hearthstoke back again. He’s going to get your room, sir. Mr Ballard’s already keen on the idea. It’ll be a disaster for Chambers. And my ten per cent.’ His voice sank to a note of doom. ‘And Dianne’s threatened to hand in her notice.’
‘I delivered you from Hearthrug once before, Henry.’ I reminded him of the affair of the Massage Parlours.
‘You did, Mr Rumpole, and I shall always thank you for it. But he’s due here at five o’clock, sir, for an appointment with Mr Ballard. I think they’re going to fix up the final details.’
Well why should I have cared? By tomorrow, after a brief bit of business with Gerald and a word in the ear of my man of affairs at the Caring Bank, I
would be well shot of the whole pack of them. And yet, just as a colonial administrator likes to leave his statue in a public park, or a university head might donate a stained-glass window to the Chapel, I felt I might give something to my old Chambers by which I would always be remembered. My gift to the dear old place would be the complete absence of Hearthrug. ‘Five o’clock, eh?’ I said. ‘Courage, Henry! We’ll see what we can do!’
Henry left me with every expression of confidence and gratitude, and at five o’clock precisely I happened to be down in our entrance hall when Hearthstoke arrived to squeeze Ballard and re-enter Equity Court.
‘Well, Hearthrug,’ I greeted him. ‘Good win, that. An excellent win!’
‘Who won?’ He sounded doubtful.
‘You did, of course. You were prosecuting. We pleaded guilty and you secured a conviction. Brilliant work! So you’re going to have my old room in Chambers.’
‘You are leaving, aren’t you?’ He seemed to need reassurance.
‘Oh, yes, of course. Off to Lotos land! In fact, I only called in to pack up a few things.’ I started up the stairs towards my room, calling to him over my shoulder, ‘Your life’s going to change too, I imagine. Have you had much experience as a father?’
‘A father? No, none at all.’
‘Pity. Ah, well, I expect you’ll pick it up as you go along. That’s the way you’ve picked up most things.’
I legged it up to the room then and had the satisfaction of knowing that he was in hot pursuit. Once in my sanctum, he closed the door and said, ‘Now, Rumpole. Suppose you tell me exactly what you mean?’
‘I mean it’s clear to all concerned that you’ve fallen for Mrs Erskine-Brown hook, line and probably sinker. When you move into Chambers she’ll be expecting to move into your bachelor pad in Battersea, bringing her children with her. Jolly brave of you to take her on, as well as little Tristan and Isolde.’
‘Her children?’ he repeated, dazed. The man was clearly in a state of shock.
‘I suppose Claude will be round to take the kids off to the Ring occasionally. They’ll probably come back whistling all the tunes.’
The Second Rumpole Omnibus Page 71
