John Mortimer - Rumpole On Trial

by Rumpole On Trial(lit)

  'I bet you that no one at Sackbut Castle eats breakfast with his hat on. No wonder they didn't ask us to the wedding.' I duly arrived at Thames Magistrates Court, where I found that my opponent was Mizz Liz Probert, radical member of our Chambers, who was looking far from happy. 'You're not going to object to being sent for trial, are you?' she more or less snapped at me.

  'Ask not what I am going to do, Mizz Liz. Watch me in Court. If I'm on my feet I'm probably being objectionable.' 'I shall be led by Sam Ballard at the trial,' she warned me.

  'If he's prosecuting, there must be some hope for the defence.' 'Oh, please, don't try to be funny, Rumpole. Quite honestly, I just don't feel like it today.' So I left her and went to ask a police officer if my client had arrived. I was surprised to find that he was delighted to have The Wally Wilkinson on the premises. 'You mean our triple, Mr Rumpole? We're all feeling just that little bit chuffed about having his case. It's not every day you get a triple murderer walk in with his hands up. Your solicitor's there already. Know your way down, sir, do you?' I knew my way down and found my client and Mr Bernard ", in a police cell. The Wally Wilkinson was a small, chirpy man with wispy hair and an unreliable look in his eyes. Despite his age, he seemed wiry and energetic. The prison officer ushered me in, saying, 'Your brief's arrived, Walter. Got all you want, have you?' There was an unexpected note of obsequious respect in the official voice which The Wally, who was smoking a fag and holding a mug, seemed to think was no more than his due. 'This tea?' he said. 'I wouldn't call it tea. Pour it back in the horse.' 'We're just putting on another brew. Want a couple of biscuits with that, do you, Walter?' 'I wouldn't say no.' 'I see you're all right for smokes.' The prison officer seemed relieved.

  'Mr Bernard obliged,' The Wally told him. 'Oh, by the way, Perce, anything in the paper about my case, is there?' 'Just general background. The house. Victims. All that.

  Today's court'll be in the Standard.' 'Save us one, would you?' 'No probs.' 'You seem to be getting the four-star treatment,' I said when the turnkey had left us.

  'Well, I'm on a triple, aren't I, Mr Rumpole?' The Wally looked modestly pleased. 'Something out of the ordinary, a very serious crime indeed. Naturally they respects you for it.' The very serious crime occurred on the night of 12 February in a done-up Victorian house near Southwark Cathedral.

  It was shared by a merchant banker and his friend, who was also something in the City. The third, and younger, victim was a social worker named Gerald Vulmay, who was apparently a guest staying the night.

  'That Gerald,' The Wally told us, 'he was the one who let me into the house.' 'You were on your way home', I consulted The Wally's proof of evidence, 'and you asked him for money and told him you couldn't find a place to sleep, all the hostel beds were taken because of the cold weather.' 'Even the warm spots over the hotel kitchens. Round the Savoy and the Regent Palace. They were all booked up. So he just looked at me and said, 'All right. There's a spare bed in here. I'm sure they'll let you stay.' 'Did you meet all three of them?' I asked.

  'Oh yes. They give me a meal, after they'd run a hot bath for me. Kitted me out in a pair of pyjamas. Some sort of Greek stuff, they was eating. I had to pretend I liked it.' 'Then what happened? Can you remember?' 'That's the terrible thing, Mr Rumpole. It's like my mind went a total blank on the subject. They put words into my mouth, like, when I made the confession.' 'All right. Do you remember walking into the Beddoes Road nick?' 'Sort of.' 'What made you do that?' 'I dunno, Mr Rumpole.' The Wally looked vague.

  'Did they say you could see a lawyer?' 'No, they never. And them two officers what interviewed me, they were very aggressive.' The prison officer returned with refreshments and said, 'There you are, Walter. Bit of a better brew. And a few ginger nuts. We'll save you that Evening Standard.' 'Thanks, Perce. I call that very kind.' And as he drank his tea. The Wally smiled at me. 'I tell you, Mr Rumpole. This beats sleeping in a cardboard box any day of the week.' I fought that committal for three days in the Magistrates Court and did my best to exclude the confession. I knew it was a hopeless case, and after The Wally, who didn't seem particularly disappointed, was sent for trial, I came out of court to find Liz Probert sitting on a bench in the entrance hall looking more disconsolate than ever. I tried to cheer her up by saying, 'You won the day. Next step the Old Bailey. I wonder if we can find twelve sleepers in cardboard boxes to sit on the Jury. By the way, have you seen young David Inchcape lately? We're co-defending in an affray.' 'No, I haven't seen "young Inchcape", as you call him.

  You'd better find him for yourself.' 'Mizz Probert. Liz. What on earth's the matter?' 'Absolutely nothing's the matter!' 'You don't usually burst into tears when you win cases.' I could see, with embarrassment, distinct signs of the waterworks.

  'I'm not bursting into tears at all. Why should you assume that I've burst into tears, just because I'm a woman?' she sniffed unhappily. 'It musrbe my contact lenses.' 'Someone in Chambers upset your contact lenses?' And then I hazarded a guess. 'Anything wrong between you and young Inchcape?' 'Isn't that you all over, Rumpole? It's just stereotypical male vanity! I'm a woman, so if I'm upset it must be about a man. Men are the only things women have got to be upset about, aren't they?' She searched in vain for a tissue in her handbag and I offered her a stereotypical male handkerchief.

  'No, thanks. Oh, all right, it is about bloody Dave Inchcape.' 'I'm sorry. What's he done?' 'It's not what he's done. It's what he is} What he's been in secret all these years. And he's never had the guts to tell me about it.' 'Secretly married?' I wondered.

  'I could cope with that. No. It's something... Well, it's really unmentionable. Ugh!' she shuddered. 'Awful. He's not worth worrying about.' Naturally I was eager to hear more, but an officer came up to tell me that my wife was on the phone and I could take it in the police room. When I heard her news, told in a voice of almost uncontainable excitement, I didn't know if I could take it. The distant cousin, Rosemary, it seemed had come through at last. We were invited for a weekend at the castle by Lord and Lady Sackbut. When I came out of the police room I saw my red and white spotted handkerchief on the bench and Liz gone. I left Thames Court and, out in the street, a press photographer snapped me just as I was blowing my nose.

  Sackbut Castle, near the small town of Welldyke, was built to defend a large area of North Yorkshire. It had been besieged three times during the Wars of the Roses. Other great historical events had taken place there, but when Richard, the lyth Baron, brought home his young second wife, it was a peaceful enough place. And so it remained until shortly before the Rumpole visit when Jonathan Sackbut, thirteen years old and on holiday from Eton, was taking Monty the family Labrador for an early run by the lake. On approaching the water the dog barked and then stood on the edge, whining. When the Hon. Jonathan joined the Labrador he saw, indeed they must have both seen, the body of an elderly woman face-down in the water. She was wearing a drenched, rabbity fur-coat and the big, plastic shopping bag she still clutched was floating like water-wings. It became clear, when she was fished out, that she was some kind of a bag lady, a female tramp.

  Photographs taken later showed a large, broad-cheeked face which might once have been pretty.

  The boy ran home to tell his father and stepmother, for Jonathan was the son of Lord Sackbut by his first and divorced wife. In due course, the police, the ambulance, the pathologist, Dr Matthew Malkin, and Lord Sackbut himself, gathered by the lake. They were joined by Dr Hugo Swabey, the local coroner, and Mr Pringle, the coroner's officer.

  Swabey, as I got to know him, was a self-important and officious man in his sixties, dressed as though anxious to give the impression that he was a local squire or country landowner, although his clothes were far too new for the role.

  Pringle, the officer who accompanied him, was a stout and elderly ex-policeman with a Yorkshire accent and a perpetual, inappropriate smile. The coroner welcomed the pathologist, told the police he wanted the deceased's personal effects sent over to his office as soon as possible, and spoke with c
areful politeness to the castle owner. 'Good morning, my Lord. I thought it right to get my inquiries going as soon as possible.

  I must ask you, have you seen the body?' 'Yes, of course,' Richard Sackbut told him. 'My boy found it.' 'Can you help us, then. Anyone you can recognize?' ". 'No. No, of course not,' Lord Sackbut told him. 'No one I've ever set eyes on.' And with this he got into his Range Rover and drove back to the castle.

  For our weekend visit, Hilda seemed to have packed a wardrobe that would have seen us through a long summer holiday. Our taxi from the station dropped us outside the main entrance at the West Gate. As I staggered in with our suitcases, the attendant told us to leave our luggage with him and said, 'The rest of you've gone up. Hurry along.' So we climbed the wide stone staircase and found ourselves in a great hall with narrow windows, bare of furniture except for suits of armour and brutal-looking weapons arranged in great circles on the walls. In the distance we saw a group of people and a man in a dark suit who was signalling to us and calling out, 'Over here, my party!' 'Why does he call it "his" party, Rumpole?' Hilda was puzzled, and I let her wonder on as the man showed us the view from a window. 'From here you get a good view of the East Tower. See that narrow window up at the top there?

  That's what they called My Lady's Boudoir. Little room where they say the yth Baron Sackbut locked up his lady wife on account as she'd got overly familiar with the steward. Not a very comfortable boudoir, by all accounts.' 'Is the family about?' Hilda cut him short by asking.

  'Lord and Lady Sackbut are in residence,' he told her.

  'Yes. They occupy the East Wing, which was built as a family mansion in the year 1792. We will now go down to the moat and the formal gardens. Come along, my party.' But Hilda had seen a door beside which a notice read private apartments, no admission. 'In here, Rumpole!' She gave the order as she led the way through it.

  'Madam!' the tour guide said, 'that's not open to the public.' 'We are not the public,' Hilda said as she swept out of view.

  I followed murmuring an apologetic 'She Who Must...' to the outraged guide.

  Through the magic doorway we found ourselves in a long passage which led to the open door of a drawing-room. When we reached it, we found it comfortably furnished, with chairs and sofas, a big fireplace and family pictures on the walls, a line of Sackbut faces, predominantly male. High windows opened on to the terrace of the castle. Sitting in a window seat a pale boy was alone, reading a book. He looked up and peered through his glasses as Hilda approached.

  'We are the Rumpoles. We have been invited for the weekend,' said Hilda.

  The boy stared at Hilda silently.

  'Is your mother... I mean, is Rosemary?' 'They're not back yet, I'm afraid. There's only me.' 'Oh, well. I'm Hilda Rumpole. This is my husband,' said Hilda. Jonathan put down his book carefully, having turned down the page, and advanced on Rumpole with his hand stretched out. 'Good afternoon, sir. I'm Jonathan Sackbut.' 'Horace Rumpole.' We shook hands.

  'I'm Rosemary's cousin, you know.' Hilda made her position clear.

  'Once removed,' I added.

  'Really, Rumpole, don't let's go into all that.' At this moment, a young woman came in and called from the doorway, 'Auntie Hilda!' She had a rather solemn, sad face and floating brown hair. Her youth made her attractive; in middle age her looks might harden. She talked in a brisk manner with the brightness of youth.

  'Oh, Rosemary, there you are at last!' Hilda was relieved.

  'I'm sorry. Richard's driving the lorry back from Welldyke Show. I took the car. I was terrified of keeping you waiting.' And Rosemary told me, 'You must be Uncle Horace.' 'I've got no alternative.' 'Jonathan,' Rosemary spoke to the boy for the first time, 'I hope you've been entertaining the Rumpoles.' 'Not really.' He picked up his book and went out on to the terrace. Rosemary looked after him. Theirs, I thought, was not an easy relationship, stepmothers have a difficult time.

  'Let's see if we can rustle up some tea.' Rosemary pushed a bell near the fireplace. 'Richard was so disappointed you couldn't come to the wedding.' 'Were we asked?' I wondered.

  'Of course! Well, I'm sure you were. We sent out so many invitations... Perhaps you were away?' 'We're hardly ever away. Are we, Rumpole?' 'Oh, hardly ever,' I confirmed Hilda's evidence.

  'You know, Rosemary dear, it was so funny when we arrived.

  They treated us like members of the public! Wasn't it funny, Rumpole?' 'Oh, hilarious,' I agreed.

  'You would like a cup of tea, wouldn't you. Uncle Horace?' Rosemary was clearly trying to make up for the absence of a wedding invitation.

  'Well, if you have got anything in the nature of a bottle of red. Nothing of any particular distinction. Peasants' claret would be perfectly acceptable.' 'Rumpole!' She Who Must Be Obeyed was not pleased.

  'No, Auntie Hilda. Let Uncle Horace have what he wants.

  We're going to spoil him. Do sit down. Uncle Horace. You must be exhausted after all those absolutely splendid court cases you do.' Rosemary put her hand on my arm and guided me to a chair.

  'Splendid cases?' And Hilda said, with some contempt, 'Like Walter The Wally Wilkinson!' But Rosemary continued to look at me with admiration. 'My dad,' she said, 'saw you in action in some case at the Old Bailey. He said you were absolutely super! Had the Jury eating out of your hand. I remember what he told us: "In the courtroom nobody dares say boo to Rumpole."' 'Well,' I told her modestly, 'I can be rather magnificent at times.' 'And didn't you do one hugely famous case? Oh, yonks and yonks ago. Something about a bungalow?' 'You might possibly be thinking of the Penge Bungalow Murders.' 'That's right! I say, you must tell us all about it. It sounds riveting. I know Richard can't wait to meet you.' A melancholy-looking manservant did bring us tea, and I had a bottle of Chateau Chateau, but Rosemary's husband had not returned by the time we went upstairs to change. 'Of course,' Hilda had told me, 'they'll dress for dinner at the castle.' So she had brought a long ball gown, and encased in a heavy silver breastplate she looked armoured and ready to take on allcomers. I managed to button up a dinner jacket which seemed to have shrunk over the years as Hilda told me that Rosemary had said that old Lord 'Plunger' Plumstead was expected for dinner.

  'Why Plunger. Does he dive?' 'He used to gamble terribly. Really, Rumpole, you ought to keep up with Debby's Diary.' So we went down to our first castle dinner and found that all our guests and the Sackbuts had this in common, none of them were in evening-dress. The men were without ties, in sweaters, or tweed jackets worn with cord trousers. Plunger Plumstead, whose head was sunk, like that of an aged tortoise, into a collar several sizes too large for him, sported an ancient black velvet jacket and a silk scarf. The women were dressed casually, but no one commented on what now seemed our eccentric attire. Richard Sackbut had finally appeared and turned out to be a man, perhaps in his late forties, whose long chin, gingery hair and blue eyes were echoed in all the family portraits we had seen. For some reason, which I could not fathom, he seemed extremely glad to see me and kept saying it was 'jolly sporting of you to come all the way to North Yorkshire for a weekend'. This was an opinion with which I had to agree as I looked round the dinner table that night.

  There was Plunger's wife, Mercia, a stately woman who looked embalmed and, so far as I can remember, never spoke.

  There was a young couple called the Yarrowbys, Tarquin and Helen, who talked in very loud voices about people I didn't know, and sports and pastimes of which I had no experience.

  Pippa and Gavin Bastion were older, I suppose in their early fifties, and more sophisticated. Gavin made cynical remarks in quiet, amused tones and Pippa, a collapsing beauty, drank a good deal and smoked between courses.

  Towards the end of dinner they began to discuss Dr Hugh Swabey, the local coroner. He clearly wasn't a favourite with the upper crust. 'Of course, he's enjoying every minute of your business, Richard,' Gavin Bastion said. 'Best thing that's happened to him since he had coach lamps put round his poolside area.' 'Where's all the money come from?' Helen Yarrowby asked.
/>   'Expensive nose jobs in Leeds, and other sorts of jobs, no doubt,' Pippa Bastion suggested.

  'You've seen him out hunting, haven't you, Plunger?' Helen asked the Lord, who turned to me and said, 'Absolutely everything wrong about the chap, Rumbold. He comes out like a dog's dinner.' 'That should give him a deep understanding of foxes,' I said, but nobody laughed.

  'Don't expect Swabey's ever got near enough to see a fox.

  He comes out with a string on his top hat!' Pippa said it as though the unfortunate coroner had committed rape on the hunting field.

  'And a red coat when no one's asked him to wear such a thing,' Gavin added to the indictment.

  'No, darling. That's not the point. The point is, a red coat with flat buttons' And Pippa turned to Hilda for support.

  'Imagine that, Mrs Rumpole!' 'Oh, dear. Of course. Flat buttons! How very extraordinary.' My wife did her best to sound appalled, while I asked in all innocence, 'You mean you'd prefer them round?' 'Flat, shiny buttons without a hunt crest on them,' Gavin explained. 'Means he just got the thing off the peg at Moss Bros.' 'Is that a serious offence?' 'I suppose it depends on what you think is serious in this world.' Plunger looked as though I were prepared to excuse any crime, however heinous.