John Mortimer - Rumpole On Trial

by Rumpole On Trial(lit)

  When I opened the front door of the mansion flat that night, after only half a bottle, at the most, of Pommeroy's 9 per cent Chateau Thames Embankment, I suffered a severe nervous shock. The air was torn by a terrible banshee wailing, such a sound as I haven't heard since the nights of the Blitz when the Germans were overhead. I was thinking of bolting down to the cellar, or anywhere away from the bombardment, when Hilda appeared, pressed a number of buttons on some device fixed in our hallway and we had the All Clear. 'If that's going off every night,' I told her, 'I'll get a camp-bed put up in Chambers.' 'Don't be so ridiculous, Rumpole! It's a perfectly simple burglar alarm, an absolutely essential precaution since the night of the crime. You just press seven, six, nine, oh, two, three, one, eight and the yellow button twice. Then it'll be quiet immediately.' 'What else have you installed, Hilda? Death rays? Man traps? Are you going to sit up all night in the kitchen with a loaded shotgun? Come on, old girl, we've got to give the criminal classes a decent chance to earn a living.' In fact we had even greater protection, for a member of the Old Bill emerged from the sitting room at that moment and introduced himself as Detective Sergeant Appleby of the Kensington force. He had been called in by She Who Must Be Obeyed in the great brief burglary case. 'A very thorough investigator, your good lady,' D. S. Appleby didn't need to tell me. 'Seems to know my job better than I do, tells me we must look for fingerprints. What's the matter, Mr Rumpole?

  Have the villains turned against you? You been losing their cases lately?' Still recovering from the shock of the alarm, I was in no mood for a jokey D.S. 'I don't imagine you'll find any prints,' I told him, rather sharply. 'He must have been a pro, probably wore gloves.' 'And he didn't take anything of value, as I understand it, sir. Just some papers out of one of your cases? Now, I wonder who can have been interested in that?' 'Yes, Sergeant, I've been wondering that too.' The case of Joby Jonson was attracting wide attention, from the criminals to the corridors of power. A couple of evenings later I got a telephone call from none other than that absolutely super chap. Sir Sebastian Pilgrim. He would simply love me to come down to the club and see the sort of work he was doing for lost sheep like young Joby, and, if I'd be good enough to agree, he'd send his driver for me.

  A few evenings later a sedate Rolls appeared in the Gloucester Road and I was driven in an easterly direction by a chunky crop-headed man who introduced himself as Fred Bry, Sir Sebastian's driver. As we travelled along the Marylebone Road towards Euston Station, it was clear he was proud of his position, and he spoke of his employer as a great gentleman with a true understanding of delinquent lads.

  'Never talks down to them, if you know what I mean. Always 177 speaks to them on their own level, and they appreciates that of course. I've seen lads come to our club what you wouldn't think fit for anywhere but an old-fashioned Borstal and they've ended up, not saints I'm not saying that exactly, but reasonable human beings, and pretty useful opening bats.' Fred wore no chauffeur's uniform but was dressed like a PT instructor, in a high-necked sweater and trainers. There was a heart and a set of initials tattooed on the back on his hand.

  'The Youth Enterprise Reform Trust' or Y.E.R.T., as the Under-Secretary at the Home Office had called it, occupied a delapidated building in Eversholt Street, near to the station. I was led down a stone staircase and then into a space like a huge, echoing gymnasium. There was a coffee bar on our side of the room and a pool table, and ping-pong, and, at the far end, a net had been fixed up and a line of boys were bowling at a tall, good-looking man with dark hair touched with grey, who plied his cricket bat with what I assumed to be considerable skill.

  'Seb's what we all call him. No side to him, you see, absolutely no side at all,' Fred the driver assured me, and as we approached the net a ball came bouncing in my direction. By some mischance I put out my hand and caught it, something I couldn't have believed myself capable of doing, and Seb came out to greet me with his bat under his arm, applauding, so far as I could see, without mockery.

  'Well done, Mr Rumpole. You want to have a go in the net?' 'Not in the least,' I assured him. 'I'm allergic to any form of sport.' 'Except teasing Her Majesty's Judges? You're a famous man to all my lads, you know. Now, you're not allergic to a drink, I hope.' 'I thought you'd never ask.' Seb handed his bat to a delinquent lad and we went over to the bar, where another delinquent was serving his fellows. My hopes were dashed when my host uttered the dread words: 'Tea; coffee, hot soup, Seven-Up or FrooJucella?' 'I thought you were offering me a drink.' I'm afraid I showed my disappointment.

  'So I was.' 'Froo-Jucella might seriously damage my health, as my alcohol level has sunk to a dangerous low. Now, if you have a glass of humble claret? Chateau Boys Brigade, if it's available.' 'I'm afraid it isn't.' He was still smiling and made no apology.

  'Or you might send over to the station for a bottle of British Rail Rouge?' 'I'll get you a coffee. And let's find ourselves a table.' So, as you may imagine, I wasn't in the cheeriest of moods as I sat and looked round the gym. Fred the driver was now seated in the middle of a circle of delinquents, to whom he seemed to be giving some sort of pep-talk or seminar. All the youths in the room, I noticed, were wearing dark sweaters, jeans and trainers, so they looked as though they were in a kind of uniformed group. I was about to seek the company of a small cigar, and had the packet open when Seb came back with two plastic cups and told me that the lads had voted the place a Smoke-Free Zone.

  I said goodbye to the small cigar. 'What're you running here, a monastery?' 'Delightful wit!' Seb seemed to be out to flatter me. 'That's what old Tom Mottram told me about you. No, I don't make the rules, the boys do. Self-discipline, that's the name of the game.' 'I thought it was cricket.' This was clearly not up to the standard of Rumpole repartee and Seb ignored it. 'No alcohol,' he told me. 'No smoking. And, of course, if we catch one of their number dropping an "E"...' 'A what?' 'Ecstasy. Anyone indulging in any sort of a drug gets a hard time from the other fellows, a very hard time indeed.' 'So you rely on these young men to police each other?' I looked round at the uniformed squad.

  'Too right we do! Well, it's the only way. No good imposing rules on them from above; they wouldn't take a blind bit of notice. How's the coffee?' 179 'Is it coffee?' I had been genuinely puzzling over the brew.

  'I beg its pardon. I thought it was the soup.' 'I'm afraid we're not quite up to your gastronomic standards, Mr Rumpole. We've got more important things to think about.' 'Joby Jonson, for instance.' I brought him to the subject which was in so many minds.

  'Well, yes. To be quite honest with you I'm worried about Joby. What we find here is that the first step to reform is to admit your guilt. If only to your mates.' 'Plead guilty?' I was doubtful. 'That's often as dangerous as FrooJucella.' 'Well, at least admit it to yourself. Look over there, in what we call our quiet corner.' The circle round Fred had grown even more attentive and he was addressing them with frowning sincerity. 'What is it? A prayer meeting?' I asked.

  'Something like that.' Seb was still smiling. 'The young lads there are coming out with all their crimes and villainies. They talk them through. And then Fred Bry tells them where that sort of conduct leads to.' 'Your driver tells them?' 'Fred should know. He'd just come out of six years for robbery when I found a job for him.' So I looked again at the group. One of the youths was talking, pouring his heart out, and Fred was listening patiently, his head on one side, nodding encouragement from time to time. 'You think confession's good for the soul?' I asked Seb.

  'Don't you?' 'Perhaps, but it's not particularly good for keeping you out of the nick.' 'Oh come on, Mr Rumpole. You can't believe Joby's innocent.

  Is he going to try and put up some sort of defence, I mean apart from that alibi?' 'Which alibi, exactly?' Seb, it seemed, followed the case histories of all his delinquents.

  'Three strange girls from Manchester at the railway station dancing and singing songs outside the lavatory.' 'You know that's his story?' 'Of course, the lads all talk about each other's cases. But it's not highly probab
le, is it?' 'One thing I have learned, after almost half a century down the Old Bailey, is that the improbable is perfectly likely to happen.' 'Perhaps your view of life is coloured by rather too much Chateau whatever it is?' 'Better than seeing it through a glass of Froo-Jucella, or soup, otherwise known as coffee.' 'I'm sure you want to help Joby.' Now Seb had become more serious, so I gave him a serious answer. 'It's my job to help him, not to decide his case. I might even manage to get him off.' But Seb's ideas of helping clients were a little different from mine. 'If you could get him to admit what he's done, even to himself, if you could get him to face up to it and not tell silly lies, that would really help him on his way back to reality.' 'And to about six years in the nick.' I had to point out the downside of the confessional.

  'He came here often over the last two years. He had sessions in the quiet corner with Fred and the other lands. I'm not about to write him off as one of my failures. I'm sure we both want to do our best for him. Tell me how I can help.' 'I suppose I could call you as a character witness,' I told him.

  'That might be more impressive than a shrink, or the local vicar.

  "I call Sir Sebastian Pilgrim, who carried his bat for England!"' 'Count on me, Mr Rumpole!' He seemed delighted to offer his services. 'You can count on me.' 'Thank you very much. Now, if you'll forgive me, I've got an urgent appointment with a bottle of claret.' So Fred Bry was asked to break off his healing session and the Rolls was pointed in the direction of Froxbury Mansions and a much-needed bottle of Chateau Thames Embankment.

  'That Joby Jonson's been a terrible disappointment to all of us,' the driver said as we were passing the Albert Memorial.

  'I knew he was going wrong when I heard he was hanging round the station.' 181 'He wasn't train-spotting?' 'Hardly, Mr Rumpole. It's where they pick up the drugs what kids brings down from the North. It leads them to do terrible, inhuman things. We did our best with Joby, Seb and I. We both tried hard. It's over to you now, Mr Rumpole.

  Get the lad to face up to what he's done, it's the only way.' It was, as you will have gathered, a time when confessions were much in fashion. I suppose the learned friends in Chambers would have liked Dot Clapton to confess that the jewel in her nose was a terrible error of judgement and throw herself on the mercy of Equity Court, promising to keep her nose out of trouble in the future. However, no one was quite sure of how to bring about this desirable result, so the matter was brought up for discussion at a Chambers meeting presided over by that pillar of respectability, Soapy Sam Ballard, Q.c.

  Also present were my good self, Claude Erskine-Brown, Liz Probert and Dave Inchape, who was once her partner but whom she now called her 'significant other', although I don't know if the title meant any further degree of intimacy. There were other assorted barristers and barristerettes, and Phillida Erskine-Brown, Q.c., the wife who had achieved that place on the front bench which her husband so longed for, had also made a point of attending. Claude had told her about Ballard's unhelpful attitude to his application for Silk and the fact that he had called our Head of Chambers a 'pompous prick', a verdict to which our Portia assented and had nothing to add.

  Had I known this at the time I shouldn't have been so surprised by the curious manner in which she treated Sam Ballard at our Chambers meeting.

  'Certain basic standards of civilization have to be maintained at Equity Court.' Ballard was completing his peroration. 'I mean, we couldn't have people turning up here in war-paint.' 'No, we couldn't, Sam. You're utterly right as always.' Phillida was gazing at him with something not far off admiration.

  I've said her attitude to our soapy leader was distinctly curious. He thanked her and looked suitably gratified until I said, 'I don't know why they shouldn't turn up in war-paint.' 'Really, Rumpole!' 'I'm in favour of anything likely to add a touch of drama to the surroundings,' I told the meeting. 'Now, if only you'd show up in the clerk's room in war-paint, Ballard, maybe waving an assegai, on your way to a particularly bloodthirsty summons under the Rent Acts.' 'Rumpole,' said Ballard, 'we are at something of a crisis in the history of Equity Court. If this sort of thing goes unchecked we may be down a slippery slope towards...' 'What exactly?' 'They tell me there are men in Miles Crudgington's set who go into Chambers wearing suede shoes,' Hoskins, the greyish father of four daughters, put in gloomily.

  'There you are.' Ballard was triumphant. 'You see what this sort of thing leads to?' 'I agree with you, Ballard, 100 per cent. Dot was making an unacceptable statement of female submission.' Mizz Liz Probert seemed to have changed her tune since she congratulated our typist on her nostril, but when I saw her looking warningly at her significant other I thought I could guess why she had done so. 'It was nothing more than a harem signal to any would-be Sheikh foolish enough to take her up on her offer,' Liz passed judgement. 'Dot's nostril is, not to put too fine a point on it, politically incorrect.' 'So then we're all agreed the ornament is totally unacceptable.' Ballard was delighted. 'Do you have a view on this matter, Erskine-Brown?' 'Oh, I don't suppose I've got enough gravitas to express an opinion.' Claude spoke with some bitterness.

  'Enough what?' I was puzzled.

  'Gravitas. Ballard doesn't think I've got enough of it.' 'Really? I thought you had it for breakfast every morning with a little skimmed milk and sugar substitute.' Having said this I pulled out my watch and hinted that I had better things to do than spend the day discussing our typist's jewellery.

  Before I went, the flattering Phillida suggested we leave all further action in the 'capable and tactful hands of our Head of Chambers. I'm sure,' she added, giving Ballard her smile at full beam, 'he can be trusted to have an appropriate word in the right quarter.' At this point Soapy Sam seemed quite overcome and thanked our Portia for her 'wonderful loyalty and support'. As I should have known, he was already hooked and all she had to do was wind him in.

  There was one curious thing about that meeting. Dave 'the significant other' Inchcape had said nothing about the controversial diamond. When I asked him about it afterwards he told me that, quite frankly, he hadn't noticed the thing and had no views about it one way or the other.

  When I was in the clerk's room a day or so later and found myself alone with Dot, I thought this much-debated subject was about to be reopened when she said that she wanted to ask my advice. 'Please don't,' I told her. 'I have absolutely no objection to it. As a matter of fact I think it adds a touch of colour to Chambers.' 'What adds a touch of colour?' 'Oh, nothing.' I had no wish to pursue the matter and Dot had other worries. 'It's about my dad. He lives not far from here, actually.' 'Does he really? I thought you and Henry hailed from Bexleyheath.' 'That's where my mum lives. Her and Dad split up when I was about seven.' 'I'm sorry to hear that.' 'Don't worry, it wasn't a great tragedy. My dad's an awkward sort of customer, call him bloody-minded and you'd be paying him a compliment. The thing is, they wants to do some new building down his street, but he won't sell his house. He says he's too old to move now anyway, and tells them to sod off, if you'll pardon my French. What he wants to know is, is there any way they can get him out, legally, I mean?' (' I had to confess that property law wasn't exactly my forte, but I'd make inquiries and let her know. Then I asked her exactly where Mr Clapton lived. 'MacGlinky Terrace,' she said. 'Off Eversholt Street, behind Euston Station. Do you know the area?' I did and I had a feeling that what Dot had just told me added something to my knowledge.

  When I got home I found Hilda reading the Daily Telegraph by the gas-fire and she was delighted to tell me that there was a long profile in it of 'my friend'.

  'Really. Which friend is that?' 'Well, not one of the criminal classes certainly, not one of your beloved cat-burglars who enter by way of the fire-escape to rob us. Someone you ought to be proud of. You might invite him round to dinner so I could meet him.' 'Invite who round to dinner, Hilda?' 'Sir Sebastian Pilgrim, one-time all-rounder for England.

  He spends his time trying to reform young criminals. You don't spend much time trying to reform them, do you, Rumpole? That would
n't be your sort of thing at all.' 'Neither is cricket,' I assured her.

  'Exactly! And it seems that Seb, everyone calls him Seb is a brilliant businessman as well. Chairman of something called Maiden Over Holdings. I don't know why you're not Chairman of anything, Rumpole.' 'Maiden Over? What's that, exactly?' 'Some sort of property company. He started it with Tom Mottram, m.p. Of course, now Mottram's a member of the Government he's had to resign from all his directorships.' 'Go on, Hilda,' I encouraged her. 'I'm finding your Daily Telegraph unusually fascinating this evening.' 'It says here that Seb believes in Britain.' 'Is that unusual? I mean, do some people think Britain's just a figment of our fevered imaginations?' '"I have every faith in the financial future of this country, Seb told a shareholders' meeting recently,"' Hilda read out from the profile,' "which is why we're building a multi-storey hotel and shopping-mall in the area of-"' But the rest of this rousing speech was obliterated by the hysterical wail of the siren fixed to our front door as it called us to action stations.

  When the device had been quietened She admitted D. S. Appleby, who had at last found time to come and dust our sitting room with fingerprint powder. It wasn't until after he had done the job, been given a cup of tea and sent on his way that I was able to pick up the newspaper and discover where Sir Sebastian's faith in our country was going to find expression.