Rumpole Misbehaves

by John Mortimer

  Thus Rumpole was dismissed, with few words given.

  What happened when we got back to court had been quite unexpected and so the shades of the prison-house vanished as ‘Sir’ reluctantly agreed.

  ‘It must have been my final speech that did it,’ I told Hilda when I got home that afternoon. ‘That must have made them come to their senses.’

  ‘It wasn’t your final speech at all, Rumpole. It was all down to Leonard.’

  ‘Leonard Bullingham?’

  ‘Of course. He knows I want you to get your silk so I can pick up some of your future briefs. So he was going to ask your Head of Chambers not to go on with the case.’

  ‘Did he?’

  ‘He was away on circuit. I phoned to tell him that the case was on and he got hold of Sam Ballard in the lunchtime break. Apparently he told your Head of Chambers that he wouldn’t be considered for a judgeship if he dragged his chambers’ name through the courts.’

  ‘Soapy Sam Ballard’s being considered for a judgeship?’

  ‘I told you that, Rumpole.’

  ‘And your friend Leonard decided to help me?’

  ‘He did it for me, Rumpole.’

  ‘I’m sure he did.’

  So fortune brings its mysterious changes. I was entering my future years at the Bar by courtesy of the Mad Bull, to whom I must be particularly grateful.

  19

  ‘You set me impossible tasks, Mr Rumpole.’

  ‘Never mind. The impossible ones are often the easiest. They bring out the best in you. What’ve you got to report?’

  I was sharing a portion of Melton Mowbray pie at my desk with Fig Newton, the ingenious and reliable detective who seemed to suffer from a perpetual cold. Free from the ASBO, we ate lunch and drank Château Thames Embankment from tumblers at my desk.

  ‘It’s taken me a time, Mr Rumpole. But I think I might be on to something.’

  ‘I’m sure you are.’

  ‘I had a drink in a number of bars and public houses round the Canary Wharf area.’

  ‘Hard work for you.’

  ‘It was a long time before I got a bit of news.’

  ‘What sort of news?’

  ‘Someone was talking about an empty bit of an office block in Tinkers Passage with a drive-in garage. Someone said they had heard the chattering of girls. Another said they had seen girls being driven away in a car. Foreign girls was what they reckoned.’

  ‘God bless you, Fig! You’re a detective without equal. So did you carry on your observation in this Tinkers Passage?’

  ‘Several nights, but nothing happened.’

  ‘Keep an eye on it. Oh, and see if you can find out who owns the building. That would be extremely helpful.’

  Not long after the detective had left me there was a sharp tap on the door and it opened to admit Soapy Sam Ballard, the man whose accusations had landed Rumpole particularly close to the cooker.

  ‘Well now, Rumpole.’ Our Head of Chambers looked suitably embarrassed. ‘I see you’re enjoying your lunch.’

  ‘No thanks to you, Ballard.’ I didn’t mince my words. ‘If you’d had your way I’d be enjoying it under lock and key.’

  ‘It wasn’t my doing, Rumpole,’ Soapy Sam protested. ‘It was just that everyone else in Chambers felt that I had to take some steps to see that the views of the majority were respected.’

  ‘The test of democracy is the tolerance shown by the majority to minority opinions. Didn’t darling John Stuart Mill say something like that?’

  ‘Mill?’ Ballard looked puzzled. I hoped he might ask me what chambers this person was in.

  ‘He thought you might be tolerant of people who fancy a slice of pie at their desk occasionally,’ I said.

  Ballard changed the subject. ‘Is Mr Justice Bullingham a good friend of yours?’

  ‘We are extremely close. He met my wife at her bridge club and now we are just one big happy family.’

  ‘I acted quickly when he asked us to drop the case against you.’

  ‘I noticed that.’

  ‘And Bullingham is one of the judges who has the ear of the Minister for Constitutional Affairs?’

  ‘Constantly. He has his ear night and day. Particularly when the time comes to appoint new judges.’

  Soapy Sam’s smile broadened. It became hopeful. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’d best be getting along. A silk gown would suit you very well. Enjoy your lunch, Rumpole.’

  The committee for the appointment of Queen’s Counsel for England and Wales gathered itself together in a large room in the Outer Temple. Taking my place in front of this august assembly, I felt more nervous than I ever did before the most ferocious Old Bailey judge or even when I was the prisoner at the bar in the matter of the Rumpole ASBO. I was afraid of disappointing both Hilda and the accused murderer Graham Wetherby, and also of being robbed of a prize which I felt I so richly deserved.

  The room, I thought as I took my seat, seemed to be full of people whom I had never seen in any court and who might not be able to tell a QC from a plastic surgeon. There was also a smattering of solicitors unknown to me and a few QCs who, having acquired silk gowns, might enjoy the sight of an elderly junior trying hard to climb up beside them.

  In the chair was Dame Mildred Wrightsworth, a judge from the Family Division who specialized in sensational divorce cases and disputes over the custody of children.

  ‘We’ve all seen your CV, Mr Rumpole.’ The Dame spoke. ‘It seems your practice is entirely criminal.’

  ‘As I would wish it to be,’ I told the meeting.

  ‘Why do you say that?’ came from one of the unknown QCs.

  ‘Because if you go down to the Old Bailey you’ll find that all life is there, the real world with all its sins, mistakes and occasional beauty and good behaviour. Go and watch the huge international companies suing each other in the Queen’s Bench Division and you move into a world of fantasy and make-believe.’

  ‘We have learned,’ said another of the seated QCs, looking at me with disapproval, ‘that you can be discourteous to judges.’

  ‘Only when they act as leading counsel for the prosecution. Only when they indulge in such tricks as responding to the defence evidence with a sigh of disbelief. Only when they jump down from the bench and fight in the arena for a conviction. Then I feel they deserve a touch of discourtesy. Otherwise some of my very best friends are judges.’

  ‘Really?’ Dame Mildred looked sceptical. ‘Which judges are these?’

  ‘Well, a number of judges.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Leonard Bullingham.’ It was about time, I thought, that the Mad Bull gave me a little help. ‘He’s a family friend.’

  ‘Indeed!’ The Dame appeared to be softening. ‘And he has written a letter in support of your application.’

  ‘There you are,’ I said. ‘Apparent enemies in court but close friends out of it.’ I cringed internally at the hypocrisy of the remark, but then decided that it was hypocrisy in a good cause.

  ‘Speaking as one who has indulged in what you call the fantasy of company law from time to time, I’d like to ask you some questions about your attitude to crime.’ This came from Stephen Barnes, QC, whose long neck and disdainful expression made him look, I often thought, like a particularly unfriendly camel. One day, long ago, before he ascended into the higher world of company lawyers, he had prosecuted me unsuccessfully. ‘I believe you mostly defend.’ He made this statement sound like an accusation.

  ‘Always. I don’t like the idea of cross-examining people into chokey.’

  ‘Very well. Then I’d like to tell you what one of your own supporters said about you. We don’t usually let applicants know what their supporters have said about them. But in this case the Chair has said I may do so. Is that right, Chair?’

  ‘Quite right, Barnes,’ the article of furniture agreed.

  ‘The supporter in question,’ Barnes continued, ‘was a Mr Dennis Timson. You know him well?’

  ‘Over the years, ex
tremely well.’

  ‘And might he be described as a habitual criminal?’

  ‘Just as I might be described as a habitual defender.’

  ‘He said you were an excellent brief.’

  ‘That was kind of him.’

  ‘And it didn’t matter if he was innocent or guilty, you’d do a good job either way. Is that true?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘So you defend people you know to be guilty?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s not my business to decide that. That’s for the judge and jury. But if Mr Timson, or anyone else, tells me a story that’s consistent with his innocence, it’s my duty to defend him.’

  ‘Even if you don’t believe it?’

  ‘I suspend my disbelief. My disbelief has been left hanging up in the robing room for years. My job is to put my client’s case as well as it could be put. The prosecutor does the same and then the jury chooses to believe one of us. It’s called our judicial system. It seems to work more fairly than any other form of criminal trial, if you want my opinion.’

  ‘So it means that you have appeared for some pretty terrible people?’

  ‘The more terrible they are, the more they need defending.’

  ‘So morality doesn’t enter into it?’

  ‘Yes, it does. The morality of making our great system of justice work. Of protecting the presumption of innocence.’

  ‘So you never judge your clients?’

  ‘Of course not. I told you, judging isn’t my job. I’m like a doctor–people come to me in trouble and I’m here to get them out of it as painlessly as possible. And it would be a peculiar sort of doctor who only cured healthy people.’

  There was a silence. Barnes seemed to have run out of ammunition. Then Madam Chair spoke. ‘Mr Rumpole, you have defended yourself expertly.’

  ‘I wasn’t defending myself,’ I told her. ‘I was defending the British constitution.’

  ‘That too, of course. Speaking entirely for myself, I was impressed by your argument, and you have important backing from Mr Justice Bullingham.’

  ‘My family friend.’

  ‘Of course. But, as you realize, the final decision rests with the Minister for Constitutional Affairs.’

  ‘It’s been a pleasure.’

  It certainly had. In spite of Barnes’s cross-examination, the faces round the table had produced a few nods and smiles. Had I actually won a case? I told myself that it was about time I had a bit of luck and, after all, I deserved it.

  20

  After my appearance before the QC committee life for Rumpole took on a slightly superior turn. I had reasonable hopes that Madam Chair would recommend me for a silk gown and this would satisfy the needs of my wife, Hilda, my murder suspect, Graham Wetherby, and, I have to admit it, myself. At odd lonely moments, I would repeat the rolling phrase ‘Horace Rumpole, one of Her Majesty’s counsel learned in the law’. In my wildest imaginings I thought that the Queen, faced with one of the many difficulties in life, might send for Rumpole for assistance.

  One evening when I came home I found the flat in Froxbury Mansions unusually spick and span. There were fresh flowers in vases in the sitting room and our kitchen table was spread with a bright cloth, shining candles and polished glasses. It was laid, I couldn’t help noticing, for three people. I asked She Who Must if we were expecting company.

  ‘Leonard invited himself, as it so happened. So you’d better tidy yourself up. I don’t think you should be having dinner in one of those awful sweaters.’

  ‘Is it white tie and tails?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Just your nice tweed jacket, not the one you burned a hole in.’

  ‘That was an accident with a small cigar.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter how it happened. Just put on the other one.’

  So I changed out of the regulation black jacket and striped trousers into more relaxed evening wear, although I doubted that dinner with the Mad Bull chez Rumpole would be, in any sense, a relaxed affair. But when he arrived, promptly, the Bull was wreathed in smiles, casually dressed in a jacket quite without cigar holes and corduroy trousers.

  ‘I spurned the Bankers’ Annual Guest Night for the chance of a relaxed dinner with the two of you,’ he told us.

  Hearing him say this made me feel vaguely guilty, as though we should have put on some sort of entertainment to compensate for his missing the Bankers’ annual do.

  ‘That was so sweet of you, Leonard,’ Hilda said. ‘Wasn’t that sweet of him, Rumpole?’

  ‘Amazingly so.’

  ‘Well, go on then–offer Leonard a drink.’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s only Pommeroy’s Very Ordinary,’ I said when I was opening the bottle. ‘You might have had decent bottles at the Bankers’.’

  ‘Perhaps. But I wouldn’t have had the company of Hilda then, would I?’ At this my wife gave the Bull a small satisfied smile, until he added, ‘And you too of course, Rumpole.’

  We had polished off the beef stew and were on to the baked jam roll when she reminded me to thank the Bull for all the support he’d given me.

  ‘Of course. You saved me from chokey over the anti-social behaviour order.’

  ‘And backed your claim for silk,’ Hilda added.

  ‘Yes, of course. Thank you for that. I think I ended up with the committee on my side.’

  ‘Think nothing of it, Rumpole. I know that Hilda didn’t want a husband behind bars. And I knew she’d prefer one with a silk gown on his back.’

  ‘Horace Rumpole, QC,’ Hilda ran her tongue round the words, ‘that’s how they’ll paint your name up on the chambers’ door.’

  ‘Isn’t it a bit too soon for that? The Minister for Constitutional Affairs has to approve–’

  ‘That’ll be a formality.’ I noticed that the Bull was answering Hilda and not me.

  ‘So will you say thank you, Rumpole?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  After that we ate in silence for a while, with Hilda making sure that the Bull’s plate was well supplied and that I paid him a further tribute.

  ‘I’ve got even more reasons to be grateful to you, Judge.’

  ‘Please call me Leonard.’

  ‘All right then, Leonard. Those arguments we had in court.’

  ‘Your husband is very argumentative, Hilda.’

  ‘Don’t I know it.’

  ‘Whenever you failed to remind the jury of part of the defence, or stepped down into the arena to cross-examine one of my witnesses, it clarified my understanding of how justice ought to be done.’

  There was silence. Then the Bull smiled and said, ‘You’re joking, of course.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Rumpole is always joking,’ Hilda explained. ‘It really does him no good at all.’

  That night I left Hilda and the judge sitting in front of the gas fire and never at a loss for words. The last thing I heard, as I went early to bed, was my wife offering our guest a hot drink. It had taken someone with the strength of character and dominant personality of She Who Must Be Obeyed to tame the wild Bull at long last.

  21

  After these somewhat dramatic events–my hair’s-breadth escape from chokey, my apparent success with the QC committee and my reception of the Mad Bull in the matrimonial home–life seemed to drift on much as usual, that is to say, I got enough work to keep the bailiffs from the door. But none of the cases I was doing then–apart from the Flyte Street murder, of course–were interesting or unusual enough to win a place in these chronicles.

  Then one morning, when Bonny Bernard and I were having coffee in the Old Bailey canteen–waiting for the jury to come back after a particularly boring breaking and entering–Bernard gave me a piece of information that was to open a door to some far more serious goings-on.

  ‘It’s your Peter Timson,’ Bernard told me. ‘He’s broken his ASBO.’

  ‘What did he do, remind me.’

  ‘Kicked a football into the street next to his. The street with a
ll the posh people in. His dad wants you to appear for him again. Do you really want to do it?’

  ‘What did my darling old sheep of the Lake District say? We come into the world trailing clouds of glory and then terrible things begin to happen. “Shades of the prison-house begin to close upon the growing Boy”.’

  Back in my chambers I was still contemplating the fate of young Peter Timson when there was a knock on the door and Mizz Liz Probert entered into the presence, apparently unashamed.

  ‘Rumpole!’ she greeted me. ‘I’m so glad you’re back.’

  ‘Are you really, Mizz Liz? You did your best to have me put away.’

  ‘Oh, I never wanted that. I thought that they’d just tick you off a bit for breaking your ASBO. I never thought for a moment about prison.’

  ‘Don’t worry. It might have been quite interesting.’

  ‘And Claude said it was something we had to do. To make Chambers more eco-friendly.’

  ‘Has he noticed that the Sahara Desert has moved to Spain since I lit my last cigar?’

  ‘He does take such things seriously, Rumpole, and he’s a wonderful man.’

  I thought of many adjectives I could apply to Claude, but wonderful wasn’t one of them.

  ‘And he’s not happy, I’m sure you know that. His wife doesn’t really understand him. Has he told you that?’

  ‘No. But I bet he told you.’

  Her Honour Dame Justice Phillida Erskine-Brown–once Phillida Trant and the Portia of our chambers–had married Claude in what I thought was a moment of weakness. ‘Perhaps she doesn’t think there’s much to understand,’ was what I didn’t say.

  ‘He can’t talk to her,’ Mizz Liz told me, ‘like he can talk to me.’

  ‘So what does he talk to you about?’

  ‘How he feels passed over and he’ll never be a judge since his wife’s got it. And he knows they don’t give him the most important cases because he’s a judge’s husband.’