The Collected Stories of Rumpole

by John Mortimer

  ‘Well, you’d better tell Mr Perivale Blythe that the London Electricity Board aren’t as patient as you are, Rumpole,’ She said severely.

  ‘Hilda. You know we can’t sue anyone for our fees.’

  ‘I can’t think why ever not.’ My wife has only a limited understanding of the niceties of legal etiquette.

  ‘It wouldn’t be a gentlemanly thing to do,’ I explained. ‘Against the finest traditions of the Bar.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s a gentlemanly thing to sit here in the dark with the gas cut off and no telephone and nasty looks every time you go into the butcher’s. All I can say is, you can sit there and be gentlemanly on your own. I’m going away, Rumpole.’

  I looked at Hilda with a wild surmise. Was I, at an advanced age, about to become the product of a broken home? ‘Is that a threat or a promise,’ I asked her.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said, “Of course, you’ll be missed”,’ I assured her.

  ‘Dodo’s been asked to stay with a friend in the Lake District, Pansy Rawlins, whom we were both at school with, if you remember.’

  ‘Well, I don’t think I was there at the time.’

  ‘And Pansy’s lost her husband recently.’

  ‘Careless of her,’ I muttered, moving the weight of the bills off me.

  ‘So it’ll be a bachelor party. Of course, when Dodo first asked me I said I couldn’t possibly leave you, Rumpole.’

  ‘I am prepared to make the supreme sacrifice and let you go. Don’t worry about me,’ I managed to say bravely.

  ‘I don’t suppose I shall, unduly. But you’d better worry about yourself. My advice to you is, find this Colindale Blythe.’

  ‘Perivale, Hilda.’

  ‘Well, he sounds a bit of a twister, wherever he lives. Find him and get him to pay you. Make that your task.’ She looked down at me severely. ‘Oh, and while I’m away, Rumpole, try not to put your feet on the sofa.’

  Today I arrived in good time at the Old Bailey. I like to give myself time to drink in the well-known atmosphere of floor polish and uniforms, to put on the fancy dress at leisure, and then go down to the public canteen for a cup of coffee and a go at the crossword. I needed to build up my strength particularly this morning, as Henry had let me know the name of our Judge the evening before. I therefore ordered a particularly limp sausage roll with the coffee, and I had just finished this and was lighting a small cigar, when Myers appeared carrying Newton’s latest report, accompanied by Miss Fiona Allways, wigged and gowned and ready for the fray. Since the curious sighting of Blythe’s secretary tripping the light fantastic at the Pussy Cat A-Go-Go, Fig had kept up a patient and thorough search for the elusive Perivale Blythe, with no result whatsoever.

  ‘I still think Blythe’s an essential witness.’ Fiona was sticking to her guns.

  ‘Of course he is,’ I agreed.

  ‘We just need more time for Newton to make inquiries. Can’t we ask for an adjournment?’ Myers suggested hopefully.

  ‘We can ask.’ I’m afraid my tone was not particularly encouraging.

  ‘Surely, Mr Rumpole, any reasonable judge would grant it.’

  Perhaps Myers was right; but it was then that I had to remind him that we’d been landed with his Honour Judge Roger Bullingham. I stood up in front of him, with the jury out of Court and Ward-Webster, our young and eager prosecutor, relaxing in his seat, and asked for an adjournment in no less than five distinct and well-considered ways. It was like trying to shift a mountain with a teaspoon. Finally his Honour said, in a distinctly testy tone of voice,

  ‘Mr Rumpole! For the fifth time, I’m not adjourning this case. So far as I can see the defence has had all the time in the world.’

  ‘Your Lordship may know how long it takes to find a solicitor.’ I tried the approach jovial. ‘If your Lordship remembers his time at the Bar.’ The joke, if it can be dignified with such a title, went down like a lead balloon.

  ‘Mr Rumpole, neither your so-called eloquence nor your alleged pleasantry are going to make me change my mind.’ Bullingham was beginning to irritate me. I raised the Rumpole voice a couple of decibels. ‘Then let me tell you an indisputable fact. For years my client’s business life was in the hands of Mr Perivale Blythe.’

  ‘Your client’s business life, such as it was, was in his own hands, Mr Rumpole.’ The Judge was unimpressed. ‘And it’s about time he faced up to his responsibilities. This case will proceed without any further delay. That is my final decision.’

  There is a way of saying ‘If your Lordship pleases’ so that it sounds like dumb insolence. I said it like that and sat down.

  ‘You did your best, sir,’ Myers turned and whispered to me. Good old Myersy. That’s what he always says when I fail dismally.

  For the rest of the day I sat listening to prosecution evidence. From time to time my eyes wandered around the courtroom and, on one such occasion, I saw a severe-looking female in spectacles sitting in the front of the Public Gallery, taking notes.

  It was a long day in Court. When I got back to the so-called mansion flat, I noticed something unusual. She Who Must Be Obeyed was conspicuous by her absence. I called, ‘Hilda!’ in various empty rooms and then I remembered that she had gone off, in none too friendly a mood, to stay with her old school chums, Dodo and Pansy, in the Lake District. So I poached a couple of eggs, buttered myself a slice of toast and sat down to a bottle of Pommeroy’s plonk and this account. Now I am up to date with my life and with events in the Sun-Sand Mobile Holiday Homes affair. Tomorrow, I suppose, will bring new developments on all fronts. The only thing that can be said with any certainty about tomorrow is that I shan’t become any younger, nor will Judge Bullingham prove any easier to handle. Now the bottle’s empty and I’ve smoked the last of my small cigars. The washing-up can take care of itself. I’m going to bed.

  THE NARRATIVE OF MISS FIONA ALLWAYS

  I should never have taken this on. From the first day I met him in Chambers, after I had received a severe ticking-off from Mrs Erskine-Brown, QC, Rumpole was extremely decent to me. I’m still not absolutely sure how he managed to persuade the men at 3 Equity Court to take me on, but I have a feeling that he did something pretty devious for my sake. I took a note from him in quite a few of his cases and he was able to winkle a junior brief in R. v. Armstrong for me out of his instructing solicitor. So you see, although a lot of people found him absolutely impossible, and he could say the most appalling things quite unexpectedly, Rumpole was always extremely kind to me and, above all, he saved my sister Jennifer from doing a life sentence for murder.

  So you can imagine my feelings about what happened to Rumpole in the middle of the Armstrong trial. Well, you’ll have to imagine them, I’m afraid to say, because although I never got less than B+ for an essay at school, and although I can get a set of facts in order and open a case fairly clearly at Thames Mags’ Court now, I’m never going to have Rumpole’s talent for emotional speeches. All I can say is that the day R. v. Armstrong was interrupted, as it was, was a day I hope I never have to live through again. What I’m trying to say is, my feelings of gratitude to old Rumpole made that a pretty shattering experience.

  All the same, I do realize that the records of one of Rumpole’s more notable cases should be complete, and that’s why I’ve agreed to give my own account of the closing stages of the Armstrong trial. I suppose my taking this on is the least I can do for him now. So, anyway, here goes.

  I have to say that I never particularly liked our client, Frank Armstrong. He had doggy eyes and a good deal of aftershave and I got the feeling that he was trying to make some sort of a pass at me at our first conference; and that sort of thing, so far as I am concerned, is definitely not on. When he came to give evidence I think Rumpole soon realized that Armstrong wasn’t going to be a particularly impressive witness, and he looked fairly gloomy as we sat listening to our client being cross-examined by Ward-Webster, who was doing a pretty competent job for the prosecution. I took a full note
and, looking at it now, I see that the moment came when the witness was shown the photograph of the Sun-Sand Mobile Homes site in Cornwall, and Judge Bullingham, who didn’t seem to like Rumpole, turned to the jury and said, ‘Hardly looks like the Côte d’Azur, does it, members of the jury? It looks like an industrial tip.’

  ‘Looking in the other direction, there’s a view of the sea, my Lord.’ I remember our client sounding distinctly pained.

  ‘What, between the crane and the second lorry?’ Bullingham was still smiling at the jury.

  ‘A great deal of our patrons’ time is spent on the beach,’ Armstrong protested.

  ‘Perhaps they want a quiet night!’ The Judge suggested, and the jury laughed.

  ‘Mr Armstrong. Do you agree that on no less than fifty occasions holidays on the site in Cornwall turned out to have been booked in non-existent mobile homes?’ Ward-Webster went on with his cross-examination.

  ‘Yes indeed, but …’ the witness was sounding particularly hopeless.

  ‘And that your firm was paid large deposits for such holidays?’ Ward-Webster went on.

  ‘Well, this is it, but …’

  ‘And on one occasion at least a mobile home was actually removed from an unhappy mother just as she was about to enter it?’

  ‘It was one of those things …’

  ‘Instead of mother running away from home, the home ran away from mother?’

  I remember that the Judge made his joke at that point, and Rumpole muttered to me, ‘Oh well done, Bull. Quite the stand-up comic.’

  ‘And that letters of protest from the losers and their legal advisers remained unanswered?’ Ward-Webster went on when the laughter died down.

  ‘If there were complaints, the information should have been fed into the office computer.’

  ‘Perhaps the people in question would rather have had their money back than have their complaints consumed by your computer.’

  ‘Quite frankly, Mr Ward-Webster, our office at Sun-Sand Holidays is equipped with the latest technology.’ Our client sounded deeply offended. At this the Judge told him that it was a pity it wasn’t also equipped with a little old-fashioned plain dealing.

  Of course, Rumpole objected furiously and said that was the point the jury had to decide. My note reminds me that the Judge then smiled at the jury and said, ‘Very well, members of the jury, you will have heard Mr Rumpole’s objection. Now, shall we get on with the trial?’

  ‘Mr Armstrong, are you telling us that these events are due to the inefficiency of your office?’ Ward-Webster was only too glad to get on with it.

  ‘My office is not in the least inefficient. My brother’s business is computer hardware and …’

  It was at about this point in the evidence that I saw Rumpole closely studying the report of Mr Newton, the inquiry agent.

  ‘What’s the relevance of that, Mr Armstrong?’ Ward-Webster was asking.

  ‘My brother supplies our office equipment,’ our client told him proudly.

  ‘Mr Ward-Webster,’ said the Judge. ‘This family story is no doubt extremely fascinating, but has it really anything to do with the case?’

  ‘I agree, my Lord. And I will pass to another matter …’

  While this was happening, Rumpole asked me in a whisper if I thought that our client had ever danced with Blythe’s secretary. I told him that I had no idea. In fact, I couldn’t see the point of the question. But Rumpole leaned forward and asked Mr Myers, of our instructing solicitor’s office, to get Mr Newton down to the Old Bailey during the lunch adjournment.

  Mr Newton came and we met him with our client in the public canteen. He took a look at Frank Armstrong and said that Blythe’s secretary’s dancing partner did look like our client but he was sure that he wasn’t the same man. Rumpole, who seemed to have a great deal of confidence in this detective whom he always called ‘Fig’ Newton, seemed to accept this and asked Frank Armstrong if he had a photograph of his brother.

  ‘Yes, indeed.’ Frank Armstrong got out his wallet. ‘Taken in Marbella. The summer before last.’ He handed a photograph to Newton.

  ‘That’s the gentleman,’ Mr Newton said. ‘No doubt about it.’

  ‘Fred’s been dancing!’ Rumpole laughed. ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘In the Gulf. Dubai. So far as I know. He’s been asked to develop a computer centre,’ Frank Armstrong answered vaguely.

  ‘How long did you think he’d been away?’

  ‘Six months. All of six months.’

  ‘Since before you were arrested?’ Rumpole was puzzled. ‘You see, Newton saw him a couple of weeks ago in London.’

  ‘Mr Rumpole, I don’t know what you’re getting at. I’m sure Fred would help me if he possibly could,’ Mr Armstrong said.

  ‘You’ve never quarrelled?’

  ‘Only one little falling out, perhaps. When he wanted to buy the land in Cornwall.’

  ‘Did he offer you much money?’ That seemed to interest Rumpole.

  ‘Enormous! Stupid sort of price, I called it. But I wasn’t selling. Bit unbrotherly of me perhaps, but I wanted to build up my empire.’

  ‘Perhaps Fred wanted to build up his,’ Rumpole said, and then he turned to us and gave orders. He seemed, at that moment, quite determined and in charge of the case.

  ‘There’s a lot to be done,’ he said. ‘Newton’s got to find brother Fred.’

  ‘In Dubai?’ Mr Newton protested.

  ‘Keep a watch on the office of Sun-Sand Holidays after hours, late at night, early in the morning. Blythe, too. We have to get hold of Blythe. You may have to go to Cornwall,’ he told Newton.

  ‘I suppose you want all that before two o’clock?’ Mr Myers was used to Rumpole’s moments of decision.

  ‘No. No, Myersy. Come on, Fiona. This time I’ve got to get the Mad Bull to give us an adjournment, or die in the attempt!’

  So much of what Rumpole said that day sticks in my memory – that last sentence is one I shall never forget, as long as I live.

  Of course, when Rumpole got to his feet after lunch Judge Bullingham was as unreceptive as ever.

  ‘So what is the basis of this application, which you are now making for the fifth time since the start of this case?’ the Judge asked, and when Mr Mason, the Clerk of the Court, rose to remind him of something, he was delighted to correct himself. ‘Is it? Oh, thank you, Mason. For the sixth time, Mr Rumpole!’

  ‘The basis should be clear, even to your Lordship,’ Rumpole said; it was pretty typical of him, actually. ‘It is vital that justice should be done to the gentleman I have the honour to represent.’

  ‘Mr Rumpole. This case has been committed for six months. If Mr Blythe could have helped you he’d have come forward long ago.’

  ‘That’s an entirely unwarranted assumption! Perivale Blythe may have other reasons for his absence.’

  ‘It seems you know very little about Mr Blythe. May I ask, have you a proof of his evidence?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No?’ The Judge raised his voice angrily.

  ‘No, I haven’t.’ I remember Rumpole spoke casually and I remember he sounded quieter than usual.

  ‘So you have no idea what this Mr Blythe is going to say?’

  ‘No, but I know what I’m going to ask him. If he answers truthfully, I have no doubt that my client will be acquitted.’

  ‘A pious hope, Mr Rumpole!’ The Judge was smiling at the jury now.

  ‘Of course, if your Lordship wishes to exclude this vital evidence, if you have no interest in doing justice in this case, then I have little more to say …’ His voice was really tired and quiet by then, and I wondered if he was going to give up and sit down, but he was still on his feet.

  ‘Well, I have a lot more to say. As you should know perfectly well, Mr Rumpole, getting through the work at the Old Bailey is a matter of considerable public importance …’

  ‘Oh, of course. Far more important than justice!’ Rumpole’s voice was still faint and I thought he looked pale.
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  ‘In my view these constant applications by the defence are merely an attempt to put off the evil hour when the jury have to bring in a verdict,’ the Judge went on, quite unnecessarily I thought. ‘It’s my duty to see that justice is done speedily. Mr Rumpole, I believe you have a taste for poetry. You will no doubt remember the quotation about the law’s delays. ’

  ‘Oh yes, my Lord. It comes in the same passage which deals with the insolence of office. My Lord, if I might say …’

  ‘Mr Rumpole!’ the Judge barked at him. ‘This application for an adjournment is refused. There is absolutely nothing you could say which would persuade me to grant it.’

  Then Rumpole seemed to be swaying slightly. He raised a finger to loosen his collar. His voice was now hoarse and almost inaudible.

  ‘Nothing, my Lord?’

  ‘No, Mr Rumpole. Absolutely nothing!’ The Judge had reached his decision. But Rumpole was swaying more dangerously. Judge Bullingham watched, astonished, and the whole Court was staring as Rumpole collapsed, apparently unconscious. The Judge spoke loudly over the gasps of amazement.

  ‘I shall adjourn this case.’ Judge Bullingham rose, and then bent to speak to Mr Mason, the Clerk of the Court. ‘Send for matron!’ he said.

  In a while, when the Court had cleared, Mr Myers, the usher and I managed to get Rumpole, who seemed to have recovered a certain degree of consciousness, out into the corridor and sit him down. He was still looking terribly grey and ill and the usher went off to hurry up matron.

  ‘Always thought I’d die with my wig on,’ Rumpole just managed to murmur.

  ‘Did he say die?’ A woman in glasses, whom I had noticed in Court, asked the usher and, when he nodded at her, walked quietly away. I took his wig off then and stood holding it. ‘Nonsense, Rumpole.’ I tried to sound brisk. ‘You’re not going to die.’

  ‘Fiona.’ His voice was now a sort of low croak. I had to bend down to hear what came out like a last request. ‘Air … Miss Allways … Must have air. Take me … Take me out …’