Rumpole and the Angel of Death (15 page)

‘I can't imagine what sort of other things.'

‘Like your companionship.' I have to say, Dodo, I found Danny's answer strangely disturbing. ‘By the way, Hilda,' he went on, in quite a businesslike way, to cover my confusion, ‘I've got seats at Covent Garden next Thursday. If you happen to have a free evening?'

‘Underneath these granite crosses

No one counts their gains and losses –

But they whisper underground

All the answers they have found.

How else can our quarrels end?

Our enemy become our friend?

The dead around us all reply

Peace be with you – you must die.'

‘What's that, Rumpole? Poetry?'

‘Hardly. Not really poetry. Not the sort of stuff that gets into
The Oxford Book of English Verse,
the Quiller-Couch edition.'

‘I thought it was quite good. At least it rhymes. Who wrote it?'

‘It's called “In a Sussex Graveyard” by Michael Skelton.'

‘He's a poet?'

‘He wants to be. His father wanted him to be a plastic surgeon. Personally, I don't believe he was suited to either profession. If you're going to be a poet you've got to be able to stand the sight of blood.' This was one of Rumpole's epigrams – or
bons mots,
as Gertie Green used to call them, Dodo. So, as you may imagine, I ignored it. I was more than a little irritated by him. He had a load of new instructions open on the kitchen table so I could hardly get at my chops and mash, and he was slightly above himself, as he always is after he's been to see a customer in prison in an important case, and he seemed to regard his day trip to Sussex as something of a day out.

‘A strange young man, Hilda. He seems to think that because he writes poetry he exists in a world of his own, rather above ordinary mortals. Can you believe it, he hardly bothered to answer my questions? He didn't seem nervous or frightened or even especially concerned about the case. Just bored by it. But he's wrong, you know. In my opinion poetry is written by people who live quite ordinary lives and have a way with words:

“Golden lads and girls all must,

As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.”

‘The man who wrote that went to the pub and worried about his bank account.'

‘You must be a poet then, Rumpole. You spend enough time in Pommeroy's Wine Bar. Was that another bit of young Skelton?'

‘No, another bit of old Shakespeare.' You know, Dodo, Eng. Lit. was never my strongest subject, but Rumpole needn't have sounded so patronizing.

‘You're not telling me this boy killed his father because he wanted to be a poet, are you, Rumpole?'

‘I'm not telling you he killed his father full stop. That is a fact which still has to be decided by twelve honest citizens of East Sussex.'

I gave a heavy sigh, signalling that I'd heard quite enough of Rumpole on the burden of proof to last a lifetime. Then I said, ‘I should think he probably killed his father for the money.'

‘Hilda, have you accepted a brief for the Prosecution?'

‘Well, he was his father's sole heir, wasn't he? And I don't suppose cosmetic surgery comes cheap.' In my anxiety to put Rumpole down I had said rather more than I intended.

‘How did you know that?' Rumpole gave me his sharp crossexaminer's look.

‘I really can't remember. Hadn't the mother died and Michael was the only child? It said that in the
Daily Telegraph.
'

‘It's not quite true that he's the sole heir.' Rumpole ferreted about among his papers for a copy of the will. ‘Skelton left £100,000 to his secretary – an attractive girl, Michael tells me: “And all the rest and residue of my estate to my son, Michael Lymington Skelton, or if he should predecease me to my cousin Ivan Lymington Skelton, now resident in Sydney, Australia.”'

‘Well, Michael didn't predecease him, did he? Otherwise you wouldn't be defending him.'

‘Oh, Hilda, what a wonderful grasp of legal principles you have!' It was at moments like these that I was strongly tempted to tell Rumpole why he'd been chosen to defend young Skelton alone and without a leader. However, I contented myself with saying, ‘I don't really know what kind of defence you've got.'

‘The grandfather clock' – Rumpole produced the photograph of the bloodstained hall – ‘stopped at ten forty-five. I told you that was important.'

‘Why?'

‘Michael's got an alibi for ten forty-five.'

‘Really. What is it?'

‘That poem. He was walking in the beechwoods, about half a mile from the house. Composing it.'

‘But you said it wasn't even a good poem.'

‘Or convincing evidence. In itself. But there were witnesses.'

‘Who?'

‘New Age travellers. That's what they call themselves. Sort of politically correct gypsies. They were camping in the woods and Michael stopped to talk to them. He even recited his poem to them, so they might remember him.'

‘So have you found these gypsies?'

‘Not yet. But today, after we'd seen Michael in Lewes gaol, old Turnbull took me for a walk to the beechwoods near Long Acre, the Skeltons' home.'

‘Who's Turnbull?'

‘Newcombe's clerk or legal executive – I think that's what they call themselves now. I really don't know what you find so funny, Hilda.'

‘Just the thought of you, going for a walk in any sort of wood.'

‘One has to make sacrifices – for all-important murders. We found some tyre marks, the remains of a sort of camp-fire and an old shirt bearing the legend
LESBIANS WITH ATTITUDE
.'

‘Talking of Danny Newcombe, Rumpole.'

‘I wasn't. I was talking of his clerk.'

‘Danny's invited me to Covent Garden next Thursday. He didn't think you'd care for the opera.'

‘Opera? Isn't that the stuff Claude Erskine-Brown takes young legal ladies to when he's trying to get off with them? No, Danny's damned right, I wouldn't care for it. I'd rather be stuck before Mr Injustice Graves on a six months' post office fraud. But why on earth has he asked
you,
Hilda?'

‘I think, Rumpole' – the time had come to take his mind off his murder case and give him something serious to worry about – ‘that Danny Newcombe has taken a bit of a shine to me.' There was a short silence and then Rumpole said, ‘The first thing Danny Newcombe's got to do is to find those New Age travellers.' At that moment he didn't seem to give a hoot whether his instructing solicitor had taken a shine to me or not, and, quite honestly, Dodo, I decided to proceed accordingly.

Well, there I was in the Crush Bar at Covent Garden Opera House, which I had often heard about, but never been crushed in before. It was the first interval and I had sat for an hour and a half in the great gold and plush of the place, letting the music wash over me and getting little clue about the story from the words which occasionally flickered on a screen over the stage. I couldn't really understand what the fuss over Don Giovanni was all about. He was a shortish, stout person, who sweated a good deal, and I would be prepared to say that, as a lady-killer, he didn't rank far ahead of Rumpole. I had bought something new and blue for the occasion from Debenham's and, by an amazing coincidence, Danny was also wearing a dark blue suit with a cornflower-coloured tie which made him look younger and went stunningly with his eyes. There at least, I thought, as he came towards me with two glasses of champagne, was a man who might have made a thousand and three conquests in Spain.

‘This is a great treat for me,' he said, as he handed me a glass clouded by the iced wine. ‘My favourite opera with a truly sympathetic companion!'

‘A treat for me,' I told him, ‘to be in a theatre without having to give Rumpole a quick dig with my elbow every time his eyes start to close and the snores threatens to begin.'

‘I hope he doesn't mind our going out together?'

‘Not at all. He's perfectly happy to be left at home with your murder.'

‘Oh, dear. Is he boring you to death with that?'

‘I do get rather a lot of the Skeltons. When I was trying to eat my supper the other night he insisted on reading out the father's will. . .'

‘Was that interesting?'

‘Not really. Rumpole seemed surprised to discover that Michael wasn't the only person to benefit.'

‘Oh, you mean the Aussie secretary. We checked up on her. She had gone to a girlfriend's birthday party in Wimbledon and spent the night there. She was celebrating until she went to bed around two in the morning. Anyway, I doubt if she'd be much of a hand with a golf club. You know, looking round this bar, I can see a good many people I've acted for when they were charged with various offences. They all look extremely prosperous and, of course . . .'

‘And what?' I asked when he hesitated, smiling.

‘Envious. That I'm with such a charming companion. Oh, good evening, Judge.' We were joined, not by one of Danny's clients, but by a woman sent to try them, Mrs Justice Phillida Erskine-Brown, always known to Rumpole (who, for many years, had had the softest of spots for her) as the Portia of his Chambers. In her wake trailed her husband Claude Erskine-Brown, now a Q.C. You will remember, Dodo, that he only achieved what Rumpole calls Queer Customer status when his wife was made up to a scarlet judge, adding beauty and an unexpected degree of serenity to the Bench. ‘Hilda Rumpole and Mr Newcombe. Good heavens!' her ladyship delivered judgement. ‘It
is
a surprise seeing you two here together.'

‘Hilda had a free evening and I was happy to introduce her to my favourite opera.'

‘I'm afraid it's not my favourite Leporello.' Claude Erskine-Brown looked as though he'd been invited to a feast and offered a damp sausage-roll. ‘Quite the worst “Non voglio piu servire” I've ever heard at the Garden.'

‘But, of course, you're not usually listening so carefully, are you, Claude? You're usually far more interested in whomever you happen to have invited. Isn't that true?' The Judge accompanied her question with a sort of humourless laugh, and I remembered that she'd learnt the art of cross-examination from Rumpole.

‘How's the Skelton case going?' Claude asked Danny with, I thought, ill-concealed anxiety. ‘I only ask because my diary's getting pretty full since I took silk.'

‘Oh, I think Danny's going to leave
R.
v.
Skelton
to Rumpole.' I spoke as a person with inside knowledge. ‘He's not taking in a leader.'

‘Can that be right?' Claude looked seriously concerned, but his wife said, ‘Not a bad idea, that. Rumpole's always at his best in a hopeless case.'

‘But he'll start attacking the police. He'll try to destroy all the prosecution witnesses. They won't like that sort of thing in East Sussex.' Claude moved closer to Danny in a vain attempt to sell his forensic talents as though they were double-glazing, and Phillida leant forward and asked for a word in my ear. They were a few words and they came as a question, ‘Don't tell me you're going out with Danny Newcombe?'

‘Well, isn't it obvious?'

‘Is it?'

‘We're not exactly sitting at home watching television, are we?'

‘But, you mean . . . you're actually going
out
with him.'

‘Yes, of course. Well, we've only actually done it twice.' There was what I believe is known as a pregnant pause, and then Phillida said, ‘And Rumpole doesn't know?'

‘Well, he knows about the opera. I haven't told him about the other thing.' I had, you will remember, Dodo, kept quiet about the Brasserie San Quentin.

The Judge gave me a long look of deep concern and said, ‘I promise you, Hilda, your secret is absolutely safe with me. And if Claude starts blabbering, I'll do him for contempt of Court!' Before she could explain this urgent but mysterious message, the interval was over and the bell called us to the further adventures of the Don, who, in my honest opinion, Dodo, couldn't hold a candle to Danny Newcombe in the lady-killing department.

In the second interval we saw Phillida and Claude together in the distance, talking to each other with unusual vivacity and studiously avoiding looking in our direction, as though we were tedious relations they hoped they need have nothing further to do with, or people suffering from a contagious disease. I might have taken some offence at this, Dodo, but I was too busy listening to what Danny was saying to me. Although his eyes were still bright and smiling, his voice had become low and unusually serious. He looked at me, Dodo, in what I can only describe as a yearning sort of way and said, ‘Sometimes I long for a complete change in my life.'

‘I'm sure we all do.'

‘I'd love to give up the legal treadmill. Go away to the sunshine. Perhaps with new companions, or a new companion. You know what, Hilda?'

‘No, what?' Quite honestly, Dodo, I was feeling quite weak at the knees, and I'm quite sure it wasn't the champagne when he said, ‘ “'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.” '

I couldn't look at him, Dodo. I glanced across at the Judge and her husband, and caught them turning hurriedly away. Then I stared down into my glass of champagne and knocked the rest of it back. My mouth was full of air bubbles which made me suddenly speechless, which may have been just as well.

“‘Push off, and sitting well in order smite / The sounding furrows;”' Danny went on and I realized that he was reciting poetry, as Rumpole does at important moments. I don't know what you'd've thought, Dodo, but I was quite sure that the words contained some sort of an invitation. Then we were summoned to see the last bit of the opera, where the General's statue comes to supper, and the unfortunate lady's man is sent down to hell.

Some nights later the scene was far less exciting. Rumpole and I were sitting either side of the gas fire in Froxbury Mansions, and I thought I'd discover whether he was noticing me or not, so I asked, ‘What are those photographs, Rumpole?'