Rumpole Rests His Case (20 page)

‘What do you imagine you're up to, Beazely? Have you entirely forgotten the rules of ethical behaviour which apply even to solicitors? Or was your head turned by the scrumpy or whatever it is you drink in the countryside?'

‘Mr Rumpole ...'

I could tell the man was already somewhat shaken, so I twisted the dagger in the wound. ‘I have been practising at the Bar almost as long as living memory and on no occasion — you hear that? - on no other occasion has a case in which I have been briefed been offered to a junior white wig, a girl to whom the Penge Bungalow Murders may seem an historical event as distant as the Battle of Waterloo. I refer, as of course you know, to Mizz Liz Probert and the case of the teenage werewolf.'

‘The point was ...' Here Beazely attempted a stammering defence. ‘The client thought...'

‘What do you mean “The client thought”? Have you met the client? Has he spoken to you? Is he in some way related to Mizz Probert?'

‘I've never met him. No. But the Swithins thought ...'

‘I know what they think. I've had an opportunity of studying the Swithins in depth.'

‘They think the boy might react better to someone of his own age.'

‘The boy, as you call him, has had no opportunity of reacting to me.'

‘They can't persuade him to come to London for a conference.'

‘Then Mahomet must come to the mountain.'

‘Who did you say?'

‘Don't concern yourself, Beazely, with Mahomet. A figure of speech. Just find out which evening this week it would be convenient for me to come down to Hartscombe. I can easily manage tonight. You and I will talk to the client together.'

 

It wasn't until the end of the week that the Swithins could take time off from their charity committees, their book-club gatherings, Chris's prison visiting and Hermione's quiz in the village hall to support the handicapped. Ben was helping out in a Hartscombe restaurant the night I visited Merrivale.

‘If he wants a younger brief, I can understand that.' This was Rumpole at his most reasonable. ‘But I want to hear it from the client in person. Neither of you ...' I looked at the werewolf's mother and stepfather, comfortable but no doubt deeply concerned people, ‘neither of you is in danger of youth custody.'

‘He promised he'd be here by ten.' Hermione's wail was muted and polite, but it had its own brand of desperation. ‘It's really too bad of Ben.'

‘He sometimes stays in the restaurant talking,' Christopher told me, ‘even after it's closed.'

‘He talks to someone, that's encouraging,' I told them. ‘If he does that there's no good reason why he shouldn't talk to me.'

‘No consideration for others. No manners. Wherever young Ben came from, he didn't arrive from heaven, trailing clouds of glory.' Chris's knowledge of Wordsworth put him up a notch in my estimation.

We were waiting, this time, in Chris's study. All his computer technology was, he assured me, in the barn, and the room had an old-fashioned comfort, with a crackling log fire, armchairs, an impressive collection of books lining the walls, with the lights shining on their golden titles. We had been drinking brandy, listening to Schubert on the CD player, enjoying all the delights of a civilization which had not, apparently, rubbed off on Hermione's son. As we waited for him, conversation seemed to run out with the brandy until Chris, after prolonged and careful thought, said, ‘I don't think he'll ever talk to you, Mr Rumpole.'

‘We'll have to see about that.' I decided the time had come to track the werewolf to its lair. ‘Oh, by the way, could I borrow your loo before I go?'

‘I'm so sorry.' Hermione, who apologized for most things, was also sorry about her bathroom. ‘It's up the stairs.'

‘First on the left when you get to the landing.' Chris was more practical.

The bathroom, when I got to it, needed no apologies. The air had been freshened with a no doubt chemical but pleasant smell of fresh apples. The porcelain gleamed, the loo seat was of dark mahogany. The towels looked soft and inviting. Glass shelves on one side of the washbasin supported Hermione's array of lotions and unguents, her shampoos, perfumes, cot tonwool buds, tweezers and electric toothbrush. The shelves on the other side were clearly Chris‘s, displaying his silver-backed brushes, his electric razor, Floris soap and antidandruff shampoo and a more masculine perfume clearly labelled 'For Men‘. I suppose it was a small part of me that wanted, like the Timsons, to get something for nothing that tempted me to sprinkle a little of this on the Rumpole handkerchief. The smell was fresh, strong and reassuringly male. Smelling like that, I felt, entirely qualified me to meet and tame the werewolf.

 

 

Il Paradiso in Hartscombe marketplace was closed, but the lights still shone behind drawn blinds. After Beazely had rattled the door, it was opened by a woman in a black trouser suit. Apparently she knew my instructing solicitor as a regular customer and she was full of apologies.

‘Such a shame! We've taken the last orders and the kitchen's closed. We could perhaps do you and your friend a plate of antipasti.' She sounded entirely English and had brought Tuscany to Hartscombe by way of the Sunday supplements.

‘That's very kind of you,' I told her, ‘but we've really come to meet one of your waiters. Ben Swithin.'

‘Ben? Of course. I think he's still here. Come in, both of you.' My heart warmed to this polite hostess when she led us to a corner table and offered the apparently popular Beazely a bottle of Chianti on the house. I watched her as she went to a long table where teenage waiters, making a few pounds after school hours, were laughing together. After some persuasion she detached one of them and brought him to our table. He approached in slow motion, frowning deeply.

‘Who are you?' he said. ‘What do you want?'

‘I want you to sit down. And have a glass of wine.'

‘I don't drink. Who are you? Or what?'

‘I'm a lawyer,' I had to admit, ‘but don't let that put you off.'

‘Mum and Dad wanted me to see a lawyer. It's like ... I can't be bothered.'

‘Why can't you be bothered?'

‘Because it's useless.'

‘Why is it useless?'

‘Because you can't help me.'

‘Suppose I told you you're innocent.' The effect was surprising. He looked at me, a long, wondering look. He was a boy, thin, narrow-shouldered, a little short for his age. His hair looked as though it had been almost shaved and was growing back to an untidy stubble. He had the eyes of his mother, large and luminous with sculptured eyelids. He sat down then, the scowl faded and he looked younger than his years and quite defenceless.

‘What did you say?'

‘I said you're innocent. Until they prove you guilty.'

‘They won't have much trouble. Right?'

‘How do you know?'

‘Dad told me.'

‘You call Christopher Swithin “Dad”?'

‘Yes. He asked me to.'

‘I see.' For a werewolf, he seemed to be singularly obliging. ‘Tell me about this girl, this Prunella. She goes to your college.'

‘I don't go near her. I'm not allowed. I'm not allowed to go within miles of her. Like I'm a sort of fatal disease.' All these sentences ended on a rising inflection, as though they were questions, but he required no answer. I knew about his bail conditions.

‘Tell me more about Prunella.'

He picked up a table knife and, quite ineffectually, tried to saw at the edge of the table. This occupied him seriously for a while and suddenly, unexpectedly, he smiled at me. ‘Old Prune? She's all right.'

‘You've known her a long time?'

‘Forever. Since primary school.' Again he made it sound like a question.

‘Did you fancy her at all?'

‘Prune? Like I've known her since we were young. We were just friends. Mates. Dad used to pick her up on the school run and I'd see her every day. Mates. That's all we were. Right
^?
'

‘They say you sent her messages.'

‘Why would I want to send her messages when I saw her all the time? There wouldn't have been a whole lot of point in it.'

‘So you didn't send her e-mails?'

He was working again with his knife on the edge of the table. ‘You believe I did, don't you?'

‘I never said that.'

‘Like everyone believes I did.'

‘Not everyone.'

‘Who doesn't then?'

‘I told you. I don't. I'm in no hurry to believe anything. Now, as I told you, I assume you are innocent.'

He stopped sawing then, having done the edge of the table little visible damage. He put the knife down and looked at me. ‘No one's said that to me before. You going to speak up for me? Like in Court?'

‘If you want me to.'

‘There's nothing much you could do.'

‘Oh yes there is. I'd see if they could prove it.' He was silent then and I felt I had to say, ‘Your parents think you might want someone younger.'

He flicked the knife with a finger and spun it as it lay on the table. I remembered, at his age, spinning knives to make decisions or answer questions, even to point out a guilty party. It came to rest pointing at me.

‘All right then.' He was looking at me, as though accepting an inevitable conclusion. ‘You'll do, right? You're cool.'

‘Thank you very much.' I looked at old Beazely and confirmed my engagement. ‘That's settled then.'

‘Is that all?' Ben looked longingly back to the table where the other student waiters and waitresses were laughing, or blowing across the top of a bottle to produce a strange boom. None of them, so far as I knew, was on bail awaiting trial. Ben wanted to get away to join them, I thought, and not to go home.

‘For the moment. Come and see me in London, and don't vanish this time. You can send Mr Beazely an e-mail, just to confirm you'll be there.'

‘All right then.' Ben couldn't wait to get up. ‘Thank you very much.' It was an automatic thank you, his mother must have taught him to say it when he went to his first party. ‘Thank you very much for having me.' He was not so very much older when it was a thank you for doing his case of harassment and assault.

‘Just one more question.' I looked up at the young man who seemed, in many ways, still a child. ‘Do you like poetry?'

‘What do you mean?' He looked puzzled and I had to explain.

‘Stuff in short lines. It rhymes quite often. Do you read it ever?'

‘Not really. I'm not bothered with it.' He still looked longingly towards his friends.

‘But you read some at school?'

‘At school, yes. Most of it's boring.'

‘Have you read Yeats, for instance?'

‘Yeats? Never heard of him. Sorry, I've got to go now.' And he was away, back in his own world, with the young people of the college who found poetry boring and helped out at II Paradiso in the evenings.

‘It's hopeless though, isn't it? All the e-mails have got his name on them, for God's sake,' Beazely said, as we stood on the windy platform of Hartscombe station waiting for the last train to London. ‘They all came from his machine.'

‘He called her “Prune”,' I remembered.

‘What's that got to do with it?'

‘If you nursed a secret, powerful lust for a girl, so strong that you bombarded her with passionate and sexually explicit e-mails, if you were tormented with such urgent longings, do you think you'd call her “Prune”?'

Beazely frowned, puzzled. Clearly I had invited him to speculate on an alien world, a territory far from his quiet, orderly life as a country solicitor. ‘I still think we're on a loser. Is this Prune business your only point?'

‘No,' I told him. ‘Not quite the only one.'

It was about two in the morning when I undressed in the bathroom, climbed into my pyjamas and fitted myself into my side of the bed as far as possible from the sleeping Hilda.

‘Rumpole,' her voice boomed out of the darkness, ‘where do you think you've been?'

‘I'm not sure. Probably dinner at the Ivy with a couple of starlets and then to Stringfellow's for the lap dancing. Oh, and I caught a bit of a cold playing chemmy. We'll have to take out a second mortgage.'

‘Absolute stuff and nonsense! You tell as many lies as your clients. It must be catching.'

The voice of She Who Must Be Obeyed died away into the night. I had a momentary vision of a young girl, gazing up to heaven in mixed terror and joy, as a god, disguised as a swan, swooped down to ravish her. And then I, too, fell asleep.

 

 

‘Naturally we want to be with him when he sees you, Mr Rumpole.'

‘It's worried his mother almost to death.'

‘It's worried you too, darling. I told you, Mr Rumpole, Chris treats him exactly as though he was his own son.'

Beazely the solicitor, looking unusually embarrassed, had brought the Swithins to my room.

‘I can understand exactly how worried you are.' I started to pour a little oil on the troubled parents who appeared outraged.

‘He's given us such an incredibly hard time for years. And now this. Have you no idea what we are going through?'

‘I'm sure it's been horrible,' I hastened to reassure Chris. ‘So why not take a little time off. Drop into a cinema. Have tea at a posh hotel. I just need to see my client alone. Otherwise he might be reluctant to say things you'd find hurtful.'