The Anti-Social Behaviour of Horace Rumpole (9 page)

‘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, extremely 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.

 

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.

 

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 all 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.'

‘Or is it because he's a lousy cross-examiner?' was, again, something I didn't say.

‘So we've become really friendly.'

‘I thought you never liked the chap.'

‘But it's different now. I sometimes feel that I'm not getting the sort of work I deserve and he understands that. So when he said you should be made to take the ASBO seriously, I agreed. I never thought of prison.'

‘I've told you, Mizz Liz, dismiss it from your mind. Devote your time to understanding Claude.' And I didn't add, ‘It shouldn't take you very long.'

‘And he's going to take me to the opera next week. Do you go to the opera, Rumpole?'

‘Hardly at all.' And I remembered an old saying: ‘If a thing's too silly to say, then sing it.'

‘I have wheels, Mr Rumpole. To be used in important cases and cases of difficulty, as this one is,' Fig Newton said proudly. ‘But you must have wheels that sink into the background. My old Golf is just such a vehicle.'

The information Fig had obtained was, it appeared, too confidential to be revealed in Pommeroy's, so Bonny Bernard and I met with the tireless sleuth in my room in Chambers.

He had parked and then watched the lock-up garage under the office block in the Canary Wharf area for several nights. On the fourth night he struck lucky.

‘I was keeping observation from a side street just opposite when I was rewarded by the arrival of a lorry just after midnight. The garage door was left open and some men were there who helped the lorry driver unload packing cases, which were moved into the garage.'

After the garage doors were closed, Fig thought he heard male and female voices. He kept observation until four a.m., when a large van-like car, which Fig described as a ‘people carrier', arrived. Three girls emerged from the garage and were helped into the vehicle.

Fig was able to follow them to a house in Battersea, into which one of the girls was taken. Then the people carrier drove on to an address in Clapham. An escort rang on the bell of the house in question, where the door was opened by a middle-aged woman who took the other two girls
inside. Although Fig tried to follow the people carrier further, he was delayed at some traffic lights and lost contact with it.

The industrious Fig had also been to the land registry and discovered that the empty block and garages were owned by a company called Helsing. After further inquiries he tried to ring Helsing but found that they were not answering their phone.