The Anti-Social Behaviour of Horace Rumpole Read online

  The Anti-social Behaviour of Horace Rumpole

  By the same author

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  Paradise Postponed

  Summer’s Lease

  Titmuss Regained

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  Felix in the Underworld

  The Sound of Trumpets

  Quite Honestly

  Rumpole of the Bailey

  The Trials of Rumpole

  Rumpole for the Defence

  Rumpole’s Return

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  Rumpole’s Last Case

  Rumpole and the Age of Miracles

  Rumpole à la Carte

  Rumpole on Trial

  The Best of Rumpole

  Rumpole and the Angel of Death

  Rumpole Rests His Case

  Rumpole and the Primrose Path

  Rumpole and the Penge Bungalow

  Murders

  Rumpole and the Reign of Terror

  Under the Hammer

  With Love and Lizards

  (with Penelope Mortimer)

  Clinging to the Wreckage

  Murderers and Other Friends

  The Summer of a Dormouse

  Where There’s a Will

  In Character

  Character Parts

  PLAYS

  A Voyage Round My Father

  The Dock Brief

  What Shall We Tell Caroline?

  The Wrong Side of the Park

  Two Stars for Comfort

  The Judge

  Collaborators

  Edwin, Bermondsey, Marble

  Arch, Fear of Heaven

  The Prince of Darkness

  Naked Justice

  Hock and Soda Water

  The Anti-social Behaviour of Horace Rumpole

  JOHN MORTIMER

  VIKING

  an imprint of

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  VIKING

  Published by the Penguin Group

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  First published 2007

  1

  Copyright © Advanpress Ltd, 2007

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  All rights reserved

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  EISBN: 978–0–141–91237–0

  For Ross

  ‘… the Social Contract is nothing more or less than a vast conspiracy of human beings to lie to and humbug themselves and one another for the general Good.’

  H. G. Wells, Love and Mr Lewisham

  ‘… the statutory provisions relating to anti-social behaviour orders (ASBOs) are not entirely straightforward…’

  Anti-social Behaviour Orders: A Guide for the Judiciary

  1

  The life of an Old Bailey hack has more ups and downs in it than the roller-coaster on the end of Brighton Pier. At one moment you may be starring in a sensational murder in Court Number One at the Ludgate Circus Palais de Justice, and the next you’re down the Snaresbrook Magistrates’ on a trivial matter of purloining a postal order or the receiving of stolen fish.

  I was smoking a small cigar in my room in Chambers, contemplating the uncertainties of the legal life, and comforting myself with the thought that when you’re on a down the up can’t be far away, when there entered Soapy Sam Ballard, QC (the letters in my book stood for Queer Customer), our so-called Head of Chambers in Equity Court.

  ‘You weren’t at the Chambers meeting, Rumpole?’ Soapy Sam uttered the words in the solemn tones of a judge in a case of multiple rape preparing to pass sentence.

  ‘No,’ I told him. ‘I stayed away. When it comes to vital matters such as the amount of the coffee money or the regrettable condition in which some of our members leave the downstairs loo, I know I can trust you to deal with them with your usual panache.’

  These words were kindly meant, but Soapy Sam continued to look displeased, even censorious. ‘You missed a very important occasion, Rumpole. We were discussing the most serious problem that faces us all today.’

  ‘You mean the fall in the crime rate, which has left me particularly short of briefs, or the elevation of the Mad Bull, now Mr Injustice Bullingham, to the High Court Bench?’

  ‘Nothing like that, Rumpole. Something far more serious.’

  ‘What could be more serious?’

  ‘Global warming.’ Soapy Sam uttered the words with almost religious solemnity.

  ‘Really? On my way to Chambers this morning I noticed a distinct nip in the air.’ It was a damp and windy March.

  ‘The North Pole is melting, Rumpole. The seas are rising all over the world. The Thames will probably overflow the Embankment and there is a real possibility of the ground-floor rooms in our chambers being submerged. And you occupy a downstairs room, Rumpole.’ He added the final sentence with, I thought, a sort of morbid glee.

  ‘What am I expected to do about it?’ I felt I had to ask. ‘Stand in the Temple car park and order the tide to turn back? My name’s not Canute, you know.’

  ‘We know exactly what your name is, Rumpole.’ Sam Ballard was giving me one of his least pleasant looks. ‘And we have identified you as a source of pollution.’

  ‘Well,’ I said, adopting the reply sarcastic, ‘that’s nice of you.’

  ‘You pollute the atmosphere, Rumpole, with those dreadful little brown things you smoke.’

  ‘Cigarillos,’ I told him. ‘Available from the tobacconist just outside the Temple gate. Can I offer you one?’

  ‘No, Rumpole, you certainly cannot. And I would ask you to consider your position with regard to the environment very carefully. That is all I have to say. For the moment.’

  With that, our Head of Chambers gave a final sniff to the atmosphere surrounding me and then withdrew, closing the door carefully behind him. In a moment of exaggerated concern, I wondered if he was chalking a fatal cross on the other side of my door to warn visitors and prospective clients of the source of plague and pollution to be found within.

  Dismissing such thoughts, I lit another small cigar and wondered if, as I struck the match, I could hear the distant sound of an iceberg melting, or at least the Thames lapping at
the door. All was quiet, however. But then the telephone rang with news that put the environment firmly back into second place among my immediate concerns.

  ‘There you are, Bonny Bernard, and it’s good to hear from you,’ I said, giving my favourite and most faithful solicitor a polite welcome. ‘What are you bringing me? A sensational murder?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, Mr Rumpole. Not this week.’

  ‘An armed robbery at the Bank of New South Wales?’

  ‘Not that either.’

  ‘Don’t tell me.’ I’m afraid my voice betrayed my disappointment. ‘Not another gross indecency in a picture palace?’ Wartime epics were, I had found, the most likely to produce such regrettable behaviour in the auditorium.

  ‘No, Mr Rumpole. None of those, I’m afraid. It’s just that one of the Timson family wishes to retain your services.’

  This was encouraging. The Timsons, an extended south London family whose members were seldom out of trouble, could usually be relied upon to keep She Who Must Be Obeyed in such luxuries as Vim, Mansion Polish, saucepan scourers, potatoes and joints of beef, as well as ensuring that I was provided with the necessities of life, such as the odd case of Château Thames Embankment from Pommeroy’s Wine Bar.

  ‘Which Timson are we talking about exactly?’

  ‘Bertie, he says his name is.’

  ‘Bertie Timson? I am trying to remember. Was it a case of carrying house-breaking, or even bank-breaking, implements? Did I get him off?’

  ‘You did,’ Bernard assured me. ‘And he remembers you with gratitude. That’s why he wants you to look after his boy, Peter.’

  ‘Has Peter murdered someone?’

  ‘Hardly. He’s only twelve years old. Bertie remarried a bit late in life.’

  ‘Well, for God’s sake, what was young Peter’s crime?’

  ‘Football.’

  ‘Is football a crime nowadays?’ In a way I was glad to think so, remembering miserable days on a wet playing field at school, half-heartedly pressuring a soggy ball through mud.

  ‘It is if you play it in the wrong sort of street. Peter’s been served with an ASBO. He’s due to come up before the magistrates. Bertie Timson’s afraid his boy might go inside if he reoffends. That’s why he wants to retain your services.’

  ‘Is there any ready money in this retainer?’

  ‘We can’t expect that, not for defending a twelve-year-old.’

  ‘I thought as much.’

  ‘But you will consider yourself retained?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  It had come to that. The advocate whose sensational career started when he won the Penge Bungalow Murders, alone and without a leader, was reduced to a retainer in the case of an anti-social behaviour order on a child. Of course, I never guessed at that time what strange results young Peter’s illicit football would lead to. If I had, I would have accepted his father’s retainer with more enthusiasm.

  2

  Extract from the Memoirs of Hilda Rumpole

  Rumpole is down in the dumps. He is suffering from an acute shortage of work, which makes him almost impossible to live with. Rumpole in a high mood, when he’s engaged in an important murder trial, for instance, is not an easy man to live with either. If he wins such cases it’s even more embarrassing, and I’m expected to listen to quotations from his final speech and asked if I had ever heard of a better courtroom advocate. When he is down in the dumps, however, and without any interesting briefs, he tends to sit in silence, only occasionally asking if we couldn’t cut down on such essentials as household cleaning materials.

  As I have recorded in previous chapters of these memoirs, I met Sir Leonard Bullingham, now a High Court judge, at bridge afternoons in the house of my friend Marcia Hopnew, known as Mash. Leonard (this was before he got elevated and was merely Judge Bullingham at the Old Bailey) took, as you may remember, a considerable shine to me, and went to the lengths of proposing that I should divorce Rumpole and marry him. I found this proposition unacceptable when he suggested that we should take dancing lessons and go to tea dances at the Waldorf Hotel. I didn’t fancy myself doing the tango among the teacups, thank you very much, so I turned Leonard down.

  All the same, we kept meeting and playing bridge whenever the newly appointed Sir Leonard had a free afternoon. I always enjoy the post-mortem discussions after each round.

  ‘If you’d led a small Spade,’ I told Leonard after our game was over, ‘we could have finessed their Queen. As it was, you led a Heart for no particular reason that I could see.’

  ‘Wonderful!’ Leonard looked at me with admiration.

  ‘It wasn’t wonderful at all. You should have remembered that I’d bid Spades.’

  ‘No, it’s wonderful that you have such an incisive mind, Hilda. And a clear memory for every card that’s played. These are the sort of talents needed for a great courtroom advocate. Pity you never considered reading for the Bar.’

  Well! I didn’t say any more at the time, but the thought was planted. If my mind was so incisive, why shouldn’t I make a better hand at being a barrister than Rumpole, who apparently has no work in view except a small boy’s footballing offences?

  After we had settled the scores, and worked out that he and I had won two pounds fifty pence, the High Court judge said, ‘I know you’ve elected to stand by Rumpole through thick and thin, Hilda. But I hope that doesn’t prevent us having another occasional date. Purely platonic, of course.’

  I told Leonard that I would have no objection to meeting him occasionally. I didn’t care for that ‘platonic’ thing he mentioned. As though he flattered himself that there was a chance of it being anything else.

  The truth was that I needed Leonard’s help in what has now become my Great Decision. I will read for the Bar!

  3

  AS A RESULT OF THE RECENT

  CHAMBERS MEETING, 4 EQUITY

  COURT HAS BEEN DECLARED

  A NON-SMOKING AREA.

  SMOKING WILL NOT BE PERMITTED

  IN ANY PART OF THE BUILDING,

  INCLUDING THE UPPER AND

  LOWER TOILETS. IN FUTURE

  ONLY NON-SMOKERS WILL BE

  ADMITTED TO PUPILLAGE.

  COFFEE WILL STILL BE PROVIDED AT

  A REASONABLE COST, BUT THE

  CONSUMPTION OF BEERS, WINES, SPIRITS

  AND FOOD ON THE PREMISES

  IS STRICTLY FORBIDDEN.

  SIGNED: Samuel Ballard, QC

  Now, at that time in the Rumpole history, when crime and therefore briefs appeared to be a bit thin on the ground, I had given up the luxury of a pie and pint of Guinness in the pub and instead had to put up with sandwiches for lunch. What with the search of our bags for terrorist devices, I had to smuggle in these sandwiches in the folds of the Rumpole mac. I went, on a dull morning out of court, to Pommeroy’s for a bottle of their very cheap and ordinary to wash down my lunch. It was while I was enjoying this picnic that Luci Gribble, our newly appointed Director of Marketing and Administration, came into my room and sat down, looking at me with a sort of amused despair.

  ‘You’re a hopeless case, Rumpole,’ she said.

  ‘Am I really? I rather like hopeless cases. They’re the ones I usually manage to win.’

  ‘Well, I don’t think you’re going to win this time. Haven’t you seen the notice put up by our Head of Chambers?’

  ‘I have, and I read it with interest.’

  ‘You seem to be breaking every one of the new rules in Chambers, eating, drinking and smoking a small cigar.’

  ‘Of course, Soapy Sam’s notice clearly doesn’t apply to me.’

  ‘Why not? You’re a member of Chambers.’

  ‘But I didn’t attend the Chambers meeting.’

  ‘You never attend the Chambers meetings.’

  ‘Exactly! So the decisions they come to are only binding on those who attend. They are res inter alios acta.’

  ‘What’s that meant to mean?’ It was clear that Luci had even less Latin than I had.
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  ‘A thing decided among others. Leaving me free to do as I please.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s much of a defence.’ Luci looked sceptical. ‘I mean, you weren’t present when they passed the laws against murder, but that doesn’t mean you can go about killing people.’

  I suppose our Director of Marketing had a point there, but I found her next remark quite ridiculous. ‘Erskine-Brown is considering the possibility of getting an ASBO against you, Rumpole.’

  ‘An anti-social behaviour order?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘Against me, did you say?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘And what’s the nature of their complaint?’

  ‘Persistent smoking in Chambers, and bringing food and alcoholic refreshments into your room.’

  ‘That’s not anti-social behaviour. It’s entirely social. Sit down, my dear old Director of Marketing. Let me offer you an egg sandwich, prepared by the hand of She Who Must Be Obeyed. Bring a spare glass and I can offer you a cheap and cheery mouthful. Now what could be more social than that?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Rumpole.’

  ‘What’s ridiculous about it?’

  ‘If I accepted your hospitality…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Then I’d be as anti-social as you are.’

  At this our Director of Marketing left me feeling profoundly anti-social so far as Ballard and his devious sidekick, Claude Erskine-Brown, were concerned.

  There is a certain area of London, not far from Clapham Common, where the streets of the wealthier middle classes, such as Beechwood Grove, are perilously close to less respectable areas, such as Rampton Road, which have become inhabited by members of the ever-spreading Timson clan, among them Bertie Timson, his wife, Leonie, and their single child, the twelve-year-old Peter. Bertie Timson’s alleged trade as an ‘Electrical Consultant’ was in fact a cover story for more felonious transactions, but he was a polite enough client, and I remember him thanking me warmly after a successful defence on a charge of carrying house-breaking implements. He had done his time during Peter’s extreme youth and now, when his son got into trouble, he had remembered Rumpole.