Rumpole and the Primrose Path Page 12

  Before I could bask in the limelight of the Gervase Johnson interview, however, I had another call, which took me to the Chambers of Hugo Winterton, leading counsel for Sir Michael Smedley and the appointed protector of his privacy.

  ‘Bit of a change for you, isn’t it, Rumpole, civilized litigation in the Law Courts after the rough and tumble of the Old Bailey?’

  ‘If you call it civilized, hopping about with some girl’s bra round your ears ...’ I was, I have to confess, stung by the man’s reference to the Courts where the Great Defender carried on his practice.

  ‘He was relaxing, Rumpole. I expect you relax yourself when you’re on holiday, don’t you?’

  ‘Not by prancing about decorated by my wife Hilda’s underwear.’ Then I asked why he’d called for the pleasure of my company.

  ‘I thought we might knock our clients’ heads together, you and I, Rumpole. No need for a prolonged fight about this, is there? I’m sure we could find a fairly painless way out, between us?’

  What was wrong with Hugo Winterton was that there was nothing wrong with him. His smile, unlike that of Liz Probert’s hero, was neither aloof nor patronizing. He was good looking, middle-aged, and the excellent coffee served in his Chambers came in solid porcelain mugs. His handsome, amused wife smiled on me from the photograph frame on his desk, and so did two fair-haired and charming children. His Chippendale chairs, his old ‘Spy’ cartoons of vanished judges, the blue vase of white tulips, his bright and clearly enthusiastic Junior - Imogen, as he introduced her - all these seemed to have been carefully selected by a Q C determined never to put a foot wrong. He even pushed a mother of pearl box containing small cigars towards me.

  ‘Your clerk told us you use these. Please, do light up. Imogen and I have absolutely no objection in the world to people smoking.’

  Was I being led gently into some ambush? Probably. However, I couldn’t resist the temptation, and I sent a small smoke ring hovering over Hugo Winterton’s tulips.

  ‘Naturally, Mike was very upset when your little paper published the picture. All right, he was making a bit of a fool of himself, but we’ve all got to let our hair down sometimes. What he doesn’t want is to have the picture popping up in every blessed newspaper. So he’s got to appear to win this case.’

  “Appear to”?’

  ‘Afraid so. And win so convincingly it’s going to scare off all the other members of our sex-starved, scandal-loving press. So there’s got to be an order for a phenomenal amount of damages.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘We were thinking in terms of a quarter of a million - just as a warning to others.’

  ‘Well, I’d better be going.’ I started to prise my body from the chair. ‘Thanks for the cheroot.’

  ‘No, wait a minute.’ Winterton was still smiling. ‘Just between ourselves, I believe I could persuade Mike not to enforce the order. I doubt if either your paper or the editor’s got the money. Your client will only pay his own costs, and of course Mike would want some permanent editorial control over the Argus.’

  ‘You mean he wants to take it over?’

  ‘Just to see it doesn’t make any more unprovoked attacks on him.’

  ‘And advertise his beds.’

  ‘That might be part of it, of course.’

  ‘And this order for a quarter of a million damages?’

  ‘That would stay in the background.’

  ‘To be enforced at any time, if my client doesn’t give Sir Mike exactly what he orders.’

  ‘It’s a possibility, of course. We’d hope it wouldn’t come to that.’

  ‘A pious hope!’

  ‘So, do you think we might do business, along these lines?’ It was all extremely polite. Hugo Winterton seemed genuinely anxious to come to what he thought was a painless solution.

  However, during the last few weeks I had read all the cuttings, a huge collection, sent to me by Crozier about the life, business dealings and matrimonial history of Sir Mike. I had also looked in vain for his political affiliations, without success. All I got were statements that he had no interest in politicians or politics and that the way he voted was entirely his own affair. I couldn’t say that I had found a golden key to unlock all Sir Mike’s secrets, but I had thought of a possible line of attack, and I wasn’t about to surrender to Winterton without further argument.

  ‘I’ll put it to the editor,’ I promised my learned opponent. ‘But he’s a pretty tough sort of a character.’ I gave my preferred vision of the bird-like Rankin. ‘I’m not sure he’d agree to being in Sir Mike’s pocket for the indefinite future.’

  ‘Do your best with him, Rumpole, my dear old fellow. We don’t want to have to waste our time preparing for a fight, do we?’

  ‘I’m not too worried about that.’ Perhaps I should have reminded him that I was on my way to an interview to be entitled, when it was published, ‘Rumpole: the Great Defender.’

  ‘One. Two. Three. Four. Testing ... testing ... testing. Work, you little bugger! Work!’

  The recording device lay ready to receive Rumpole’s message to the world. It was a reluctant participant in the interview, however. Sometimes its red light glowed for a while, but then it faded and a blow from the interviewer’s heavy fist failed to revive it. In the end, Gervase Johnson picked up a notebook and announced that he was going to do it the old-fashioned way. He was, I thought, an old-fashioned brand of journalist, with buttons straining across a sizeable stomach, white hair falling over his ears and the sort of patient smile that seemed prepared to live through any determined rebuff or casual humiliation.

  Around us the crowd of faces, half-remembered from the gossip columns or Hilda’s favourite soaps, chattered, called to each other, blew kisses, or gave interviews out to obedient machines. I had talked my way through the Japanese sushi starter and we were well into the seared monkfish with tomato coulis, with only a fleeting longing for mashed potatoes and steak and kidney pudding. I had given Gervase Johnson a resume of my famous cases, dwelt at length on the turning point in my career (when I did the Penge Bungalow Affair alone and without a leader). I had given him classic examples of how a working knowledge of bloodstains, or signs of uncertainty in handwriting, can win a difficult case, when I began to notice that his hand was moving ever more slowly across the notebook page and the grasped pencil seemed to be giving up work. By the time I had reached my account of the mysterious case of the disappearing juror, the moving hand had stopped completely and no more notes were taken.

  ‘I think what our readers will be interested in, Mr Rumpole,’ here Gervase took a refreshing swig of the New Zealand Sauvignon the waiter had recommended, ‘is how a busy barrister unwinds. Living on your nerves, aren’t you? Will you give us an insight into your private life?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘That’s very generous of you.’ Gervase gripped the pencil with renewed enthusiasm. ‘I know some people don’t like talking about that sort of thing.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t mind at all.’

  ‘Good for you. Carry on, Mr Rumpole.’

  ‘When the day’s work is done -’

  ‘And you feel the need to relax completely?’

  ‘Exactly. I get outside, let’s say, half a bottle of Pommeroy’s Very Ordinary ...’

  ‘With a charming young companion?’

  ‘With a private detective, or my friendly solicitor Bonny Bernard, or some more than usually disappointed member of Chambers.’

  ‘You’re a lucky man, Mr Rumpole.’

  ‘In some ways.’

  ‘The story is you were seen being kissed by a particularly attractive young lady in the wine bar.’

  ‘Liz Probert?’ I looked at the man with mild surprise. ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Oh, we’ve been making a few enquiries. We’ve had a photographer out after you. Material for the article. I suppose you’re not going to tell me how you spent the rest of the evening?’

  ‘Certainly. I went back to my flat in the Glouces
ter Road. I had supper with my wife in the kitchen. A chop, I think. And baked jam roll. We watched the ten o’clock news and went to bed early. That is my private life.’ I have to admit, I was growing impatient with this journalist who didn’t seem to be interested in bloodstains. ‘There’s your story. Make what you like of it. I’m not Sir Mike Smedley. I don’t want to sue anyone for writing about how I spend my evenings.’

  ‘Sir Michael.’ Gervase spoke in tones of awe and wonder. ‘Is he a great man, Mr Rumpole? You’re going to have a tough job cross-examining him.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know.’ I wasn’t going to admit the possibility of defeat. ‘Perhaps I’ll think of something. He must have a weak spot, a chink in his armour?’

  ‘Everyone’s tried to find one, but he’s clean as a whistle. The tabloids tried to pin something on him when he landed that contract for N H S beds.’

  ‘I read something about that. Wasn’t there a suggestion he’d done a deal with Gerry Hindle about a huge secret subsidy to Party coffers? Wasn’t that the story?’

  ‘Which collapsed as soon as it was mentioned. Sir Michael didn’t even sue for damages.’

  ‘Unusual.’

  ‘He told me all about it when I interviewed him. The truth was, he said, he’d never spoken to Lord Hindle. Never even met him. He’s not the sort to fraternize with politicians. Any more than you are, I should imagine, Mr Rumpole. I’m sure you prefer the company of attractive young lady barristers like Miss Probert, for instance.’

  ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you,’ I told him. ‘But like the tabloids over the bed deal you’ve got the story completely wrong. Stick to the Penge Bungalow Murders. The readers of the Daily Fortress are going to find that far more interesting than my non-existent romances.’

  At which the resigned journalist hit his little machine again, and when, to his amazement, the red light glowed steadily, recorded with a sigh of resignation some of my more sensational cases, while I refreshed my memory with another bottle of the New Zealand white.

  Afterwards, I discovered that having a profile written for the papers was rather more irritating than not having a profile written for the papers. I bought the Daily Fortress every morning at the tube station and turned the pages nervously, dreading a description of my latest ‘squeeze’ being the personable Liz Probert, who would then berate me furiously for treating her as a trophy mistress and intruding on her privacy. I wondered if I should warn her, but remembering what I had told Claude about jumping stiles I put it off, and gradually I looked less eagerly and far less often into the pages of the Daily Fortress.

  ‘Thank you for your advice, Rumpole. I’m so glad I didn’t take it.’

  Claude Erskine-Brown had come into my room just as I was trying, with diminishing success, to think of a reasonable defence in the case of Smedley v. The Chivering Argus.

  ‘Which advice was that, Erskine-Brown?’ I scarcely looked up from my brief.

  ‘You advised me not to tell Philly about Mercy the actress. You said I shouldn’t jump before I got to the stile. Well, I jumped, Rumpole. I leaped high up in the air and it’s been a huge success. She doesn’t mind at all.’

  ‘You told her about Grimsby?’

  ‘I did. And she said she would read Mercy’s book with interest. She was truly glad I’d had such a romantic past. Quite frankly, she said, she’d never have believed me capable of a great passion. It also made her feel much better about her recent fling with that Conservative MP you defended. Of course, that’s all over, and -’

  ‘Well, that’s fine!’ Being busily engaged, I stopped Claude in mid flow. ‘I’m so glad everything’s back to normal in the Erskine-Brown home. Of course, you never know how wives are going to take things, but it must be a considerable weight off your mind.’

  ‘Considerable. But isn’t it extraordinary ...’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’ve got my privacy and breach of confidentiality starting next week.’

  ‘Philly’s trying that one. She thinks it’s absolutely terrible that your newspaper should publish pictures of him at a private party. She’s going to give you a rough ride, Rumpole.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, ‘for those few kind words.’ But by then he had drifted off and left me.

  I had, of course, told Rankin the editor about Hugo Winterton’s offer. I explained that the order for heavy damages wouldn’t be enforced, provided he didn’t do anything else to annoy the great Sir Mike, and I asked what our answer should be.

  ‘Tell him, Mr Rumpole,’ the editor’s head was on one side as he pecked away at a suitable response, ‘to save his breath to cool his porridge.’ It was a long time since I had heard that expression and I couldn’t help admiring the spirit it showed. ‘So we’re going to go on with the dance, Mr Rumpole. What japes!’

  It would all have been more fun, I thought, had I been able to think of an arguable defence.

  So when I rose in the unfamiliar terrain of Queen’s Bench Court Four to mount an attack on Sir Mike, I found myself perilously short of ammunition.

  I had walked up from Equity Court to that pinnacled château, the Law Courts in the Strand, and crossed the great mosaic floor (where in the evenings, Erskine-Brown assured me with a wistful sigh, girl secretaries came out to play badminton) to a strange robing room where alien barristers, practising civil law, were chattering in low, respectful voices about contracts and charter parties and negotiable instruments instead of laughing at fraud, robbery and sudden death. A strange race who, as that old darling Alfred Lord Tennyson said, ‘hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me’.

  All through Hugo Winterton’s opening and the undisputed evidence of the agreement about the private party, I was trying to think of questions. And then Sir Mike entered the witness box, where he stood, big, broad-shouldered, with a determinedly youthful haircut, and gave his evidence in a Brummie accent which announced that, in spite of all his wealth and outspoken opinions about everything under the sun, he was, above all, a man of the people.

  And as soon as he arrived and opened his mouth for the first time I saw, with a sinking of the heart, that the learned Judge Dame Phillida Erskine-Brown was smiling at him. Of course, I should have known it. He was just her type: forthright, perfectly satisfied with himself and determinedly masculine- a complete contrast, it has to be admitted, to the Judge’s well-meaning, opera-loving and frequently confused husband.

  Phillida’s affection for the witness was not of the same flagrantly sexual order as that flaunted by Judge Bullingham for the Mrs Fagin of the London Underground. But she greeted too many of his answers with little nods of approval and smiled when she made a careful note of what he had said. I also noticed that, when at last I rose to cross-examine, my former pupil, whom I’d always thought of as a friend and ally, had a stare of judicial severity for Rumpole. I allowed myself an extra-long pause before the first question, hoping that this might disconcert our confident witness, but after less than ten seconds the Judge put in her oar.

  ‘Mr Rumpole, if you have any questions this is the time to start asking them.’

  This got a broad grin from Sir Mike, and from me an elaborately polite ‘I’m so grateful to your Ladyship for reminding me of the elements of Court procedure. I can assure your Ladyship I haven’t forgotten what I’m here for.’ Then I turned to the witness. ‘Sir Michael, are you thoroughly ashamed of what you did that evening at the Sugar and Spice Bar in St Lucia?’

  ‘No, Mr Rumpole. I’m not at all ashamed.’

  ‘You were capering around with a topless dancer, wearing her brassiere as ear muffs.’

  ‘That is what the picture shows. Yes.’

  ‘You’re not in the least ashamed of having done that?’

  ‘It was all good clean fun. It was in the spirit of the party.’

  ‘Was it? Were many of your guests wearing bras round their heads?’

  ‘Not that I noticed.’ Sir Mike’s answer, not my question, got a smile from the Judge, and a ripple of laughter from his legal team.r />
  ‘If they had been, you would have seen nothing wrong with it?’

  ‘Harmless fun, Mr Rumpole.’

  ‘Just an expression of the party spirit?’

  ‘He has told us that.’ Her Ladyship gave me the small, sharp sigh that meant ‘For God’s sake, get on with it.’

  ‘Yes, my Lady. But he hasn’t told us this. If it was all just clean fun and nothing to be ashamed of, what’s wrong with everyone who happens to read the Chivering Argus enjoying this photograph?’

  ‘It was a private party,’ said Sir Mike.

  ‘It may or may not have been. But even if it was, why on earth have you trundled out this great legal sledgehammer to crack this perfectly harmless little photograph?’

  ‘Some people, Mr Rumpole,’ and here Phillida went too far, in my opinion, in lending a hand to a far-from-helpless witness, ‘value their privacy.’

  ‘I suppose you’ll be grateful to accept the answer her Ladyship has offered you?’

  Phillida was about to protest when I said that, but was wise enough to sit quietly. Sir Mike showed his gratitude to her.

  ‘I do value my privacy. Yes.’

  ‘I thought you’d say that. So does it come to this? If the Argus had just published a picture of you drinking a cup of tea at this party you’d have sued them for enormous damages?’

  ‘Because I value my privacy, yes.’

  ‘Let’s see how much you really value it.’ I began to burrow in the huge pile of press cuttings Rankin had provided. ‘You’ve given, by my count, at least fifty interviews on radio, television and to various papers about yourself, your life, your career and your views on everything, from asylum seekers and one-parent families to homosexual marriage and the Euro. Is that correct?’