Forever Rumpole Page 5

  ‘Nick wasn’t born when you did the Penge Bungalow Murders.’

  My wife is always something of a wet blanket. I commiserated with my son. ‘Bad luck, old boy.’

  ‘You were great with that judge!’

  I think Nick had really enjoyed himself.

  ‘There was this extraordinary judge who was always talking Latin and Dad was teasing him.’

  ‘You want to be careful,’ Hilda was imposing her will on the pudding plates. ‘How you tease judges. If you’re to be head of chambers.’ On which line she departed, leaving Nick and me to our claret and conversation. I began to discuss with Nick the horrifying adventure of The Speckled Band.

  ‘You’re still reading those tales, are you?’ I asked Nick.

  ‘Well … not lately.’

  ‘But you remember. I used to read them to you, didn’t I? After She had ordered you to bed.’

  ‘When you weren’t too busy. Noting up your murders.’

  ‘And remember we were Holmes and Watson? When we went for walks in Hyde Park.’

  ‘I remember one walk.’

  That was odd, as I recall it had been our custom ever at a weekend, before Nick went away to boarding school. I lit a small cigar and looked at the Great Detective through the smoke.

  ‘Tell me, Holmes. What did you think was the most remarkable piece of evidence given by the witness Peanuts Molloy?’

  ‘When he said they talked about the Rolling Stones.’

  ‘Holmes, you astonish me.’

  ‘You see, Watson, we were led to believe they were such enemies – I mean, the families were. They’d never spoken.’

  ‘I see what you’re driving at. Have another glass of claret – stimulates the detective ability.’ I opened another bottle, a clatter from the kitchen telling me that the lady was not about to join us.

  ‘And there they were chatting about a pop concert. Didn’t that strike you as strange, my dear Watson?’

  ‘It struck me as bloody rum, if you want to know the truth, Holmes.’ I was delighted to see Nick taking over the case.

  ‘They’d both been to the concert … Well, that doesn’t mean anything. Not necessarily … I mean, I was at that concert.’

  ‘Were you indeed?’

  ‘It was at the end of the summer holidays.’

  ‘I don’t remember you mentioning it.’

  ‘I said I was going to the Festival Hall.’

  I found this confidence pleasing, knowing that it wasn’t to be shared with Hilda.

  ‘Very wise. Your mother no doubt feels that at the Hammersmith Odeon they re-enact some of the worst excesses of the Roman Empire. You didn’t catch sight of Peanuts and young Jimbo, did you?’

  ‘There were about two thousand fans – all screaming.’

  ‘I don’t know if it helps …’

  ‘No.’

  ‘If they were old mates, I mean. Jim might really have confided in him. All the same, Peanuts is lying. And you noticed it! You’ve got the instinct, Nick. You’ve got a nose for the evidence! Your career at the Bar is bound to be brilliant.’ I raised my glass to Nick. ‘When are you taking silk?’

  Shortly after this She entered with news that Nick had a dentist’s appointment the next day, which would prevent his reappearance down the Bailey. All the same, he had given me a great deal of help and before I went to bed I telephoned Bernard, the solicitor, tore him away from his fireside and instructed him to undertake some pretty immediate research.

  Next morning, Albert told me that he’d had a letter from old C. H. Wystan, Hilda’s Daddy, mentioning his decision to retire.

  ‘I think we’ll manage pretty well, with you, Mr Rumpole, as head of chambers,’ Albert told me. ‘There’s not much you and I won’t be able to sort out, sir, over a glass or two in Pommeroy’s Wine Bar … And soon we’ll be welcoming Master Nick in chambers?’

  ‘Nick? Well, yes.’ I had to admit it. ‘He is showing a certain legal aptitude.’

  ‘It’ll be a real family affair, Mr Rumpole … Like father, like son, if you want my opinion.’

  I remembered Albert’s words when I saw Fred Timson waiting for me outside the court. But before I had time to brood on family tradition, Bernard came up with the rolled-up poster for a pop concert. I grabbed it from him and carried it as unobtrusively as possible into court.

  ‘When Jim told you he’d done up the butchers … He didn’t tell you the date that that had happened?’ Peanuts was back, facing the bowling, and Featherstone was up to his usual tricks, rising to interrupt.

  ‘My Lord, the date is set out quite clearly in the indictment.’

  The time had come, quite obviously, for a burst of righteous indignation.

  ‘My Lord, I am cross-examining on behalf of a sixteen-year-old boy on an extremely serious charge. I’d be grateful if my learned friend didn’t supply information which all of us in court know – except for the witness.’

  ‘Very well. Do carry on, Mr Rumpole.’ I was almost beginning to like Mr Justice Everglade.

  ‘No. He never told me when, like. I thought it was sometime in the summer.’ Peanuts tried to sound co-operative.

  ‘Sometime in the summer? Are you a fan of the Rolling Stones, Peanuts?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Remind me … they were …’ Still vaguely puzzled, the judge was hunting back through his notes.

  Sleek as a butler with a dish of peas, Featherstone supplied the information. ‘The musicians, my Lord.’

  ‘And so was Jim a fan?’ I ploughed on, ignoring the gentleman’s gentleman.

  ‘He was. Yes.’

  ‘You had discussed music, before you met in the remand centre?’

  ‘Before the nick. Oh yes.’ Peanuts was following me obediently down the garden path.

  ‘You used to talk about it at school?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘In quite a friendly way?’ I was conscious of a startled Fred Timson looking at his son, and of Jim in the dock looking, for the first time, ashamed.

  ‘We was all right. Yes.’

  ‘Did you ever go to a concert with Jimbo? Please think carefully.’

  ‘We went to one or two concerts together,’ Peanuts conceded.

  ‘In the evening?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What would you do? … Call at his home and collect him?’

  ‘You’re joking!’

  ‘Oh no, Peanuts. In this case I’m not joking at all!’ No harm, I thought, at that stage, in underlining the seriousness of the occasion.

  ‘Course I wouldn’t call at his home!’

  ‘Your families don’t speak. You wouldn’t be welcomed in each other’s houses?’

  ‘The Montagues and the Capulets, Mr Rumpole?’ The old sweetheart on the Bench had finally got the message. I gave him a bow, to show my true love and affection.

  ‘If your Lordship pleases … Your Lordship puts it extremely aptly.’ I turned back to Peanuts. ‘So what would you do, if you were going to a concert?’

  ‘We’d leave school together, like – and then hang around the caffs.’

  ‘Hang around the caffs?’

  ‘Cafays, Mr Rumpole?’ Mr Justice Everglade was enjoying himself, translating the answer.

  ‘Yes, of course, the cafays. Until it was time to go up West? If my Lord would allow me, up to the “West End of London” together?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So you wouldn’t be separated on these evenings you went to concerts together?’ It was one of those questions after which you hold your breath. There can be so many wrong answers.

  ‘No. We hung around together.’

  Rumpole breathed a little more easily, but he still had the final question, the great gamble, with all Jim Timson’s chips firmly piled on the red. Faites vos jeux, M’sieurs et Mesdames of the Old Bailey jury. I spun the wheel.

  ‘And did that happen … When you went to the Rolling Stones at the Hammersmith Odeon?’

  A nasty silence. Then the ball rattled into th
e hole.

  Peanuts said, ‘Yes.’

  ‘That was this summer, wasn’t it?’ We were into the straight now, cantering home.

  ‘In the summer, yeah.’

  ‘You left school together?’

  ‘And hung around the caffs, like. Then we went up the Odeon.’

  ‘Together … All the time?’

  ‘I told you – didn’t I?’ Peanuts looked bored, and then amazed as I unrolled the poster Bernard had brought, rushed by taxi from Hammersmith, with the date clearly printed across the bottom.

  ‘My Lord. My learned friend might be interested to know the date of the only Rolling Stones concert at the Hammersmith Odeon this year.’ I gave Featherstone an unwelcome eyeful of the poster.

  ‘He might like to compare it with the date so conveniently set out in the indictment.’

  When the subsequent formalities were over, I went down to the cells. This was not a visit of commiseration, no time for a ‘sorry old sweetheart, but …’ and a deep consciousness of having asked one too many questions. All the same, I was in no gentle mood, in fact, it would be fair to say that I was bloody angry with Jimbo.

  ‘You had an alibi! You had a proper, reasonable, truthful alibi, and, joy of joys, it came from the prosecution! Why the hell didn’t you tell me?’

  Jim, who seemed to have little notion of the peril he had passed, answered me quite calmly, ‘Dad wouldn’t’ve liked it.’

  ‘Dad! What’s Dad got to do with it?’ I was astonished.

  ‘He wouldn’t’ve liked it, Mr Rumpole. Not me going out with Peanuts.’

  ‘So you were quite ready to be found guilty, to be convicted of robbery, just because your dad wouldn’t like you going out with Peanuts Molloy?’

  ‘Dad got the family to alibi me.’ Jim clearly felt that the Timsons had done their best for him.

  ‘Keep it in the family!’ Though it was heavily laid on, the irony was lost on Jim. He smiled politely and stood up, eager to join the clan upstairs.

  ‘Well, anyway. Thanks a lot, Mr Rumpole. Dad said I could rely on you. To win the day, like. I’d better collect me things.’

  If Jim thought I was going to let him get away as easily as that, he was mistaken. Rumpole rose in his crumpled gown, doing his best to represent the majesty of the law. ‘No! Wait a minute. I didn’t win the day. It was luck. The purest fluke. It won’t happen again!’

  ‘You’re joking, Mr Rumpole.’ Jim thought I was being modest. ‘Dad told me about you … He says you never let the Timsons down.’

  I had a sudden vision of my role in life, from young Jim’s point of view, and I gave him the voice of outrage which I use frequently in court. I had a message of importance for Jim Timson.

  ‘Do you think that’s what I’m here for? To help you along in a career like your dad’s?’ Jim was still smiling, maddeningly. ‘My God! I shouldn’t have asked those questions! I shouldn’t have found out the date of the concert! Then you’d really be happy, wouldn’t you? You could follow in Dad’s footsteps all your life! Sharp spell of Borstal training to teach you the mysteries of house-breaking, and then a steady life in the nick. You might really do well! You might end up in Parkhurst maximum security wing, doing a glamorous twenty years and a hero to the screws.’

  At which the door opened and a happy screw entered, for the purpose of springing young Jim – until the inevitable next time.

  ‘We’ve got his things at the gate, Mr Rumpole. Come on, Jim. You can’t stay here all night.’

  ‘I’ve got to go,’ Jim agreed. ‘I don’t know how to face Dad, really. Me being so friendly with Peanuts.’

  ‘Jim,’ I tried a last appeal. ‘If you’re at all grateful for what I did …’

  ‘Oh I am, Mr Rumpole, I’m quite satisfied.’ Generous of him.

  ‘Then you can perhaps repay me.’

  ‘Why – aren’t you on legal aid?’

  ‘It’s not that! Leave him! Leave your dad.’

  Jim frowned, for a moment he seemed to think it over. Then he said, ‘I don’t know as how I can.’

  ‘You don’t know?’

  ‘Mum depends on me, you see. Like when Dad goes away. She depends on me then, as head of the family.’

  So he left me, and went up to temporary freedom and his new responsibilities.

  My mouth was dry and I felt about ninety years old, so I took the lift up to that luxurious eatery, the Old Bailey canteen, for a cup of tea and a Penguin biscuit. And, pushing his tray along past the urns, I met a philosophic Chief Inspector Persil White. He noticed my somewhat lugubrious expression and tried a cheering ‘Don’t look so miserable, Mr Rumpole. You won, didn’t you?’

  ‘Nobody won, the truth emerges sometimes, Inspector, even down the Old Bailey.’ I must have sounded less than gracious. The wily old copper smiled tolerantly.

  ‘He’s a Timson. It runs in the family. We’ll get him sooner or later!’

  ‘Yes. Yes. I suppose you will.’

  At a table in a corner, I found certain members of my chambers, George Frobisher, Percy Hoskins, and young Tony MacLay, now resting from their labours, their wigs lying among cups of Old Bailey tea, buns and choccy bics. I joined them. Wordsworth entered my head, and I gave him an airing: ‘ “Trailing clouds of glory do we come.” ’

  ‘Marvellous win, that. I was telling them.’ Young MacLay thought I was announcing my triumph.

  ‘Yes, Rumpole. I hear you’ve had a splendid win.’ Old George, ever generous, smiled, genuinely pleased.

  ‘It’ll be years before you get the cheque,’ Hoskins grumbled.

  ‘Not in entire forgetfulness,

  And not in utter nakedness,

  But trailing clouds of glory do we come

  From God, who is our home.’

  I was thinking of Jim, trying to sort out his situation with the help of Wordsworth.

  ‘You don’t get paid for years at the Old Bailey. I try to tell my grocer that. If you had to wait as long to be paid for a pound of sugar, I tell him, as we do for an armed robbery …’ Hoskins was warming to a well-loved theme, but George, dear old George, was smiling at me.

  ‘Albert tells me he’s had a letter from Wystan. I just wanted to say, I’m sure we’d all like to say, you’ll make a splendid head of chambers, Rumpole.’

  ‘Heaven lies about us in our infancy!

  Shades of the prison-house begin to close

  Upon the growing boy,

  But he beholds the light, and whence it flows,

  He sees it in his joy.’

  I gave them another brief glimpse of immortality. George looked quite proud of me and told MacLay, ‘Rumpole quotes poetry. He does it quite often.’

  ‘But does the growing boy behold the light?’ I wondered. ‘Or was the old sheep of the Lake District being unduly optimistic?’

  ‘It’ll be refreshing for us all, to have a head of chambers who quotes poetry,’ George went on, at which point Percy Hoskins produced a newspaper which turned out to contain an item of news for us all.

  ‘Have you seen The Times, Rumpole?’

  ‘No, I haven’t had time for the crossword.’

  ‘Guthrie Featherstone. He’s taken silk.’

  It was the apotheosis, the great day for the Labour-Conservative Member for wherever it was, one time unsuccessful prosecutor of Jim Timson and now one of Her Majesty’s counsel, called within the Bar, and he went down to the House of Lords tailored out in his new silk gown, a lace jabot, knee breeches with diamanté buckles, patent shoes, black silk stockings, lace cuffs and a full-bottomed wig that made him look like a pedigree, but not over-bright, spaniel. However, Guthrie Featherstone was a tall man, with a good calf in a silk stocking, and he took with him Marigold, his lady wife, who was young enough, and I suppose pretty enough, for Henry, our junior clerk, to eye wistfully, although she had the sort of voice that puts me instantly in mind of headscarves and gymkhanas, that high-pitched nasal whining which a girl learns from too much contact with the saddle when young, and too
little with the Timsons of this world in later life. The couple were escorted by Albert, who’d raided Moss Bros for a top hat and morning coat for the occasion and when the Lord Chancellor had welcomed Guthrie to that special club of Queen’s Counsel (on whose advice the Queen, luckily for her, never has to rely for a moment) they came back to chambers where champagne (the NV cooking variety, bulk-bought from Pommeroy’s Wine Bar) was served by Henry and old Miss Patterson, our typist, in Wystan’s big room looking out over Temple Gardens. C. H. Wystan, our retiring head, was not among those present as the party began, and I took an early opportunity to get stuck into the beaded bubbles.

  After the fourth glass I felt able to relax a bit and wandered to where Featherstone, in all his finery, was holding forth to Erskine-Brown about the problems of appearing en travesti. I arrived just as he was saying, ‘It’s the stockings that’re the problem.’

  ‘Oh yes. They would be.’ I did my best to sound interested.

  ‘Keeping them up.’

  ‘I do understand.’

  ‘Well, Marigold. My wife Marigold …’ I looked across to where Mrs QC was tinkling with laughter at some old legal anecdote of Uncle Tom’s. It was a laugh that seemed in some slight danger of breaking the wine glasses.

  ‘That Marigold?’

  ‘Her sister’s a nurse, you know … and she put me in touch with this shop which supplies suspender belts to nurses … among other things.’

  ‘Really?’ This conversation seemed to arouse some dormant sexual interest in Erskine-Brown.

  ‘Yards of elastic, for the larger ward sister. But it works miraculously.’

  ‘You’re wearing a suspender belt?’ Erskine-Brown was frankly fascinated. ‘You sexy devil!’

  ‘I hadn’t realized the full implications,’ I told the QC, ‘of rising to the heights of the legal profession.’

  I wandered off to where Uncle Tom was giving Marigold a brief history of life in our chambers over the last half-century. Percy Hoskins was in attendance, and George.

  ‘It’s some time since we had champagne in chambers.’ Uncle Tom accepted a refill from Albert.

  ‘It’s some time since we had a silk in chambers,’ Hoskins smiled at Marigold who flashed a row of well-groomed teeth back at him.