“Rumpole! Put on that nice scarf I gave you for Christmas. There’s a nasty wind about and we don’t want you laid up. Or sneezing all over the place! Oh, and Rumpole! I hope you gargled this morning. You won’t be much good in court with a sore throat, will you?” She Who Must Be Obeyed was in her most nanny-like mode, but I was halfway out the front door, so I called back, “Yes, I gargled, and I’ve got wellie boots on in case it rains, so thanks, Nurse.” And I was down the stairs and off to work before she could remind me to trap the germs in my hanky and chew my food at least twenty times before swallowing.
       It was the same on the Tube. Government Health Warnings! “Don’t smoke.” “Don’t drink!” “Observe personal hygiene, wash fore and aft at least once a day.” “Too many calories lead to heart disease!” When I arrived at Temple Station, I called in at the Tastee-Bite for a healthy breakfast (two eggs on a fried slice, bacon and sausage, with coffee and a couple of pieces of well-buttered toast), lit a small cigar, coughed happily, and struggled down to the Old Bailey to defend one of the Timson family of South London villains, who didn’t remember that warehouse breaking is a serious danger to health, before a judge who took snuff and quite failed, during the ensuing sneeze, to trap his germs in his red and white spotted handkerchief. I was spending the day as far away as possible from the Nanny Society.
       And speaking of the Nanny Society reminds me of a small mystery I was able to penetrate by the use of a logical mind and that common sense which is far more important in the life of an Old Bailey hack than any knowledge of the law (I have always found that knowing the law rather tends to cramp my style).
       It started one summer. My wife, Hilda (known to me only as She Who Must Be Obeyed), was away on a visit to her friend Dodo Macintosh in Cornwall, a treat I had managed to avoid by pleading pressure of work. In fact, work wasn’t very pressing that summer, even the Timsons seemed to have stopped burgling and gone off to the Costa del Crime. I was looking after myself in the Gloucester Road and spending the evenings in the old Crouchback Arms, which is handy for Froxbury Mansions. I was in there one evening when I found myself at a table near three youngish, good-looking girls, a blonde with a Swedish accent, a dark-haired girl with an Irish brogue, and a redheaded English girl. They were drinking respectively a pint of beer, a Guinness, and a repellant mixture of Avocat and lemonade which I learnt from Dot Clopton, our beautiful typist, is called a “Snowball”. I thought at first they were discussing their lovers or even husbands.
       “You should try living with Justin,” said the English girl (pint of beer). “The bugger’s got such a filthy temper! Throws his breakfast at you and then sulks.”
       “My Neville’s quite good-looking,” the Irish voice (Guinness) complained. “But he’s thicker than two planks. Can’t do up his shoelaces, let alone zip up his flies.”
       “I’m thinking of leaving my Max,” the Swede (with the Snowball) said. “He swears horribly and collects pictures of Madonna. And he’s always sick at parties.”
       Thinking how unhappy their love lives must be, I shot a smile in their direction. The English girl looked through me, so I turned my attention to my bangers and mash, tepid from the microwave. I listened hard to their subsequent conversation, but they made no mention of me. I did discover, however, that they were called Petronela, Siobhan, and Kirsti, that they were all three nannies, and what they had been discussing were not the character defects of their lovers, but their charges. Soon the conversation turned to the failings of their employers, from whose loins Max, Justin, and Neville had sprung.
       “Mrs. Gregthorpe stays in bed drinking all morning. She gets up at lunchtime and complains she’s feeling exhausted. I’m really sorry for poor Mr. Gregthorpe. He looks so sad sometimes.” Kirsti was smiling quite cheerfully as she told them this.
       “Mrs. Reel’s carrying on with a Turkish estate agent.” Siobhan said. “And whenever Mr. Reel sees me, he sings ‘When Irish Eyes are Shining’ in a fake Dublin accent.”
       “The Spokes have a fluffy cover on their loo seat.” Petronella spoke with disgust. “And Judge Spoke told me they have specially friendly parties once a month, so they send Justin to stay with his granny, and he’d like me to join in.”
       “A judge said that?” Siobhan was surprised. I wasn’t.
       “I think he’s a rather common sort of judge,” Petronella told them.
       A few nights later they were in the Crouchback again, spreading even more malicious gossip. Kirsti said she had come home from shopping and was honestly surprised and delighted to see Petronela coming out of the Gregthorpes’ home in Launceston Place. It seemed that Justin and Max went to the same nursery school, and Petronella had forgotten the date of Max’s birthday party. “And Mr. Gregthorpe remembered it?” Kirsti was laughing at such improbability.
       “He did. I was amazed. He seemed to have a terrible cold. I thought he was rather sad.”
       “And Mrs. Gregthrope was drunk in bed upstairs. Poor Mr. Gregthorpe is very sad, but not attractive.”
       “Oh no,” Petronela agreed. “Not at all attractive.”
       Later, on my way to the Gents, I passed Petronella telephoning in the draughty passage. I overheard her saying something which I had good cause to remember in the months to come.
       A week later, Petronella and Siobhan were having a drink together, but there was no sign of Kirsti. I listened hard and soon learned the reason. Mrs. Gregthorpe had missed a valuable emerald and diamond ring. For some reason she had suspected Kirsti and searched her room. It was not long before she found the precious jewellery hidden away among the Swedish girl’s sweaters. Mrs. Gregthorpe had telephoned the police and her nanny was now under arrest and charged with theft. Before I left the pub that night, I wrote the name and number of Mr. Bernard, the Timsons’ family solicitor, on a piece of paper and handed it to Siobhan, telling her the best legal team in the country was at the disposal of their friend. She smiled and thanked me, promising to hand over the glad tidings to the unfortunate Swede. “Tell her not to have a moment’s fear,” I told them. “Rumpole of the Bailey is galloping to the rescue.”

It never looked an easy case and didn’t start well when it came on before Judge Bullingham, the Mad Bull, in Number 4 Court at the Old Bailey. Kirsti had told the police she hadn’t taken the ring, had no idea how it got among her sweaters. The prosecution opening suggested that there could only be one explanation. Mrs. Gregthorpe gave evidence. A diamond in the ring needed resetting and she had given it to her husband about four days previously, in its box, to take to the jeweller’s. As was his habit, he had forgotten to do this and the box stayed in his study. (Gregthorpe was a bestselling writer of sex and spy stories), until the day after Max’s birthday party, which was the twenty-second of June. Then she had asked about the ring and was told it was still in the study.
       She opened the box, she said, “to make sure it was still there,” and found to her horror “that the box was empty". They started to search the house and, Kristi being out fetching Max from nursery school, they went through her clothes and found the ring.
       James Gregthorpe was called next. He agreed that his wife gave him the ring to take to the jeweller’s on the nineteenth of June. So far as he knew, no one had taken it from his study, but when he and his wife looked in the box on the twenty-third it was gone. He was a tall, fairly handsome man with soft, spaniel’s eyes and a certain weakness about the mouth. He seemed nervous while looking, I thought with genuine concern, at the girl in the dock. When he did, she smiled back bravely, and a hint of defence began to form in my mind. Gregthorpe and Kirsti, I thought, had more in common than the care of little Max. They were people who had been, or perhaps still were, in love.
       “Mr. Gregthorpe,” I asked, when I rose to cross-examine, “were you in love with your son Max’s nanny?”
       “Mr. Rumpole!” The Mad Bull, scarlet in the face, lowered his head and charged into the arena. “How can this be relevant?”
       “If your Lordship refuses to allow the question,” I said, “I shall go straight to the Court of Appeal.”
       About the only thing the Bull fears is the Court of Appeal. “You may ask it, I suppose,” he grumbled. “I very much doubt if it’ll do you much good with the jury.”
       “I thought she was a very nice girl,” Gregthorpe conceded. “I won’t say I was in love with her.”
       “Did you ever tell anyone you were in love with her, or had been in love with her?”
       “No.”
       “There, Mr. Rumpole,” the Mad Bull roared with considerable satisfaction. “You’ve got your answer!” But I hadn’t. Not quite.
       When the proseuction evidence was finished, I said I wouldn’t be calling my client, everything she knew about the matter was in her statement to the police, but I would be calling a Miss Petronella Sanderson, who was in court and prepared to give evidence on behalf of the defence. Petronella went into the box and seemed confident enough. She gave Kirsti an excellent character and then I asked her about the day my client had seen her coming out of the house in Launceston Place. She said she’d spoken to Mr. Gregthorpe on that occasion, but Mrs. Gregthorpe was upstairs in bed.
       “How long were you in the house?”
       Petronella paused, looked at Kirsti, and said, “I suppose about half an hour, perhaps more.”
       “Half an hour to find out that date of Max’s birthday party?”
       “We talked about other things.”
       “Had you met James Gregthorpe before?”
       “Yes.” Petronella looked uneasy.
       “How many times?”
       “Perhaps half a dozen. The boys went to the same nursery school.”
       “And did you talk about Kirsti?”
       “Yes, sometimes.”
       “What did he tell you about Kirsti?” I looked among my papers hoping to convince the witness that I had a statement from Kirsti detailing the conversation. The trick worked. “Did he tell you they were lovers?” It was a risk, one of the biggest I have taken. The rule is never to ask a question unless you know the answer, but from Kirsti’s look of panic and Petronella’s confusion, I knew I’d scored a bull’s eye.
       “Well, yes,” she said. “If you like. He told me he’d been in love with her.”
       “Not if I like. Is that the truth?”
       “Yes.” Petronella was quiet now, almost inaudible, so that the Bull had to roar. “Keep your voice up, Miss Sanderson.”
       “Yes, My Lord.”
       “And what was the date of this conversation?”
       “It was two days before Max’s birthday.”
       “So this was on the twentieth of June. Did you speak to Mr. Gregthorpe in his study?”
       “Yes.”
       “Where we know the box with the ring in it was. Did James Gregthorpe leave the room while you were there together?”
       “I think he went to the lavatory. He wasn’t feeling well.”
       “How long was he away?”
       “I suppose five minutes.”
       “Time enough for you to take the ring, run up the stairs with it to Kirsti’s room, and hide it among the sweaters she wouldn’t be wearing in June.”
       The learned counsel for the prosecution was summoning up his strength to object to my cross-examining my own witness, so I carried on without drawing a breath.
       “Because you wanted to get Kirsti into trouble. Get her sent to prison, and perhaps back to Sweden.”
       “Why?”
       “Because you were jealous of her. Because you were having an affair with Gregthorpe yourself, and that was why you kept meeting. I don’t know where you met, but I do know you were jealous of Kirsti. He’d been in love with her, perhaps he was in love with her still. It was a chance too good to miss. Isn’t that the truth, Miss Petronella Sanderson?”
       Petronella was silent. She was looking round the court, amazed and frightened. She stared at Kirsti, as through she must have discovered the truth, but Kirsti looked away. She looked at the Bull, but he was indulging in a rare moment of silence. She looked at the jury, but they stared back at her without smiling. She avoided looking at me. Then she lowered her eyes and quietly, in the stillness of the court, she said, “I don’t think you can prove any of that.”
       It wasn’t an admission, but then it wasn’t a denial either. It was enough to make the jury think that my reconstruction of the events might be true.
       Enough to give them a reasonable doubt, so that they could do what they secretly wanted to do and acquit the blonde and beautiful Swede.
       “Whatever gave you the idea that Petronella and Gregthorpe were having an afair?” Bonny Bernard, my instructing solicitor, and partner in crime, asked as we left the court.
       “I heard her telephoning James from a pub. She said he must be careful of his cold and be sure to wear his raincoat when he went out and not get wet. When a woman starts to treat a man as though she were his nanny, you may be sure she has some deep and lasting relationship with him.”