John Mortimer
Rumpole and
the Golden Thread
Penguin Books
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506402
pOBICOKE
PUBLIC LIBRARY
^ ALBION
For Jacqueline Davis
.i
v r
Rumpole and the Genuine Article
I would like to dedicate this small volume of reminiscences to a
much-abused and under-appreciated body of men. They practise
many of the virtues most in fashion today. They rely strictly
on free enterprise and individual effort. They adhere to strong
monetarist principles. They do not join trade unions. Far from
being in favour of closed shops, they do their best to see that
most shops remain open, particularly during the hours of darkness.
They are against state interference of any kind, being rugged
individualists to a man. No. I'm not referring to lawyers. Will
you please charge your glasses, ladies and gentlemen, and drink
to absent friends, to the criminals of England. Without these
invaluable citizens there would be no lawyers, no judges, no
policemen, no writers of detective stories and absolutely nothing
to put in the News of the World.
It is better, I suppose, that I raise a solitary glass. I once proposed
such a toast at a Chambers party, and my speech was
greeted by a studied silence. Claude Erskine-Brown examined
his fingernails, our clerk. Henry, buried his nose in his Cinzano
Bianco. Uncle Tom, our oldest inhabitant, looked as though he
was about to enter a terminal condition. Dianne, who does what
passes for typing in our little establishment at Equity Court in
the Temple, giggled, it is true, but then Dianne will giggle at
palmost anything and only becomes serious, I have noticed, whenfever
I make a joke. A devout barrister known to me as Sam Bollard (of whom more, unfortunately, in the following pages)
took me aside afterwards and told me that he considered my
remarks to be in excessively bad taste, calculated to cause a breach
of the peace and bring our Chambers into disrepute.
Well, where would he be, I asked him, should the carrying
of house-breaking implements by night vanish from the face of
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
the earth? He told me that he could manage very well with his
civil practice and happily didn't have to rely on the sordid grubbing
for a living round the Old Bailey which I appeared to enjoy.
I left him, having regretted the fact that men with civil practices
are often so remarkably un-civil when addressing their
elders.
So, as the night wears on, and as my wife Hilda (whom I must
be careful not to refer to as 'She Who Must Be Obeyed' - not,
at any rate, when she is in earshot) sleeps in her hairnet, dreaming
of those far-off happy days when she cantered down the
playing fields of Cheltenham Ladies College cradling her lacrosse
net and aiming a sneaky pass at her old friend Dodo Perkins;
as I sit at the kitchen table filling a barrister's notebook with
reminiscences (I see the bare bones of a nasty little manslaughter
on the opposite page), I pour a glass of Chateau Thames Embankment
(on special offer this week at Pommeroy's Wine Bar
- how else would Jack Pommeroy get anyone to buy it?) and
drink, alone and in silence, to those industrious lawbreakers who
seem to be participating in the one growth industry in our
present period of recession. I can safely write that here. Whoever
may eventually read these pages, you can bet your life that it
won't be Sam Bollard.
I have been back in harness a good three years since my abortive
retirement. I had, as you may remember, upped sticks to
join my son Nick and his wife Erica in Florida, the Sunshine
State.*
She Who Must Be Obeyed apparently enjoyed life in that
curious part of the world and was starting, somewhat painfully
at first, to learn the language. I, as others have done before me,
found that Miami had very little to offer unless you happened
to be a piece of citrus fruit, and I began to feel an unendurable
nostalgia for rain, secretaries rubbing their noses pink with
crumpled paper handkerchieves on the platform at Temple
Station and the congealed steak and mushroom pie for luncheon
in the pub opposite the Old Bailey. I got bored with crossexamining
the nut-brown octogenarians we met on the beach,
* See Rumpole's Return, Penguin Books, 1980.
10
Rumpole and the Genuine Article
and longed for a good up-and-downer with the Detective
Inspector in charge of the case, or even a dramatic dust up with
his Honour Judge Bullingham (otherwise known as the Mad
Bull). I was a matador with nothing left to do but tease the cat.
I needed a foeman worthy of my steel.
It was a nice problem of bloodstains which brought me home
to real life at the Old Bailey, and a good deal of diplomatic
skill and dogged endurance which eased me back into the peeling
leather chair behind the desk in my old room in Equity Court.
When I returned, our Head of Chambers, Guthrie Featherstone,
q.c., m.p. (S.D.P.), didn't actually unroll the red carpet for me.
In fact, and in the nicest possible way, of course, he informed
me that there was no room at the Inn, and would have left me
to carry on what was left of my practice from a barrow in Shepherd's
Bush Market, if I hadn't seen a way back into my old
tenancy.
Well, that's all water under the bridge by now, and the last
three years have gone much as the last what is it, almost half
a century? That is to say they have passed with a few triumphant
moments when the jury came back and said in clear and ringing
tones, 'Not Guilty', and a few nasty ones when you have to bid
goodbye to a client in the cells (what do you say: 'Win'a few,
lose a few', or 'See you again in about eight years'?). I have spent
some enjoyable evenings in Pommeroy's Wine Bar, and my health
has been no worse than usual, my only medical problem being
a feeling of pronounced somnolence when listening to my learned
friends making speeches, and a distinct nausea when hearing his
Honour Judge Bullingham sum up.
So life was going on much as usual, and I was pursuing the
even tenor of my way in Equity Court, when I was faced with
a somewhat unusual case which caused a good deal of a stir in
artistic circles at the time, it being concerned, as so many artistic
and, indeed, legal problems are, with the question so easily put
yet answered with such confusion, 'What is real and what is the
most diabolical fake?'
I first had the unnerving feeling that I was drifting away from
reality, and that many of my assumptions were being challenged,
when Guthrie Featherstone, Q.c., m.p., knocked briefly on my
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
door and almost immediately inserted his face, which wore
an expression of profound, not to say haunted anxiety, into my
room.
'Rumpole!' he said, gliding in and closing the door softly
behind him, no doubt to block out eavesdroppers. 'I say, Horace,
are you working?'
'Oh no, Featherstone,' I said, 'I'm standing on my head playing
the bagpipes.' The sarcasm was intentional. In fact I was wrestling
with a nasty set of accounts, carefully doctored by a
delinquent bank clerk. As, like the great apes, my mathematical
abilities stop somewhere short at 'one, two, three, many', I have
a rooted aversion to fraud cases. Studying accounts leads me to
a good deal of blood, tears and the consumption of boxloads of
small cigars. .:'t;
Quite undeterred by the sharpness of my reply, the recently
committed Social Democrat moved soundlessly towards my desk
and ran a critical eye over my blurred and inaccurate calculations.
'Well,' said Featherstone, 'fraud's a nice clean crime really.
Not like most of your practice. No blood. No sex.'
'Do you think so, Featherstone?' I asked casually, the Q.C.,
M.P., having failed to grip my full attention. 'A bank cashier
seems to have lost about half a million pounds. Probably his adding
up was no better than mine.'
'Still, it's almost a respectable crime. Your practice has become
quite decent lately. We may even see you prosecuting.'
'No thank you,' I said with the determined air of a man who
has to draw the line somewhere. .;;
'Why ever not?'
'I'm not going to use my skills, such as they are, to force some
poor devil into a condemned Victorian slum where he can be
banged up with a couple of psychopaths and his own chamber
pot.' I gave my learned Head of Chambers Article One of the
Rumpole Creed.
'All the same, you being comparatively quiet of late, Horace, f^jhas led the Lord Chancellor's office, I know, to look on these
Chambers with a certain amount of, shall we say, "good will"?'
I looked at Featherstone. He was wearing an expression which
I can only describe as 'coy'. 'Shall we? Then I'd better get up
12 ' ''' ___
Rumpole and the Genuine Article
to something noisy.' I was joking, of course, but Featherstone
became distinctly agitated.
'Please, Horace. No. I beg you. Please. You heard about the
awful thing that happened to old Moreton Colefax?'
'Featherstone;! I'm trying to add up.' I tried to be firm with
the fellow, but he sat himself down in my client's chair and
started to unburden himself as though he were revealing a dire
plot he'd recently stumbled on involving the assassination of
the Archbishop of Canterbury and the theft of the Crown
Jewels. . Itit'.'t
'The Lord Chancellor told Moreton that he was going to make
him a judge. But the rule is, you mustn't tell anyone till the
appointment's official. Well, Moreton told Sam Arbuckle, and
Arbuckle told Grantley Simpson and Grantley told lan and
Jasper Rugeley over in Paper Buildings, and lan and Jasper told
'Walter Gains whom he happened to meet in Pommeroy's Wine
Bar, and ...'
'What is this, Featherstone? Some sort of round game?' My
attention was not exactly held by this complicated account.
'Not for Moreton Colefax, it wasn't,' Guthrie Featherstone
chuckled, and then went serious again. 'The thing became the
talk of the Temple and the upshot was, poor old Moreton never
got appointed. So if the Lord Chancellor sends for a fellow to
make him a judge, Horace, that fellow's lips are sealed. He just
mustn't tell a soul!'
'Why are you telling me then?' I only asked for information,
I wasn't following the fellow's drift. But the effect was extraordinary.
Guthrie sprang to his feet, paling beneath his nonexistent
tan. 'I-'m not telling you anything, Horace. Good heavens, my
dear man! What ever gave you the idea I was telling you anything?'M
; -- g^
'I'm sorry,' I said, returning'to the calculations. 'I should have ....realized you were just babbling away meaninglessly. What are
Ijyou, Featherstone, a sort of background noise, like Muzak?'
I. 'Horace, it is vital that you should understand that I have said
nothing to you whatsoever.' Featherstone's voice sank to a horrified
whisper. 'Just as it is essential to preserve the quiet, respectable image of our Chambers. There was that difficult period
-^., ^ , : ^; 13
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
we went through when the Erskine-Browns were expecting, rather
too early on in their married lives.'*
'They weren't married.' I recalled the happy event.
'Well, exactly! And of course that all passed over quite satisfactorily.
We had a marquee in the Temple Gardens, if you
remember, for the wedding. I believe I said a few words.'
'A few words, Guthrie? That's hardly like you.'
The above somewhat enigmatic conversation was interrupted
by the telephone on my desk ringing and, after a few deft passes
by Dianne on the intercom in our clerk's room, my wife Hilda's
voice came over the line, loud, clear, and unusually displeased.
'There's a young girl here, Rumpole,' She Who Must Be Obeyed was reading out the indictment over the phone. 'She
is sitting in the kitchen, asking for you. Well, she's making her
own cigarettes, and they smell of burnt carpets.'
'But any sort of breath of scandal now. At this historic moment
in the life of our Chambers.' Looking, if possible, more ashen
than ever, Guthrie was still burbling in the background. And
he didn't look particularly cheered up when h&heard me address
the instrument in my hand along the following lines:
'Something sort of arty-tarty, is she, do you say, Hilda? A
young girl who says she's in trouble. What kind of trouble? Well,
perhaps I haven't got your vivid imagination, but I quite honestly
can't... Well, of course I'm coming home. Don't I always come
home in the end?' I put down the telephone. Featherstone was
looking at me, appalled, and started to say, in a voice of deep
concern, 'I couldn't help overhearing.'
'Couldn't you?' Well I thought he might, if he were a man
of tact, have filtered out of the room.
'Horace, is your home life completely satisfactory?' he asked.
'Of course it isn't.' I don't know what the man was thinking
about. 'It's exactly as usual. Some girl seems to have aroused
the wrath of She Who Must Be Obeyed.'
'Did you say ... some girl?'
'Friend of yours, Guthrie?'
What?'
* See 'Rumpole and the Course of True Love' in The Trials of Rumpole, Penguin
Books, 1979.
14 t
Rumpole and the Genuine Article
'I thought it rdight be someone you had your eye on, from
the typing pool, perhaps. I mean, I remember when ...' But
before I could call the Featherstone mind to remembrance of
things past, he went on firmly, 'This is not a time for looking
backwards, Horace. Let us look forward! To the fine reputation
of this set of Chambers.'
He went to the door and opened it, but before he left the
Rumpole presence he said, as though it were a full explanation,
'And do please remember, I haven't told you anything!'
I suppose that was true, in a manner of speaking.
As, from the sound of She Who Must Be Obeyed's voice, there
appeared to be a bit of a cold wind blowing in Casa Rumpole
(our so-called 'mansion' flat in the Gloucester Road, which bears
about as much relation to a mansion as Pommeroy's plonk does
to Chateau Pichon Longueville), I delayed my return home and
wandered into my usual retreat, where I saw our clerk Henry
there before me. He was leaning nonchalantly against the bar,
toying with his usual Cinzano Bianco, taken with Iceland a twist
of lemon. I began to press him for information which might throw
some faint light on the great Featherstone mystery.
'As a barrister's clerk. Henry,' I said, 'you might be said to
be at the very heart of the legal profession. You have your finger
on the Lord Chancellor's pulse, to coin a phrase. Tell me honestly,
has the old fellow lost his marbles?'
'Which old fellow, sir?' Henry seemed mystified. It was an
evening for mystification.
'The Lord Chancellor, Henry! Has he gone off his rocker?'
'That's not for me to say, is it?' Our clerk Henry was ever
the diplomat, but I pressed on. 'Is his Lordship seriously thinking
of making Guthrie Feathersone, Q.c., m.p., a Red Judge?
I mean, I know our learned Head of Chambers has given up
politics ...'
'He's joined the S.D.P.'
'That's exactly what I mean. But ajudge
'Oh, come on. Don't be so pompous and legal. Henry.'
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
'I would say that Mr Featherstone would cut a fine figure on
the Bench.' Our clerk had the sort of voice which could express
nothing whatsoever, a genuinely neutral tone.
'Oh, he'd look all right,' I agreed. 'He'd fit the costume. But is he. Henry? That's what I want to know. Is he?'
'Is he what, Mr Rumpole?'
'He may look like a judge, but is he really the genuine
article^
So I left Henry, having hit, almost by chance I suppose, on
one of the questions which troubled old Plato, led Bishop
Berkeley to some of his more eccentric opinions, and brought
a few laughs to Bertrand Russell and a whole trainload of ideas
to A. J. Ayer. It was that little matter of the difference between
appearance and reality which lay at the heart of the strange
case which was about to engage my attention.
As I say, I didn't expect much of a welcome from She Who
Must Be Obeyed when I put into port at 25 B Froxbury Court, and I wasn't disappointed. I had brought a peace offering in
the shape of the last bunch of tulips I had found gasping for
air in the shop at the Temple tube station.
'Where did you find those, Rumpole?' my wife Hilda asked
tersely. 'Been raiding the cemetery?'
'Is she still here?' I hoped to see the cause of Hilda's discontent,
and entered the kitchen. The place was empty. The bird,
whoever she might have been, had flown.
'By she I suppose you mean your girl?' Hilda followed me into
the kitchen and tried to bring back life to the tulips with the
help of a cut-glass vase.
'She's not "my girl".'
'She came to see you. Then she burst into tears suddenly and
left.'
| 'People who come to see me often burst into tears. It's in the
nature of the legal profession.' I tried to sound reassuring. But
I was distracted by a strange sound, a metallic clatter, as though
someone were throwing beer cans up at our kitchen window.
'Hilda,' I put the question directly. 'What on earth's that?'
She took a look out and reported - as it turned out, quite
16
/ Rumpole and the Genuine Article
accurately -- what she saw. 'There's a small man in a loud suit
throwing beer cans up at our window, Rumpole. Probably another
of your friends!' At which my wife made off in the direction
of our living room with the vase of tulips, and I proceeded
to the window to verify the information. What I saw was a small,
cunning-looking old cove in a loud check suit, with a yellow stock
round his neck. Beside him was a girl in ethnic attire, carrying
a large, worn holdall, no doubt of Indian manufacture. The distant
view I had of her only told me that she had red hair and
looked a great deal too beautiful to have any business with the
elderly lunatic who was shying beer cans up at our window. As
I stuck my head out to protest, I was greeted by the old party
with a loud hail of 'Horace Rumpole! There you are at last!'
'Who are you?' I had no idea why this ancient person, who
had the appearance of a superannuated racing tipster, should
know my name.
'Don't you remember Blanco Basnet? Fellow you got off at
Cambridge Assizes? Marvellous, you were. Just bloody marvellous!
Hang on a jiff. Coming up!' At which our visitors made
off for the entrance of the building.
The name 'Blanco Basnet' rang only the faintest of bells. I
had a vague recollection of some hanger-on round Newmarket, but what had he been charged with? Embezzlement? Common
assault? Overfamiliarity with a horse? My reverie was interrupted
by a prolonged peal on the front door bell, and I opened
up.
'Are you Basnet?' I asked the fellow as Hilda joined us, looking
distinctly displeased.
'Course not. I'm Brittling.' He introduced himself. 'Harold
Brittling. I was a close chum of old Blanco's, though. And when
you got him off without a stain on his bloody character, we drank
the night away, if you will recall the occasion, at the Old
Plough at Stratford Parva. Time never called while the landlord
had a customer. We swapped addresses, don't you remember?
I say, is this your girl?' This last remark clearly and inappropriately
referred to She Who Must Be Obeyed.
'This is my wife Hilda,' I said with as much dignity as I could
muster. fR
m-' ''"'''. 2:17
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
'This is my girl Pauline.' Brittling introduced the beauty
dressed in a rug at his side.
'I've met her,' Hilda said coldly. 'Is she your daughter?'
'No, she's my girl.' Brittling enlarged on the subject. 'Don't
talk much, but strips down like an early Augustus John. Thighs
that simply call out for an HB pencil. I say, Rumpole, your girl
Hilda looks distinctly familiar to me. Met before, haven't we?'
'I think it's hardly likely.' Hilda did her best to freeze the
little man with a glance. It was ineffective.'
'Round the Old Monmouth pub in Greek Street?' Brittling
suggested. 'Didn't you hang a bit round the Old Monmouth?
Didn't I have the pleasure of escorting you home once, Hilda,
when the Guinness stout had been flowing rather too freely?'
At which Brittling, with the girl in tow, moved off towards
the sitting room, and I was left with the thought that either the
little gnome was completely off his chump or there were hidden
depths to She Who Must Be Obeyed.
When we followed him into our room, Brittling furnished some
further information.
'You two girls have chummed up already,' he said. 'I sent
Pauline to find you, Horace, as I was.„ temporarily detained in
the cooler.' .;.. y^ ':;.. ^i,^ ^
It was with some relief that I began to realize that Brittling
had not paid a merely social call. He brought business. He was
a customer, a member of the,criminaljraternity^rid_pro^ably,
quite a respectable little dud-cheque merchant. However, legal
etiquette demanded that I spoke to him sharply. 'Look, Brittling,'
I said, 'if you've come here for legal advice, you'll have to
approach me in the proper manner.'
'I shall approach you in the proper manner, bearing bubbly!
Perhaps your girl will go and fetch a few beakers from the kitchen.
Then we can start to celebrate!'
At which he started to yank bottles of champagne out of
Pauline's holdall, with all the eclat of a conjurer producing rabbits
from a hat.
'Celebrate what?' I was puzzled. Nothing good seemed to have
happened.
'The case in which I'm going to twist the tail of the con-o-
18
I »? /
Rumpole and the Genuine Article
sewers,' Brittling almost shouted. 'And you, my dear Horace, are going to twist the tail of the legal profession. Game for a
bit of fun, aren't you?'
At this moment he released the wine, which began to bubble
out over the elderly Persian-type floor covering. This, of course,
didn't add a lot to Hilda's approval of the proceedings. 'Do be
careful,' she said tartly, 'that stuff is going all over the carpet.'
'Then get the glasses, Hilda.' Brittling was giving the orders.
'It's not like you, is it, to hold up a party?'
'Rumpole!' Hilda appealed to me with a look of desperation,
but for the moment I couldn't see the point of allowing all the
champagne to be drunk up by the carpet. 'No harm in taking
a glass of champagne, Hilda,' I said reasonably.
'Or two.' Brittling winked at her. To my amazement, she then
went off to fetch the beakers. When Hilda was gone I pressed
on with the interrogation of Brittling.
'Who are you, exactly?' I asked, as a starter. The question
seemed to provoke considerable hilarity in the old buffer.
'He asks who I am, Pauline!' He turned to his companion incredulously.
'Slade Gold Medal. Exhibited in the Salon in Paris.
Hung in the Royal Academy. Executed in the Bond Street Galleries.
And once, when I was very hungry, decorated the pavement
outside the National Portrait Gallery. And the secret is
- I can do it, Horace. So can you. We're pros. Give me a box
of Conte crayons and I can run you up a Degas ballet dancer
that old Degas would have given his eye teeth to have drawn.'
'His name's Harold Brittling.' The girl, Pauline, spoke at last,
and as though that settled the matter. Brittling set off on a survey
of the room as Hilda came back with four glasses.
'Who is he?' she asked anxiously as she handed me a glass.
'An artist. Apparently. Hung in the Royal Academy.' That
was about all I was able to tell her.
'Not over-pictured, are you? What's this objet d'art?' Brittling
had fetched up in front of a particularly watery watercolour
presented to Hilda by her bosom chum Dodo, an artwork which
I wouldn't give house room to were the choice mine, which of
course it wasn't.
'Oh, that's a study of Lamorna Cove, done by my old school
..-1 '9
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
friend, Dorothy Mackintosh. Dodo Perkins, as was. She lives
in the West Country now.'
' "Dodo" keeps a tea-shop in St Ives.' I filled in the gaps in
Hilda's narrative. ,
'She has sent in to the Royal Academy. On several occasions.
Do you like it, Mr ... ?' She actually seemed to be waiting
anxiously for the Brittling verdict.
'Harold,' he corrected her. And, looking at her with particularly
clear blue eyes, he added, in a way I can only describe
as gallant, 'Do you like it, Hilda?'
'Oh, I think it's rather fine.' It was She, the connoisseur, speaking.
'Beautiful in fact. The way Dodo's caught the shadow on
the rocks, you know.' ?'
Brittling was sloshing the champagne around, smiling at Hilda,
and actually winking at Pauline as he said, 'Then if you think
it's fine and beautiful, Hilda, that's what it is to you. To you
it's worth a fortune. The mere fact that to me it looks like a
rather colourless blob of budgerigar's vomit is totally irrelevant.
You pay for what you think is beautiful. That's what our case, is all about, isn't it, Horace? What's the difference between a;Dodo
and a Degas? Nothing but bloody talent which I can
supply!' (
'Look here, Brittling ...' Although grateful for the glass full
of nourishing bubbles, I thought the chap was putting the case.
against Dodo's masterpiece a little strongly.
'Harold,' he suggested.
'Brittling.' I was sticking to the full formality. 'My wife and
I are grateful for this glass of...'
'The Widow Cliquot. Non vintage, I'm afraid. But paid for
with ready money.'
'But I certainly can't do any case unless you go and consult
a solicitor and he cares to instruct me.'
'Oh I see.' Brittling was recharging all our glasses. 'Play it
by the rules, eh?'
'Exactly.' I intended to get this prospective client under
control.
'Then it's much more fun breaking them when the time comes,'
said the irresponsible Brittling.
20 :
Rumpole and the Genuine Article
'I must make it quite clear that I don't intend to break any
rules for you, Brittling,' I said. 'Come and see me in Chambers
with a solicitor.'
'Oh, I walk along the Bois du Boulogne ... With an independent
air ...' Brittling began to sing in a way which apparently
had nothing whatever to do with matters in question.
'Oh come along, Harold.' The girl Pauline took the old boy's
arm and seemed to be urging him towards the door. 'He's not
going to take your case on.'
'Why ever not?' Brittling seemed puzzled.
'She doesn't like you. And I don't think he likes you much
either.'
'You can hear them all declare, I must be a millionaire,' Brittling
sang and then looked at me intently. 'Horace Rumpole may not
like me,' he said at last, 'but he envies me.'
'Why should he do that?'
'Because of what he has to live with.' Brittling's magnificent
gestures seemed to embrace the entire room. 'Pissy watercolours!'
And
then they left us, as unexpectedly as they had come, abandoning
the rest of the Veuve Cliquot, which we had with our
poached eggs for supper. It wasn't until much later, when we
were lying at a discreet distance in the matrimonial bed, that
I happened to say to Hilda, by way of encouragement,,'I don't
suppose we'll see either of them again.' ,
'Oh yes you will,' she announced, as I thought, tartly. 'You'll
do the case. You won't'be able to resist it!'
'I can resist Mr Harold Brittling extremely easily,' I assured
her.
'But her. Can you resist her, Rumpole?' And she went on in
some disgust, 'Those thighs that simply seem to be asking for
an HB pencil. I don't know when I've heard anything quite so
revolting!'
'All the same, old Brittling seems to enjoy life.' I said it quietly,
under my breath, but She almost heard me.
'What did you say?'
'I said I don't suppose he's got a wife.'
'That's what I thought you said.' And Hilda, somewhat
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
mortified, snapped off the light, having decided it was high
time we lost consciousness together.
To understand the extraordinary case of the Queen against
Harold Brittling, it is necessary to ask if you have a nodding
acquaintance with the work of the late Septimus Cragg, r.a.
Before he turned up his toes, which I imagine must have been
shortly before the last war, Septimus Cragg appeared to the
public gaze as just what they expected of the most considerable
British painter of his time. His beard, once a flaming red, later
a nicotine-stained white, his long procession of English and European
mistresses, his farmhouse in Sussex, his huge collection of
good-looking children who suffered greatly from never being able
to paint as well as their father, his public denunciations of most
other living artists, and his frequently pronounced belief that
Brighton Pavilion was a far finer manifestation of the human
spirit than Chartres Cathedral - all these things brought him
constantly to the attention of the gossip columnists, and perhaps
made his work undervalued in his final years.
Now, of course, as I discovered when I started to do a little
preparation for the defence of Harold Brittling, there has been
a considerable boom in Craggs. The generally held view is that
he was by far the finest of the British Post-Impressionists, and
had he had the luck to be born in Dieppe, a port where a good
deal of his life and a great many of his love affairs were
celebrated, he might be mentioned in the same breath as such
noted Frog artists as Degas and Bonnard. By now the art world
will pay a great deal of hard cash for a Cragg in mint condition, particularly if it's a good nude. There's nothing that has the art
world reaching for its cheque book, so it seems, as quickly as
a good nude.
| The rise in expert esteem of the paintings of Septimus Cragg
was shown dramatically in the prices fetched in a recent sale at
which Harold Brittling was seen to be behaving in a somewhat
curious manner. The particular Cragg to come under the hammer
was entitled 'Nancy at the Hotel du Vieux Port, Dieppe', and
it appeared to have an impeccable pedigree, having been put up
for auction by a Miss Price, an elderly spinster lady who lived
22
,mi	..----------	S----
Rumpole and the Genuine Article
An Worthing and was none other than Septimus Cragg's niece.
As the "bidding rose steadily from fifty to fifty-six thousand
pounds, and as the picture was finally knocked down to a Mrs
De Moyne of New Haven, Connecticut, for a cool sixty thousand, Harold Brittling, sitting beside a silent and undemonstrative
Pauline in the audience, could be seen giggling helplessly. On
his way out of the auction, the beaming Brittling was fingered
by two officers of the Fine Art and Antiques Department at Scotland
Yard and taken into custody. Pauline was sent to enlist the
immediate help of Horace Rumpole, and so earned the suspicious
disapproval of She Who Must Be Obeyed.
Nancy, whoever she may have been, was clearly a generously
built, cheerful young lady, who brought out the best in Septimus
Cragg. He had painted her naked, with a mane of coppercoloured
hair, standing against the light of a hotel bedroom
window, through which the masts and funnels of the old
port were hazily visible. In the foreground there was a strip of
purplish carpet, a china basin and jug on a wash stand, and the
end of a brass bed, over which a man's trousers, fitted with a
pair of braces, were dangling negligently. I was looking at a
reproduction of the work in question in my Chambers. I hadn't
yet seen the glowing original; but even in a flat, coloured photograph,
the picture gave off the feeling of a moment of happiness, caught for ever. I felt, looking at it, I must confess, a bit of a
pang. There hadn't, I had to face it, been many such mornings
in hotel bedrooms in Dieppe in the long life and career of Horace
Rumpole, barrister-at-law.
'It's only a reproduction,' Brittling said. 'Doesn't do it a bit
of justice.'
And Mr Myers, old Myersy, the solicitor's managing clerk,
who has seen me through more tough spots down the Bailey than
I've had hot dinners, who sat there with his overcoat pockets
bulging with writs and summonses, puffed at his nauseating,
gbubbling old pipe and said, as though we were looking at a bit
I of bloodstained sweatshirt or a mortuary photograph, 'That's
it, Mr Rumpole. Exhibit J. L. T. (One). That's the evidence.'
Brittling, it seemed, had at least partially come to his senses.
He had decided to consult a solicitor and approach me in a more
? ^
Rumpole and the Golden Thread ;
formal manner than the mere lobbing of beer cans at my
kitchen window. He looked at the exhibit in question and smiled
appreciatively.
'It's a corker, though, as a composition, isn't it?'
'How is it as a forgery? That's what you're charged with, you
know,' I reminded him, to bring the conversation down from
the high aesthetic plane.
'A smashing composition,' Brittling went on as though he
hadn't heard. 'And if you saw the texture of paint, and the way
the curtains are moving in the wind from the harbour! There's
only one man who could ever paint the air behind a curtain like
that.'
'So it's the genuine article!' Myers assured me. 'That's what
we're saying, Mr Rumpole.'
'Of course it's genuine!' Brittling called on the support of
Keats:' "A thing of beauty ... is a joy for ever:" ' < ;
I helped him with the quotation, ^ ;:, •.'»"
?-^i •; •'.;
'Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness, but still will keep .
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep . "'"':'
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing ...
Quiet breathing in the Nick,' I reminded him somewhat brutally,
'if we don't keep our wits about us. Did you ever know Cragg?' |?;
'Septimus...?'
'Did you know him?' I asked, and Brittling embarked on a
fragment of autobiography.
'I was the rising star of the Slade School,' he said. 'Cragg
was the old lion, the king of the pack. He was always kind to
me. Had me down to the farmhouse at Rottingdean. Full of his
children by various mothers, and society beauties, waiting to have
their portraits painted. There was such a lot of laughter in that
house, and so many young people ...'
' "Nancy at Dieppe".' I picked up the reproduction. The
features were blurred against the light, but didn't there seem
to be something vaguely familiar about the girl in the hotel
bedroom? 'Do you recognize the model at all?'
'Cragg had so many.' Brittling shrugged.
24
Rumpole and the Genuine Article
'Models or girlfriends?'
'It was usually the same thing.'
'Was it really? And this one?'
'Seems vaguely familiar.' Brittling echoed my thoughts. I gave
him my searching look, reserved for difficult clients. 'The sort
of thighs,' I asked him, 'which simply call out for an HB pencil,
would you say?'
Brittling didn't seem to resent my suggestion. In fact he turned
to me and gave a small but deliberate wink. I didn't like that.
Clients who wink at you when you as good as tell them that
you think they're guilty can be most unsettling.
I was still unsettled as I undressed in the matrimonial bedroom
in Froxbury Court. Hilda, in hairnet and bed jacket, was propped
up on the pillows doing the Daily Telegraph crossword puzzle.
As I hung up the striped trousers I thought that it was a scene
which would never have been painted by Septimus Cragg. I was
reflecting on the difference between my life and that of the
rip-roaring old R.A. and I said, thoughtfully, 'It all depends, I
suppose, on where your talents lie.'
'What does?' Hilda asked in a disinterested sort of way.
'I mean, if my talents hadn't been for bloodstains, and crossexamining
coppers on their notebooks, and addressing juries on
the burden of proof... If I'd had an unusual aptitude for jotting
down a pair of thighs in a hotel bedroom ...'
'You've seen her again, haven't you?' Hilda was no longer
sounding disinterested.
'I might have been living in a farmhouse in Sussex with eight
pool-eyed children with eight different mothers, all devoted to
me, and duchesses knocking on my door to have their portraits
painted. My work might have meant trips to Venice and Aix-enProvence
instead of London Sessions and the Uxbridge Magistrates
Court! No, I didn't see her. She didn't come to the
conference.'
'You want to concentrate on what you can do, Rumpole. Fine
chance / ever have of getting invited to the Palace.'
'No need for the black jacket and pin stripes. Throw away
the collar like a blunt execution. All you need is an old tweed
aa ^
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
suit and a young woman who's kind enough to wear nothing
but a soulful expression. What's all that about the Palace?'
'They're making Guthrie Featherstone a judge, you know,'
Hilda said, as though it were all, in some obscure way, my fault.
'Whoever told you that?'
I felt suddenly sorry for the old Q.C., M.P., and worried that
the chump's chances might be blown by a lot of careless talk.
For Hilda told me that she had met Marigold Featherstone somewhere
near Harrods, and that whilst she had been looking for
bargains, the future Lady Marigold had told her that she had
acquired a suitable outfit with the 'Princess Di' look for a visit
to the Palace on the occasion of our not very learned Head of
Chambers being awarded a handle to his name. When Hilda,
not a little mystified, had asked her what sort of handle they
had in mind. Marigold had rushed off in the direction of Sloane
Street, urging Hilda to forget every word she had said, forgetting,
of course, that She Who Must Be Obeyed never forgets.
'You didn't tell anyone else this, did you?' I asked.
'Well, no one except Phillida Erskine-Brown. I happened to
run into her going into Sainsbury's.' '(_
'You did whatY
'And Phillida explained it all to me. If you get made a judge
you're knighted as a matter of course, and have to go to Buck
House and all that sort of thing. So that was why Marigold was
buying a new outfit.'
I was appalled, quite frankly. Phillida Erskine-Brown is a formidable
lady advocate, the Portia of our Chambers. As for her
husband, as I explained to Hilda, 'Claude Erskine-Brown gossips
about the judiciary in the way teenagers gossip about film actors.
Star-struck is our Claude. Practically goes down on his knees to
anything in ermine! And he pops into Pommeroy's whenever he
gets a legal aid cheque. Let's just hope he doesn't get paid until
poor old Featherstone's got his bottom safely on the Bench.'
'One thing is quite certain, Rumpole,' said Hilda, filling in a
clue. 'There's no earthly chance of your ever getting a handle.'
H
| A few weeks later I had slipped in to Pommeroy's Wine Bar
for a glass of luncheon when Guthrie Featherstone came up to
26
Rumpole and the Genuine Article
me and, having looked nervously over his shoulder like a man
who expects to be joined at any moment by the Hound of Heaven,
said, 'Horace! I came in here to buy a small sherry ...'
'No harm in that, Guthrie.' I tried to sound reassuring.
'And Jack Pommeroy, you know what Jack Pommeroy called
me?' His voice sank to a horrified whisper. 'He called me "Judge"':
'Well, you'll have to get used to it.' I couldn't be bothered
to whisper.
Featherstone looked round, appalled. 'Horace, for God's sake!
Don't you see what this means? It means someone's been talking.'
And then his glance fell on a table where Claude ErskineBrown
was knocking back the Beaujolais Villages with assorted
barristers. Featherstone's cup of unhappiness was full when
Erskine-Brown raised his glass, as though in congratulation.
'Look! Claude Erskine-Brown, raising his glass at me!' Featherstone pointed it out, rather unnecessarily, I thought.
'Just a friendly gesture,' I assured him.
'You remember poor old Moreton Colefax, not made a judge
because he couldn't keep his mouth shut.' The Q.C., M.P.,
looked near to tears. 'It's all round the Temple.'
'Of course it's not. Don't worry.' ','Then
why is Erskine-Brown drinking to me?'-
'He thinks you look like a judge. Beauty, after all, Guthrie
my old darling, is entirely in the eye of the beholder.' Curiously
enoi.gh, when I said that, Guthrie Featherstone didn't look particularly
cheered up. „ „,,,
In the course of time, however, Guthrie Featherstone, Q.c.,
m.p., did cheer up, considerably. He fulfilled his destiny, and
took on that role which led him to be appointed head boy of
his prep school and a prefect at Marlborough, because, quite
simply, he never got up anyone's nose and there were no other
likely candidates available.
At long last Guthrie's cheerfulness round the Sheridan Club
and his dedication to losing golf matches against senior judges
earned him his just reward. A man who had spent most of his
life in an agony of indecision, who spent months debating such
I i 27
. t ' -^ ---' J'-' : ^^^
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
questions as whether we should have a coffee machine in the
clerk's room, or did the downstairs loo need redecorating; a fellow
who found it so hard to choose between left and right that he
became a Social Democrat; a barrister who agonized for hours
about whether it would be acceptable to wear a light grey tie
in Chambers in April, or whether such jollifications should be
confined to the summer months, was appointed one of Her
Majesty's judges, and charged to decide great issues of life and
liberty.
Arise, Sir Guthrie! From now on barristers, men far older than
you, will bow before you. Men and women will be taken off
to prison at your decree. You will have made a Lady out of
Marigold, and your old mother is no doubt extremely proud of
you. There is only one reason, one very good reason, for that
smile of amiable bewilderment to fade from the Featherstone
features. You may make the most awful pig's breakfast of the
case you're trying, and they'll pour scorn on you from a great
height in the Court of Appeal.
So Guthrie Featherstone, in the full panoply of a Red Judge
at the Old Bailey, was sitting paying polite and somewhat anxious
attention to a piece of high comedy entitled R. v. Brittling, starring
Claude Erskine-Brown for the prosecution, and Horace
Rumpole for the defence. As the curtain rose on the second day
of the hearing the limelight fell on a Mr Edward Gandolphini, an extremely expensive-looking art expert and connoisseur, with
a suit from Savile Row, iron-grey hair and a tan fresh from a
short break in the Bahamas. In the audience Pauline was sitting
with her embroidered holdall, listening with fierce concentration,
and in the dock, the prisoner at the Bar was unconcernedly drawing
a devastating portrait of the learned Judge.
'Mr Gandolphini.' Erskine-Brown was examining the witness
with all the humble care of a gynaecologist approaching a
duchess who had graciously consented to lie down on his couch.
iS'You are the author of Cragg and the British Impressionists and
?he leading expert on this particular painter?'
'It has been said, my Lord.' The witness flashed his teeth at
the learned Judge, who flashed his back.
'I'm sure it has, Mr Gandolphini,'said Featherstone, j.
28
jatti_
Rumpole and the Genuine Article
'And are you also,' Erskine-Brown asked most respectfully, 'the author of many works on twentieth-century painting and
adviser to private collectors and galleries throughout the world?'
'I am.' Gandolphini admitted it.
'And have you examined this alleged "Septimus Cragg"?'
Erskine-Brown gestured towards the picture which, propped on
a chair in front of the jury, revealed a world of secret delight
miles away from the Central Criminal Court.
'I have, my Lord.' Mr Gandolphini again addressed himself
to the learned Judge. 'I may say it isn't included in any existing
catalogue of the artist's works. Of course, at one time, I believe,
it was thought it came from a genuine source, the artist's niece
in Worthing.'
'Now we know that to be untrue,' said Erskine-Brown with
a meaningful look at the jury, and thereby caused me to stagger,
rilled with extremely righteous indignation, to my feet.
'My Lord!' I trumpeted. 'We know nothing of the sort - until
that has been found as a fact by the twelve sensible people who
sit in that jury-box and no one else
'Very well,' said his Lordship, trying to placate everybody.
'Very well, Mr Rumpole. Perhaps he suspected it to be untrue.
Is that the situation, Mr Gandolphini?'
Guthrie turned to the witness, smiling, but I wasn't letting
him off quite so easily. 'My Lord, how can what this witness
suspected possibly be evidence?'
'Mr Rumpole. I know you don't want to be difficult.' As usual
Featherstone exhibited his limited understanding of the case. I
considered it my duty to be as difficult as possible.
'May I assist, my Lord?' said Erskine-Brown.
'I would be grateful if you would, Mr Erskine-Brown. Mr
Rumpole, perhaps we can allow Mr Erskine-Brown to assist
us?'
I subsided. I had no desire to take part in this vicarage teaparty,
with everyone assisting each other to cucumber sandwiches.
I thought that after one day on the Bench Guthrie had
leamt the habit of getting cosy with the prosecution.
'Mr Gandolphini,' Erskine-Brown positively purred at the witness, 'if you had known that this picture did not in fact come
29
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
from Miss Price's collection, would you have had some doubts
about its authenticity?'
'That question is entirely speculative.' I was on my feet again.
'Mr Rumpole.' Featherstone was being extremely patient. 'Do you want me to rule on the propriety of Mr Erskine-Brown's
question?'
'I think the time may have come to make up the judicial mind,
yes.'
'Then I rule that Mr Erskine-Brown may ask his question.'
Guthrie then smiled at me in the nicest possible way and said,
'Sorry, Mr Rumpole.' The old darling looked brokenhearted.
'Well, Mr Gandolphini?' Erskine-Brown was still waiting for
his answer.
'I had a certain doubt about the picture from the start,' Gandolphini
said carefully.
'From the start ... you had a doubt ...' Featherstone didn't
seem to be able to stop talking while he wrote a note.
'Take it slowly now. Just follow his Lordship's pencil,'
Erskine-Brown advised the witness and, in the ensuing pause, I happened to whisper to Myersy, 'And you may be sure his
pencil's not drawing thighs in Dieppe.'
'Did you say something, Mr Rumpole?' his Lordship asked,
worried, ''.^s^ 'Bads : 'Nothing, my Lord, of the' slightest consequence,' I rose to
explain.
'I say that because I have extremely acute hearing.' Featherstone
smiled at the jury, and I could think of nothing better to
say than, 'Congratulations.'
'I thought the painting very fine.' Gandolphini returned to
the matter in hand. 'And certainly in the manner of Septimus
Cragg. It is a beautiful piece of work, but I don't think I ever
saw a Cragg where the shadows had so much colour in them.'
'Colour? In the shadows? Could I have a look?' The Judge
tapped his pencil on the Bench and called, 'Usher.' Obediently
the Usher carried the artwork up to his Lordship on the bench,
and his Lordship got out his magnifying glass and submitted
Nancy's warm flesh tints and flowing curves to a careful, legal
examination.
30
SB
Rumpole and the Genuine Article
'There's a good deal of green, and even purple in the shadows
on the naked body, my Lord,' Gandolphini explained.
'Yes, I do see that,' said the Judge. 'Have you seen that, Mr
Rumpole? Most interesting! Usher, let Mr Rumpole have a look
at that. Do you wish to borrow my glass, Mr Rumpole?'
'No, my Lord. I think I can manage with the naked eye.' I
was brought the picture by the Usher and sat staring at it, as
though waiting for some sudden revelation.
'Tell us,' Erskine-Brown asked the witness. 'Is "Nancy" a
model who appears in any of Cragg's works known to you?'
'In none, my Lord.' Gandolphini shook his head, almost sadly.
'Did Cragg paint most of his models many times?'
'Many, many times, my Lord.'
'Thank you, Mr Gandolphini.'
Erskine-Brown sat, apparently satisfied and I rose up slowly, and slowly turned the picture so the witness could see it. 'You
said, did you not, Mr Gandolphini, that this is a beautiful painting.'
I began in a way that I was pleased to see the witness didn't
expect.
'It's very fine. Yes.'
'Has it not at least sixty thousand pounds' worth of beauty?'
I asked and then gave the jury a look. i^r sirKs^t .
'I can't say.'
'Can you not? Isn't part of your trade reducing beauty to merer,;. cash!' , ^
'I value pictures, yes.' I could see that Gandolphini was consciously
keeping his temper, i
'And would you not agree that this is a valuable picture, no
matter who painted it?'
'I have said ...' I knew that he was going to try and avoid
answering the question, and I interrupted him. 'You have said
it's beautiful. Were you not telling this jury the truth, Mr Gandolphini?'

'Yes, but...'
_J__ ' "Beauty is truth, truth beauty," - that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.'
11 turned and gave the jury their two bobs' worth of Keats.
3i
i
f h' Rumpole and the Genuine Article
'My learned friend regards this as a perfectly ordinary criminal
case,' I said. 'Of course it isn't. We are discussing the value of
a work of art, a thing of beauty and a joy forever. We are not
debating the price offish!'
There was a sound of incipient applause from the dock, so
I whispered to Myersy, and instructed him to remind Brittling
that he was not in the pit at the Old Holborn Empire but in
the dock at the Old Bailey. I was interrupted by the Judge
saying that perhaps I had better pursue another line with the
witness. ,„ V-
'My Lord,' I said. 'I think we have heard enough -- from Mr
Gandolphini.' So I sat and looked triumphantly at the jury, as
though I had, in a way they might not have entirely understood,
won a point. Then I noticed, to my displeasure, that the learned
Judge was engaged in some sort of intimate tete-a-tete with the
man Gandolphini, who had not yet left the witness-box. »;,
'Mr Gandolphini, just one point,' said the Judge. ;„
'Yes, my Lord.' 'Wif
'I happen myself to be extremely fond of Claude Lorrain,'
said Featherstone, pronouncing the first name 'Clode' in an exaggerated
Frog manner of speaking.
'Oh, my Lord, I do so agree.' Gandolphini waxed effusive.
'Absolutely super painter, isn't he? Now, I suppose, if you saw
a good, a beautiful picture which you were assured came from
a reputable source, you might accept that as a "Clode" Lorrain,
mightn't you?'
'Certainly, my Lord.' I 'vEs^
'But if you were later to learn that the picture had been
painted in the seventeenth century and not the eighteenth!
Well, you might change your opinion, mightn't you?'
Featherstone looked pleased with himself, but the turn of the
conversation seemed to be causing Gandolphini intense embarrassment.
'Well, not really, my Lord,' he murmured.
'Oh, I'm sorry. Will you tell us why not?' The learned Judge
looked nettled and prepared to take a note.
Gandolphini hated to do it, but as a reputable art expert he
had to say, 'Well. You see. Claude Lorrain did paint in the
seventeenth century, my Lord.'
33
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
It was almost the collapse of the Judge's morale. However,
he started to talk rather quickly to cover his embarrassment. 'Oh,
yes. Yes, that's right. Of course he did. Perhaps some of the
jury will know that ... or not, as the case may be.' He smiled
at the jury, who looked distinctly puzzled, and then at the witness.
'We haven't all got your expertise, Mr Gandolphini.'
All I could think of to say was a warning to Mr Justice
Featherstone to avoid setting himself up as any sort of con-osewer.
Wiser counsels prevailed and I didn't say it.
For our especial delight we then had an appearance in the
witness-box by Mrs De Moyne, a well-manicured lady in a dark,
businesslike suit, with horned-rimmed glasses and a voice like the
side of a nail file. Mrs De Moyne spoke with the assurance of
an art lover who weighs up a Post-Impressionist to the nearest
dollar, and gives you the tax advantage of a gift to the Museum
of Modern Art without drawing breath. She gave a brief account
of her visit to the auction room to preview the Cragg in question,
of her being assured that the picture had a perfect pedigree,
having come straight from the artist's niece with no dealers involved,
and described her successful bidding against stiff competition
from a couple of Bond Street galleries and the Italian
agent of a collector in Kuwait.
Erskine-Brown asked the witness if she believed she had been
buying a genuine Septimus Cragg. 'Of course I did,' rasped Mrs
De Moyne. 'I was terribly deceived.' So Erskine-Brown sat down,
I'm sure, with a feeling of duty done. .'- .>:"a '
'Mrs De Moyne. Wouldn't you agree,' I asked as I rose to
cross-examine, 'that you bought a very beautiful picture?'
'Yes,' Mrs De Moyne admitted.
'So beautiful you were prepared to pay sixty thousand pounds
fork?' . .
'Yes, I was.'
'And it is still the same beautiful picture? The picture hasn't
changed since you bought it, has it, Mrs De Moyne? Not by
one drop of paint! Is the truth of the matter that you're not interested
in art but merely in collecting autographs!'
Of course this made the jury titter and brought Erskine-
Rumpole arm
Brown furiously to his hind legs. I apologize Gmume Article
suffering I might have caused, and went on. ^ for any pain and
doubt that this was a Cragg?' I asked, ^hen did you first
'Someone rang me up.'
'Someone? What did they say?'
'Do you want to let this evidence in, Mr Rm .
Judge was heard to be warning me for my owtpole?' The learned
'Yes, my Lord. I'm curious to know,' I ^ good.
Mrs De Moyne answered the question. "Unassured him. So
me get in touch with the police,' she said. "l^t was what made
me said the picture wasn't a genuine Crag^e man who called
belonged to Cragg's niece. He also said that ^ and it never had
'A bargain. Why?' q got a bargain.' ;„
'Because it was better than a Cragg.'
'Did he give you his name?' It was a risky ^
to ask because I didn't know the answer. Uestion, dangerous
'He did, yes. But I was so upset I didn't r^
tion to it. I don't think I can remember it.' ^y 100 much atten-
'Try,' I encouraged her. , ,<
'White. I think it had "white" in it.'
'Whiting? Whitehead?' I tried a few names
'No.' Mrs De Moyne shook her head dinner.
member.' ^ated. 'I can^t re-
'Thank you, Mrs De Moyne.' When I sat d<
voice in my ear whisper, 'You were wonderfi }^ } heard a gentle
would be.' It was the girl, Pauline, who h^i Harold said you
murmur comforting words to Rumpole. ^d left her seat to
'Oh nonsense,' I whispered back, but th,
the sake of truthfulness, 'Well, just a bit v^ had to add for
How do you think it's going, Myersy?' ^nderful, perhaps.
The knowing old legal executive in front <;
we were doing better than he expected, whi^' me admitted that
from such a source, but then he looked to^h was high praise
box and whispered, 'That's the one I'm afrai("rds the witnessThe
fearful object in Mr Myers's eyes i of
haired lady with wind-brightened cheeks ai-as a small, greyeyes,
wearing a tweed suit and sensible shoes, y^ small glittering
a clear voice and gave her name as Miss Marjorj y took the oath in
^ Evangeline Price,
i 35
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
of 31 Majuba Road, Worthing, and admitted that the late Cragg,
r.a., had been her Uncle Septimus.
'Do you know the defendant Brittling?' Erskine-Brown began
his examination-in-chief, and I growled, 'Mister Brittling,' insisting
on a proper respect for the prisoner at the Bar. I don't think
the jury heard me. They were all listening eagerly to Miss Marjorie
Evangeline Price, who talked to them as though she were having
a cup of afternoon tea with a few friends she'd known for years.
'He came to see me in Worthing. He said he had one of Uncle
Septimus's paintings to sell and he wanted me to put it into the
auction for him. The real seller didn't want his name brought
into it.' :fes!* Ww^i ^.x'wk-^
'Did Mr Brittling tell you why?'
'He said it was a businessman who didn't want it to be known
that he was selling his pictures. People might have thought he
was in financial trouble, apparently.' !?:;'
'So did you agree to the picture being sold in your name?'
'I'm afraid it was very wrong of me, but he was going to give
me a little bit of a percentage. An ex-schoolmistress does get a
very small pension.' Miss Price smiled at the jury and they smiled
back, as though of course they understood completely. She was,
unhappily for old Brittling, the sort of witness that the jury love,
a sweet old lady who's not afraid to admit she's wrong.
'Did you have any idea that the picture wasn't genuine?'
'Oh no, of course not. I had no idea of that. Mr Brittling was
very charming and persuasive.'
At which Miss Price looked at my client in the dock and smiled.
The jury also looked at him, but they didn't smile. %fcift
'And how much of the money did Mr Brittling allow you to
keep?' if-is.,
'I think, I'm not sure, I think it was ten per cent.' ^sX,,,
'How very generous. Thank you. Miss Price.' ||%
Erskine-Brown had shot his bolt and sat down. I rose and put
on the sweetest, gentlest voice in the Rumpole repertoire. Crossexamining
Miss Price was going to be like walking on eggs. I
had to move towards any sort of favourable answer on tiptoe.
'Miss Price, do you remember your uncle, Septimus Cragg?' I
started to move her gently down Memory Lane.
36 ' <„':;. .:;:::
B" Rumpole and the Genuine Article
'I remember him coming to our house when I was a little girl.
He had a red beard and a very hairy tweed suit. I remember
sitting on his lap.' ';'%; '
His Lordship smiled at her - he was clearly pro-Price.
'Is that all you can remember about him?' I was still probing
gently.
'I remember Uncle Septimus telling me that there were two
sorts of people in the world - nurses and patients. He seemed
to think I'd grow up to be a nurse.' w'svK^iws9 "-c.
'Oh, really? And which was he?' -;; . a',' >.<;
"; 'My Lord, can this possibly be relevant?' Erskine-Brown seemed
to think the question was fraught with danger, when I was really
only making conversation with the witness.
'I can't see it at the moment, Mr Erskine-Brown,' the Judge
admitted.
'Which did he say he was?' I went on, ignoring the unmannerly
interruption.
'Oh, he said he could always find someone to look after him.
I think he was a bit of a spoiled baby really.'
The jury raised a polite titter, and Erskine-Brown sat down.
I looked as though I'd got an answer of great importance.
'Did he? Did he say that? Tell me. Miss Price, do you know
who Nancy was?' '
'Nancy?' Miss Price looked puzzled. vifS
'This picture is of Nancy, apparently. In an hotel bedroom
in Dieppe. Who was Nancy?'
'I'm afraid I have no idea. I suppose she must have been
a' - she gave a small, meaningful pause - 'a friend of Uncle
Septimus.'
'Yes. I suppose she must have been.' I pointed to the picture
which had brought us all to the Old Bailey. 'You've never seen
this picture before?'
'Oh no. I didn't ask to see it. Mr Brittling told me about it and,
well, of course I trusted him, you see.' Miss Price smiled sweetly
at the jury and I sat down. There's no doubt about it. There's
nothing more like banging your head against a brick wall than
cross-examining a witness who's telling nothing but the truth.
^' 37
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
Later that afternoon the Usher came to counsel engaged on the
case with a message. The learned Judge would be glad to see us
for a cup of tea in his room. So we were received amongst the red
leather armchairs, the Law Reports, the silver-framed photographs
of Marigold and the Featherstone twins, Simon and Sarah.
The Judge was hovering over the bone china, dispensing the
Earl Grey and petit beurres, and the Clerk of the Court was
lurking in the background to make sure there was no hankypanky,
I suppose, or an attempt to drop folding money into the
Judge's wig.
'Come along, Horace. Sit you down, Claude. Sit you down.
You'll take a dish of tea, won't you? What I wanted to ask you
fellows is ... How long is this case going to last?'
'Well, Judge ... Guthrie ...' said Erskine-Brown, stirring hiss- tea. 'That rather depends on Rumpole here. He has to put the' defence. If there is a defence.'
'I don't want to hurry you, Horace. The point is, I may not
be able to sit next Monday afternoon.' The Judge gave a secret
sort of a smile and said modestly, 'Appointment at the Palace,
you know what these things are ...'
'Marigold got a new outfit for it, has she?' I couldn't resist^ asking.
'Well, the girls like all that sort of nonsense, don't they?' he"
said, as though the whole matter were almost too trivial to
mention. 'It's not so much an invitation as a Royal command.-?- You know the type of thing.' ->;-s *:
'I don't know,' I assured him. 'My only Royal command was'fe
to join the R.A.F. Ground Staff, as I remember it.'
'Yes, Horace, of course. You old war-horse!' There was a pause
while we all had a gulp of tea and a nibble of biscuit. 'How much
longer are you going to be?' the Judge asked.
'Well, not long, I suppose. It's rather an absurd little case,
isn't it? Bit of a practical joke, really. Isn't that what it is? Just
a prank, more or less.' I was working my way towards a small
fine should the old idiot Brittling go down; but to my dismay
Mr Justice Featherstone looked extremely serious.
'I can't pretend that I find it a joke, exactly,' he said, in his
new-found judicial manner.
38
Rumpole and the Genuine Article
'Well, I don't suppose that the shades of the prison house begin
to fall around the wretched Brittling, do they? I mean, all he
did was to pull the legs of a few so-called con-o-sewers.'
'And made himself a considerable sum of money in the
process,' said Erskine-Brown, who was clearly anxious to be no
sort of help.
'It's deceit, Horace. And forgery for personal profit. If your
client's convicted I'm afraid I couldn't rule out a custodial
sentence.' The Judge bit firmly into the last petit beurre.
'You couldn't?' I sounded incredulous.
'How could I?'
'Not send him to prison for a little bit of "let's pretend"? For
a bit of a joke on a pompous profession?' I put down my cup
and stood. My outrage was perfectly genuine. 'No. I don't
suppose you could.'
Tea with the Judge was over, and I was about to follow
Erskine-Brown and the learned Clerk out of his presence, when
Mr Justice Featherstone called me back. 'Oh, Horace,' he said,
'a word in your ear.' '.
•Yes.'
'I've noticed you've fallen into rather a bad habit.'
'Bad habit?' What on earth, I wondered, was he about to accuse
me of- being drunk in charge of a forgery case?
'Hands in pockets when you're addressing the Court. It looks
so bad, Horace. Such a poor example to the younger men. Keep
them out of the pockets, will you? I'm sure you don't mind me
pulling you up about it?'
It was the old school prefect speaking. I left him without
comment.
The hardest part of any case, I have always maintained, comes
when your client enters the witness-box. Up until that moment
you have been able to protect him by attacking those who give
evidence against him, and by concealing from the jury the most
irritating aspects of his personality. Once he starts to give
evidence, however, the client is on his own. He is like a child
who has left its family on the beach and is swimming, in a solitary
fashion, out to sea, where no cries of warning can be heard.
39
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
I knew Harold Brittling was going to be a bad witness by the
enormously confident way that he marched into the box, held
the Bible up aloft and promised to tell the truth, the whole truth
and nothing but the truth. He was that dreadful sort of witness,
the one who can't wait to give evidence, and who has been
longing, with unconcealed impatience, for his day in Court. He
leant against the top of the box and surveyed us all with an
expression of tolerant disdain, as though we had made a bit of
a pig's breakfast of his case up to that moment, and it was now
up to him to put it right.
I dug my hands as deeply as possible into my pockets, and asked what might prove to be the only really simple question.
, . .^ 'Is your name Harold Reynolds Gainsborough Brittling?' fc 'Yes, it is. You've got that perfectly right, Mr Rumpole.' H" I didn't laugh; neither, I noticed, did the jury. ^ 'You came of an artistic family, Mr Brittling?' It seemed a legitimate
deduction.
'Oh yes,' said Brittling, and went on modestly, 'I showed an
, 'extraordinary aptitude, my Lord, right from the start. At the
Slade School, which I entered at the ripe old age of sixteen, I
was twice a gold medallist and by far the most brilliant student
of my year.'
The jury appeared to be moderately nauseated by this glowing
account of himself. I changed the subject. 'Mr Brittling, did you
know the late Septimus Cragg?'
'I knew and loved him. There is a comradeship among artists,
my Lord, and he was undoubtedly the finest painter of his generation. He came to a student exhibition and I think he
recognized ... well...'
SI was hoping he wouldn't say 'a fellow genius'; he did.
'After that did you meet Cragg on a number of occasions?'
'You could say that. I became one of the charmed circle at
Rottingdean.'
'Mr Brittling. Will you take in your hands Exhibit One.'
The Usher lifted Nancy and carried her to the witness-box.
Harold Brittling gave me a look of withering scorn.
'This is a beautiful picture!' he said. 'Please don't call it
40 :,'?
Rumpole and the Genuine Article
"Exhibit One", Mr Rumpole. "Exhibit One" might be a blunt
instrument or something.'
The witness chuckled at this; no one else in Court smiled. I
prayed to God that he'd leave the funnies to his learned Counsel.
'Where did that picture come from, Mr Brittling?'
'I really don't remember very clearly.' He looked airily round
the Court as though it were a matter of supreme unimportance.
'You don't remember?' The Judge didn't seem able to believe
what he was writing down.
'No, my Lord. When one is leading the life of an artist, small
details escape the memory. I suppose Septimus must have given
it to me on one of my visits to him. Artists pay these little tributes
to each other.'
'Why did you take it to Miss Price and ask her to sell it?' I
asked as patiently as possible.
'I suppose I thought that the dealers would have more faith
in it if it came from that sort of source. And I rather wanted
the old puss to get her little bit of commission.'
One thing emerged clearly from that bit of evidence: the jury
didn't approve of Miss Price being called an 'old puss'. In fact, Brittling was going down with them like a cup of cold cod liver
oil.
'Mr Brittling. What is your opinion of that picture?' Of course
I wanted him to say that it was a genuine Cragg. Instead he closed
his eyes and breathed in deeply. 'I think it is the work of the
highest genius ...'
'Slowly please ...' The Judge was writing this art criticism
down.
'Just watch his Lordship's pencil,' I advised the witness.
'I think it is a work of great beauty, my Lord ... The painting
of the curtains, and of the air in the room ... Quite miraculous!'
'Did Septimus Cragg paint it?' I tried to bring Brittling's attention
back to the case.
'It's a lovely thing.' And then the little man actually shrugged
his shoulders. 'What does it matter who painted it?'
'For the purposes of this case, you can take it from me -- it
matters,' I instructed him. 'Now, have you any doubts that it
is a genuine Cragg?'
41
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
'Only one thing gives me the slightest doubt.' Like all bad witnesses
Brittling was incapable of a simple answer. ;;
'What's that?'
'It really seems to be too good for him. It exists beautifully
on a height the old boy never reached before.'
'Did you paint that picture, Mr Brittling?' I tried to direct
his attention to the charge he was facing.
The? Is someone suggesting I did it?' Brittling seemed flattered
and delighted.
'Yes, Mr Brittling. Someone is.' ;! /<ic:-ysi
'Well, in all modesty, it really takes my breath away. You are
suggesting that I could produce a masterpiece like that!' And Mr
Brittling smiled triumphantly round the Court.
'I take it, Mr Rumpole, that the answer means "no".' The
Judge was looking understandably confused. ^.
'Yes, of course. If your Lordship pleases.'
Featherstone, j. had interpreted Brittling's answer as a denial
of forgery. I thought that no further questions could possibly
improve the matter, and I sat down. Erskine-Brown rose to crossexamine
with the confident air of a hunter who sees his prey
snoozing gently at a range of about two feet.
'Mr Brittling,' he began quietly. 'Did you say you "laundered"
the picture through Miss Price?' ,; i<& %<
'He did what, Mr Erskine-Brown?' The Judge was riot quite
with him.
'Sold the picture through Miss Price, my Lord, because it
seemed such an unimpeachable source.'
'Yes.' The witness didn't bother to deny it. :Aw;'
'Does that mean that the picture isn't entirely innocent?' *'"
'Mr Erskine-Brown, all great art is innocent.' Brittling was outraged.
It seemed that all we had left was the John Keats defence:
'Beauty is truth, truth beauty,' - that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. .':'
'Then why this elaborate performance of selling the picture
through Miss Price?' Erskine-Brown raised his voice a little.
'Just to tease them a bit. Pull their legs ...' The worst was
happening. Brittling was chuckling again.
42
Rumpole and the Genuine Article
'Pull whose legs, Mr Brittling?' '
'The art experts! The con-o-sewers. People like Teddy
Gandolphini. I just wanted to twist their tails a little.'
'So we have all been brought here, to this Court, for a sort
of a joke?' Erskine-Brown acted extreme amazement.
'Oh no. Not just a joke. Something very serious is at stake.'
I didn't know what else Brittling was going to say, but I suspected
it would be nothing helpful. ''
'What?' Erskine-Brown asked.
'My reputation.'
'Your reputation as an honest man, Mr Brittling?'
'Oh no. Far more important than that. My reputation as an
artist! You see, if I did paint that picture, I must be a genius,
mustn't I?'
Brittling beamed round the Court, but once again no one else
was smiling. At the end of the day the Judge withdrew the defedant's
bail, a bad sign in any case. Harold Brittling, however, seemed to feel he had had a triumph in the witness-box, and
departed, with only a moderate show of irritation, for the Nick.
When I left Court - a little late, as we had the argument about
bail after the jury had departed -- I saw a lonely figure on a bench
in the marble hall outside Number i Court. It was Pauline,
shivering slightly, wrapped in her ethnic clothing, clutching her
holdall, and her undoubtedly beautiful face was, I saw when she
turned it in my direction, wet with tears. Checking a desire to
suggest that the temporary absence of the appalling Brittling
might come as something of a relief to his nearest and dearest,
I tried to put a cheerful interpretation on recent events.
'Don't worry.' I sat down beside her and groped for a small
cigar. 'Bail's quite often stopped, once a defendant's given his
evidence. The jury won't know about it. Personally, I think the
Judge was just showing off. Well, he's young, and a bit wet round
the judicial ears.' There was a silence. Young Pauline didn't seem
to be at all cheered up. Then she said, very quietly, 'They'll find
Harold guilty, won't they?' She was too bright to be deceived and
I exploded in irritation. 'What the hell's the matter with old
Harold? He's making his evidence as weak as possible. Does he
gWant to lose this case?' ;-' :;43
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
And then she said something I hadn't expected: 'You know
he does, don't you?' She put her hand on my arm in a way I
found distinctly appealing.
'Please,' she said, 'will you take me for a drink? I really need
one. I'd love it if you would.'
In all the circumstances it seemed a most reasonable request.
'All right,' I said. 'We'll go to Pommeroy's Wine Bar. It's only
just over the road.'
'No we won't,' Pauline decided. 'We'll go to the Old Monmouth;'
in Greek Street. I want you to meet somebody.' ;,:
The Old Monmouth, to which we travelled by taxi at Pauline's
suggestion, turned out to be a large, rather gloomy pub with a
past which was considerably more interesting than its present.
Behind the bar there were signed photographs, and even sketches' by a number of notable artists who drank there before the war
and in the forties and fifties. There were also photographs of
boxers, dancers and music hall performers, and many caricatures
of 'Old Harry', the former proprietor, with a huge handlebar
moustache, whose son, 'Young Harry', with a smaller moustache,
still appeared occasionally behind the bar.
The habits of artists have changed. Perhaps they now spend
their evenings sitting at home in Islington or Kew, drinking rare
Burgundy and listening to Vivaldi on the music centre. The days
when a painter started the evening with a couple of pints of
Guinness and ended stumbling out into Soho with a bottle of
whisky in his pocket and an art school model, wearing scarlet lipstick
and a beret, on his arm have no doubt gone for ever. At the
Old Monmouth pale young men with orange quiffs were engaged
in computerized battles on various machines. There were some
eager executives in three-piece suits buying drinks for their
secretaries, and half a dozen large men loudly discussing the
virtues of their motor cars. No one looked in the least like an artist.
'They all used to come here,' Pauline said, nostalgic for a past
she never knew. 'Augustus John, Sickert, Septimus Cragg. And
their women. All their women ...'
'Wonder they found room for them all.' I handed her the rum
44
Rumpole and the Genuine Article
she had requested, and took a gulp of a glass of red wine which
made the taste of Pommeroy's plonk seem like Chateau-Lafite.
I couldn't quite imagine what I was doing, drinking in a Soho
pub with an extraordinarily personable young woman, and I was
thankful for the thought that the least likely person to come
through the door was She Who Must Be Obeyed.
So I tossed back the rest of the appalling Spanish-style vin
ordinaire with the sort of gesture which I imagine Septimus Cragg
might have used on a similar occasion.
'It's changed a bit now,' Pauline said, looking round the bar
regretfully. 'Space Invaders!' She gave a small smile, and then
her smile faded. 'Horace ... Can I call you Horace?'
'Please.'
She put a hand on my arm. I didn't avoid it.
'You've been very kind to me. You and Hilda. But it's time
you knew the truth.'
I moved a little away from her, somewhat nervously, I must
confess. When someone offers to tell you the truth in the middle
of a difficult criminal trial it's rarely good news.
'No,'I said firmly. ? ,
'What?' She looked up at me, puzzled.. "
'The time for me to know the truth is when this case is over.
Too much of the truth now and I'd have to give up defending
that offbeat little individual you go around with. Anyway,' I
pulled out my watch, 'I've got to get back to Gloucester Road.'
'Please! Please don't leave me!' Her hand was on my arm again,
and her words came pouring out, as though she were afraid I'd
go before she'd finished. 'Harold said he loved Septimus Cragg.
He didn't. He hated him. You see, Septimus had everything
Harold wanted - fame, money, women, and a style of his own.
Harold can paint brilliantly, but always like other people. So he
wanted to get his own back on Septimus, to get his revenge.'
'Look. If you're trying to prove to me my client's guilty ...'
I was doing my best to break off this dangerous dialogue, but
she held my arm now and wouldn't stop talking.
'Don't go. If you'll wait here, just a little while, I'll show you
how to prove Harold's completely innocent.'
'Do you really think I care that much?' I asked her.
45
I	'Avc
Rumpole and the Genuine Article
on her bar stool to survey the scene in the Old Monmouth pub,
and smiled. 'Look,' she said. 'It's here.'
'What?'
'All you need to prove Harold's innocent.'
I looked to a corner of the bar, to where she was looking. An
old woman, a shapeless bundle of clothes with a few bright cheap
beads, had come in and was sitting at a table in the corner. She
started to search in a chaotic handbag with the air of someone
who has no real confidence that anything will be found. Pauline
had slid off her stool and I followed her across to the new arrival.
She didn't seem to notice our existence until Pauline said, quite
gently, 'Hullo, Nancy.' Then the woman looked up at me. She
seemed enormously old, her face was as covered with lines as
a map of the railways. Her grey hair was tousled and untidy, her
hands, searching in her handbag, were not clean. But there was
still a sort of brightness in her eye as she smiled at me and said,
in a voice pickled during long years in the Old Monmouth pub,
'Hullo, young man. I'll have a large port and lemon.'
It is, of course, quite improper for a barrister to talk to a potential
witness, so I will draw a veil over the rest of the evening.
It's not so difficult to draw the aforesaid veil, as my recollection
of events is somewhat hazy. I know that I paid for a good many
rums and ports with lemon, and that I leamt more than I can
now remember about the lives and loves of many British painters.
I can remember walking with two ladies, one old and fragile,
one young and beautiful, in the uncertain direction of Leicester
Square tube station, and it may be that we linked arms and sang
a chorus of the 'Roses of Picardy' together. I can't swear that
we didn't.
I had certainly left my companions when I got back to
Gloucester Road, and then discovered that the bedroom door
was obstructed by some sort of device, probably a lock.
'Is that you, Rumpole?' I heard a voice from within. 'If you
find her so fascinating, I wonder you bothered to come home
at all.'
'Hilda!' I called, rattling at the handle. 'Where on earth am
I expected to sleep?'
47
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
'I put your pyjamas on the sofa, Rumpole. Why don't you join
them?'
Before I fell asleep in our sitting room, however, I made a
telephone call to his home number and woke up our learned
prosecutor, Claude Erskine-Brown, and chattered to him,
remarkably brightly, along the following lines: 'Oh, ErskineBrown.
Hope I haven't woken you up. I have? Well, isn't it time
to feed the baby anyway? Oh, the baby's four now. How time
flies. Look. Check something for me, will you? That Mrs De
Moyne. Yes. The purchaser. I don't want to drag her back to
Court but could your officer ask if the man who rang her was
called Blanco Basnet? Yes. 'Blanco'. It means white, you see.
Sweet dreams, Erskine-Brown.'
After which, I stretched out, dressed as I was, on the sofa and
dreamed a vivid dream in which I was appearing before Mr
Justice Featherstone wearing pyjamas, waving a paintbrush,
and singing the 'Roses of Picardy' until he sent me to cool off
in the cells. <.'
'You look tired, Rumpole.' Erskine-Brown and I were sitting
side by side in Court awaiting the arrival of Blind Justice in the
shape of Featherstone, j. The sledgehammer inside my head was
quietening a little, but I still had a remarkably dry mouth and
a good deal of stiffness in the limbs after having slept rough
in Froxbury Court.
'Damn hard work. La Vie de Boheme,' I told him. 'By
the way, Erskine-Brown, what's the news from Mrs De
Moyne?'
'Oh, she remembered the name as soon as the Inspector put
it to her. Blanco Basnet. Odd sort of name, isn't it?'
'Distinctly odd,' I agreed. But before he could ask for any
further explanation the Usher called, 'Be upstanding', and
upstanding we all were, as the learned Judge manifested himself
upon the Bench, was put in position by his learned Clerk,
supplied with a notebook and sharpened pencils, and then leant
forward to ask me, with a brief wince at the sight of the hands
in the Rumpole pockets, 'Is there another witness for the
defence?'
48 :
Rumpole and the Genuine Article
'Yes, my Lord,' I said, as casually as possible. 'I will now call
Mrs Nancy Brittling.'
As the Usher left the Court to fetch the witness in question
I heard sounds, as of a ginger beer bottle exploding on a hot
day, from the dock, to which Hflrojd Brittling had summoned
the obedient My ers. ; .fl^,
Then the courtroom door opened and the extremely old lady
with whom I had sung around Goodge Street made her
appearance, not much smartened up for the occasion, although
she did wear, as a tribute to the learned Judge, a small straw
hat perched inappropriately upon her tousled grey curls. As she
took the oath, Myers was whispering to me. 'The client doesn't
want this witness called, Mr Rumpole.'
'Tell the client to belt up and draw a picture, Myersy. Leave
me to do my work in peace.' Then I turned to the witness-box.
'Are you Mrs Nancy Brittling?'
'Yes, dear. You know that.' The old lady smiled at me and
I went on in a voice of formal severity, to discourage any possible
revelation about the night before.
'Please address yourself to the learned Judge. Were you
married to my client, Harold Reynolds Gainsborough Brittling?'
'It seems a long time ago now, my Lordship.' Nancy confided
to Featherstone, j. - y^
'Did Mr Brittling introduce you to the painter Septimus Cragg
at Rottingdean?'
'I remember that.' Nancy smiled happily. 'It was my nineteenth
birthday. I had red hair then, and lots of it. I remember
he said I was a stunner.'
'Who said you were a "stunner",' I asked for clarification, 'your
husband or...?' ,
'Oh, Septimus said that, of course.' ^;^
'Of course.'
'And Septimus asked me to pop across to Dieppe with him
the next weekend,' Nancy said proudly.
'What did you feel about that?' The old lady turned to the
jury and I could see them respond to a smile that still had in
it, after more than half a century, some relic of the warmth of
a nineteen-year-old girl.
49
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
'Oh,' she said, 'I was thrilled to bits.'
'And what was Harold Brittling's reaction to the course of
events?' ;
'He was sick as a dog, my Lordship.' It was an answer which
found considerable favour with the jury, so naturally ErskineBrown
rose to protest.
'My Lord, I don't know what the relevance of this is. We seem
to be wandering into some rather sordid divorce matter.' I
'Mr Erskine-Brown!' I gave it to him between the eyebrows':
'My client has already heard the cell door bang behind him as
a result of this charge, of which he is wholly innocent. And when
I am proving his innocence, I will not be interrupted!'
'My Lord, it's quite intolerable that Mr Rumpole should talk
to the jury about cell doors banging!'
'Is it really? I thought that was what this case is all about.'
At which point the learned Judge came in to pour a little oil.
'I think we must let Mr Rumpole take his own course, Mr
Erskine-Brown,' he said. 'It may be quicker in the end.'
'I am much obliged to your Lordship.' I gave a servile little
bow, and even took my hands out of my pockets. Then I turned
to the witness. 'Mrs Brittling, did you go to Dieppe with
Septimus Cragg, and while you were there together, did he paint
you in the bedroom of the Hotel du Vieux Port?'
'He painted me in the nude, my Lordship. I tell you, I was
a bit of something worth painting in those days.'
Laughter from the jury, and a discreet smile from the learned
Judge, were accompanied by a pained sigh from Erskine-Brown.
I asked the Usher to take Exhibit One to the witness, and Nancy
looked at the picture and smiled, happily lost, for a moment, in
the remembrance of things past. ^
'Will you look at Exhibit One, Mrs Brittling?' fe
'Yes. That's the picture. I saw Septimus paint that. In the
bedroom at Dieppe.'
'And the signature ...?' Erskine-Brown had told the jury that
all forged pictures carried large signatures, as this one did. But
Nancy Brittling was there to prove him wrong.
'I saw Septimus paint his signature. And, we were so happy
together, just for a bit of fun, he let me paint my name too.'
50 ^31
ir' ; ; Rumpole and the Genuine Article
'Let his Lordship see.'
So the Usher trundled up to the learned Judge with the picture,
and once again Guthrie raised his magnifying glass respectfully
to it.
'It's a bit dark. I did it in sort of purple, at the edge of the carpet.
I just wrote "Nancy", that's all.'
'Mr Rumpole,' Featherstone, j., said, and I blessed him for
it. 'I think she's right about that.'
'Yes, my Lord. I have looked and I think she is. Mrs Brittling,
do you know how your husband got hold of that picture?'
Once again, the evidence was accompanied by popping and
fizzing noises from the dock as the prisoner's wife explained,
with some gentle amusement, 'Oh yes. Septimus gave it to me,
but when I brought it home to Harold he fussed so much that
in the end I let him have the picture. Well, after a time
Harold and I separated and I suppose he kept hold of it until
he wanted to pretend he'd painted it himself.'
'Thank you, Mrs Brittling.' I sat down, happy in my work.
The sledgehammer had quietened and I stretched out my legs,
preparing to watch Erskine-Brown beat his head against the brick
wall of a truthful witness.
'Mrs Brittling,' he began. 'Why have you come here to give
this evidence? It must be painful for you, to remember those
rather sordid events.'
'Painful? Oh, no!' Nancy looked at him and smiled. 'It's a pure
pleasure, my dear, to see that picture again and to remember what
I looked like, when I was nineteen and happy.'
The next morning I addressed the jury, and I was able to offer
them the solution to the mystery of Harold Brittling and the
disputed Septimus Cragg. I started by reminding them of one
of Nancy's answers: '"... he kept hold of it until he wanted to
pretend he'd painted it himself." Harold Brittling, you may think,
ladies and gentlemen of the jury,' I said, 'had one driving passion
in his life - his almost insane jealousy of Septimus Cragg. Cragg
became his young wife's lover. But worse than that in Brittling's
eyes, Cragg was a great painter and Brittling was second rate,
with no style of his own. So now, years after Cragg's death,
51
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
Brittling planned his revenge. He was going to prove that he could
paint a better Cragg than Cragg ever painted. He would prove
that this fine picture was his work and not Cragg's. That was
his revenge for a weekend in Dieppe, and a lifetime's humiliation.
To achieve that revenge Brittling was prepared to sell his Cragg
in a devious way that would be bound to attract suspicion. He
was prepared to get a friend of his named Blanco Basnet to telephone
Mrs De Moyne and claim that the picture was not a
genuine Cragg, but something a great deal better. He was
prepared to face a charge of forgery. He was prepared to go to
prison. He was prepared to give his evidence to you in such a
way as to lead you to believe that he was the true painter of a
work of genius. Don't be deceived, members of the jury, Brittling
is no forger. He is a fake criminal and not a real one. He is not
guilty of the crime he is charged with. He is guilty only of the
bitterness felt for men of genius by the merely talented. You may
think, members of the jury, as you bring in your verdict of "Not
Guilty", that that is an understandable emotion. You may even
feel pity for a poor painter who could not even produce a forgery
of his own.'
As I sat down, the ginger beer bottle in the dock finally exploded
and Brittling shouted, in an unmannerly way, at his defending
counsel, 'You bastard, Rumpole!' he yelled, 'you've joined the cono-sewers!'
'Good
win, Horace. Of course, I always thought your client
was innocent.' . .
'Did you now?'
The Judge had invited me in for a glass of very reasonable
Amontillado after the jury brought in their verdict and, as the
case was now over, we were alone in his room.
'Oh yes. One gets a nose for these things. One can soon assess
a witness and know if he's telling the truth. Have to do that all
the time in this job. Oh, and Horace ...'
'Yes, Judge?'
His Lordship continued in some embarrassment. 'That bit of
a tizz I was in, about the great secret getting out. No need to
mention that to anyone, eh?'
Rumpole and the Genuine Article
'Oh, I rang the Lord Chancellor's office about that. The day
after we met in Pommeroy's,' I told him, and casually slipped
my hands into my pockets.
'You what?' Featherstone looked at me in a wild surmise.
'I assured them you hadn't said a word to anyone and it was
just a sort of silly joke put about by Claude Erskine-Brown. I
mean, no one in the Temple ever dreamed that they'd make you a Judge.'
'Horace! Did you say that?'
'Of course I did.' He took time to consider the matter and then
pronounced judgement. 'Then you got me out of a nasty spot!
I was afraid Marigold had been a bit indiscreet. Horace, I owe
you an immense debt of gratitude.'
'Yes. You do,' I agreed. His Lordship looked closely at me,
and some doubt seemed to have crept into his voice as he said,
'Horace. Did you ring the Lord Chancellor's office? Are you
telling me the truth?'
I looked at him with the clear eyes of a reliable witness.
'Can't you tell. Judge? I thought you had such an infallible
judicial eye for discovering if a witness is lying or not. Not
slipping a bit, are you?'
'What is it, Rumpole. Not flowers again?'
'Bubbly! Non vintage. Pommeroy's sparkling- on special offer.
And I paid for it myself!' I had brought Hilda a peace offering
which I set about opening on the kitchen table as soon as I returned
to the matrimonial home.
'Where's that girl now?' she asked suspiciously.
'God knows. Gone off into the sunset with the old chump. He'll
never forgive me for getting him acquitted, so I don't suppose
we'll be seeing either of them again.'
The cork came out with a satisfying pop, and I began to fill
a couple of glasses with the health-giving bubbles.
'I should have thought you'd had quite enough to drink with
her last night!' Hilda was only a little mortified.
'Oh, forget her. She was a girl with soft eyes, and red hair, who passed through the Old Bailey and then was heard no
more.'
53
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
I handed Hilda a glass, and raised mine in a toast, f't>s
'"Beauty is truth, truth beauty," - that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.'
I looked at She Who Must Be Obeyed and then I said, 'It
isn't, is it, though? We need to know a damn sight more than
that!'
"^a®1
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
feft
There is no doubt about it, life at the Bar can have stretches
of the hum and the drum. A long succession of petty thefts, minor
frauds and unsensational indecencies, prolonged by the tedious
speeches of learned friends and the leisurely summings up of
judges who seemed to have nothing much to say and all the time
in the world in which to say it, produced, after a month or six,
a feeling of pronounced discontent. There was no summer that
year, and precious little spring. The rain fell regularly on the
Inner London Sessions, and on Acton, and on the Uxbridge
Magistrates Court. Most members of the jury seemed to have
bad colds, their noses were pink and they sucked Zubes in their
box. The courtrooms smelled of lozenges and resounded to
hacking coughs. The pound was falling and my spirits with it.
I began to dream of sandy deserts, the cool shade of a sparkling
oasis, almond eyes behind latticed windows, the call, of the
muezzin in the dusty pink of the evening, things which I had
never seen and were unlikely to be found between Snaresbrook
and Reading Crown Court. I took to remembering a neglected
piece of James Eiroy Flecker which had enraptured me during
my schooldays, describing, as it did, the journey of a number
of persons of the Middle Eastern persuasion to a place
romantically called 'Samarkand'.
These verses were running through my head as I joined She
Who Must Be Obeyed at the sink after supper one night (lamb
chops, frozen peas and a bottle ofPommeroy's worst).
'Have we not Indian carpets, dark as wine,
Turbans and sashes, gowns and bows and veils,
And broideries of intricate design,
And printed hangings in enormous bales?'
As a matter of fact we hadn't. We were in the kitchen at 25B
• 55
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
Froxbury Court (our alleged mansion flat in the Gloucester
Road), my good self and She Who Must Be Obeyed, and far from
being clad in turbans and sashes, sipping sherbet and sniffing
oriental perfumes, we were dressed in a pair of aprons and doing
the washing up; that is to say, I was up to my elbows in the
Fairy Liquid and Hilda was wielding a doughty dishcloth. The
words kept going round in my head, and I gave Hilda a snatch
or two of the magical East.
' "We are the Pilgrims, master," ' I told her,
'we shall go
Always a little further: it may be
Beyond that last blue mountain barred with snow,
Across that angry or that glimmering sea,
White on a throne or guarded in a cave y There lives a prophet who can understand
Why men were born ...' 1>
'What are you talking about, Rumpole?' Hilda asked. I gave
her the best answer possible ...
'but surely we are brave,
Who make the Golden Journey to Samarkand.'
'Rumpole! This plate's not washed up properly at all.' Hilda
had been staring critically at it, now she dropped it back into
the suds for me to do again.
' "Away, for we are ready to a man!" ' I told her, t'Our
camels sniff the evening and are glad.
Lead on, 0 Master of the Caravan:
Lead on the Merchant-Princes of Bagdad.'
'I don't know why you always choose the washing. Why can't
you dry?' said Hilda, who didn't seem keen on crossing the desert.
'Washing's more fun.' So it was, comparatively speaking.
'It's not much fun when you leave bits of gravy untouched
by the mop, Rumpole!'
'What's it matter - a bit of yesterday's gravy never did anyone
any harm. "Is not Baghdad, the beautiful? 0 stay!" '
'If a thing's worth doing it's worth doing properly,' said Hilda.
56
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
'Not much chance of adventure round here in Gloucester Road,
is there, Hilda? Unless you count the choice between drying up
the dishes or sloshing them about in a mess of bottled soap suds.'
'You're getting a little too old for adventure, Rumpole.' She
was drying up a fork very thoroughly indeed.
'Oh yes. You know what I spent the last three weeks doing?
A serious case of unpaid V.A.T. on plastic egg timers - in Sydenham!'
Travels Rumpole East Away? Of course the answer was
'no', I realized, as I pulled out a coffee cup which seemed to
have lost its handle in the stormy sink. .
'You'd better get a tea towel and help with the rest of the
drying. You've done quire enough damage already.'
At which point, and it is strange how things often happen in
answer to some unspoken wish or silent prayer, the telephone
on our kitchen wall gave urgent tongue. As Hilda answered it,
I had no idea what sort of wish the genie of the telephone had
come to answer, or how near to disaster its unseen voice would
eventually bring me. ' :
'Hello, 4052, Hilda Rumpole.' Hilda listened, then lowered
the receiver with her hand over it and hissed at me in a voice
pregnant with suspicion.
'Justitia, Rumpole. Who's she?'^'^-
'She's a sort of blind goddess, Hilda, who goes around lumbered
with a sword and a blooming great pair of scales.' I took
the instrument from her, and Hilda heard me say, 'Rumpole
speaking ... Yes, Justitia International. I know your organization.
Yes ... Who ...? Oh yes. He remembers we? I taught him
at the crammers. Criminal practice.'
'Who is it, Rumpole?' But I was still in close conversation with
the unseen caller. 'Well, yes. Just before the war, as a matter
of fact. Down a sort of cellar in Fetter Lane ... Oh ... Well,
I've read in The Times occasionally ... Got into some sort of
trouble over there, has he? Lunch with you tomorrow? La
Venezia in Fleet Street? I don't really see why not.'
I I put down the telephone, and when I turned to Hilda I was
smiling as though I could smell, on the wind blowing up from
Gloucester Road tube station, the spice-laden breezes of Africa.
'What's the matter with you, Rumpole? You look remarkably
57
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
pleased with yourself!' As she put away the plates Hilda wa;
frowning suspiciously. I found an open bottle and poured ou
a couple of glasses ofPommeroy's ordinary.
'Dodo's coming to stay next week, remember?' As I showe<
no immediate reaction she repeated the information. 'My ok
school friend, Dodo Mackintosh, will be here for a couple o
days next week. You won't forget that, will you, Rumpole?'
I handed her a glass of wine. Life seemed to have improvec
for the better all round. 'Dodo descending on us, eh? That make;
it even better.'
'Makes what better?' Hilda asked. I raised my glass and turnec
towards the East as I said,' "We take the Golden Road to Samar
kand!"'
Justitia International, as you may know, is an organizatiol
which attempts to see that trials are fair and justice done in evei
further away places with stranger-sounding names than thi
Uxbridge Magistrates Court. It exists on hope, an overdraft, an<
donations from such public-spirited citizens as still care if ;
foreign politician is hanged, or a Third World writer imprisone<
after some trial which has been about as predictable as a poke:
game with a card sharper. To lands which will still receive then
. (a small and ever-shrinking number), Justitia will send Englisi
barristers to defend the oppressed; to other parts of the work
observers are sent, who write reports about the proceedings. Sucl
reports are filed away. Protests are sent. Sometimes letters an
written to The Times and occasionally a prisoner is released o:
an injustice remedied. As I say, Justitia has no vast sums o
money, so I thought h very decent of Amanda Pinkenon, thi
International Secretary, to take me out to lunch at a smal
trattoria in Fleet Street, where we sat over the remains of ou
spaghetti bolognaise and Chianti, studying an illustrated folde
entitled 'Neranga Today'. I found Miss Pinkerton to be a large
energetic lady in her forties, given to wearing an assortment o
coloured scarves and heavyweight costume jewellery, so shi
looked as if she had just returned from the bazaar.
' "Neranga," ' she read out to me, as though she were giving
an elementary geography lesson to a class of backward an(
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
dyslexic ten-year-olds. ' "A lump of land carved out by the
British, who called it New Somerset. Capital, Nova Lombaro.
Deeply divided into two tribes, the Apu and the Matatu, who
hate each other so much that if an Apu man marries a Matatu
girl, both their families throw them out and they're cursed forever.'"
-' *»
'Same sort of thing that goes on in Surrey,' I suggested.
'Yes. Well...' Miss Pinkerton turned a page and we were met
with the face of an African with horn-rimmed glasses, a cotton
cap and robe, standing in front of a microphone, apparently
addressing a meeting of UNESCO. 'The Prime Minister,' Miss
Pinkerton explained. 'Dr Christopher Mabile, a member of the
Matatu tribe, warriors and head hunters not so long ago. He's
a Marxist. Educated by the Jesuit Fathers, who sent him to Balliol. Got his medical degree in Moscow and postgrad in Cuba.
When the country got independence, he had to have a token Apu
in his Cabinet. So he made David Mazenze Minister of Home
Affairs.' She turned the page and showed me another photograph.

'Looks older than I remember,' I told her. 'Well, I suppose
it's only to be expected.'
'David's one of the more peaceful Apus. The British locked
him up for about ten years, but he never bore a grudge. Moderate
socialist. Good friend to Justitia. Sound on land reform and
contraception. Excellent Chairman of the Famine Programme.
And ...' her eyes became somewhat misty, 'he's got an absolutely marvellous voice.'
'But did he do it, do you think?' I asked. It seemed important.
Miss Pinkerton's mind, however, was clearly on other matters.
'It's a sort of thrilling voice! Of course, the Apu people absolutely worship David.' ,
The photograph was of an African with a noble head, short,
grizzled hair, a strong neck and amused eyes. He was wearing
an open-necked shirt and smoking a pipe. I thought back to a
stuffy cellar off Fetter Lane, the offices of Pinchbeck and Swat- ling, legal crammers who could guarantee to force you through
the Bar exams in about six months. It was there I had taught
young David Mazenze the elements of our Criminal Law, which,
59
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
together with Wordsworth, Shakespeare and Oxford marmalade, must be one of our most valuable exports.
It was a shortage of briefs, in the years after my return to
civilian life from a somewhat inglorious career in the R.A.F.
Ground Staff, which led me to take on part-time work at the
crammers. I may not have taught much law, in the strict sense
of the word, but I gave young David Mazenze and his fellow
students from India, Fiji, Singapore and Godalming the basic
speech to the jury, which should always refer to the 'Golden
Thread' which runs through our justice - the immutable principle
that everyone is innocent unless twelve good men and
women and true are certain that the only possible answer is
that they must be guilty. I also gave my class a lecture on my
pre-war triumph in the Penge Bungalow Murders, a case which
careful readers of these reminiscences will remember I won after
a two-week hearing alone and without a leader. David Mazenze
may not have emerged from my lessons the greatest academic
lawyer in the world, but he knew something about bloodstains
and how to cross-examine a policeman on his notebook, and
he knew almost all there is to be known about the burden of
proof.
When he went back to his native Neranga, David practised
law, took up politics, and had that essential training for all
successful African politicians - a fairly long term of imprisonment
by the British. Then he was released, Neranga got its independence, and David Mazenze became the Apu representative
in Dr Mabile's predominantly Matatu government. Each year
he sent us a Christmas card, much decorated with snow and
robins and holly, and best wishes to 'My old Mentor, Horace
Rumpole and his Good Lady'. For a number of years, I am
ashamed to say, I had forgotten to send one back.
I learned the basic facts of David Mazenze's case from Miss
Pinkerton at that luncheon. The road to the capital of Neranga,
Nova Lombaro, leads through many miles of scrubland and bush.
One rainy night the fat and self-important Bishop Kareele, himself
a remarkably devious politician, was being driven by a clergyman
in a Mercedes along this road. They were stopped by an
unknown African who waved the car down. As spon,,as they
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
stopped the Bishop was shot, the clergyman ran into the bush
and would live to give evidence.
Later the police raided David Mazenze's bungalow and found
him calmly smoking his pipe and listening to the Faure Requiem.
He was arrested and refused bail by Chief Justice Sir
Worthington Banzana, who was, quite coincidentally, a member
of the Matatu tribe. As he was dragged from his house by the
brutal officers of the law, David shouted a short sentence to his
distracted wife. Grace. It consisted of the simple words, 'Horace
Rumpole, Equity Court in the Temple.'
'But what I want to know is,' I told Miss Pinkerton, 'did he
do in the dear old Bish?'
'We've had reports from reliable sources that Mabile's got
David locked up in the most ghastly conditions! There may have
been torture.' <i-^ /'a;- •
Disturbing, no doubt, but hardly an answer to my question,
which I repeated. 'But did our David do it?'
'I don't know whether we've actually asked him that.' Miss
Pinkerton flipped vaguely through her file. 'Oh, here's Pam.' A
secretary, a younger but equally eager version of Miss Pinkerton,
who seemed to have bought her clothing at an army surplus store
instead of an oriental bazaar, came into the restaurant at that
moment in a state of high excitement. . ,
'We've had a cable from Jonathan Mazenze,' Pam announced.
'David's younger brother,' Miss Pinkerton explained. 'He's
been a tower of strength. What's it say, Pam?'
At which Pam pulled the cable from the pocket of her fatigues
and read,' "Barrister Rumpole will be allowed to represent David
at trial. Visa being arranged. Greetings, Jonathan Mazenze." '
'We're in luck!' said Miss Pinkerton. 'Is there anything else
you want to know?'
'Only one thing,' I said. 'What do they give a chap for murder,
in those particular parts?'
'It's death, isn't it, Mandy?' Pam asked casually. I closed my
eyes. I was back in the shadow of the gallows which fell, every
day, over my conduct of the Penge Bungalow Murders and
I didn't know whether I was still strong enough to face it.
'Oh yes.' Miss Pinkerton sounded almost cheerful. 'The
61
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
Prime Minister can't wait to hang David. You've got to save hi:
life.'
So that was all I had to do. It was enough worry to be goin;
on with, so I didn't think of the fact that should have con
cerned me most. If I had done so I might have wondered will Horace Rumpole, an elderly junior barrister, and not even ai
artificial silk, had been admitted so easily to the Nerangan Bar.
I was in the clerk's room next morning, sorting through the circulars, advertisements for life insurance and filing systems
together with billets-doux from Her Majesty's Customs anc Excise and the Inland Revenue, which seem to constitute thi
bulk of my mail, and I happened to ask Henry, our clerk, in ;
casual sort of way, if he had any exciting work in store for me.
'Not according to my diary, Mr Rumpole.' Henry flippet through his book of engagements. 'There's a little murder dowi
the Bailey. But that won't be for a few weeks.'
'Mysterious crime done with a broken Guinness bottle in ;
crowded pub in Kilburn. Routine stuff. Legal Spam!' I spoki
of the 'little murder' with some contempt. 'It's a pity with al
your talents as a clerk, Henry, that you can't find me something more exotic.'
'Perhaps you'd care to find your own exotica, if you're no
satisfied with my clerking, Mr Rumpole!' Henry soundec distinctly nettled.
'I have done. A brief will be arriving. Henry, from Justiti;
International. I am defending the Minister of Home Affairs ii
the High Court ofNeranga.' It sounded, as I said it, fairly im
pressive.
'You'll be away from Chambers?' I was afraid I detected a noti
of relief in Henry's voice, the clear inference being that it wa;
not altogether a picnic clerking for Rumpole. 'Certainly I shal
be away. Henry,' I reassured him. 'They will look round Innne
London Sessions and they will find me gone. They will whisper
"Travels Rumpole East Away?" '
'You seem very cheerful about it, Mr Rumpole.' Dianne pause< in her non-stop rattling of her typewriter.
'My camels sniff the evening, Dianne, and are glad,' I tol(
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
her, and then turned, more confidently, to Henry. 'She Who
Must Be Obeyed's old school friend. Dodo Mackintosh, will be
coming for a short stay next week and I will have to miss the
jollifications. Adventure calls. Henry, and how can Rumpole be
deaf to it?' I moved to the door, anxious to be on my way. 'Send
a cable if there's anything urgent.'
'A cable?' Henry sounded as though he'd never heard of the
device.
'Or at least a pigeon.' As I finally left the clerk's room, a grey and
unremarkable barrister called Hoskins came in and nearly knocked
me over. 'Look out, Rumpole,' he said. 'Where are you going?'
I passed on, declaiming,
'For what land
Leave I the dim-moon city of delight?
I make the Golden Journey to Samarkand.'
'It's too bad, Rumpole. You'll miss Dodo,' Hilda said a few
evenings later.
'Hilda! Africa is waiting. The smoke-signals are drifting up
from the hills and in the jungle, the tom-toms are beating. The
message is, "Rumpole is coming, the Great Man of Law." What
message am I to send back? "Sorry, visit cancelled owing to the
arrival of Dodo Mackintosh in Gloucester Road"?'
'But why^oM, Rumpole?'
'There was something to be said for the old days of the Empire.
Almost all African politicians were students in the Temple.
Gandhi started it.'
'Was Gandhi African?' Hilda quibbled.
'Maybe not. But they returned to their native bush with an
intimate knowledge of the ABC tea-rooms, Pommeroy's Wine
Bar and the Penge Bungalow Murders.'
'You'll have to have shots.'
'Why, Hilda? I'm not going to a war.'
'Against tropical diseases. I'll send you round to Dr
MacClintock [this was our Scottish quack who had once tried to
psychoanalyse my alleged libidinous tendencies*] and I'll go to
* See Rumpole's Return, Penguin Books, 1980.
63
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
D. H. Evans in the morning and get three yards of butter muslin.
'What on earth for?'
'Mosquitoes,' Hilda said darkly. 'We don't want to lose yoi
to the malaria, Rumpole. And for heaven's sake don't eat lettuce.
I had forgotten - one forgets pain so quickly — about the delight
of long-distance air travel, which I have described, when .
suffered it between London and Miami, as offering all the joy:
of the rush hour on the Bakerloo Line plus the element of fear
There I was now, packed into an airless cigar-shaped tube whici
hurtled through space playing selections from The Sound of Must
or showing an unwatchable film about little green men from oute:
space. Now and again food, which after some careful processin;
had been robbed of all taste, was pushed in front of me by ladie;
in some type of paramilitary uniform, who had clearly beei
trained by a period of supervising a recalcitrant pack of Brownies
Eventually, with the aid of about four half-bottles of dare
(Chateau Heathrow), I fell into a sort of coma, shot through witi
lurid and fearful considerations of the penalty for failure in th<
David Mazenze case. I mean, how do you do a case of capita
murder? Death, if you ask a wrong question. Death, if you don'
object to the right bit of evidence. Death, round every lega
corner. How can you do it? Answer: do it like every other case
Win it if you can. Win it, or else. As I began to doze, I spoki
to myself severely, 'Pull yourself together, Rumpole! There wa;
a death sentence when you did the Penge Bungalow Murders
Your finest hour.' Penge ... Death ... We take the Golden Roa<
... to the Death Penalty. |^ •'• ^ |i
Claret-induced sleep began to overtake me when I was wokel
by the trumpet call of the Brownie supervisor, ^'nt
'Wakey, wakey, sir! Don't we want our meal?' k,;,s
The Customs Hall at Nova Lombaro's 'Mabile Airport'
named, of course, after the Prime Minister, was a large echoinj
shed. Even at night it was breathlessly hot without ai:
conditioning. I was crumpled, sweating, exhausted and stil
trembling in time to the engines and The Sound of Music. M^
mouth was dry, and as I lugged my red bag in which my wij
and gown travelled, my battered suitcase and my briefcase to
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
wards a customs officer apparently wearing the uniform of a
Major-General in the Neranga Army, I smelled the dry, sweet
smell of Africa and felt, weakened as I was by lack of sleep,
sudden and irrational fear.
'Object of visit?' The customs officer looked at me with considerable
contempt.
'Justice,' I murmured sleepily and he pointed at my suitcase.
'Open!'
I struggled with the battered and rusty fastenings and then
the case flew open, disgorging what seemed to be about a mile
of white muslin, bought for me by Hilda at D. H. Evans.
'Your dress?' the customs officer appeared to be giggling.
'No. My mosquito net. My wife got it for me.' After the muslin,
a whole chemist's shop of pill bottles was revealed.
'Drugs? Stupefiants.' The official was understandably suspicious, particularly when he discovered a hypodermic syringe
which Dr MacClintock had supplied for me to give myself some
'shots in case of tropical disease'.
'Certainly not! Just my wife's going-away present.'
I might have been in serious trouble, but an extremely elegant
African, whom I judged to be about forty, came up; he was wearing
a grey suit with a silkish sheen to it, carrying a crocodile-skin
briefcase, and smoking a cigarette through an ivory holder. He
was followed by a porter with a couple of matching suitcases and
surrounded by the aura of an enormously elegant aftershave. He
had clearly jetted in from some Third World jamboree, and after
he had exchanged a few words with the customs man in their
native tongue, not only was his luggage passed, but my own traps
were chalkmarked as fit for importation into Neranga. My deliverer
looked at me in some amusement and said, 'Horace Rumpole?'
'A piece of him,' I admitted.
'I'm agin you in the Mazenze case. Looking forward to seeing
how you Old Bailey fellows handle a homicide.' At which
he flipped out a wallet and gave me a card on which was engraved,
with many flourishes, 'The Honourable Rupert Taboro.
Attorney-General of the Independent State of Neranga.' 'Anything
you need,' Taboro said, 'just ask for the Attorney-General.' 'Thank you very much.' - ; - :
65
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
'Don't mention it, old fellow. After all, we learned friends have
got to stick together.'
The law officer swanned off and I humped my bags out of
customs and was immediately greeted by a young man in a white
shirt and dark trousers who had a huge glittering smile of welcome
ready for me.
'Mr Rumpole?' .:--»^I
admitted it again.
; 'I am Freddy Ruingo, sir, instructing solicitor. You got : through all the formalities?' , . . ,,,,
'Surprisingly.' '„;: '- .^'y^.-'i ;.. Ifcte
'Come on, I'll take you to the car. Then we go to the
prison. Then we have a reception David's wife and brother give
for you. You'll meet the leaders of our Apu People's Party.'
'It sounds,' I said, 'an evening packed with excitement.'
So we walked out into the hot African night, and heard the
deafening racket set up by insects, howling dogs, the starting of
reluctant cars and the scream of brakes at unseen accidents.
Freddy Ruingo piled my luggage into the boot of a rusty old
Jaguar, whose rear window was a hole surrounded by splintered
glass. I sat beside Freddy, still feeling that I was in a sort of
dream, as he drove, very fast, out of the town and down a long
pot-holed road surrounded by darkness, along which, regardless
of the danger to their lives from my instructing solicitor's driving,
a stream of people - women with loads on their heads or carrying
babies, men laughing and pushing bicycles - were walking in an
endless procession. ,» s-^iS
'I can't understand why your Mr Mazenze hasn't got some
smart British Q.C. to defend him,' I shouted over the rattling and
roaring of the Jaguar.
'Oh, David believes in the very common man, Mr Rumpole,'
Freddy Ruingo assured me. 'He just wanted some ordinary little
lawyer like yourself. A perfectly lowly fellow.'
'Thank you very much!' I gasped as we ricocheted across a
pothole.
'But someone typical of British justice. Quite incorruptible.
*S| Not draughty in this car, are you?'
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
'No!' In fact I was sweating and mopping my brow with the
old red spotted handkerchief.
'Some clever Matatu chucked an assegai through the back
window of my Jag. They fell out of the trees, those fellows,'
Freddy said contemptuously.
None too soon we arrived at a long, low building in the middle
of a collection of huts. It was, apparently, some District Police
Headquarters, which was considered more secure than the
prison in Nova Lombaro. After a considerable wait we entered
the Superintendent's office and met another youngish African,
wearing knife-edged grey flannel trousers, suede shoes and a
blazer with brass buttons. He also sported what might well have
been a rowing club tie. After he and Freddy had exchanged a
few Nerangan greetings, this officer nodded in my direction and
said, 'You've come to see David?'
'Let me introduce Mr Horace Rumpole. Barrister-at-law.
Inner Temple.' Freddy did the honours. 'Superintendent
Akimbu. Special Branch.'
'You see, we've got David at District Police Headquarters,'
Superintendent Akimbu explained. 'We don't want him mixed
up with the plebs in Lombaro jail. You want to visit our
dungeons, Mr Rumpole?'
He was smiling, but I looked back at him with strong disfavour.
I had been warned of this by Miss Amanda Pinkerton
in the Fleet Street trattoria. Human rights, I had already begun
to suspect, might count for very little in Neranga. ' ' * ;-. ,
'I want to see my client, yes.' "t^' .%''
The Superintendent rose to his feet. He was taller than I had
expected, and very thin. 'It's an honour to meet you, Mr
Rumpole. You know Croydon well?'
'Not too well, actually.' I was a little taken aback by the
question.
'I did six months with your Special Branch in London. The
Old Baptist's Head in Croydon. Wonderful draught Bass!
Remember me to it. This way please.'
He led me out of a side door and down a passage to another
door guarded by a policeman in khaki shorts, who was carrying
an automatic rifle. ''
67
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
'We've got your client chained to the wall in here.' The
Superintendent was still smiling. 'Better watch out for the rats,
you know, and the water dripping from the ceiling!' He nodded
to the policeman, who unlocked the door. We were greeted by
the sound of some celestial music, which David Mazenze later
told me was his favourite Faure Requiem. 'Justitia International,'
the Superintendent said as he left Freddy Ruingo and me with
our client. 'Poor dears. They have such vivid imaginations.'
The room we had been shown into was large and airy There
were table lamps and a big electric fan, some of David
Mazenze's own pictures hung on the walls and on a table were
bottles of wine, a bowl of fruit and a gramophone, which was
playing as we came in. There was a photograph of David's wife,
Grace, and their children beside a pile of records. The man in
the chair, smoking a pipe and listening to the music, hadn't moved
as we came in, but now he stood up slowly, switched off the music
and came towards us.
When I had known him he had been a young, rather overeager
African student. Now he was a grey-haired man who looked
as if he had great reserves of physical energy and was a natural
leader. His voice was low, melodious but compelling, and his
manner was very gentle, as though he were used to getting his
own way without being violently assertive.
'Dear old Horace Rumpole! What's your tipple? Bordeaux, if
my memory serves me right?'
'I won't say no.' ..,?
'You too, Freddy?' I was looking round the room as David
Mazenze set about opening what seemed to be a very reasonable
bit of the chateau-bottled.
'Wait until they hear about this in Wormwood Scrubs!' I
said. ,
'I have a few friends in the French Embassy,' David Mazenze
handed me a glass.
'Your friends at Justitia however ...' I drank, and decided it
was probably the best glass of Margaux to be had in Central
Africa.
'Such good chaps. If not all that experienced politically.' David
Mazenze smiled.
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
'They said I'd find you in the Chateau d'lf. With rising damp
and the bread and water just out of reach.'
'Even Dr Death wouldn't dare to do that to me.'
'Dr?'
'Le bon docteur Christopher Mabile. The Prime Minister whose
culture is firmly founded on the Inquisition and the K.G.B.'
'Stirred up with some of the basic cannibalism of the Matatu
tribe.' Freddy Ruingo had found a chair in a corner and was
grinning at us over his claret glass.
'Forgive Freddy. He makes such primitive remarks! Tribalism
is our curse, however. Just as the British class system is yours.
Horace, do find yourself a pew, why don't you?' David Mazenze
went back to his armchair, but I was wandering round the room
looking at the titles of his books.
'P. G. Wodehouse.' I picked up a paperback.
'I think of England so often.' David Mazenze was puffing
on his pipe. 'I long for your Cotswolds. If Dr Death ever lets
me see them again. If I'm hanged, think of this, Horace. There
is some corner of a Nerangan jail house that is forever Moretonin-Marsh.'
He took out his pipe and laughed. I thought that
I had never seen a man facing a death sentence looking so confoundedly
cheerful. I wondered if it was courage, or the certainty
of innocence, or had he, perhaps, spent a day with the wine?
It was time to get down to business, so I sat and started to undo
the tape on my brief. David Mazenze waited politely for me to
begin.
'The dead man. Bishop Kareele ...' I thought that was as good
a starting-point as any.
'A trouble-maker!' David Mazenze frowned slightly. 'As only
an African bishop can be. He wanted the Prime Minister's job.
He wanted my job. He was always causing trouble between my
Apus and the Matatu people. I told you, Horace. Tribal hatred
is the curse of our politics!'
'The evidence is that you threatened him,' I was turning over
the statements. 'You quarrelled outside the Parliament building
and you said to the Bishop, "I'll kill you." '
'All right, I quarrelled with the man.' David Mazenze
shrugged. 'He quarrelled with everyone.'
69
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
'Death is fixed at around 9.30 p.m. on the i3th. That's when
the shots were heard. Where were you then, exactly?'
He knocked out his pipe, got up and walked over to the window,
where he stood looking out into the noisy darkness.
'Does it matter?' (riA
'Of course it matters.' I hoped he remembered my basic
training on alibis.
'I had a speech to make the next day. An important statement
of policy at our Apu People's Party Congress. I went out in my
car to drive around and think about it.'
'What time did you go out?' I lit a small cigar and began to
make some notes.
'I've said in my statement. About 8.30.'
'What time did you get home?'
'After eleven. My wife Grace made some coffee and we listened
to music. I always listen to music for half an hour before turning in.'
'What was the speech?'
'What?' He turned round to look at me, apparently surprised
by the question. <%»!' y;'What were you going to say?' ''*"
'L 'i'lt was a plea for friendship between the Apu and the Matatu
people. That we should all work together, for the good of
Neranga.'
'Did you ever make it?' '
'How could I? I was arrested.' He came and sat beside me. We
were silent for a moment. Then he said, 'Well. How does it look
to you?'
'Identification cases are always tricky. And I've known
healthier alibis.' I suddenly felt very tired. The only thing I
wanted to do was to clean my teeth, go to bed, pull the pillow
round my ears and forget all about charges of capital murder.
'You won't win this on alibis,' David Mazenze said. 'You know
what you'll have to rely on?'
'I would welcome suggestions.'
'On the Common Law of England! The Presumption of Innocence,
you know what you taught me: the Golden Thread
which goes through the history of the law. I like that phrase so
very much.'
70
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
'You have a remarkable memory for what I told you at the
crammers all those years ago.' I was flattered.
'A man is innocent until he's proved guilty. Better that ten
guilty men should go free than one who is not guilty should be
convicted, for to convict the innocent is ...' The words sounded
particularly convincing in his dark velvet voice, and I joined in
the chorus, 'To spit in the face of justice.'
'Do you still use that one, Horace' - the Apu leader was smiling
nostalgically - 'in your speeches to the jury at the old London
Sessions?'
'I must confess I do. From time to time. A jury in Neranga
can't be much different.' ''
'Mr Rumpole.' Freddy Ruingo was about to say something,
but the words of my favourite speech had banished exhaustion
and started the adrenalin coursing through my veins. I stood
and addressed the others as though they were the jury. 'The
evidence calls for guesswork in this case, members of the jury,'
I said and went on, warming to the occasion. 'Now you may pick
the winner of the Derby by guesswork, but it is no way to bring
in a verdict on a charge of capital murder against a fellow human
being.'
'Steady on, Mr Rumpole.' Freddy Ruingo managed to get his
word in. 'We have no jury.' : :s-
'No jury?'I was incredulous, appalled.
'You British abolished juries in murder cases when Neranga
was still "New Somerset".' David Mazenze appeared to think
it was something of a joke.
'We did that?' I was more appalled than ever.
'I must say, Dr Death followed your example quite enthusiastically,'
Freddy admitted.
'No jury. And the Judge?'
'Worthington Banzana,' David Mazenze told me." 'Sir Worthington.
You remember that old judge, Horace? What did you
say he always ordered for tea after death sentences?'
'Muffins. You mean Twybume?'
'Exactly. Well, our Chief Justice is like your Mr Justice
Twybume.' He laughed. 'Only black!'
'And he is Dr Death's chicken. He will run for him, wherever
u 7iy
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
he wants him to go.' Freddy Ruingo wasn't, I must admit, being
particularly encouraging. i?y^
About half of my heavy task was done, and the day seemed
to have already lasted several years, when we left the Police House
and bumped off, along what appeared to be Neranga's single
road, to the Mazenze residence. There the leading lights of the
Apu People's Party, or A.P.P., were, Freddy assured me,
assembled to do honour to the great white barrister who had
dropped out of the skies by courtesy ofjustitia International, y
When we got to the bungalow the sound of old pop records
was mixed with the noises of the night. It didn't seem that the
Mazenze family, or the Apu leaders, were sitting wrapped in
gloom, stricken by the danger that hung over their hero's head.
Freddy and I squeezed our way past a crowd of young men and
girls in the open doorway and went down a passage towards a
big comfortable room with doors which opened on to a verandah.
The room seemed full of people, women in brightly printed cotton
frocks, men in shirts and trousers, dancing, or drinking, or
arguing, with children running among their feet. As I entered,
the gramophone was immediately switched off and the assembled
company burst into a verse of 'For He's a Jolly Good Fellow'.
I stood propped against the doorway, smoking a small cigar,
and praying that I shouldn't fall asleep standing there, like a
horse.
'Beer? Seven-Up? Scotch on the rock.5,?.',said Freddy Ruingo,
who was minding me. 's'S-^ ':_!;«•
I chose beer, which Freddy brought back in the form of a cold
tin of Tuborg. He also brought a placid, middle-aged woman,
whose hair was just starting to turn grey, and introduced, her
as David Mazenze's wife. Grace.
I'Mrs Mazenze.' I shook her hand. She looked at me trustingly.
'It is kind you came to us.' . Bg;
'Nice of you to ask me.' • &>
'You came to save David, I mean.'
'I can't promise that, you know.'
I began to feel the awful burden on the defending lawyer, the
need to work miracles.
72 • • :;-"; ,
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
'David remembers you so well. He has often talked about you.
He has so much faith in you.' *
'I'll do everything I can. But in the end a barrister's not much
better than his case.' Mrs Mazenze was looking at me, hurt by
my lack of complete confidence. 'You can't make bricks without
straw,' I told her. ,
'I don't understand.' She shook her head and there were tears
in her eyes. .„,,,
'What we could do with is a bit of evidence.' 'Sw
Before I could tell her what I thought were the gaps in the
case, however, we were interrupted by a tall, thinnish young
African, brightly dressed in his native costume. His features were
sharper than David's, his eyes narrower and his nose thinner,
and when he spoke, his voice was higher and less melodious.
'Don't you worry. Grace,' he said to her, 'no one can hurt
David. David is one of the immortals.' He turned and held out
a hand to me; it had a pale palm and curiously long fingers.
'Welcome to Neranga, Mr Rumpole. Welcome to the home of
the Apu people. I am Jonathan Mazenze, David's little brother.'
'Little John?' I found myself looking up at him.
'Oh yes. And was my big brother delighted to see you, his
old hero from his student days! He said you used to tease the
judges. He said you used to pull their legs unmercifully.'
'Well, I did pull a few judicial legs, I suppose.' I was yawning
modestly.
'And that you always dropped cigar ash down your stomach.'
'Did he remember that?' I brushed a deposit about the size
of the eruption of Vesuvius off my shirt front. At which point
a woman who had been handing round plates of food came up
to speak to Grace, who excused herself and left us. Jonathan
looked after her and then turned to me.
'What did you tell Grace we needed to win the case for David?'
'A witness or two would be a help,' I muttered.
'What sort of witness do you want, exactly?'
'Someone who saw David Mazenze at the time of the murder.
He says he was just driving round aimlessly, composing his
speech.'
Jonathan laughed, apparently at the simplicity of my require-
'i • • •
73
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
f him? I can arrange it
ments. 'You want some fellows who sav^gn?'
How many fellows do you want, half a dc, <no you can't arrangf
I was too tired not to let my anger showim-t and tell the truth.'
it! I want a witness who'll stand up in Cogg Rumpole!' Jonathai
'How very British you are, Mr Hora
smiled down on me now. representative of Britist
'That's why I'm here, you know. As a i
justice.' e spoke quietly, but witt
Jonathan suddenly stopped smiling. h( ^hat humbug,' he said
great intensity. 'David doesn't need all if David is found guilty 'He needs the anger of the Apu people. :guns hidden in the bust
there are three thousand Apus with their g how we win this case
who will rescue him in one hour! That'
don't you worry, old barrister!' we do it down the Of
'Really? I prefer to rely on the way ,,^ ;,;<.
Bailey,' I said, somewhat coldly. The Apu people are or
'Dr Death's gone too far this time.
the move!' [old him. 'Which way i;
'And I must be on the move too,' I t
the gents?' is is, in my limited ex- Going to the lavatory in foreign par,ut the Mazenze facilitie;
perience, to take your life in your hands, l;ie of old numbers of the
were clean and efficient. There was a pictures of David on th< New Statesman and New Society, cark be that I dropped asleel
walls, and all the basic comforts. It may d the music had stopped
for a moment or two, and when I emerge, what must have been ;
I was in the long passage which led toimipseofaverybeautifu
back door open to the night. I caught a g} asking what seemed t(
young girl in African dress looking in:^ who was standing wit! be an urgent question. Grace Mazenze closed the door, shutting her back to me, said something and then:e went back to the living out the girl. I stood watching, and Gramas empty. The doors or
room. I followed her to find the room Vgsis together with Grace
to the verandah were open and all the gu^ness, from which came i
seemed to have moved out into the dark
sound of rhythmic shouting, i saw that the night wa;
When I moved on to the verandah, rf white eyes, white teeth
filled with people, and there were rows c
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
white shirts, glimmering. Jonathan Mazenze was standing above
the crowd with his fist raised, chanting, 'ah .. .pu ... ah ... pu
... ah ... pu,' and the chorus of voices took up the chant.
'What's all this?' I asked Freddy Ruingo, who had manifested
himself beside me. 'A party political broadcast on behalf of the
Apu People's Party?' ^,
.i-r'iS-- :-;;?.:, >. '
By the time I got to the old Majestic Hotel in Nova Lombaro, which was to be my home during the trial in Neranga, I felt to
a great degree disorientated in time and space. I found it hard
to remember where I was, or when I got there, or what time
it might be. So I stood, swaying gently, in a hotel lounge which
cannot have changed much since it was used by the white businessmen,
farmers and district officers of 'New Somerset'. Only
now there was a large, and no doubt obligatory photograph of
the Prime Minister behind the reception desk, where there once
must have been one of the Queen.
I was giving instructions for my morning call to the somewhat
confused African porter behind the desk, when I was vaguely
conscious of a tall, grey-haired Englishman in an old tropical suit
who was moving towards me with a couple of middle-aged
orientals in tow.
'Six o'clock call, please,' I said to the porter. 'Room 51. Mr
Rumpole. R...U...M...P...O...L...E.'
'Mr Rumbold, I presume,' said the Englishman, who must have
heard me. '.^A'Ki- W "SW
'Rumpole.' wi.-.i e'.*^ fVS
'All hail! I was dining with Mr and Mrs Singapore here. We
all call each other after our countries, as diplomats, don't we,
Mrs Singapore? I'm Mr Old England. Arthur Remnant, British
High Commissioner. This is our notable British barrister.
Remind me of your name again.'
'Rumpole.' I wondered how long I could keep this up. Mr
and Mrs Singapore were smiling at me as though I had said something
funny.
'I must invite you to the High Commission,' said the man
Remnant. 'Our problem is, the cook's so terribly anglophile that
everything tastes ofBisto. I say, it must be exciting for you, doing
.-. '- 75
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
a murder trial, out here.' His voice sank to an eerie whisper.
'Topping!'
'Ripping!' I said. I supposed it was expected of me.
'No, I mean "topping".' Remnant explained with a smile.
'Swinging. We're so Victorian in Neranga. Full of Baptist
chapels, and plum jam and the death penalty. The Black Cap
does add a bit of zest to a murder trial, doesn't it?'
'I don't suppose my client thinks so.' The High Commissioner
was beginning to sicken me a little. '?
'Well, I suppose not. You know, I was amazed when they gave
permission for you to come here.' He started to move away from
me with the Singapores. 'Christopher Mabile's got something
up his sleeve. Such a brilliant politician. We could do with him in Commonwealth Relations. Anyway, welcome, Rumbelow.
We'll throw a little cocktail for you!'
'How very topping!' I said to his back. It was my last word
of the evening.
At last I went upstairs and pulled off my tie, which seemed to
have become, during that endless evening, unreasonably tight. I
heard the sound of driving rain and turned to the window. The
curtain was blowing back, heavy rain was splashing the sill and
the carpet. I closed the window, and looked for a moment at the
wet glass and out into the darkness. A few minutes later I was
asleep.
It rained for the next three days. I sat in the hotel and ate large, indigestible meals that looked back to the days of New Somerset. Features of the menu were castle puddings doused in custard, and
a large, trembling, pink blancmange. I studied weather reports, maps, and the characters of Nerangan politicians. I had a couple
more inconclusive conferences with my client, who seemed
anxious to discuss P. G. Wodehouse, my old cases, the shortcomings
of UNESCO, the role of barristers in the Third World
and the lasting benefits of British rule in the New Neranga;
anything, in fact, except the small question of his defence. When
I mentioned the trial he would smile, spend a good deal of time
lighting his pipe and, as soon as possible, turn on the Faure Requiem.
76
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
Freddy Ruingo took me to see the scene of the crime. It looked
exactly like any other part of that endless, overcrowded road to
Nova Lombaro. We didn't get out of the car, but a crowd of
wet, black, shining children milled round us, demanding
cigarettes. The rain came through the back window of the Jaguar,
which Freddy hadn't yet been able to get mended.
The fourth day of my stay in Neranga started with blinding
sunshine. I got out of a taxi, sweating in a black jacket and striped
trousers, and carried my briefcase and red robe bag up the steps
of the white-pillared portico of the British-built High Court of
Justice. The steps were crowded with people, some faces I
remembered from the night of the party, many more strange to
me. At the top of the steps, resplendent in his bright cottons, stood Jonathan Mazenze. He was smiling and seemed to be
leading the low chanting of the people around him. The syllables
emerging were not 'ah...pu...' this time. Listening hard I
could have sworn they were 'rum...pole!' I lifted a hand in
salutation and went into the building.
The robing room in the Nova Lombaro High Court was a good
deal more comfortable than that at the Old Bailey. It was a high
room, with cedarwood lockers and long mirrors. An attendant in
a white uniform made me a cup of Nescafe as I changed my shirt
and prepared to put on the blunt execution of a winged collar. It
was then that I realized that my packing, for all the medicines and mosquito nets I had bought, was lacking in one vital commodity.
'Damn,' I said aloud. 'Where do you get a front collar stud in
Africa?'
'Right here, my learned friend.' Mr Rupert Taboro, AttorneyGeneral
and prosecuting Counsel, had stolen up beside me and
was holding out a leather stud-box. 'I had a gross of these little
chaps flown in from Harrods,' he said. 'Be my guest.'
'That's remarkably civil of you.' I took a stud and fixed the
collar.
'Merely in accordance with the best traditions of the Bar. I
see young Jonathan Mazenze had his friends from Rent-anApu
out there to greet you.'
'Yes. I found it rather encouraging,' I told him. 'The people
cheering on my victory.'
77
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
' Your victory?' Taboro smiled tolerantly at me. 'Do you really
think that's what they want?'
And, before I could ask him what the hell he meant, he had
glided away about his business. ' 1«
Apart from the fact that all the faces under the white wigs,
except for mine, were black, the Court was set out exactly as
it is in the Old Bailey. Only the big, slowly revolving wooden
fans on the ceiling, and the Court attendants in white uniforms
and small red fezes, were different from the buzzing air conditioning
and black-gowned ushers in England. The public gallery,
instead of containing one old man in a mackintosh and a party
of schoolgirls, was crammed with loyal members of the Apu tribe,
prepared, if anyone gave them half a chance, to cheer for the
prisoner.
The only other white faces in the Court belonged to half a
dozen reporters from European papers who had come to report
on the trial of a well-known African politician; and were hoping,
no doubt, to be able to describe a further collapse of justice in
a Third World state. |»
I had sat, during the Attorney-General's opening, staring up
at our learned Judge. Sir Worthington Banzana was a small, broadshouldered,
stocky man, whom I judged to be about seventy years
old. He had been more or less silent during the early stages of
the trial, and had noticeably refrained from welcoming a visitor
from across the sea to the Nerangan Bar. In fact he had hardly
glanced in my direction. So I took a few notes and tried to calm
a bubbling and over-eager Freddy Ruingo, who kept moving from
his seat in front of me to whisper to the prisoner in the dock.
David Mazenze seemed strangely uninterested in the proceedings.

I glanced round the Court. I could see Mrs Grace Mazenze
looking down at me with trusting anxiety from the public gallery.
I turned away from her to look at the first prosecution witness,
a plump young African in a crumpled suit, who was glistening
with sweat as he answered the calm, reassuring questions of my
learned friend, Mr Rupert Taboro.
'Are you Magnus Nagoma?'
78
? Rumpole and the Golden Thread
'lam.'
'You are in government service?'
'I am Permanent Private Secretary to the Minister for Home
Affairs.'
'The defendant is your boss?' Taboro glanced at the dock.
'He is, yes.'
'My boss ...' The Chief Justice repeated in a deep and gravelly
voice as he made a note. 3' M:;ii
'Do you remember a day last July when you went to meet your
boss outside the Parliament building?' Taboro asked, smiling
gently.
'I do, yes. He was there with Bishop Kareele. They were having
an argument.' V-'.? --: "ir.
'A heated argument?'-'' 1;1'" 'Please
don't lead!' I growled a warning from my seat.
'I hear my learned friend's objection.' Taboro smiled at the
Judge, who looked at me for the first time. It was by no means
a smile of friendliness. '/ don't, I must confess.' He was tapping
his pencil on his desk with suppressed irritation. 'Mr Rumpole!
Is it no longer customary in England to stand on your hind legs
if you wish to make an objection?'
I thought it right and proper to climb to my feet at this juncture.
'Then I wish to object, my Lord, to a leading question.'
'It was very heated this argument, yes.' The witness burst in
on our argument uninvited, and the Chief Justice smiled at me
for the first time. 'Too late, I think, Mr Rumpole,' he said, and
I subsided. What we had was undoubtedly a black version of
Judge Bullingham, the terror of the Old Bailey, but somewhat
quicker off the mark than his English equivalent.
'Did the defendant say anything to the Bishop?' Taboro was
pursuing the even tenor of his way.
'Yes. He said "I'll kill you.'"
There was a stir in Court, the usual reaction to a piece of important
and damaging evidence, and the Judge was careful to
repeat the words as he wrote them down. ' "I'll kill you,"' he
said.
'That's an old judicial trick,' I whispered to Freddy Ruingo,
and then I suggested a little practical demonstration we might
79
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
indulge in when I rose to cross-examine. The judicial pencil
tapped again, and I was addressed from on high.
'Mr Rumpole,' said Sir Worthington menacingly. 'Please do
not hesitate to rise if you have something to say.'
'I have nothing whatever to say, my Lord.' I rose to about
halfway and then sank back in to my seat.
'Then it is customary to remain silent when seated. Did not
your old pupil master teach you that? Was he not C. H. Wystan
of the Inner Temple?'
I hadn't bargained for a Nerangan Chief Justice with an encyclopaedic
knowledge of English barristers. He had even
remembered the name of my sainted father-in-law. Daddy to She
Who Must Be Obeyed, who had guided my first faltering steps
in his own inexpert sort of way when I first went into,
Chambers.
'What happened then, Mr Nagoma?' Taboro went on when
the judicial rebuke was over.
'We got into the Minister's car,' the witness answered. I*;
'Just you and Mazenze?' '"
Yes.'
'What did the defendant say?'
'He said, "Who will rid me of this turbulent priest?"'
'And by "turbulent priest", who did you take him to mean?'
Taboro was taking no chances.
'He meant the Bishop.'
'Yes. Thank you, Mr Nagoma.' Taboro sat down smiling. I
took off my wig, applied the red spotted handkerchief to the brow,
replaced the wig and rose to cross-examine.
'Mr Nagoma ...'I started, and then, as arranged, Freddy
tugged at my gown and whispered, 'This man is a Matatu.
Naturally he is hostile to David.'
So I whispered angrily back, loudly enough for everyone in
the Court to hear. 'Look, if you interrupt my cross-examination,
I'll kill you!'
My Apu supporters in the public gallery took the point and
laughed. The Chief Justice's pencil got to work again, and rapped
the desk in an angry manner.
'Mr Rumpole. There is no jury here!' he reminded me.
80
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
'My Lord, I'm sorry we abolished that great institution.' I took
the opportunity of denouncing a retrograde step.
'That was a jury trick you pulled quite shamelessly, Mr
Rumpole. It was not worthy of a former pupil of Mr C. H. Wystan.'
Not worthy of Wystan, a man who knew nothing whatever
about bloodstains! I controlled myself with difficulty. 'It was not
a trick. It was a demonstration.' I told the Judge. 'I am about
to put the question to the witness.'
'Put it then, Mr Rumpole. Without play-acting please!'
It was too early in the case to quarrel with the Judge, and there
was - oh the pity of it! - no jury. I addressed myself to the witness.
'Were not the words used to the Bishop just as I've used them
to my learned instructing solicitor, as a bit of meaningless abuse?'
I asked Nagoma. ,. <? '.»'?
'I don't know that, sir.' '&cw
'Do you not? And do you not know what they were quarrelling
about? "The freedom of religious instruction in the Schools
Enabling Bill". Apparently the Bishop was putting up what is
known as a filibuster and talking for hours to delay matters.'
Taboro half rose, and made a funny. 'I'm sure that is a process
well known to my learned friend,' he said.
The Chief Justice and the police officers and about half of the
public, who were, no doubt, of the Matatu tribe, had an excellent
laugh at this gem. When the hilarity had died down, I asked
another question. i::T
'It was a moment of irritation at some unparliamentary behaviour,
isn't that so?'
'Mr Rumpole.' The Judge was serious again. 'The witness was outside the parliament building. How can he answer?'
'He can answer this. Was it meant seriously?' S&"
Mr Nagoma, bless his heart, hesitated for a long time before
he said, 'I don't know. Quite honestly.'
'Yes. Thank you, Mr Nagoma.' I was grateful. 'And when he
said, "Who can rid me of this turbulent priest?" you recognized
the quotation, I imagine?'
'Quotation? No.' Mr Nagoma looked blank and the Chief
Justice's disapproval was turned on him for a change.
'Oh really!' The pencil was thrown down on to the desk on
81
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
this occasion. 'It beats me how some of you fellows get into the
Civil Service, let alone become Ministers' secretaries. Henry the
Second said that of Thomas a Becket in the year - what year
was it, Mr Rumpole?' For the first time he asked me a question
which was not an attack.
'I don't immediately recollect.'
'Oh, I do. I recollect.' The wily old Judge had clearly known
the answer all the time. 'It was 1170, I'm sure.'
But he had delivered himself into my hands. I looked hard
at the foreign reporters, my only jury, and said loudly, 'And I'm
sure Henry the Second was never charged with murder!'
I shouldn't have under-estimated Sir Worthington Banzana.
He came back fighting with a smile and said, 'Although St
Thomas a Becket, just like the unfortunate Bishop Kareele,
found himself dead as mutton. Yes, Mr Rumpole?'
'No more questions, my Lord.'
I sat down and looked gloomily round the Court as Mr Nagoma
left the witness-box with obvious relief, and a young clergyman,
whose head seemed to emerge reluctantly from a dog collar several
sizes too large for his neck, replaced him. The darling old Chief
Justice, I thought, was beginning to make me feel almost nostalgic
for Judge Bullingham, and the fog descending comfortably on
Ludgate Circus, and Henry sending me out to do a little V.A.T.
fraud with absolutely no danger of anyone being condemned to
death. I had never thought that the Golden Road to Samarkand
would prove such hard going.
It was at about this time that, on the other side of the world,
Mr Myers, my favourite solicitor's clerk, or 'legal executive', as
they are called today, stepped into our clerk's room in Chambers
with a brief concerning the unfortunate killing in the Kilburn
pub.
'Mr Rumpole in, is he?' Mr Myers asked Henry.
'I think he just slipped out for a moment to Central Africa.
You wanted to see him, Mr Myers?'
'Fixed this little murder of his - down the Bailey for the 2ist
of the month. 10.30 start.' Myers put the brief on Henry's desk.
'He will be there, won't he. Henry?'
82
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
'I'll get him back for you by then. Leave it with me, Myersy,'
Henry assured him.
'Central Africa! What's Mr Rumpole gone there for?'
'I rather gather his wife's got a visitor at home.'
'Oh, well then. That explains it.' Mr Myers went on his busy
way and Henry turned to Dianne and said, 'We've got to get
Mr Rumpole back for the 2ist, Dianne. We can't have him out
there forever, not sunning himself in the tropics. What did he
say, send him a cable?'
Dianne sighed, got out her pencil and notebook, and prepared
to take dictation.
Across that angry or that glimmering sea I was cross-examining
the Reverend Kenneth Cuazango, the young clergyman who had
been driving Bishop Kareele on the night of the murder. In spite
of the huge fans, the courtroom was growing more stifling as
the day wore on, and the Chief Justice had fallen into a temporary
silence.
'You say that when you first heard shots you jumped out of
the car and ran with your head downy
'Yes.'
'So you didn't see the attacker at that time?'
'No. I told you, sir. I saw him through the windscreen.'
'When you reached your house - after a run of how long?'
'About three miles. That's all.'
'Did you telephone the police immediately?'
'Almost immediately, sir.'
'Almost immediately,' the Judge muttered as he wrote.
'What did you do first, when you got home?'
'I changed my clothes first. I was soaked to the skin.'
'Exactly!' I picked up a sheet of paper supplied by Freddy.
'I have a metereological report here. There was heavy rain that
night, was there not, between the hours of nine and eleven o'clock?'
'Didn't
I say that?'
'No. I'm sorry, you didn't. And when it rains in Neranga it's
not a gentle April shower, is it? It's a cataract!'
'Call it Noah's Flood?' The reverend young gentleman smiled.
^i. 83
as
Rumpole and the Golden
'Why not? The winci
it? You couldn't possih""^" was streaming with water' wasn t
The Chief Justice, ^ have identified my cllent!> 'Could you identify h^course' couldn>t resist an ^"-"P11011-
made the answer he wa^' He asked the witness' m a way that 'I'm sure I could.' ^ted perfectly clear.
entirely convinced. 6ut the BishoP's ^P161111 didn't sowd
'I'm sure I could ..
not the doubt, and look'' The Judge wrote down the words' but
'I see, my Lord. But^ at me- 'You see' Mr ^'"P01^'
'Isn't that the fact ^ecouldn't'
Justice gave me a wide™ / sha11 have to decide?) The chief and I thought dangerous, smile.
It had been a long,
empty lounge of the A"01 and hard day' and I sat in the big'
seemed to be served ^ajestic Hotel drinking cold beer- (wme glass of whisky would only in the confines of the PTlson' and a Justitia International.^ absorbed almost ^ entire fee from Wordsworth, partly b. I was trying to remember a bit of old
trial, but mainly becau^B11^ it would ""P me thmking of the e it gave me an obscure feeling of comfort.
InthesooA , , ,
Out of hum"^ thoughts that ^""g . ,. I,
In the faithansuffering' ,, , ^ :: ^
In years tiR11" looks through death' £» bring the philosophic mind.
But before the irnnd
brought back to the ^cmld become t00 P^^^Pfa^3!' I was Mazenze being direct,atter in hand by the sight of Mrs Grace the lounge towards ^ by the POTteT across the waste land of of refreshment and se^ table- she sat down' refused my offer said, 'That Judge sir^ reluctant to start talking- At last she of beer, having no pa He wants to hang David-' I took a swig needed evidence,'she .rticular comfort for her- 'You said you
Yes.' venton- ^ ;
'A witness?' '^
'Your brother-in-la r , >
'Jonathan! He ^an< offered me any amount ofuseless ones-
spoke with a sudden ver to make an ap" mwtyT ofDavld-' She hemence. 'I want my David alive, though.
84
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
'Are you sure you wouldn't like a drink?'
'Nothing, thank you.' There was another silence, and then she
said, 'I have a witness for you. One who tells the truth.'
'The best sort,' I assured her.
'Only one thing is wrong. David wouldn't allow this one witness
to come for him. Not if he knew. He would forbid it.'
'Why ever ...?'! was puzzled.
'This is a person of the Matatu people. David would never
agree to such a witness.'
'It's the evidence that matters, for God's sake. Not the family
background.'
'You may know very much law, Mr Rumpole, but you don't
understand our country. Also, I'm afraid, David would not want
this witness,' her voice sank almost to a whisper, 'for my sake.'
'For your sake?'
'This is something David try to keep a secret from me! Too
late now for secrets. I think so.'
She opened a smart handbag she was carrying, a contrast to
her bright African costume, and brought out a sheet of paper,
covered with handwriting. I took it and looked at her. Then I
read what had been written in primitive, badly spelled English
and realized that bedtime would have to be indefinitely
postponed, ^'--^iy ' ' :. ., ?.*,: .':
An hour later I was sitting in David Mazenze's comfortably
appointed cell in the District Police Headquarters. I was drinking
wine, and thought he had probably drunk more than a bottle.
He was playing music - not Faure this time, but a Mozart piano
concerto. I didn't show him the document I had read in the hotel,
and some instinct stopped me telling him about it at once. So
I sat for a minute in silence, staring into my glass.
'Don't look so down in the dumps, old fellow.' David Mazenze
smiled at me.
'You may not have noticed, but the Chief Justice is against us.'
I At which my client looked entirely unconcerned. 'A member
of the Matatu tribe, and the Prime Minister's little chicken?' he
said. 'Why shouldn't he be against an Apu leader? Everything
is going as expected.'
85
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
'We've got to win this case.' I got up restlessly and went for
a walk round the cell.
'Don't worry, old fellow. You're doing exactly what is needed.'
My client, I thought, was trying to cheer me up.
'What's that?' I asked.
'Upholding the best traditions of British justice for the foreign
papers. When we lose, everyone will know this Dr Death has
no respect for the law. So our revolution will be perfectly
justified.'
I switched off Mozart. What he was saying had suddenly
become too important for even the most enticing distraction.
'Your revolution?'
David Mazenze refilled his glass and drank deeply. 'Our boys
in the bush, Horace, yes. They will attack on the day I am convicted.
No sentence will ever be carried out against David
Mazenze. Now then, has that taken a bit of a weight off your
mind?' '
'Not really.'
I felt entirely lost, aimless and deceived. I asked the question
that had been nagging at me since our last inconclusive
conference.
'Tell me the truth,' I said. 'Are you saying that I was brought
out here to lose this case?'
'Calm down,' David Mazenze said soothingly. 'You were
brought out here to make your speech about the Golden Thread,
Horace.'
'And then to lose?' I stood in front of him, no longer able
to control my temper, exhausted by the long, apparently pointless
day.
'It will be Dr Death who loses in the end, Horace. And the
Judge. Some of our boys in the bush are likely to pass a motion
of censure on that old Chief Justice Banzana.'
'I was brought out here to loseV I shouted at him in my
certainty. 'No wonder you didn't want an important Q.C.! Old
Horace Rumpole is good enough to utter a few legal platitudes,
'and accept defeat gracefully. Is that it? Look, I was going to tell
you ...'
'Tell me what, Horace?' He went to the gramophone and turned
86 . SKj
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
the music on again. He sat and closed his eyes, apparently bored
by our conversation. It was then that I decided on a course which
was, I must reluctantly admit, entirely unprofessional.
'No. I see it wouldn't do any good,' I said. 'Do you know what
the Golden Thread that runs through British justice is?'
'Yes, Horace. I know that,' David Mazenze murmured through
the Mozart.
'Rumpole presumes every case to be winnable until it's lost.
I don't know any other way of doing them. And you can tell
that to your "Boys in the Bush".'
'Thank you for coming to see me, Horace. I appreciate your
efforts.'
But I had knocked on the door and the guard was letting me
out. From then on I would have to do the Mazenze case alone
and without a client. .
The next morning I found my opponent adjusting his wig in
front of the robing-room mirror. He was smoking a black Balkan
Sobranie cigarette in his white ivory holder. I waved the scrap
of paper I had been given by Mrs Grace Mazenze in his general
direction.
'My learned friend!' said Taboro, in a pitying sort of way. 'His
Lordship is giving you a bit of a bully ragging, I'm afraid.'
'Look, I should have served you with an alibi notice. Under
British law.' I started, ignoring the commiserations.
'Under our law too.'
'If I show you a statement, would you object to my calling
the witness?'
Rupert Taboro took my precious document and glanced at it.
The only sign of his surprise was the lift of about half an inch
in the angle of his cigarette holder. He handed the statement back
to me with a smile of absolute friendliness.
'I shall raise no objection at all to this witness being called,
at short notice. See you in Court, old fellow.' So he left me, as
I was wishing to goodness that my Judge was as sympathetic
as my prosecutor.
Freddy Ruingo came up to me in the crowded passage outside
the Court and said he'd been talking to David Mazenze, and that
87
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
our client had decided that, as the charge was beneath his contempt,
he was not going to give evidence. 'So it's up to you now,
sir. The great final speech on the presumption of innocence. Isn't
that it?'
'Not quite yet.' , r
Not?' ' ,
'We may have to go through certain legal formalities first.'
As I pushed my way on through the crowd, I met Grace standing
by the door of the Court. She told me that my witness was
there, and ready to give evidence. ...
MK '.
'I will now call Mrs Mabel Mazenze.' The Chief Justice made a note, the reporters looked interested, Freddy turned to me with
a look of almost comic dismay, Jonathan rose in his seat in the
public gallery and my client shouted, 'No!' furiously from the dock. The Court attendant called for silence, but David was
struggling with the warder in the dock and insisting that he would
not have the witness called. In a moment's silence I heard the
tap of the Judge's pencil.
'The defendant will be silent or I will have him taken down
below and the trial will take place in his absence. Yes. Continue,
Mr Rumpole.' „
'Mrs Mabel Mazenze!' I heard the call outside the Court. v
And then the young African girl came in and the Court was
hushed; everyone was staring at her remarkable beauty. I
remembered the glimpse I had had of her face, through an open
door at the end of a passage, on that first night I had arrived
in Neranga. She was in the witness-box now, holding up the Bible
in a slim, brown hand.
'Are you Mabel Mazenze?' I asked her, when she had been sworn.
'Yes.'
'Mrs Mabel Mazenze. Are you a lady of the Matatu tribe?'
'Is she Matatu woman? Is that what you mean, Mr Rumpole?'
the Chief Justice rumbled in the background, ggr
'I was trying to put it a little more elegantly, my Lord.' I> %
The Judge turned to the witness. 'Don't mind the elegance.
You Matatu woman?'
'Yes, sir.'She gave him a glittering smile. --; s
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
'And are you married to David Mazenze, the defendant in this
case?'
I heard the Court buzz. The reporters were writing, Apu
supporters in the public benches were looking shocked and
puzzled. Rupert Taboro looked at the ceiling. Grace looked-7 severely at the witness.
'The officer in charge has told us that your client's wife is called Grace Mazenze, Mr Rumpole.' The Chief Justice registered
elaborate surprise. I obliged him by asking the witness, 'Did he
also go through a ceremony of marriage with you, according to the
tribal customs of the Matatu people, on the 8th of March, 1979?'
A door banged somewhere behind me. It was Jonathan
Mazenze leaving Court.
'Yes, he did,' the witness agreed. 'David and I did. We kept
it secret. Both our people would make us great mischief if they
knew of it. And David having a wife of his own people also ...'
Her voice trailed away as she looked round the Court, to meet
hostile Apu eyes.
'The 8th of March this year was the anniversary of that ceremony.
Where did David spend that evening?' I asked her. 'With
me,' she answered clearly.
'Where was he between nine and eleven that rainy evening?'
'In my ... in our house, here in Nova Lombaro. He was with
me from before nine o'clock.'
'When did he leave?'
'About quarter past eleven. He went to sleep in his bed at home
with Grace as he had a big speech to make the next day. He
thought with me he would not do so much sleeping.'
Mabel looked round the Court, smiling. There was some
laughter, but not from the Apu spectators. Grace looked at her
with a sort of solemn curiosity, as I asked, 'Has it been difficult
for you to come here and give evidence?'
'I think my family never see me again when they know what
I did with an Apu man,' Mabel answered seriously.
'Why have you come here to give evidence?'
'Only because I know David cannot have killed the old man.
Only because of that.' She looked at the prisoner in the dock.
He avoided her eye. 'And to save his life ...'
i ^~
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
'Thank you, Mrs Mabel Mazenze.' I sat down and the Chief j
Justice asked the Attorney-General if he wished to cross-examine |
the witness. To my extreme surprise Rupert Taboro said that |
he had no questions to ask. I rose to my feet, determined to make "
the most of the situation. .
'Perhaps my learned friend would help me. Does that mean j
that the prosecution accepts this witness's evidence?'
'It simply means, my Lord,' Taboro said in his most treacly
voice, 'that we have no questions we wish to put.'
'I must insist...' ^ .
But the Chief Justice looked down on me and smiled mirth- |
lessly. 'No good insisting, Mr Rumpole. In the end it will be
a matter entirely for me!' ,„,,„,, ~
^.^ t.^^ 'W- ffW .'
I wasn't able to deal with the Judge's remark until after the :
prosecutor's final speech, which was a fair and reasonable '
summary of the facts. After he had finished I made my own i oration, and I must say it was one of my best, along familiar
lines perhaps, but given a feeling of freshness by being made
in unfamiliar surroundings. The Court was very quiet. My client was
sitting in the dock with his head in his hands. Perhaps, I
thought, he had given up hope, but I hadn't. I reached my
peroration and I said: '^ *i8||S '
'It is not a matter entirely for your Lordship.' And I said it. fearlessly. 'It is a matter for our Common Law! And when
London is but a memory and the Old Bailey has sunk back into
the primeval mud, my country will be remembered for three
things: the British Breakfast, The Oxford Book of English Verse and the Presumption of Innocence! That presumption is the
Golden Thread which runs through the whole history of our
Criminal Law - so, whether a murder has been committed in
the Old Kent Road or on the way to Nova Lombaro, no man
shall be convicted if there is a reasonable doubt as to his guilt.
And at the end of the day, how can any Court be certain sure
that that fearless young woman Mabel Mazenze has not come
to tell us the plain and simple truth?'
When I had finished I sat down exhausted. My shirt was sticking
to my back. I felt I had made a long journey, and I was now :
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
tired out, with nowhere further to go. Had I, I wondered for
a low, despairing moment, made the great 'Golden Thread'
speech for the last time? Was it some irony of fate, some obscure
joke, that I should make it finally before a Court full of strange
faces in the middle of Africa? I told myself that I had done all
I could, that I had said every possible word in David Mazenze's
defence, that the decision to call Mabel was inevitable.
But then I thought of the consequences of any mistake I might
have made, and I found myself shivering in the stifling Court.
Through all this the Chief Justice had been summing up, going
through the facts of the case, and his voice seemed to be coming
from a long way off. I forced myself to pay attention and, at first,
I wished I hadn't.
'Neranga ranks high on the list of civilized countries,' the deep
judicial voice was saying. 'We observe the rule of law. This is
demonstrated by the fact that we have allowed a barrister in from
England. He is a "junior" barrister. In England they have quite
elderly "juniors", barristers as "long in the tooth", he will not
mind my saying this, as Mr Horace Rumpole.'
There was some sycophantic laughter from parts of the Court,
in which, I was sorry to see, my learned friend Mr Taboro joined.
'Mr Horace Rumpole has come to plead here,' the Judge went
on, 'as a guest at our Bar. But he has told us nothing we didn't
already know. We know that a man is innocent until he's proved
guilty. That is the Golden Thread which runs through the law of
Neranga. This law is also followed in Britain, I believe. The Court
has the evidence of identification given by the Reverend Kenneth
Cuazango. On the other hand, we have the positive evidence of
Mabel Mazenze, the Matatu woman whom the defendant, a wellknown
member of the Apu tribe, has married as a second wife
- a backward form of indulgence which is not in the best tradition
of the New Neranga of Prime Minister Christopher Mabile.
In these circumstances the Court is unable to feel that the pro-secution
has proved this case beyond reasonable doubt. Acting [entirely on the principles of ancient Common Law, we pronounce
jon David Mazenze, whatever we may think of his morality, a
verdict of "Not Guilty". Let the defendant be discharged.'
'Be upstanding in Court!' the attendant shouted.
9i
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
We all stood and, as he left us, I bowed low, and with astonished
gratitude, to the Chief Justice, Sir Worthington Banzana. I
seemed to be bowing in the middle of an enormous silence. Then
the Court began to empty quickly. I saw David Mazenze leaving
the dock and, planning to meet him when he had received his
congratulations, I turned to Freddy Ruingo.
'We did it, Freddy!' I smiled at him. 'We notched up a triumph,
I'm sure you'll agree. We brought the Golden Thread to Samarkand!'
But Mr Ruingo had made off and was dodging away among
the crowd as though in some maze. The kindest word was spoken
to me by my opponent, who came up smiling. 'Good win, my
learned friend,' he said. 'Heartfelt congratulations.'
'Thank you. You were a great help.' I meant it. 'I'd better
go and see my client.'
I moved away, but Taboro put a hand on my arm. 'I should
warn you, old fellow. You may not find him particularly grateful.'
'I did save his life.' I looked at him, puzzled. But Taboro shook
his head sadly. 'You also broadcast the fact that the leader of
the Apu People's Party had got himself hitched to a Matatu
woman. Not too good that, politically speaking. But then, I don't
suppose you're tremendously interested in local politics. Oh,
before you go,' - he held out a well-manicured hand - 'could
I have my stud back, please?'
I took off my collar then and there and gave it to him. It seemed
that I owed quite enough to Rupert Taboro.
I went up to the robing room to change, and met no one except
the attendant in charge of wigs and gowns, who also seemed aloof, as though anxious to get me out of his domain as soon as possible.
When I came downstairs the passage outside the Court was empty
and silent.
I came out on to the steps of the Law Courts, and was hit
in the face by the heat and blinding sunshine. And as I stood
there blinking, two Nerangan policemen in khaki shorts with
revolvers bumping against their hips, came running towards me.
They grabbed my arms and hustled me, too astonished to protest,
into a waiting police car. The engine roared, the tyres screeched
on the burning road, and we were off, scattering chickens and
children and the remnants of a crowd. It had happened at long,
92 ^
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
long last. After an endless career in crime, I was under arrest.
Of course I always knew I'd end up in the Nick. It was my
nightmare, a recurring dream from the days when I was a nipper.
I could hardly close my eyes without hearing a voice somewhere
saying, 'And the least sentence I can possibly pass on you is about
a hundred years in the chokey.' Extraordinary thing, perhaps
that's what made me take up the law. These thoughts were racing,
in a confused fashion, through my head as I was hustled into the
presence of Mr Akimbu, the blazered Superintendent of Police.
He was holding a cable and looking at me with extreme hostility.
'Mr Rumpole. Will you please explain this cablegram which we
have intercepted. Addressed to you, I think, at the Hotel Majestic.'
I took the document in question, looked at the signature and
felt a flood of relief. Of course, I realized that the thing could
have been phrased more happily.
'Please take your time - we have the whole night before us.'
The Superintendent's words were not particularly encouraging.
I read him the message on the cable: ' "Murder fixed
for 2ist of this month at 10.30 a.m. Signed Henry." '
'What murder, Mr Rumpole? And who is your associate,
"Henry"?'
Akimbu stood up and moved towards me. I felt a sense of
pleasurable anticipation from the policemen by the door. The
interrogation was about to begin.
'Good heavens. This is really very funny!' I smiled round the
room, and got no reaction.
'Funny? You find murder "funny", Mr Rumpole?'
'No. No, of course not,' I assured him. 'But I see how you've
been misled. It really is quite a joke.'
'Not a real murder?' The Superintendent frowned.
'No. No, of course. It is a real murder. A very real murder.'
I heard myself babbling. I clearly had no talent for being interrogated.

'The 2ist. That will be ...' The Superintendent examined a calendar on the wall. 'Ten days from now.' He turned on me
triumphant.
'Ten days from now I shall be back in England. No need for
you to worry.'
93
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
'Leaving the dirty side of the business, I suppose,' the Superintendent
almost sneered, 'to this Henry.'
At which moment an intercom buzzed on his desk. The Superintendent
answered with a Nerangan word, and a moment later
a police officer opened the door to admit Arthur Remnant, Her
Majesty's High Commissioner to the State of Neranga. ^
'There you are, Rumbold!' He came in smiling. 'You know
what, my dear fellow, you need a good lawyer!'
I was booked back on the midnight plane. Earlier in the evening
I was invited for cocktails at the High Commission. There was
a fair sprinkling of guests -- politicians, the Head of Nerangan
Radio and his good lady, and some leading members of the
Nerangan Bar, who smiled at me in a knowing sort of way but
otherwise avoided my company. I stood under a portrait of the
Queen and drank a reviving whisky and soda. Remnant looked
at me as though it would take him a long time to get over the
joke and said, 'It was a splendid result. Just what our brilliant
Prime Minister always had in mind!'
'The Prime Minister wanted me to winy I confess I wasn't
following his drift.
'Just the way to please the International Monetary Fund, old
fellow, and reassure Barclays Bank, and put Christopher Mabile
in line for a "K" at the next Commonwealth Prime Ministers'
Conference. You've probably earned him a bally knighthood,
apart from the fact that you've seen off David Mazenze.'
'Seen him off? I was under the impression that I'd got him
acquitted.' Never had a remarkable victory, I thought, been met
with such a singular lack of acclaim.
'The Apus would never have let him hang,' Remnant explained
patiently, as to a child. 'They'd have risen in their thousands plenty
of guns available in the bush, didn't they tell you? But
they're a lazy people. Nothing in today's verdict to get them
going. And they won't move a finger for a leader who married a
Matatu woman.'
'Just a minute. I want to know ...' But Remnant was moving
away from me.
'What do you want to know, old fellow?' ,. m
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
'Who shot the Bishop?'
'The poor old Bishop! A politician who had outstayed his
welcome. Of course, we'd know exactly what to do with him in
England. Too bad there's no House of Lords in Neranga.'
'There you are, Mr Horace Rumpole.' I heard a deep and
familiar voice behind me and turned to see a small, smiling Chief
Justice. Beside him stood a man in bright African costume. The
lights of the room reflected in his thick horn-rimmed glasses and
made it impossible to see his eyes. I needed no introduction to
tell me that I was in the presence of the Prime Minister,
Dr Christopher Mabile, my former client's 'Dr Death'.
'Congratulations, Mr Rumpole.' The Prime Minister's voice
was dry, academically precise. 'I hear you put up a first-rate
show. You know the Chief Justice, of course. Your old sparring
partner!'
They both looked at me as though I were a rare specimen who
might soon become extinct.
'It has been a pleasure to have a British barrister among us,'
the Prime Minister said. 'When are you leaving us?'
'Tonight.'
'Such a short visit! You should have stayed longer. Gone up
country. We could have shown you some of our old tribal
customs.'
'Thank you. Prime Minister,' I told him. 'I think I've seen
them.'
| It was only a week later, at breakfast in Froxbury Court, when
I saw in The Times newspaper a photograph of a small part of
the road to Nova Lombaro. The picture showed a battered car,
riddled with bullets. The door was swinging open, and in the
passenger seat was the crumpled, murdered body of David
Mazenze, the former leader of the Apu People's Party, an
organization which had now been taken over, so the story under
the photograph informed the Times readers, 'by the deceased's
younger brother, Mr Jonathan Mazenze'. The story ended, 'No
arrest has yet taken place, according to the Attorney-General,
Mr Rupert Taboro.' Neranga, quite clearly, was still a country
which believed in the death penalty.
95
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
-d; When I read the story out to Hilda all she said was, 'Mazenze
... Apu ... Rupert Taboro ... what extraordinary names.'
'Yes,' I said, 'almost as odd as Rumpole and Dodo Mackintosh.'
The world news was bad that day. Hilda's old school friend
was still with us, sitting on the other side of the kitchen table,
regarding me with pursed lips and an expression of disapproval.
'Wasn't it good of Dodo to stay on another week,' Hilda said,
'so you could see something of her?'
I gulped my coffee, got up and struggled into my jacket. 'Well,
off to work!' I said as brightly as possible.
'You will be home early, won't you, dear? Dodo does like her
;; game of three-handed whist, you know.'
I was on my way to the door, planning a leisurely aperitif at
Pommeroy's Wine Bar.
'Anyway, where are you going today?' said She Who Must Be
Obeyed.
'I'm going to the Old Bailey,' I answered her. 'Samarkand is
fete definitely off.'
• •'••v''
&

Rumpole and the Old Boy Net
To call the public school where I spent some of the worst years
of my life 'minor' would be to flatter it. It was a small, poorly
run penal colony on the Norfolk coast where the water habitually
froze in the bogs and, on one remarkable occasion, we all believed,
turned the glass of Milton, which contained the Headmaster's
teeth, into a solid block of ice. Such education as was on offer
had to be wrung out of reluctant masters whose own ambition
was to rush from the classroom and huddle round the common
room fire. It's true that Jimmie Jameson, a somewhat primitive
type of Scottish Circuit Judge, had been to Linklaters, as, for
a short spell when his parents were abroad, had old Keith from
the Lord Chancellor's office. Apart from having once been asked
to organize the Old Linklaters at the Bar*, I have never had much
to do with my old school acquaintances, and having possessed
the Old Linklater tie (I used it to secure a bulky set of books
I was taking by train to a case in Chester about thirty years ago
and haven't seen it since) has never helped me in the slightest
degree on my way through life. Say 'I'm an Old Linklater' to
most men of power and influence in this world, and their answer
is most likely to be 'Mine's a Scotch.'
It is not so, of course, with the great public schools such as
Eton, Harrow, Winchester and Lawnhurst. Having 'swung,
swung together, with their bodies between their knees' at school,
the ex-pupils of such places are liable to stick to each other for
the rest of their natural lives. No sooner have they left school,
but they meet up again in the Cabinet, or the House of Lords,
or on the Board of the United Metropolitan Bank, or perhaps
* See 'Rumpole and the Fascist Beast' in The Trials of Rumpole, Penguin Books,
'979. bb»;, •
97
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
at an address in Bamardine Square which, as you may or may
not know, is not a million miles from Victoria Station.
- But I am going too fast. I should watch his Lordship's pencil,
or my rapidly fading biro. All I wished to bring to your attention
at the moment is the remarkable loyalty, as some would say, or
the unspeakable clannishness, as others would hold, of the English
public school system. Now I would ask you to turn, as my wife
Hilda did on that gusty March morning at breakfast time in our
mansion flat at 25B Froxbury Court, to the news pages of the Daily Telegraph. Hilda takes the Telegraph, although I prefer
the Obituaries and the crossword in The Times. The Telegraph gives Hilda much that she needs, including detailed coverage of
many scandalous events. On that particular morning the stories
on offer in Hilda's favourite journal included one entitled,
'London Vice House Catered for Top People', and described the
committal at the Central Criminal Court of a couple named Lee,
on charges of blackmail and keeping a disorderly house, as:
'Can you understand it, Rumpole?' Us,
'Understand what, Hilda?' I was spreading butter on my toast
and couldn't see that the news item presented any form of intellectual
challenge.
'These members of the aristocracy, top civil servants, and a
vicar! Well really, haven't they got wives?' No doubt she was
referring to the patrons of the Lee house in Bamardine Square.
'Life at the top isn't all roses, Hilda. Is that the marmalade
gone to ground under your Daily Telegraph?'
'Well! Surely a wife's enough for anyone.' v
'Quite enough,' I said, munching toast and Oxford marmalade.
'So why - run after other women?' Hilda seemed genuinely
puzzled.
'I must confess, I'm baffled.' It was, I suppose, decidedly rum.
I stood up, finishing my toast. Hilda looked at me critically,
apparently finding that I might come last in any contest for the
best-dressed barrister.
'Rumpole,' she said, 'come here. You've got marmalade on your
waistcoat!' She fetched a damp teacloth from the kitchen sink
and started to dab at me in a violent manner. ..,
'I quite like marmalade on it,' I protested, ^a
. us
Rumpole and the Old Boy Net
'You've got to be careful of your appearance now Guthrie
Featherstone's been made a judge.'
'Out of respect to the dead?' I wasn't following her drift.
'Because you're going to take your rightful place, now Guthrie's
gone, as Head of Chambers! Well, they said they'd come to a
final decision, didn't they, when you got back from the jungle?'
'It wasn't the jungle, Hilda. It was the High Court ofNeranga.
Chief Justice Sir Wbrthington Banzana presiding.'
Hilda, however, pursued her own train of thought and disregarded
the connection. 'There isn't another Q.C. to take
Guthrie's place. You're the only candidate! I shall ask my friend
Dodo Mackintosh to take on the catering at your first Chambers
party. Marigold Featherstone will never have put on a do like it.'
I sighed. 'Those occasions are quite grim enough without
Dodo's rock cakes.'
'Nonsense. Dodo's pastry's as light as a feather.' She stood
back, apparently noticing some sartorial improvement in my
good self. 'There now. You look more like a Head of Chambers!
Someone fit to take the place Daddy once occupied!'
I beat it hastily to the door. Hilda hadn't noticed that, .for the
sake of greater comfort after my return from Africa, I had taken
to wearing a delightful old pair of brown suede shoes with the
dark blue suit I wore when I wasn't actually engaged in any of
Her Majesty's Courts of Justice. Whilst I was working in
Chambers I hoped that the Sovereign wouldn't notice my feet.
About an hour later I put my head round the door of the clerk's
room in Equity Court and saw Henry checking the diary and
Dianne busily decorating her fingernails with some preparation
that smelled of model aeroplanes.
'This be the verse you grave for me:
"Here he lies where he longed to be;
Home is the sailor, home from the sea, And the hunter home from the hill!"'
I announced.
'You're back then, Mr Rumpole.' Henry scarcely lifted his eyes
from the diary.
a i
Rumpole and the Old Boy Net
hear the last of it if I didn't claim my rightful place as Head,
now that Guthrie Featherstone had been translated.
'We're deciding the Head of Chambers problem at the end
of the month. When we have our meeting.' Erskine-Brown was
always a stickler for formality.
'And after that I'll have to shoulder the cares of office. No
one in Mr Justice Featherstone's old room, is there. Henry?'
'I don't think so, but...'
I had left him and was going up to take possession of the
i Captain's Quarters before he could finish his sentence. However,
as I was mounting the stairs, Erskine-Brown came panting after
me; apparently he had something to communicate in the deepest
confidence.
'Horace. I think I should let you know. I've done it!'
'Then your only course is to plead guilty.' I gave him sound
legal advice, but the fellow looked distinctly miffed.
'I have applied for silk, Rumpole,' he said with dignity. 'I think
I've got a reasonable chance. Philly's right behind me.'
'I can't see her.' I looked behind him in vain.
'I mean,' he said, with some impatience, 'my wife is right
behind me in my application for silk. "Claude Erskine-Brown,
.Q.C." How do you think it sounds?'
'Pretty encouraging, if you happen to be on the other side.'
He looked displeased at that, so I went on brightly, 'Tell me,
Claude. When is this Q.C. business likely to happen?'
'In about six weeks' time.'
'After the decision as to Head of Chambers?'
'Yes. I suppose so. After that.' , ^^
'Well, that's all right then. Best of British luck.'
I gave the man a reassuring slap on the shoulder. Of course,
if he were to acquire a silk gown before the Chambers meeting,
Claude would be entitled to that position which Hilda had set
her heart on for me. As it was, I could see no way of stopping
the 'Rumpole for Head of Chambers' bandwagon. I entered into
my inheritance, Guthrie Featherstone's old room, and heard the
sound of a woman in tears.
The woman in question was, in fact, no more than a mere slip
of a girl. She was wearing dark clothes, had longish dark hair
101
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
and, from what I could see of her face, she was extremely personable.
At that moment she was in clear distress, her eyes were
pinkish, she was dabbing at them with a small handkerchief which
she had wound into a ball, and an occasional sob escaped her.
'I'm sorry.' I didn't quite know why I was apologizing; perhaps
it was because I had intruded on private grief. 'Can I help at
all?'
She looked up at me guiltily, as though I had caught her doing
something wrong. 'I thought it was all right to come in here,'
she excused herself. 'Doesn't this room belong to a judge who
doesn't come here any more?'
'Bare ruin'd choirs, where late old Guthrie sang. Yes that's
right.' I was overcome by curiosity. 'What's the trouble? Shoplifting?
You look too young for a divorce.'
'I'm a b... b ... barrister.' She sobbed again.
'Oh, bad luck!' I was sorry it seemed to be causing her such
distress, and I offered her a large red-and-white spotted handkerchief
as a back-up to the sodden ball of lace she was clutching.
'I'm Mrs Erskine-Brown's pupil. Thanks.' She dabbed her t eyes again.
'Mrs Erskine-Brown, Phillida Trant that was, the Portia of
our Chambers? Miss Trant now has a pupil? How time flies!'
Much had happened, it seemed, during my absence in the tropics.
'She left me in a case after lunch at Tower Bridge. Well, there
was a terrible argument about the evidence and I said I couldn't
do it without my learned leader. Miss Trant, who was in a difficulty.'
^9 tt|i@
'You should have plunged in -' taken your chance,' I told
her.
'And the Magistrate said, "What sort of difficulty?" and I said,
"I think she's still at the hairdresser."'
I could understand our Portia's irritation with her tactless and
inexperienced pupil. 'You forgot the most important lesson at
the Bar,' I told her. 'Protect the private life of your learned pupil
master - or mistress.' |||
'Now Mrs Erskine-Brown says I'm wet behind the ears and
' ^ I'd better get a nice job in the Glove Department at Harrods.
She says that they probably won't want another woman in
102
Rumpole and the Old Boy Net
Chambers anyway.' She gave one final sniff, and handed me back
my handkerchief.
'Got a name, I suppose?' I asked her.
'Fiona Airways.'
'Well, it's not your fault,' I comforted her.
'It's all I've ever wanted .to be,' Fiona Allways explained.
'When the girls at school wanted to ride show-jumpers, I just
stood in front of the mirror and made speeches in murder cases!'
I looked at her, made a decision and went to sit behind Featherstone's
old desk.
'I've got a conference later. You could take a note of it, if you'd
like to. Make yourself useful. No particular objection to prostitution, have you?' To my dismay she seemed to be about to
cry again. 'Well, what on earth's the matter now?'
Miss Allways looked at me, fighting back her tears, and said, 'I suppose that's all you think I'm fit for!'
The police had been keeping observation on the Lees' large
Victorian house in Bamardine Square for weeks. They had
chronicled, in boring detail, the visits of a large number of middleaged
men of respectable appearance to that address and had seen
girls arrive in the morning and leave at night.
On the day of the arrest, a particularly respectable middle-aged
man arrived on the doorstep, rang the bell, and was heard to
say in to the door speaker, 'I'm a caller. Come to visit a friendly
house.' He was a man who would subsequently become unknown
to the world as 'Mr X'. As the door was opened, police officers
invaded the house and flushed out a large number of distinguished
citizens in positions of unusual friendliness with certain youngish
ladies. Mr X was asked for his name and address and subsequently
gave a lengthy statement to the police. Both Mr Napier Lee, the
owner of the premises, and his wife, Mrs Lorraine Lee, were
present when the police raided. Mr Lee protested and said that
an Englishman's home was, after all, his castle. Mrs Lee asked
if the matter couldn't be dealt with in a civilized manner, and
invited the officers to take a nice cup of Earl Grey tea. Now
Mr and Mrs Lee were in conference with my learned self; also
present were Mr Staines, our solicitor, and Miss Fiona Allways,
103
Rumpole and t,
who had so f
note.
'Apart fron- 1 reminded tr
pleasant charg
'Demandin;
clients,' said A
'Neither Na
us, can we, Na:
are such awfu
do think that r
This madan
old snob. I loc
of genteel, gre
Flower Show
meticulously
Old Lawnhur
a tweed skirt ;
affected stripe
a ponce.
'All our visi
Lee assured m
letter man am<
and I have not
'What's thai
'Absolutely
behave just lik
'I'm sure th
'Napier was
for it from bin
'Ohyes.Th
I We had hac
and I spoke a
it may be all
discuss the me
with obtaining
'Please, Mr
for discretion.
Rumpole and the Old Boy Net
'There's no need to name names, is there?' Mr Napier Lee
asked anxiously. ''
'Not when it comes to a man in his position.' Mrs Lee was
referring, deferentially, to the future 'Mr X'.
'Lawnhurst, New College Oxford, the Brigade of Guards and
then the Ministry.' Mr Lee gave the man's curriculum vitae.
'Napier was destined for the Foreign Office if his guv'nor
hadn't had a bit of bad luck in the City, weren't you Nappy?'
Mrs Lee was now positively glowing with pride.
'Well, dear. I never had the "parlez-vous" for the Foreign
Office.' Mr Lee smiled at his wife modestly. I was anxious to
return to the case and picked up a couple of accounts from the
I* brief.
| ( 'This gentleman in question seems, from time to time, to have
spaid your gas bills,' I reminded them. i;^ » , 'When business was slack, I'm not denying it, he helped usG font, Mr Rumpole.' Mrs Lee smiled with extreme candour. '
' 'And did you threaten to publish his little secret?' It was the
sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, but the Lees rejected the
suggestion with disdain.
'Oh no. He knew we'd never have done that. Didn't he. Nappy?'
Mrs Lee appealed to her husband. 'JS'Of course he knew. That would have been against the code, ;
wouldn't it?' Mi'
'Sneaking! One does not sneak, does one?' Mrs Lee' gathered
up her handbag, as though to bring the proceedings to an end.
'Well Nappy,' she said, 'I really think that's all we can tell Mr
Rumpole.'
'No, it's not,' I said firmly. 'You can tell me something else.
How did you get into this business?' I asked Mrs Lee. 'Looking
at you, a small cardigan shop in Cheltenham Spa might have
seemed more appropriate.'
'Napier had a bit of bad luck in the City. Also his health wasn't
quite up to it after the war.'
'Ticker a bit dicky. You know the sort of thing.'
'It was Nappy's war service.' ;-';;, .: :';'
'Four years playing a long innings against Brother Boche.'
'And Napier had a dicky ticker.' -r.w
165
Rumpole and the Golden Thread >
'Then I happened to run into a friend. Quite by chance,' Mr
Lee told me. 'Well, we discussed the possibilities of a business | ^ along the lines of the one we're running now.' : a
'A friendly house!' Mrs Lee smiled. 'For the nicer son of r J
customer. People Nappy got to know on the "Old Boy Net".' ; '
'And this fellow very decently came up with a spot of capital.' ^
'And was this helpful friend someone you'd known for a long |
time?' '||
'Oh yes. An old "mate", you understand. From way back. Of | '
course, we'd drifted apart a bit, over the years.' I'
'An old school friend, perhaps?' I suggested.
'Oh, Napier couldn't possibly tell you that.' Mrs Lee pursed
her lips.
'No. I couldn't tell you that,' Napier agreed.
'Against the code?' I wondered.
'The unwritten law,' Napier said. 'The sort of thing that just m isn't done. It would be as unthinkable as ...' He searched for y some suitable enormity. 'Well, as wearing brown suede shoes i with a blue suit, for instance.' Then he looked down at myv feet. '-.-- |i.
'Don't worry,' I said. 'I wasn't at Lawnhurst, you know.'
When the conference was over, I went into the clerk's room
to say goodnight to the workers. There Henry told me, somewhat
puzzled, that he had just had a telephone call from She Who
Must Be Obeyed.
'Did she want me?' I wondered what I had done amiss.
'She seemed to want to speak to me, sir. On the subject of
snacks.'
'Snacks, Henry?'
'Sausage rolls. Rolled-up asparagus. She said her friend, Mrs
Mackintosh would provide us with little cheesy things, sir. I told
her we weren't having the Chambers party until after the meeting,
and then we'd be able to welcome our new Head of Chambers.'
'Head of Chambers! She Who Must Be Obeyed has set her
heart on it. She won't take no for an answer. You follow me?'
I looked hard and long at Henry. I wanted to be sure that the
man was on my side in my bid for the leadership.
* ',106
E' Rumpole and the Old Boy Net
It was a sunny morning on the day the Lees' trial started, and
I decided to take a slightly longer walk along the Embankment
down to the Bailey. As the wind sent small white clouds chasing
each other across the sky, and the seagulls came swooping in over
Temple Gardens, I was put in mind of certain lines by the old
sheep of the Lake District:
1 Earth has not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who would pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty ...
A sight not quite so touching in its majesty was likely to be his
Honour Judge Bullingham. The Mad Bull had been picked by
some practical joker on the Bailey staff to try the case of the
frightfully nice bawdy house keepers. Did the Bull go to a public
school? I wondered. I couldn't remember. Probably he went to
some establishment where they played soccer with a cannon ball
and learning to read was an optional extra.
I passed Ludgate Circus and turned up towards the dome of
the Old Bailey. I was just about to cross the road and dive in
through the swing doors, when I heard a panting sound at my
elbow, and Hoskins, a fairly unmemorable barrister in our
Chambers, was at my side.
'Rumpole,' said Hoskins, 'You've got back from Africa!'
'No, Hoskins. I'm still there, dispensing tribal justice in a loin
cloth and a top hat. What're you talking about?'
'Just to let you know that I'm against you in the brothel case.
Sam Ballard's leading me.'
'Who?' The name was unknown to me.
'Sam Ballard. The Q.C. from the North-East Circuit. You
know, the one who's coming to practise in London. Haven't you
been told?'
'Yes. You've just told me.' I was glad Hoskins was on the other
side in our case and not helping me. His mind seemed to be
wandering.
'But you haven't been told anything else about him?' Hoskins
looked surprisingly embarrassed. '
•No. What is there to tell?'
i 'You'll get on with him like a house on fire,' Hoskins assured
107
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
me. 'He's Chairman of L.A.C., you know - "Lawyers As
Churchgoers".'
Having climbed laboriously into the wig and gown (did I
detect, still hanging in the horsehair, the dry scented smell of
Africa?), I made my way to Judge Bullingham's Court attended
by my small retinue consisting of Miss Fiona Allways and Mr
Staines.
When I got to the courtroom door, I found a tall, somewhat
stooping figure waiting for me. He was, I supposed, younger than
he looked. He seemed the sort of man who had felt the weight
of heavy responsibilities in the nursery: his brow was furrowed
by a look of anxiety and his mouth was drawn down in an expression
of almost permanent disapproval. He wore his black
Court coat and striped trousers like a suit of mourning and, in
all the circumstances, his silk Q.C.'s gown seemed something of
a frivolity. His face was pale, and when he spoke his tone was
slow and sepulchral. I suppose you could sum the matter up by
saying that he was a character who might have been quite nice
looking, when he was alive.
'Are you Horace Rumpole?' The question seemed to contain
a lurking accusation.
'I suppose I must be.'
'Sam Ballard.' He introduced himself. 'I'm leading for the
Crown. In "Lee". By the way, I passed Chambers this morning. In fact I dropped something in your tray.'
'Did you. Bollard?' I said airily. 'Can't say I noticed.'
'It was about a meeting of LAC.' He pronounced it as one
word, like the place Sir Lancelot came from. 'I do hope you can
find time to join us. We should value your contribution.' y- '"Lawyers As Churchgoers"? I may have to give that a miss, Bollard. My doctor has advised me to avoid all excitement.'
'Ballard.'
'Yes, of course. I imagine your little get-together might put
considerable strain on the ticker. Where do you meet? Pentonville
Women's Institute? The whole orgy topped up by barn dancing
and silent prayer?'
'Henry warned me about you, Rumpole.' The man was
unsmiling.
108
Rumpole and the Old Boy Net
'Henry?' I wondered why Henry had discussed my character
with this lay reader.
'Henry the clerk. He said you had a sense of humour.'
'Only a mild one, Bollard. Nothing fatal. You've managed to
keep free of it? What do you do? Jog a lot, I imagine.' He looked
at me in silence for a long time and then said, more in sorrow
than in anger, 'Some of our keenest members scoffed at the outset.'

'I dare say they did.' Fascinating as this conversation was, duty
called. I had to tear myself away, and moved towards the door
of the Court. As I did so, I uttered a pious thought. 'Well, all
I hope is that this little prosecution will be conducted in a
thoroughly Christian spirit.'
'You can rely on me for that.' |$^ I was almost through the door as I said, 'Perhaps you'll show
a certain reluctance about casting the first stone.'
Far from showing any reluctance in the stone-throwing department,
the lugubrious Ballard fired off a volley of moderately lethal
rocks in the course of his opening speech to the jury.
There I sat facing Judge Bullingham, who glowered like a
larger white (or rather purplish) Sir Worthington Banzana, and
I looked round the Court to which I had come home from my
travels. I saw the Lees, sitting calmly in the dock as though they
had just been asked to drop in for a cup of tea. I glanced at the
Press box which was more than usually full, R. v. Lee being,
it seemed, a bit of a draw and likely to fill the Sunday papers
for the next couple of weeks. Prominent among the journalists
I saw a youngish girl in a boiler suit and glasses, who wore a
button bearing the legend home counties television. I thought that she was smiling at me and I smiled back, somewhat
flattered, until I saw that the message was being beamed at Fiona
Allways, who was sitting beside me, industriously writing down
Ballard's rubbish. Then I closed my eyes, hoping to indicate to
the jury that nothing the prosecution said could possibly be of
the slightest interest. Steadily, remorselessly, the voice of the
Ballard droned on.
^^ 'Decent men, family men, men who had earned the respect
^^ 109
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
of the community and were placed in positions of trust, found
themselves tempted by this house, 66 Bamardine Square,
Victoria. Some of you may know Victoria, members of the jury,
you may know its brightly lit streets and British Railway
Terminal. I'm sure none of you know the darker streets, where
the market is in human flesh. Men left that particular house,
members of the jury, with their consciences burdened with guilt
and their wallets lightened. In the case of one of the witnesses
I am about to call, the financial gain to those who exercised this
appalling trade was considerably more. This is the subject of
Count Two of the indictment, my Lord.'
I opened my eyes as the Judge weighed in with, 'Yes, Mr
Ballard. I am sure the jury understand. The blackmail^.' The
Bull looked at the jury to remind them that this was a very grave
charge indeed and then glowered at me as though it were all my
fault. »?I
smiled back at Bullingham in a friendly fashion. ?'
'Among the many respectable figures who fell to the temptations
of 66 Bamardine Square ...' Ballard went on, and I began
to speculate, in a random sort of way, as to who the many respectable
figures might be. Doctors? Politicians? Police officers?
Lawyers? Lawyers? Judges! I looked at his Honour Judge Roger
Bullingham with a wild surmise. I thought I must ask my clients. Of course, they'd never tell me. But a Bull in a knocking shop!
The idea was almost too good to be true. I couldn't suppress
a momentary gasp of merriment.
'Did you say something, Mr Rumpole?' The Bull cast a scowl
in my direction.
'Nothing at all, my Lord!' I rose slightly and then sank into
silence.
'I should remind everyone in Court that this is a most serious
case.' The Judge made a pronouncement. 'The charges are extremely
grave, and if the evidence as outlined by Mr Ballard is
true ... Of course, I haven't begun to make up my mind about
it yet.' -
'Haven't you. Bull?' I muttered to myself in the most sotto of
possible voces as his Lordship continued.
'Then all I can say is that the activities at this property in
no
Rumpole and the Old Boy Net
Victoria were very wicked indeed. So we will have no laughter
from anywhere in this Court.' After a meaningful look at counsel
for the defence, the Judge smiled on the prosecution. 'Yes, Mr
Ballard.'
'If your Lordship pleases.' My opponent bobbed a
small bow to the learned Bull and then carried on with his work.
'Members of the jury,' he said. 'A suitable motto to be written
up over the door of 66 Barnardine Square is that which Dante
chose for his Inferno ...' I didn't think much of that for a legal
reference. His Lordship probably thought that Dante was someone
who did conjuring tricks on television, but Ballard soldiered
on with: ' "Abandon hope all ye who enter here." Because, of
course, once he was in the door, and once the spiders got to know
who he was, a fact which they took great pains to find out, the
fly was trapped. He couldn't get away, and if he was a man who
enjoyed a high and responsible position, he would pay anything,
you may think, to buy the silence of this brazen woman and her
procuring husband...' ;'w^> Vffff!;
The jury looked at the couple in the dock. Napier Lee had
his hand cupped over his ear and a gently pained expression as
a result of what he was able to hear. At which point Ballard
announced that he would call his first witness. I noticed that this
announcement was not accompanied by any name, and then the
Usher went out of Court and returned, after a longer lapse of
time than usual, with a tall, distinguished-looking, grey-haired
man wearing a dark suit, a striped shirt with a stiff white collar,
and a Guards tie. He walked across the Court with the stiff-upperlipped
expression of an officer and gentleman marching out to
face a firing squad. Once in the box he lifted the Bible, raised
his eyes to heaven and repeated the oath as though it were his
last will and testament. When he had finished he put the Good
Book down carefully on the ledge in front of him, and turned
to face the fusillade of Ballard's questions. Before he did so, I
gave vent to a loud mutter of 'Name please.'
Triggered off by this perfectly normal request, Ballard made
an application to the learned Judge.
'My Lord,' he started confidently, 'I would like to make the'
usual application in a blackmail case. I ask that this witness should
H in
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
be known simply as Mr X and that your Lordship directs that
the ladies and gentlemen of the Press should not repeat his name
under any circumstances.'
I glanced at the Press box and saw the young lady television
reporter look up from her notebook and stare hard at the
man in the witness-box. Meanwhile, the Judge was nodding his
agreement. 'That seems to be a very proper order to make, in
view of this gentleman's position,' he said. 'I imagine you have
no objection, Mr Rumpole?'
I rose slowly to my feet, glowing with helpfulness.
'I would have no objection, my Lord, provided a similar
concession is made for the benefit of my clients.' ?'
'My Lord.' My words had clearly alarmed my learned friend.
'Perhaps we should continue with this in the absence of the jury, if there is to be an argument.' Well, he could bet his old hair
shirt there was going to be an argument.
'Very well. Members of the jury.' Bullingham smiled in an
ingratiating manner at the twelve good men and women and true.
'Unfortunately, legal matters arise from time to time which have
to be resolved. Would you go to your room? We shouldn't have
to detain you long.'
The jury filed out, grateful for a smoke and a cup of Old
Bailey coffee. The boiler-suited girl in the Press box was writing
furiously in her notebook. As the door closed on the last jury
member the Bull fixed me with a malevolent eye.
'Now, Mr Rumpole,' he said. 'Did I hear a somewhat unusual
argument with regard to the defendants in this case?'
'That they should be known as Mr and Mrs Y? Why not, my
Lord?' I asked innocently. 'My learned friend talks about
embarrassment. Mr and Mrs Napier Lee have been spattered
over the front pages of every newspaper in England. "Alleged
Vice Queen Arrested"; "The Darby and Joan Who Owned the
House of Shame"; "Charged with Being the Top People's
Madame" ... and so on. They have had to submit to a barrage
of prejudicial publicity whilst this client of theirs can creep into
Court under cover of a letter of the alphabet and preserve his
precious respectability intact!'
'Mr Rumpole. There is no charge against this gentleman. He
112
Rumpole and the Old Boy Net
is innocent of any crime!' His Lordship seemed to be turning
a darker shade of purple.
'So are my clients innocent!' I did my bit to match the Judge's
outrage. 'Until they're proven guilty. Or doesn't that rule still
apply in your Lordship's Court?' I was regarded with a look of
admiration from Miss Fiona Allways and the boiler-suited television
lady, and a trumpet of indignation from the Bench.
'Mr Rumpole! This Court is entitled to some respect.'
'I am so full of respect to this Court, my Lord, that I give
it credit for still applying the law of England - or has that been
changed while I was out of the country? I merely ask for
information.' I tried a charming smile, which was about as
calming as a red rag to the Bull. He came charging to judgement.
'Your application that your clients' names should not be published
is refused, Mr Rumpole,' he said. 'This case can be reported
in full so far as they are concerned.'
'And they will no doubt be delighted to contribute to the
pleasures of the great British Breakfast.' I bowed with great courtesy and sat. 'If your Lordship pleases.'
'Now, Mr Ballard.' The Judge turned to the more congenial
matter of dealing with the prosecution. 'Your application for this
witness to remain anonymous is made on good authority?'
'Certainly, my Lord. The Contempt of Court Act gives your
Lordship power to order that the witness's name should never
be published.'
'In perpetuity?' I grumbled from a seated position.
'My learned friend says, "In perpetuity?" and the answer
would be "yes",' Ballard answered without hesitation.
'I suppose your argument would be,' the Judge suggested helpfully,
'that if this witness's secrets are exposed to the public, then
in effect the blackmail threat would have been successful. Is that
your argument, Mr Ballard?' Of course it was, once the Judge
had told him.
'Yes, it is, my Lord. And your Lordship puts it so much better
than I can.' At least Ballard's religious integrity didn't prevent
a little grovelling on occasions.
I'What's your answer to that, Mr Rumpole?' His Lordship
turned to the defence. .
^ "3
Rumpole and the (
'What blackm
blackmail is your
mation.'
'We all know w
I responded wi
'There hasn't ye
I said. 'Nothing
your Lordship ce
gations. And one
'Yes, Mr Rum
and sighed.
'One more prir
British justice is
be seen cowering
'Is that all, Mr
It was all that
elaborate courtes
respect.' I bowed
I did a final gestu
'Yes, Mr Rumj
but I'll give judj
may have his lur
Judge smiled at
tinued. 'The de
ticularly anxious
house of ill reputi
Turning rounc
head. Bullinghan
were allowed it
would ever dare
witness's high re
evidence to the ji
Ballard.'
The Usher cal:
Stainey to infom
cells shortly and j
Court I saw Fion
versation with th
Rumpole and the Old Boy Net
Fiona said to her, 'See you, Izzy. See you here after lunch,' and
joined me on my journey to the lifts.
'Who was that?' I asked by way of idle chatter.
'Isobel Vincent. She was a prefect when I was at Benenden.
I hero-worshipped her rather,' Miss Allways admitted.
'Do girls have an "Old Boy Net" too?'
'Izzy works for Home Counties News,' Fiona Allways sounded
deeply impressed. 'She's tremendously into Women's Liberation.'

'So am I!' I said as we waited for the lift.
'You?'
'All for Women's Liberation. Particularly the liberation of Mrs
Lorraine Lee.'
The lift arrived and we stepped into it and sank towards the
cells. As we did so Miss Allways was looking at me with the sort
of admiration she had previously reserved for Izzy, the fearless
television reporter.
'I say, Rumpole. You were splendid. Really fighting.'
'Let's say - going through the motions towards a graceful
defeat.'
'Well, I think it's jolly unfair. Keeping his name a secret.'
'Do you, Fiona?'
She spoke with a passion which I found unexpected. 'I mean,
those sort of places wouldn't exist at all, would they, if it weren't
for the Mr Xs?' She looked at the papers I was clutching. 'The
name's in your brief, isn't it? I suppose you know what his name
is?'
'He signed his deposition. I know it, yes,' I admitted.
'So you could tell anybody ... ?'
'Contempt of Court, Fiona,' I told her, 'should be a silent
exercise, like meditation.'
The lift stopped and we got out in the basement. We passed
the carefully preserved door of Old Newgate prison, rang for a
screw and were finally admitted to the dungeon department of
the Central Criminal Court.
'We don't want his name splashed around the papers, Mr
Rumpole. We wouldn't want that.' I don't know what it was about
Mrs Lorraine Lee, but she could make the dreary little interview
* ii5
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
room, with its plastic table and old tin which did for an ashtray,
seem somehow cosy and refined. Both of the Lees were looking
at me, more in sorrow than in anger. I was taking exercise, walking
up and down the confined space as I smoked a small cigar, and
Fiona was sitting at the table nonchalantly turning the pages of
my brief.
'Damned painful for him to be asked to give his name, in his
position,' Napier Lee agreed with his good lady.
'We abide by the code, you see,' Mrs Lee said. 'The unwritten
law. All the chaps who come to our house know they can trust us.'
'The "Old Boy Net"!' I said with some asperity. 'Look, he's
"sneaked" on you. Why not return the compliment?'
'That's not how it works, I'm afraid.' Mr Lee shook his head.
'Whatever he's done, we've got to do the decent thing.'
'We think the Judge is a perfect gentleman, don't we. Nappy?'
Mrs Lee amazed me by saying.
'He understands the code, you see,' her husband agreed.
'He didn't want the poor fellow's name mentioned. That
would've been terribly embarrassing.'
'And it would be terribly embarrassing, Mrs Lorraine Lee,
if you and your husband got five years for blackmail!' I suggested.
'I mean, you might be as snug as bugs in the Nick, but what's
going to happen to me? I just can't afford to lose cases, not at
this particular point in my career. I'm just about to be elected
to high office in my Chambers.' Then I turned on her and asked,
'Why just the gas bill?'. - A |1| |y
'What?' Lorraine seemed confused. A "'
'Use a lot of gas, did you, at Bamardine Square?' I pressed
my inquiries.
'Not particularly,' Napier Lee said. 'The bills used to lie out
on the hall table and, well, he offered to pay one or two - out
of kindness, really.'
'Just a tremendously decent gesture,' his wife agreed. 'It was
over and above the call of duty.' ||
'How did he pay them, exactly?'
'Oh, he used to give us a cheque,' Mrs Lee told me.
'A cheque!' I was astonished. 'In a house of ill repute? Mr
X is either very naive or ...' ;'' S
n6
Rumpole and the Old Boy Net
'Or what?' Napier Lee was puzzled, as though the point had
never occurred to him before.
'I don't know. And we may never have a chance to find out.'
I stubbed out the cigar end and was preparing to leave them,
when Mr Lee uttered a mild rebuke. 'We don't like it called a
house of ill repute, Mr Rumpole. We call it a friendly house.'
My usual luncheon, when engaged on a case down the Bailey,
consisted of a quickly snatched sandwich and a glass of stout in
the pub opposite if I was in a hurry, or a steak pie washed down
with vin extremely ordinaire in the same resort. Our visit to the
cells had left us so little time, however, that Fiona Allways and
I took the lift up to the Bar Mess, the eatery on the top floor.
This is a place I habitually avoid. It is always full of barristers
telling each other of the brilliant way they dealt with discovery of
documents, or the coup they brought off in some hire-purchase
claim in Luton. The large room was resonant with the sort of buzz
and clatter that usually accompanies school dinners, and there
was a marked absence of cheerful atmosphere.
My reluctance to mingle freely with the learned friends at the
trough was justified by the fact that, when Fiona and I put down
our ham salads at the long table, we found ourselves sitting opposite the lugubrious Ballard, who was peeling himself a chocolate
biscuit.
'Hello, Ballard,' I said, making the best of things. 'Enjoyed
the sermon.'
'Did you, Rumpole?' A shadow of a smile flitted across his
face, and was promptly dismissed.
'Haven't had such a good time since our old school parson gave
us three quarters of an hour on hell fire,' I assured him. 'Always
eat here, do you?'
'Don't you use the Bar Mess?' Ballard seemed puzzled.
'As a matter of fact, no. I prefer the pub - you get the chance
of rubbing shoulders with a few decent criminals.'
To my surprise, the Ballard smile returned, and his tone
was unexpectedly friendly. 'Perhaps you'll take me to your pub
I sometime. I mean, we should get rather better acquainted,' he
| said.
117
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
'Should we?' I could see no pressing reason for this bizarre
suggestion.
'Well, we're going to have to spend a good deal of time
together.'
'Why? This case isn't going to go on for ever, is it? Talking
of which ...' ^" a"
'Yes?'
'Sam. I might come along to one of those churchgoers' meetings
of yours ...' I, too, was having a go at the friendly approach.
i: 'Really?' The man seemed gratified.
'I mean, there is a great deal to be said for introducing a little
more Christian spirit into the law ...'
'I'm so glad you think so.' Those who had seen St Paul on
the road to Damascus no doubt looked a little like Ballard, Q.c.,
peering at Rumpole.
'Oh, I do,' I assured him. 'There is more joy in heaven, as
I understand it, old darling, over one sinner that repenteth, and
all that sort of thing.' ^ ^
'That sort of thing, yes,' Ballard agreed.
'And if two sinners repenteth,' I was getting nearer to the nub, the heart of this unusual conversation. 'I mean, repent to the
tune of pleading guilty to keeping a disorderly house, wilt thou
not drop the blackmail charges, old cock?'
'No.' All smiles were discontinued. Ballard closed his teeth
firmly on his chocolate biscuit.
'Did I hear you aright?' I said, with a good deal of sorrow. '
'I said, "No." It's quite impossible.'
'Look here.' I wrestled patiently for the man's soul. 'Is that
an entirely Christian attitude? Forgive them their trespasses, unto
seventy times seven! Well, there's only one little count of blackmail.'

'No doubt they may be forgiven eventually. After a suitable
period of confinement.' Ballard masticated unmercifully.
'The Mad Bull is quite capable of giving them five years for
blackmail.' I pointed out the brutal facts of the matter.
'Is that what you call the learned Judge?' Ballard looked at
me severely. 'I had thought in terms of seven, for blackmail. And
the top sentence for keeping a disorderly house is six months.
118
Rumpole and the Old Boy Net
Is that the reasoning behind your appeal to Christian principles,
Rumpole?'
'You show a remarkably cynical attitude, for a churchgoer.'
It pained me to find the man so worldly.
'As a churchgoer, I have a duty to protect public decency. I
don't know what your particular morality is.'
'It mainly consists of getting unfortunate sinners out of
trouble. You don't learn about that, apparently, in your scripture
lessons.'
'Blessed are the blackmailers, for they shall walk out without
a stain on their characters.' A hint of the smile returned. 'Is that
your version of the Sermon on the Mount, Rumpole?'
' "Prisons are built with stones of law, brothels with bricks
of religion." That's William Blake, not me. And I'll give you
another quotation: "I come not to call the righteous, but the
sinners to repentance." Matthew 8, verse 13.'
'How do you know that?' Ballard was clearly surprised.
'My old father was a cleric. And I'll tell you something. He
hated Bible classes.'
A silence fell between us. Ballard was rolling the silver-paper
wrapping of his chocolate biscuit between his fingers. 'It's a pretty
odd sort of story, isn't it, for blackmail?' I said.
'It seems a painfully usual one to me.'
'Does it? If you were in a brothel, would you write out a couple
of cheques on the NatWest, and sign them with your real name?
Particularly if you're such a shy, retiring violet as your precious
witness Mr X.'
Ballard looked at his watch. 'The Judge'11 be coming back,'
he said firmly.
The theological debate was over. Ballard left us and Fiona
Allways looked at me in evident distress. 'Five years!' she said.
'They'd really get five years?'
I finished my Bar Mess light ale and gave her my learned
opinion. 'You know what we need in this case? A witness who
knows something about Mr X. No one's going to come rushing
I to our aid while his name's kept a deadly secret. There, Fiona
old girl, is the rub.'
*
119
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
The gentleman in the Guards tie gave his damning evidence
of blackmail to an attentive jury and an appreciative Bull, and
it wasn't until later in the afternoon that I rose to cross-examine.
'You won't mind me calling you Mr X?' I started politely.
'No.'
'I thought you wouldn't. For how long were you a habitue
of this house of ill repute?'
'Really, Mr Rumpole,' the Judge protested. 'Does that make
the slightest difference?'
'Please answer the question.' I kept my eye on the witness.
'Unless my Lord rules against it, on a point of law.' My Lord
didn't.
'I had been visiting there for about five years.'
'On your way home from directing the nation's affairs?' The
question had the desired effect on his Lordship, who uttered a
loud rebuke. 'Mr Rumpole!'
'Very well,' I said in my usual conciliatory fashion. 'On your
way home from work. Before you got lost in the bosom of your
family, it was your practice to visit 66 Bamardine Square?' |»
'Yes,' Mr X answered reluctantly.
'How did you first hear of this place of resort?'
'Hear of it?' The witness seemed puzzled by the question.
'Yes. Bit of gossip at the Club, was it? Or an advertisement
in the Times personal column?'
There was a welcome little patter of laughter in Court. The
Judge didn't join in. It took some time for Mr X to answer.
'I heard about it from a friend.'
'An old friend? I don't mean in years, but a friend of long
standing?' .- ••
'Yes.' ?•
'I really can't imagine what the relevance of these questions
is.' Ballard rose to protest, and the Judge came to his assistance.
'Mr Rumpole. What has this got to do with it?' he asked
wearily.
'My Lord.' I decided to go into a bit of an aria. 'I'm fighting
this case in the dark, with my hands tied behind my back, against
a prosecution witness who has chosen to shelter behind
anonymity. I must be allowed to cross-examine him as I think
120
? Rumpole and the Old Boy Net
fit. After all, it would greatly add to the costs of this case if it
had to be reconsidered ... elsewhere.'
His Honour Judge Bullingham was no fool. He got the clear
reference to the Court of Appeal, where his interventions might
not look so attractive on the transcript of evidence as they sounded
in the flesh. He thought briefly and then came out, in judicial
tones, with 'I think we may allow Mr Rumpole to pursue his
line, Mr Ballard.' Then he turned to me and said, 'It remains
to be seen, of course, Mr Rumpole, if these questions will do your clients any good, in the eyes of the jury.'
So, having registered a sort of minor and equivocal success,
I turned back to the witness. 'Was it a friend you had known
from your schooldays, by any chance?' For that I got a reluctant
agreement. . ;
'You had kept up with him?' I went on. ;;
'No. We met again after an interval of a good many years.'- 'Where did you meet?'
'In a public house.' .:';;; '^.y -w'In
the Victoria area?' I took a gamble and asked.
'Somewhere near there. Yes.'
'Meet a nice type of girl in that public house, do you?'
'Mr Rumpole!' The Bull was growing restive again and^ad
to be dealt with.
'My Lord. I withdraw the question. What did your friend tell
you?' I asked the witness.
'He told me that he'd been ill. And that he'd had a bit of bad
luck in business. He said he had a house near Victoria Station
and his wife and he were starting a business there.' c .
'A business ... in agreeable ladies?'
We were then treated to a long pause before Mr X said, 'Yes.'
So, with a good deal of the preparatory work done, I decided
to be daring and ask a question to which I didn't know the answer
- always a considerable risk in cross-examination.
'Did you offer to put a little much-needed capital into this
business? I mean, the Court has kept your name a secret because
you are so respectable, Mr X. Were you in fact an investor in
a bawdy house?'
The jury looked so interested in the answer that Ballard rose
121
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
to make an objection. 'My Lord,' he said. 'The witness should
be warned.'
'I do know my job, Mr Ballard.' For the first time, Bullingham
sounded a little testy with the prosecution. Then he turned to
the witness and said, T should warn you that you are not bound
to answer any question that might incriminate you. Now, do you
wish to answer Mr Rumpole's question or would you prefer not
to?'
There was a long pause during which perhaps Mr X's whole
life flashed before his eyes, in slow motion. At long last he said,
in the nicest possible way, 'I would prefer not to, my Lord.'
I looked hard at the jury, raised an eyebrow or two, and
repeated, 'You would prefer not to?' As no answer came from
the witness-box I tried another question. 'Can you answer this.
How long ago was the meeting in the public house in Victoria?'
'About five years ago.' Mr X appeared to be back in answering
mood.
'And was the public house the Barnardine Arms?'
'Yes.' i,^
'And was the old school friend in question by any chance Mr
Napier Lee, the male defendant in this case?' He had only to
say, 'No,' politely, and I would have had to sit down with egg
all over my silly face. However, my luck stayed in, and Mr X
gave us a very quiet, 'Yes.'
'Speak up, Mr X,' I said.
'Yes, my Lord, it was. Mr Napier Lee.'
For some obscure reason, best known to Himself, God seemed
to be on my side that day. 8te
'So you met Mr Lee some five years ago,' I continued the cross1
examination. 'And his wife, Mrs Lorraine Lee?'
'I met her shortly afterwards.'
'When you started to patronize their business?' |»
'Yes.'
'So ever since he was an inky school boy in the fourth form
at Lawnhurst, Mr Napier Lee has known exactly who you were.'
'We met in Lower Five actually.' •
'In Lower Five. Oh yes. I stand corrected. So he has had at
least five years to blackmail you, if he wanted to.'
Rumpole and the Old Boy Net
Mr X gave a puzzled look at the jury, but they looked as if
they saw the point perfectly well. Then he answered, 'Yes.'
'And neither he nor his wife made any suggestion of this sort
until six months ago?'
'That is right,' Mr X admitted.
'When you were asked to pay a couple of trivial little gas and
electricity bills.' I opened my brief then, not a thing I find I
have to do too often, and fished out copies of the docume.nts in
question. 'Bills for 45 pounds and 37 pounds 53 pence' Mr X agreed. He seemed
to have something of a head for figures.
'And you paid these bills for the Lees by cheque?'
Yes.'
'Why on earth ... ?' My eyebrows went up again, and I turned
to the jury.
'Because, as I have told you, Mr Rumpole, they threatened
to tell my employers about my visits to their ... house unless
I did so.'
'I don't mean that.' I showed a little well-calculated impatience.
'I mean why pay by cheque?' S"
'I... I don't know exactly...' Mr X faltered. The point seemed
not to have occurred to him.
'Did you ever pay by cheque when you visited this house on
any other occasion?' $&'
'No.'
'Always in cash?' :<
'Ofcourse.' .. ' .:.,
'Yes. Of course,' I agreed. 'Because you didn't want to leave
a record of your name in connection with the Lees' "business".'
I paused as meaningfully as I could, and then asked, 'But on
the occasion of this alleged blackmail you did want to leave a
record?'
'I told you ... I don't know why I paid them by cheque.' Mr
X was looking to Ballard for help. None was immediately forthcoming.

'Was it because you wanted evidence on which to base this unfounded
allegation of blackmail against my clients?' I suggested.
'No!' Mr X protested vehemently, and then added, weakly,
_I suppose I just didn't think about it.'
.
123
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
'Thank you, Mr X!' I gave the jury a last meaningful look and
then sat down with the feeling of a job well done. His Lordship
leant forward and, in a quiet and reassuring tone of voice, did
his best to repair the damage.
'Mr X. I suppose you paid the ... "girls" at this establishment
in cash?' Bullingham's smile said, 'We're all men of the world
here, now aren't we?'
'Yes, my Lord. I did,' Mr X answered, encouraged.
'Did it strike you as a different matter when you were paying
the Gas Board and the Electricity Board?'
'Yes, my Lord.' The witness took the hint gratefully. %|i 'You saw no particular harm in paying those two great '""^' authorities by cheque?' Bullingham suggested gently.
'No harm at all, my Lord.' Mr X was clearly feeling better.
'Very well, we'll rise now.' The Judge smiled at the jury,
conscious of a job pretty well done. 'Shall we say, 10.30 tomorrow
morning?'
That night Hilda and I were sitting at leisure in the living room
of our 'mansion' flat at 25B Froxbury Court in the Gloucester
Road. She Who Must Be Obeyed was knitting some garment.
I have no idea what it was, except that it was long and pink and
was no doubt destined for her old school friend Dodo Mackintosh,
and I was smoking a small cigar, watching the tide go
down in a glass of Pommeroy's very ordinary, when She asked
me, not with the air of anyone who intended to listen too
closely to the answer, 'Went the day well?' or words to that
effect.
'You could describe it as a nightmare,' I confided in her, blowing
out smoke.
'You mean it's not going well?'
'Well.' I gave one of my mirthless laughs. 'We've got a prosecutor
who wears a hair shirt and seems to have done his
pupillage with the Inquisition. The Mad Bull is madder than
ever. The chief witness has this in common with the late
Lohengrin - no one must ever ask him his name. And my clients
think it's in the best public school tradition to get convicted of
blackmail. There we are, all together at the Old Bailey,
124
Rumpole and the Old Boy Net
Rolled round in earth's diurnal course,
With rocks, and stones, and trees ...
It's making my head ache.'
My glass seemed to have drained itself during this monologue.
I rose to refresh it from the bottle.
'I mean in Chambers. The Headship, Rumpole! Is it going to be ours?' Hilda asked with some impatience.
'You have great legal ambitions, Hilda. I'm sorry, I can't bring
you back the Lord Chief Justice's chain of office with a bottle
ofPommeroy's Chateau Plonkenheim.' I raised my glass to her,
in recognition of her fighting spirit, and drank.
'I'm not looking for Lord Chancellor, Rumpole,' Hilda told
me patiently. 'Just Head of Daddy's old Chambers. Of course,
I was brought up in the law.' There was a pause. She looked
at me with some suspicion, her knitting needles clicked, and then
she asked, 'There's no one more senior than you, is there? No
one else they might appoint?'
'No one who has been longer in the bottle as an Old Bailey
hack, no,' I reassured her.
'And no silks?' For a moment, Hilda stopped knitting, as
though her fingers were frozen in suspense. I gave her encouraging
news. 'Not as yet. Erskine-Brown's application doesn't
come up till after the meeting.'
'Then it's in the bag, isn't it?' Hilda breathed a sigh of relief,
and her knitting needles clicked again.
'Fear not, Hilda. So far as I can see, your election is assured.'
I poured another glass to drink to her success. I must say. She
Who Must Be Obeyed smiled with some satisfaction.
'Dodo's agreed to help me out at the party,' she told me. 'She
does all sorts of dips.'
'Damned versatile, old Dodo,' I agreed, and then with a mind
to see what, if anything, was going on in the world outside Froxbury
Court; I switched on the small and misty television set we
hire from Mr Mehta who keeps a shop full of electrical appliances
on our corner of the Gloucester Road. Thanks to the wonders
. of science, I was immediately rewarded by the sight of Fiona
Allways's friend Isobel Vincent, who was clutching a micro125
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
phone, wearing her boiler suit, standing under the dome of the
Old Bailey, and giving a waiting world much too much news of
the events that had occurred in Court during that eventful day.
'The Top People's Disorderly House Case,' said Izzy. 'Home
Counties News can reveal the fact that Mr X is in fact the very
senior civil servant at the Foreign Office, Sir Cuthbert Pericles.
He is just one of the men, highly placed in public life, who are
believed to have visited the house in Bamardine Square. This
is Isobel Vincent, Home Counties News, at the Old Bailey.'
I switched off the set, Isobel Vincent shrank to a small point
of light and vanished, unhappily not off the face of the earth.
I looked at Hilda, appalled. 'My God,' I said. 'What a disaster!'
'Whatever is it, Rumpole?' Hilda sighed. Again she was not
over-interested.
'You were nearest the window, Hilda. Didn't you hear a loud
noise,' I asked her, 'coming from Kensington?'
'What sort of noise?'
'His Honour Judge Bullingham,' I suggested, 'blowing up?',
The next day, his Honour was still in one piece, although sitting
on the Bench breathing heavily and a darker purple than ever.
I began to fear that we were about to witness one of the few
recorded cases of spontaneous combustion. He was delivering
a pretty decided judgement on Miss Isobel Vincent, who stood,
still defiantly boiler-suited, in the well of the Court in front of
him, about as apologetic as St Joan when called on to answer
a nasty heresy charge before the Inquisition.
'In almost half a century's experience at the Bar and on the
Bench, I have never known such a flagrant, wicked and inexcusable
Contempt of Court!' Bullingham boomed. I must say I
wasn't giving him my full attention. I was turning to the door
hoping that at any minute Mr Staines, my instructing solicitor, might come into Court with the news I was hoping and praying
for.
Meanwhile Isobel was still looking noble, Fiona Allways was
trying to look at no one in particular, and the Judge was still
; carrying on. 'I have heard that your employers. Home Counties 5 Television, had no idea that you were disobeying a Court Order.
Rumpole and the Old Boy Net
That will be investigated. If anyone who has been in this Court,
anyone at all, had anything to do with this matter ...' At this
point his Lordship could be seen glaring at Horace Rumpole.
'They will be sought out and punished.'
And then the miracle happened. Old Stainey filtered back into
Court and whispered the news that the man I was waiting for
was without, and he wanted to know if I would call him first.
'Of course I'll call him first,' I whispered back. 'It shouldn't
be long now. The Bull's running out of steam.'
'I will send the papers to the proper quarter in order that it
may be decided what action shall be taken against this most foolish
and wicked young woman ...' The Judge dismissed Isobel then,
and she left the Court with her head held high and a look at
Fiona which caused that young lady to blush slightly. Shortly
thereafter the show was on the road again, and I was on my hind
legs opening our defence to the jury.
'Members of the jury. It is my duty to outline to you the
evidence the defence is going to call. I'm going to call a
witness ...' - well, I hoped to God I was going to call a witness 'who
may be able to penetrate the pall of secrecy which has
fallen over this case. Someone, perhaps, may have the bad
manners and rotten taste to tell us the truth about the evidence.
Someone may be able to cast aside the "Old Boy Net" and
let the secret out. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I will now
call...' I paused long enough to stoop and whisper to old Staines,
who was sitting in front of me, 'Whom the hell will I now call,
Stainey?'
'Mr Stephen Lucas,' Mr Staines whispered back.
'I will now call Mr Simon ...' I started. pounds ^ -f,,;^^
'Stephen!'Another whisper from Stainey. ' ^.,^- '''"^ 'Mr Stephen Lucas.'I was confident at last. ?;;» 'Very well, Mr Rumpole.' The Judge picked up his pencil with
an air of resignation, and prepared to make a few jottings. And
then a man came into Court, entered the witness-box as though
he had a day full of far better things to do, and promised to tell
us the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. He was
a smaller, fatter, more jovial type of person than Mr X, but when
he spoke it was with the impatient confidence of someone who
127
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
had spent many years in a trusted position in the corridors of
power. He gave his name as Stephen Lucas.
'Are you a member of the Foreign Office Legal Department?'
I asked him.
'Yes, I am.' . : ;
'And do you know the witness we have called "Mr X"? I have
asked him to remain in Court so that you may identify him.'
The witness looked down at the man who was sitting in front
of Ballard with as much detachment as if Mr X were something
that had just arrived in his 'In tray'.
'Yes, I do,' he said.
'Are you a friend of his?'
'We meet, of course, in the Foreign Office,' Lucas said
cautiously. 'I would say I've known him fairly well, and over
a long period.'
'Of course. Do you remember having lunch with him at his
Club about a year ago? Was that at his invitation?'
'Yes, it was.' :>.
'What did he discuss, do you remember?'
'Well, we discussed a number of things, the work of my department
and so on, and then he asked me some questions about
the recent Contempt of Court Act. He seemed to want my opinion
about it, as a lawyer. It's not really my subject, but I told him
what I knew.'
'What aspect of the Act was our "Mr X" particularly interested
in?'
'In> the Court's power to order that the name of a witness in
a blackmail case should be kept secret, perhaps for ever.' The
witness paused. The jury were looking at him with interest and
the Bull, I was pleased to see, was writing busily. Then Lucas
went on with his story. 'I remember his saying that if you didn't
want your name to come out in a particular scandal or something
of that sort, all you would have to do would be to accuse someone
of blackmail.'
'Mr Lucas, what made you remember this conversation?' I
asked, to pre-empt a bit of Ballard's cross-examination.
'It was last night, when I heard Mr X's name on the television
news. I thought it might have some bearing on this case.'
Rumpole and the Old Boy Net
The Judge frowned, and I went on quickly to prevent any unfriendly
comment from the Bench. 'Tell us, Mr Lucas. You say
you've known Mr X for a long time. You weren't at school
together, by any chance?'
'No. I wasn't at Lawnhurst,' Lucas admitted.
'Or at any public school?'
'No.' . - .
Thank God, I thought, or we'd never have got a word out
of him. I sat down and Ballard was up with his long black silk
gown napping with indignation.
'So, Mr Lucas, you would never have come here to give
evidence if there hadn't been a flagrant Contempt of Court and
Mr X's name had not appeared on the television news.'
'That's right.' Lucas seemed to be not in the least worried
by the course of events.
'It's most unfortunate, I agree, Mr Ballard.' The Judge looked
sadly at the prosecutor. 'But I don't see what I can do about
it. I can't exclude this evidence.'
'Oh no, my Lord. But it is most unfortunate.' Ballard seemed
to be regretting some huge historical disaster, like the Decline
and Fall of the Roman Empire.
'Of course it is.' The Judge cast a meaningful glance at the
Rumpole faction. 'But the harm's been done.' Whether it was
harm or good, of course, depended on which side you were sitting.
Well, in due course the Lees gave evidence and denied the
blackmail in a pained sort of way, and answered Ballard's passionate
denunciations with excessively polite murmurs of dissent, as
though they were regretfully declining the offer of more bread
and butter. Later in the proceedings, my learned opponent gave
the jury another two-hour sermon, during the course of which
I was delighted to see them getting somewhat restive. And then,
almost before I knew it, final speech time was round again.
'Mr X couldn't give up his visits to the friendly house in
Bamardine Square, members of the jury,' I told them. 'But he
was always terrified that the place might be raided and his name
would come out in the ensuing scandal. So he hit on this somewhat
over-ingenious device: a couple of cheques, a sure proof
that he had paid money to the Lees, could lay the basis for a
129
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
trumped-up blackmail charge that would keep his name a secret
for ever! It was an elaborate plan, complicated, expensive and
entirely futile. Just the sort of plan, you may think, that would
occur to someone high in the government of our country. Why
was it futile? Because Mr X need have had no fear. The Lees
would never have betrayed his pathetic little secrets. You see,
it was for them, as it never was for him, a question of morality.
They had their code.'
At the end of it all the Judge summed up with surprising
moderation. The jury stayed out for three hours, and mugs of
tea were being served in the cells when we got down to discuss
the result with Mr and Mrs Napier Lee.
'A great win on the blackmail, Mr Rumpole.' Mr Staines, at
least, could always be relied on to say the right thing.
'Wasn't it, Stainey! Six months for the disorderly house, I'm
afraid,' I said regretfully.
'I just hope "Custard" doesn't think we sneaked on him.' Mr
Lee looked extremely worried.
'He knows we'd never do a thing like that!' Mrs Lorraine Lee
was consoling him. £ :
'Who the hell's "Custard"?' I felt I was losing my grip. '
'Pericles. His name's Cuthbert, so we called him "Custard"
at school.'
'I suppose that follows,' I admitted. l;
'We know we didn't break the code. Nappy. We've got that
to comfort us,' Lorraine told her husband. And I thought that
I'd add my own two pennyworth of consolation for them both.
'They'll probably send you to an open Nick,' I said. 'You might
meet some of the chaps from school.'
'I never went to Lawnhurst,' Mrs Lee said regretfully.
'By Jove, that's a point.' Napier seemed suddenly depressed.
'Daddy had set his heart on Roedean for me. But it was a
question of the readies,' Mrs Lee explained.
But Napier seemed to realize quite suddenly that he was about
to be separated from his wife. 'It's boys only where I'm going,
I suppose?' he said.
'I'm afraid so. No co-education.' I had to break it to him.
130
Rumpole and the Old Boy Net
'Sorry, old girl. We'll be separated.' He held out his hand to
his wife, and she took it.
'Not for long. Nappy,' she said. 'And we've had a marvellous
offer for the freehold.'
'Not to mention the good will!'
'Then you've just got to bear it for six months,' I said as I
moved to the door, the rest of the legal team following behind
me.
'When a chap's been to Lawnhurst, Mr Rumpole,' Napier said, 'he can't really feel afraid of prison.'
When we left them, they were still holding hands.
Walking back to Chambers with Miss Fiona Allways, I could
feel her deep embarrassment and fear of the subject which I knew
perfectly well I would have to mention. There was a fine rain
falling over Fleet Street then. The buses were roaring beside us,
no one could hear what I had to say and, I hoped to goodness, no one had guessed Miss Allways's secret; otherwise hers might
have been one of the shortest careers in the history of the legal
profession.
'You'd better learn something quickly, Fiona,' I told her. 'If
you want to be a barrister, keep the rules!'
'I don't know what you mean ...' she Started unconvincingly,
and then blushed beneath her headscarf.
'Don't you?' I looked at her. 'Don't worry. I don't imagine
Mzz Isobel Vincent is going to reveal her sources. She's all out
for glorious martyrdom, and I bet she doesn't want to share her
publicity with anyone.' We were turning into the Temple entrance,
and I stopped, faced her, and said with all the power
I could command, 'But you have to keep the rules! You can swear
at them, argue your way round them, do your damnedest to
change them, but if you break the rules yourself, how the hell
are you going to help the other idiots out of trouble?'
Miss Allways looked at me for a long time, and I hoped to
God I wasn't going to see her in tears ever again. 'I'll never get
a place in Chambers now,' she said.
'I don't know. Perhaps you will. Perhaps you won't,' I said
briskly and started to walk into our place of work. 'You can help
roe out on another little cause or matter.'
i3i
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
'Can I?' Miss Allways trotted behind me eagerly. I told h
what I had in mind. 'Look up the cases on Contempt of Coui why don't you?' I suggested. 'We may be having to cope wi
the defence of Mzz Vincent, and we've got to keep the good M;
out ofchokey. Martyrs make me exceedingly nervous.'
When I got into the clerk's room. Henry told me that
Chambers meeting was about to take place - a forum, I instant
realized, for preliminary discussions on the Headship, at whi< the way would be smoothed for the Rumpole takeover
Number 3 Equity Court. So, in the shortest possible time, tl ambitions of She Who Must Be Obeyed might be fulfilled. Befo
I went upstairs. Henry handed me a letter which, he said, hi
been delivered by hand as a matter of urgency. I stuffed it in
my pocket and went upstairs to what had been Guthrie Feathe
stone's room, and would now, I thought, be my room in pe
petuity.
As I got to the head of the stairs, I heard the buzz of voic
and, for a moment, I was puzzled that the meeting should ha1 started without my good self as the natural Chairperson ar
Master of Ceremonies. Then I supposed that they were mere
chattering about the splendours and miseries of their days
various Courts. I advanced a couple of steps, threw open tl
door, entered the room, and then, it is no exaggeration to sa . I was frozen in horror and dismay.
Of all the nasty moments in Macbeth's life, and they certain
came to him thick and fast after his encounter with the witche
I have always thought that by far the worst must have come whs he went to take his old place at the dinner party and found th
the ghost ofBanquo had got there before him, and was glowerir
at the poor old Thane in a blood-bolter'd and accusing sort i
way. So it was for me on the occasion of that Chambers meetin
only the person in the chair behind Guthrie's old desk, the mi
in the seat of honour directing the proceedings, was not Banqi
but Sam Ballard, One of Her Majesty's Counsel and found'
member of the Lawyers As Churchgoers Society. ; .
'Come along, Rumpole, you're late.' This spectre spoke. 'Ar
would you mind shutting the door.'
Rumpole and the Old Boy Net
'Bollard.' I looked around the room which contained Claude
Erskine-Brown, Hoskins, Uncle Tom (our oldest inhabitant) and
five or six other assorted barristers. Mrs Phillida Erskine-Brown,
our Portia, was apparently away doing a long firm fraud in York.
'What's this?' I asked Ballard. 'A prayer meeting or something?
What on earth are you doing here?'
'Hasn't anyone told you?' The man, Ballard, seemed genuinely
puzzled. 'Featherstone, j., said he'd written you a note as soon
as he knew you were back from Africa.'
I pulled the letter Henry had given me from my pocket, and saw
it was embossed with the insignia of the Royal Courts of Justice.
I have kept the Featherstone letter in my Black Museum to this
day, together with other criminally used instruments of murder
and mayhem, so I can now give it to you verbatim. All you will
miss is Guthrie's haphazard and occasionally illegible handwriting.
'Dear old Horace, old boy,' the letter ran. 'Just a brief note
to introduce Sam Ballard, who was, in fact, my fag master at
Marlborough, and is now a silk with an excellent practice in the
Midlands.' As I read this I felt a faint hope: perhaps the wretched
Bollard would stay in the Midlands. 'But,' the letter went on,
'Sam came to us looking for a London home. All the other fellows
agreed and, as you were off in the jungle, we knew you'd have
no objection. Someone'll have to take over as Head of Chambers
as I'm detained "During Her Majesty's Pleasure". And Sam
Ballard is clearly a likely candidate. But I don't want to interfere,
at this distance, with the democratic process of my old set.
Marigold joins me in sending all our best wishes to you and Hilda.
May you soldier on for many years yet, old fellow. Guthrie
Featherstone.'
'Glad you could make it to the meeting, Rumpole.' Hoskins
was smiling at me.
'Are you?' I took a seat by the door.
'We thought Roger Bullingham might have put you in chokey,
Horace, on a little matter of Contempt of Court!' Claude was
having his little joke.
H 'Oh, Erskine-Brown, you're so amusing!'
'Well. Now we're all assembled ...' The Bollard throat was
being cleared in an ecclesiastical manner.
i33
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
'Dearly beloved brethren,' I muttered.
'I suppose we should decide who is going to approach the Inn,
as the new Head of this Chambers,' Ballard ploughed on regardless.
'Now I don't suppose it's a matter we should want to discuss
in a public meeting.'
'What do you suggest we do, Bollard?' I asked. 'Go into a
session of silent prayer, and then send puffs of smoke up from
the clerk's room? Let's have it out, for God's sake.'
'Speaking for myself, I have been in these Chambers for a good
many years,' Erskine-Brown weighed in.
'Not half as long as Rumpole!' Uncle Tom made the first
pro-me remark. I thanked him for it silently, y.
'Rumpole's been here since the year dot, as far as I can remember,'
Uncle Tom added, less helpfully.
'And although I've not yet been able to put on the knee breeches
and silk gown, as you have, Ballard,' Erskine-Brown gave a
modest grin, 'my application is in to the Lord Chancellor's office
and I can't imagine there'll be any difficulty.'
'Don't count your chickens, old darling,' I warned him.
'Why? Have you heard anything?' I was relieved to see a look
of anxiety on the Erskine-Brown face.
'There's many a slip,' I improvised, 'between the knee breeches
and the hip.' This managed to get a .lone chuckle from Uncle
Tom.
'Of course, I'm a complete newcomer here,' Ballard started
off again, very seriously.
'Yes, you are,' I agreed. 'They just dropped you in with today's Times'
y 'But whoever heads these Chambers will, I hope, be able to
take the position seriously.' Ballard gave me an aloof sort of look.
'Here endeth the first lesson,' I said.
'It's also terribly important that whoever heads us should be
a barrister entirely sans reproche,' Claude suggested.
'Oh, absolument, Erskine-Brown,' I said.
'Our Chambers is riding high at the moment. One of our
number has just been made up to the High Court Bench,' Claude
went on.
'Oh, I agree.' Hoskins always agreed. 'We should remember
Rumpole and the Old Boy Net
that this election is caused because Guthrie Featherstone has been
made a judge.'
'The age of miracles is not dead.' I did a bit of agreeing myself.
'We must be careful to keep our high reputation,' ErskineBrown
said. 'It would be most unfortunate if we had a Head
who could possibly be accused of sharp practice.' He gave a casual
glance in my direction, and I asked him, 'What do you mean
exactly, Erskine-Brown?'
'I don't think there should be any speculation arising out of
the recent case at the Old Bailey,' Ballard was delighted to say.
'It's true a question of Contempt of Court did arise, but that
issue still has to be decided. There has been no finding as to
how the information was "leaked". Of course,' he also gave me
a look, 'one hopes that the "leak" didn't come from any member
of the legal profession.'
'Does one really hope that?' I asked, but Ballard ignored the
question.
'So I would ask you all to put the regrettable matter of a flagrant
Contempt out of your minds for the purposes of this decision.
Wouldn't you agree that that is the fair approach?'
'Oh, Bollard,' I thought. 'How very clever!'
'Well now. Rumpole, as an old member of this set...'
'Of course he's old. Rumpole can't help being old!' Uncle Tom
explained to the meeting.
'Have you anything to say?' Ballard asked.
'Why sentence of death should not be passed against me?' I
said, and then addressed them all. 'Only this. Don't forget the
claims of someone who has been associated with these Chambers
for far, far longer than any of you, who grew up in these flyblown
rooms and on this dusty staircase, who doesn't aspire to silk,
or judicial office, or even to appearing before the Uxbridge
Magistrates, one whose whole ambition is centred on that
meaningless title, "Head of Chambers"!'
'What's Rumpole talking about?' Uncle Tom asked no one in
particular.
'He means himself,' said Claude.
'No, Erskine-Brown,' I assured him. 'I don't mean me.'
I was thinking, of course, of She Who Must Be Obeyed, whose
^5
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
ambition to be married to the Head of her father's old Chambers
was, thinking again of the old Scottish Tragedy, much like Lady
Macbeth's bizarre longing to see her husband tricked out in
Duncan's crown. When I got home to our mansion flat. She was
ambling round a hot stove, and once again She asked me how it
went. s»M&: "
'Half and half,'I told her. '- ..
'What?' "
'The Lees got off the blackmail. Six months apiece on the disorderly
house.'
'I don't mean in Court! I mean in Chambers.^
'Well, it's in Court that things happen, Hilda. People don't
get sent to prison in Chambers. Well, not yet, anyway.'
'Oh, don't be so tiresome, Rumpole. I mean in the Chambers
meeting! Has it been decided yet?'
It was time to attack an evening bottle of the ordinary claret
with a corkscrew, and I did so without delay. Someone had to
celebrate something. „ >
'Well. Not finally,'I told her.
'But in principle, Rumpole. I mean, it's been decided in
principle?'
'Yes. Yes, I think so.' '^
'The Chambers party's on the 29th. That's when they'll announce
the decision, isn't it?'
'I shouldn't bother to go to that, Hilda.' I poured her a generous
slurp. 'They're pretty grim occasions.'
'This won't be grim!' She assured me. 'It'll be a triumph,
Rumpole. And nothing on earth is going to keep me away!' >
^^
Until the day of the Chambers party dawned, I avoided discussing
the subject further with Hilda, and She remained determined
to join in what she felt sure would be the jollifications. Not long
before the party, our assorted barristers voted on the question of
leadership, but for one reason or another I didn't bring home to
Hilda the result of their decision. On the day in question, several
large cardboard boxes, filled, so it seemed, with 'cocktail snacks',
were brought by Hilda's friend. Dodo Mackintosh, round to the
mansion flat, and I had to ferry them down to Chambers by taxi.
136
; Rumpole and the Old Boy Net
So, at the end of the day, we all assembled in the former
Featherstone room, where Henry and Dianne had set up a bar
on the desk, and had Dodo's delicacies set out on plates ready
for handing round. Hilda was there, resplendent in what seemed
to be a new rig-out, and there were a few other wives and girlfriends,
although Mrs Phillida Erskine-Brown, whose practice
seemed to be growing to gigantic proportions, was now away
doing an arson in Swansea.
I hovered around, keeping within pouring distance of the bar, and I heard my wife in close conversation with the blasted
Ballard. She seemed to be giving him a guided tour of Dodo's
cookery, which he was consuming steadily without interrupting
her flow of words.
'These are cheese-and-oniony, arid those are the little sausage
arrangements, if that's what you'd prefer,' I heard Hilda telling
him. 'Of course, I'll be looking after these parties now. Marigold
Featherstone was a sweet person, wasn't she? But I don't think
she took a great interest in the canapes.' The same could not
be said of Ballard. He took another couple of items from a plate,
and Hilda went on talking. 'That's a little prawny sort ofvol-auvent
arrangement. Frightfully light, isn't it? I do want these
evenings to be a success for Rumpole!'
There was a scatter of applause then for Henry, who requested
silence by bumping a glass on the desk, and Uncle Tom was
called on to say a few moderately ill-chosen words.
'It falls to me,' he started, 'as the oldest member of Chambers,
in the matter of years, to do honours here tonight.'
'Uncle Tom!' Hilda called out to him in high excitement. He
stopped and gave her a look of some surprise. 'Mrs Rumpole?'
'Carry on then. Uncle Tom,' Hilda gave her permission gracefully.

'Thank you. I remember Number 3 Equity Court years ago,
when old C. H. Wystan was Head of Chambers.'
'Uncle Tom remembers Daddy!' Hilda announced to the world
in general.
_ 'Exactly. And Horace Rumpole and I used to hang about
Iwaiting for work. I used to practise approach shots with an
|old mashie niblick! It seemed my one legal ambition was to
. i37
Rumpole ana
get my balls
This last
an asparagus
Uncle Tom
'Then the
Of course, 1
And now an'
'Hear, hea
'The man
by a comfort
but in the C
Who Must
mured, 'Rur
'He is a r
Uncle Tom
taking dinne
Cathedral, a
of Chamber
walketh in t
of the Centr
'The way;
to see him
temper!'
'Hilda!' I
'Not muc
She said, bu
'So let us
of Chamber
Equity Corn
'Rumpole
he announce
Counsel. Lo
They wer
say was, 'Ar
in her eyes.
'I'm sorry
'You neve
•I funked
Rumpole and the Old Boy Net
'Passed over again!' She dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief, sniffed and looked extremely bleak.
'Cheer up,' I said. 'It's not the end of the world. You know
you're still a great advocate. Terrific in an argument. Who cares
about being Head of Chambers?'
Henry had found a bottle of Pommeroy's special offer champagne
to toast our new leader, and I got my fingers round it.
Hilda looked at me coldly, and then pronounced judgement.
'You're a failure, Rumpole!' she said.
'Then take a slurp of champagne, why don't you?' I filled our
glasses. 'Let's drink to failure!'
But Hilda was looking across to where Ballard stood masticating.

'He's eating all Dodo's little cheesy bits. The cheek of it!' she
said. She sounded furious and I knew, with considerable relief,
that She Who Must Be Obeyed was herself again.
Rumpole and the Female of the Species
It may be said by those who read these memoirs, particularly by those of the female persuasion, that Rumpole is in some ways unsympathetic
to the aspirations of women. This may be because, in the privacy of my own thoughts and when writing late at night
in the solitary confines of my kitchen, I refer to my wife, Hilda
Rumpole, as 'She Who Must Be Obeyed'. It is true that I have
given her this title, but Hilda's character, her air of easy command
which might, if she had been born in other circumstances, have
brought empires under her sway, and her undisputed government
of our daily life at Froxbury Court, entitles her to no less an
acclamation. Those who feel that I am not firmly on the female
side in the Battle of the Sexes may care to consider my long
struggle to get Miss Fiona Allways accepted as a member of our
Chambers at Equity Court, and those who might think that I only
engaged myself in this struggle to annoy the egregious Bollard and
irritate Claude Erskine-Brown are guilty of a quite unworthy
cynicism.
The dispute over the entry of Miss Allways into our close-knit
group of learned friends arose during the time that our Chambers
had a brief in the Pond Hill bank job. We were charged with the
defence of Tony Timson.
I have written repeatedly elsewhere of the Timsons, the large
family of South London villains who, many years ago, appointed
me their Attorney-General and whose unending efforts have
brought a considerable amount of work to Equity Court. Tony
Timson belonged to the younger generation of the clan. He
occupied a pleasant, semi-detached house on a South London
estate with his wife, April, and their child, Vincent. His house
iwas lavishly furnished with a large variety of video-recording
machines, television sets, hi-fi equipment, spindriers, eye-line
140
Rumpole and the Female of the Species
grills, ultraviolet-ray cookers, deep freezes and suchlike aids to
gracious living. Many of these articles were said to be the fruit of
Tony Timson's tireless night work.
When Inspector Broome called at the Timson house shortly
after the Pond Hill bank job, he found the young master alone
and playing 'Home Sweet Home' on a newly acquired electric
organ. He also found five thousand pounds in crisp, new, neatly
packaged twenty-pound notes in the gleaming Super Snow White
Extra Deluxe model washing machine. Tony Timson was ripped
from the bosom of his wife April and young Vincent, and placed
within the confines of Brixton Prison, and I wondered if I should
ultimately get the brief.
The appointment of Rumpole for the defence should, of course,
have been a foregone conclusion. But the Timson SolicitorGeneral
was Mr Bernard, and between that gentleman and Rumpole
there was a bit of a cold wind blowing, owing to a tiff which
had taken place one day at the Uxbridge Magistrates Court. I had
arrived at this particular Palais de Justice a little late one day,
owing to a tailback on the Piccadilly Line, only to discover that
the gutless Bernard had allowed our client of the day to plead
guilty to a charge of handling. He had thrown in the towel!
I hadn't actually been rude to Mr Bernard. I had merely
improved his education by quoting Shakespeare's Richard II.
'0, villain, viper, damned without redemption!' I said to my
instructing solicitor, 'Would you make peace? Terrible hell
make war upon your spotted soul for this.' Mr Bernard, it seemed,
hadn't appreciated the quality of the lines and there was, as
I say, an east wind blowing between us. So I wasn't greatly
surprised when Henry gave me an account of what happened
when Bernard came into our clerk's room and gave Henry the
brief in R. v. Timson. Henry said that he supposed that would be
for Mr Rumpole.
'You suppose wrong, young man,' Mr Bernard said firmly.
'Do I?' Henry raised his eyebrows.
'The brief is clearly marked for the attention of Mrs Phillida
Erskine-Brown,' Bernard pointed out, and Henry saw that it was
so. 'I can put up with a good deal. Henry, from members of the
so-called senior branch of our great profession,' Mr Bernard told
141
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
him, 'but I will not be called a villainous viper in the clear hearing
of the Clerk to the Uxbridge Magistrates Court.'
At which point Mrs Phillida Erskine-Brown, now an extremely
successful lady barrister, entered the clerk's room and Henry
handed her the papers.
'A wonderfully prepared brief, I don't doubt, like all Mr Bernard's
work.' Phillida smiled with great charm at the glowing
solicitor, and then asked tactfully, 'How's your daughter, Mr
Bernard? Polytechnic going well still, is it?' Mrs Erskine-Brown,
since the days when she was plain Miss Phillida Trant, hadn't got
where she was by legal ability alone; she was expert at public
relations.
'Three A's,' Mr Bernard was delighted to say. 'Thank you for
asking.'
'And still keeping up her figure skating, I bet. Chip off the old
block, wouldn't you say so. Henry? See you in Brixton, Mr
Bernard.'
She flashed another smile and went on her way, whereupon
Bernard told Henry that he always thought that Mrs ErskineBrown
had a real feeling for the law.
I had decided to improve the facilities in our mansion flat at
Froxbury Court by erecting a shelf on our living-room wall to
accommodate such necessities as The Oxford Book of English
Verse (the Quiller-Couch edition). Professor Andrew Ackerman
on The Importance of Bloodstains in the Detection of Crime, Archbold's
Criminal Pleading and Practice - a little out of date,
and a spare bottle or two of Chateau Thames Embankment of a
fairly recent year. I celebrated my entry into the construction
industry by buying what I think is known as a 'kit' of Easy-Do
Convenience Shelving and a few basic tools, and in no time at all,
such was my natural feeling for woodwork, I had the shelf up and
triumphantly bearing its load.
When I showed the results of my labours to Hilda, she didn't
immediately congratulate me, but asked, unnecessarily I thought,
if I had 'plugged' the wall in accordance with the instructions that
came in the 'Easy-Do' box.
'I never read the instructions to counsel before doing a murder,
142
Rumpole and the Female of the Species
Hilda,' I told her firmly. 'Rely on the facts, and the instinct of the
advocate. It's never let me down yet in Court.'
'Well, I do notice you haven't been in Court very much lately.'
Hilda took an unfair advantage.
'A temporary lull in business. Nothing serious,' I assured her.
'It's because you're rude to solicitors.' Hilda, of course, knew
best. I didn't want to argue the matter further, so I told her that
my new shelf was firm as a rock, and added an air of distinction
to our living room.
'Are you sure it's straight?' Hilda asked. 'I think it's definitely
at an angle.'
'Oh really, Hilda! It's because you're at an angle,' I said, I'm
afraid a little impatiently. 'One small gin and tonic at lunchtime
and you do your well-known imitation of the Leaning Tower of
Pisa.'
'Well, if that's how you talk to solicitors,' Hilda was starting to
tidy away my carpenter's tools and sweep up the sawdust, 'no
wonder I've got you at home all day.' As I have remarked earlier,
there is a good deal to be said in favour of She Who Must Be
Obeyed, but she's hardly a fair opponent in an argument.
I left our improved home and went down to Chambers and,
there being not much else to engage my attention before a five
o'clock Chambers meeting, I took a little time off to instruct Miss
Fiona Allways, who had proudly acquired a case entirely of her
own, in the art of making a final speech for the defence. Picture us
then, alone in my room, the teacher Rumpole standing as though
to address the Court and the pupil Allways sitting obediently to
learn.
'Soon this case will be over, members of the jury.' I gave her
my usual peroration. 'In a little while you will go back to your jobs
and your families, and you will forget all about it. At most it is
only a small part of your lives. But for my client it is the whole of
his life! And it is that life I leave with confidence in your hands,
certain that there can be only one verdict in this case - "Not
Guilty"! ... Sink down exhausted then, Fiona,' I told her,
'mopping the brow.' I sat and plied a large red spotted handkerchief.
'Good end to a final speech, don't you think?'
' i43
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
'Will it work just as well for me?' she asked doubtfully. 'I mean, my man's only accused of nicking six frozen chicken pieces from
Safeways.'
'Goes just as well on any occasion!' I assured her.
And then Claude Erskine-Brown put his head round the dooi- and told me that Ballard was upstairs and just about to start the
Chambers meeting. Erskine-Brown then retired and Fiona looked
at me in a despondent sort of manner.
'Is this when they decide,' she sounded desperately anxious, 'if
they're going to let me stay on here?'
'Don't worry. I shall tell them...' I promised her.
'What?'
'Well, let me think. Something like, "The female of the species
is more deadly than the male." Look on the bright side. Miss
Allways. Perk up, Fiona. I've cracked far tougher Courts than
that lot up there!'
I went to the door without any real idea of how to handle
the case of Allways and then, as so often happens, thank God,
inspiration struck. I turned back towards her.
'Oh, by the way,' I said. 'Just one question. You know old
Claude, who just popped his head in here?'
'Mr Erskine-Brown?'
'He doesn't tickle your fancy, does he, by any chance? You
don't find him devastatingly attractive?'
'Of course not!' Fiona managed her first smile of the day. 'He's
hardly Paul Newman, is he?'
'No, I suppose he isn't.' I must confess the news came to me as
something of a relief. 'Well, that's all right then. I'll see what I
can do.'
Ballard had made a few changes, none of them very much for
the better, in Featherstone's old room. Guthrie's comfortable
chairs had gone, and his silver cigarette-box, his picture of Marigold
and the children, his comforting sherry decanter and bone
china tea service and his perfectly harmless watercolours. Ballard
had few luxuries except a number of etchings of English cathedrals
in plain, light oak frames, the corners of which protruded in a
Gothic and ecclesiastical manner, and an old tin of ginger biscuits
which stood on his desk, and which he never offered about.
144
Rumpole and the Female of the Species
'Sorry. Am I late for Evensong?' I asked cheerfully as I sat
beside Uncle Tom. Ballard, without a glance in my direction,
continued with the business in hand.
'We have to consider an application by Fiona Allways for a
permanent seat in Chambers,' he said. 'Mrs Erskine-Brown, you
were her pupil master.'
'Mistress,' I corrected him, but nobody noticed.
'It's an extremely tough life at the Bar for a woman,' Phillida ^poke from the depths of her experience. 'I'm by no means sure
that Allways has got what it takes. Just as a for instance, she burst
into tears when left alone at Thames Magistrates Court.'
'I know exactly how she felt,' I said. 'That was never my
favourite tribunal.'
'Of course. Rumpole's done a case with her.' Ballard looked at
me in a vaguely accusing manner.
'She took a note for me once. Something about her I liked,' I
had to admit. And when Hoskins asked me what it was, I said that
she felt strongly about winning cases.
'Who is this fellow Allways?' Uncle Tom asked with an expression
of mild bewilderment.
'This fellow's a girl. Uncle Tom,' I told him.
'Oh, good heavens. Are we getting another one of them?' Our
oldest inhabitant grumbled, and Mrs Erskine-Brown brought the
discussion up to date by saying, 'I really don't think that the mere
fact that this girl is a girl should guarantee her a place at 3Equity
Court.'
'Philly's perfectly right.' Claude came in as a dutiful husband
should. 'We shouldn't take in a token woman, like a token black.'
'Are we taking in a black woman, then?' Uncle Tom merely
asked for clarity.
'Why not?' I said. 'I could've brought one back from Africa.'
'This is obviously a problem that has to be taken seriously.'
Ballard spoke disapprovingly from the chair.
'Well, I think we should go for a well-established man. Someone
who's got to know a few solicitors, who can bring work to
Chambers,' Mrs Erskine-Brown suggested politically.
'Steady on, Portia old fellow,' I cautioned her. 'Whatever
happened to the quality of mercy?'
i45
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
'I honestly don't see what mercy has to do with it.'
'Dear God,' I was moved to say. 'It seems but yesterday that
Miss Phillida Tram, white in the wig and a newcomer to the ladies'
robing room, was accusing Henry of hiding the key to the lavatory,
as a sexist gesture! Can it be that now you've stormed the citadel
you want to slam the door behind you?'
'Really, Rumpole!' Ballard called me to order. 'You're not
addressing a jury now. I don't think anyone could possibly accuse
this Chambers of having the slightest prejudice against female
barristers.'
'Of course not. Provided they settle somewhere else, no doubt
we find them quite delightful,'I agreed. .
'I believe I've told you all that I've applied for a silk gown.'
Erskine-Brown was never tired of telling us this.
'And I'm sure you'll look extremely pretty in it,' I assured
him.
'And from what I hear, quite informally of course...' p
'In the bag, is it, Erskine-Brown?'
'That's not for me to say, bu.t.Philly is, of course, right behind
me in this.' JSSft,
'Absolutely,' his wife assured him. The Erskine-Browns were
in a conjugal mood that day. And he rambled on, saying, 'So with
two Q.C.s at the top, it would be a great pity if these Chambers
became weak in the tail.'
'What would be a pity?' Uncle Tom asked me. < •;..
'If our tail got weak. Uncle Tom.'
'Of course it would.' It was a puzzling meeting for the old boy.
Erskine-Brown didn't further enlighten him by saying, 'I'm not
interested in the sex side, of course.' I noticed then that his wife
was looking into the middle distance in a detached sort of way.
'But I just don't feel that Allways is the right person to carry on
the best traditions of these Chambers.'
'I agree,' Hoskins agreed, ^la
'So Fiona Allways can swell the ranks of the unemployed?' I
asked with some asperity.
'Oh, come on, Rumpole. She's got a rich daddy. She's not
going to starve.' ^. sl
'Only miss the one thing she's ever wanted to do,' I grumbled,
146
Rumpole and the Female of the Species
but Ballard was collecting the final views of the meeting. He asked
Uncle Tom for his considered opinion.
'I remember a Fiona. Used to work in the List Office.' Uncle
Tom wasn't particularly helpful. 'She wasn't black, of course. No,
I'm against it.'
'Well, I think I've got the sense of the meeting. I shall tell Miss
Allways that she'll have to look elsewhere.'
It was time for quick thinking, and I thought extremely quickly.
The best way to confuse lawyers is to tell them about a law which
they think they've forgotten.
'Just a moment.' I hauled a diary out of my waistcoat pocket.
'What is it, Rumpole?' Ballard sounded impatient.
'This isn't the third Thursday of the Hilary Term!' I said
severely.
'Of course it isn't.' Erskine-Brown had not got my point, but I
had, just in time. 'Well!' I said positively. 'We always decide
questions of Chambers entry on the third Thursday of the Hilary
Term. It was the rule of my sainted father-in-law's day. Guthrie
Featherstone, Q.c., observed it religiously. Of course, if the new
broom wants to make any radical changes ... ? I looked at Ballard
in a strict sort of way, and I must say he flinched.
'Well. No,' he said. 'I suppose not. Are you sure it's the rule?'
He looked at Erskine-Brown, who couldn't say he remembered
it.
'You were in rompers, Erskine-Brown, when this thing was
first decided,' I told him impatiently. 'Our old clerk, Albert, said
it was impossible otherwise, from a book-keeping point of view.
I do think we should keep to the rules, don't you. Bollard? I mean,
we can't have anarchy at Equity Court!'
'That's in four weeks' time.' Ballard was consulting his diary
now. .
. 'Exactly!'
Ballard put away his diary and came to a decision. 'We'll deal
with it then. It shouldn't take long, as we've reached a conclusion.'

'Oh no. A mere formality,' I agreed.
'What are you playing at, Rumpole?' Mrs Erskine-Brown was
Booking at me with some suspicion.
i47
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
'Nothing much, Portia,' I assured her. 'Merely keeping up the
best traditions of these Chambers.' .
The Pond Hill branch of the United Metropolitan Bank was
held up by a number of men in stocking masks, who carried
holdalls from which emerged a sawn-off shotgun or two and a
sledgehammer for shattering the glass in front of the cashier.
When the robbery was complete the four masked men ran to the
getaway car, a stolen Ford Cortina, which was waiting for them
outside the bank, and it was this vehicle, the prosecution alleged,
that Tony Timson had been driving. On the way to the car one of
the men stumbled and fell. He was seized upon by an officer on
traffic duty, and later found to be a Mr Gerry Molloy -- a remarkable
fact when you consider the deep hostility which has always
existed between the Timson family and the clan Molloy. Indeed, these two tribes have hated each other for as long as I can remember
and I have already chronicled an instance of their feud.*
It seems that all the other men engaged on the Pond Hill
enterprise were Molloys. They got away, so it was hardly to be
wondered at that Mr Gerald Molloy decided to become a grass
and involve a Timson when he told his story to the police.
In the course of time Mrs Erskine-Brown and her instructing
solicitor went to Brixton to see their client but, as I later heard
from him and from Mr Bernard, Tony Timson seemed to have
only one thing on his mind as he walked into the interview room
and said, 'Where's Mr Rumpole?' ,
Phillida Erskine-Brown, in her jolliest, 'we're all lads together'
voice, merely said, 'Care for a fag. Tony?' Tony didn't
mind if he did, and when Phillida had lit it for him, Bernard broke
the bad news. ^^
'This is Mrs Erskine-Brown, Tony,' he said. 'She's going to be
your brief.'
'I see they've charged you with taking part in the robbery, not
merely the receiving. Of course, they've done that on Gerry
Molloy's evidence.' Phillida started off in a businesslike way, but
* See 'Rumpole and the Younger Generation' in Rumpole of the Bailey, Penguin
Books, 1978.
148
Rumpole and the Female of the Species
Tony Timson was looking at his solicitor in a kind of panic and
baying no attention to her at all.
'Mr Rumpole's always the Timsons' brief,' he said. 'You know
that, Mr Bernard. Mr Rumpole defended my dad, and my Uncle
Cyril and saw me through my Juvenile Court and my Borstal
training...'
'Mr Rumpole can't have done all that well for you if you got
Borstal training,' Bernard said reasonably.
'Well...' Tony looked at Phillida for support. 'Win a few, lose a few, you know that, missus?'
'Any reason why Gerry Molloy should grass on you. Tony?'
Phillida tried to return to the matter in hand.
'Look. It's good of you to come here but...'
At which Phillida, no doubt in an attempt to reassure the client,
lapsed into robbers' argot. 'You ever had a meet with him where
any sort of bank job was ever mentioned?' she asked. 'Molloy says
in the deps that he was the sledge, two others had sawn-offs in
their holdalls, and you were the driver. He says you're pretty good
on wheels. Tony.'
'This is highly embarrassing, this is.' Tony looked suitably
pained at Phillida's personal knowledge of crime.
'What is. Tony?' She did her best to sound deeply sympathetic.
'You being a woman and all. It don't feel right, not with a
woman.'
'Don't think of me as a woman. Tony,' she tried to reassure
him. 'Think of me entirely as a brief.'
'It's no good.' Tony shook his head. 'I keep thinking of my
wife, April.'
'Well, of course she's worried about you. That's only natural,
seeing you got nicked. Tony.'
'I don't mean that. I mean I wouldn't want a woman like my
April to take on my job, would I? Briefs, and us what gets ourselves
into a bit of trouble down the Bailey and that. It's all man's
work, innit?'
Well, that may come as a shrewd shock to all readers of those
women's pages which I have occasionally glanced at in Fiona
Allways's Guardian, but I'm told that it is exactly what Tony
Timson said. As a consequence it was a rueful Phillida Erskine-
149
Rumpole and the Golden Thread fe
Brown who walked away from the interview room, across the yard
where the screws exercised the alsatians and the trusties weeded
the flower beds, towards the gate.
'The Timsons are such old-fashioned villains.' Mr Bernard
apologized for them. 'They're always about half a century behind
the times.' ;
'It's not your fault, Mr Bernard,' said Phillida miserably.
'You wait till my wife gets to hear about this! They're pretty
hot on women's rights in the Hammersmith S.D.P.' Bernard was
clearly deeply affronted. ;-,•;, ;
'It's the client's right to choose.' Phillida was taking it on the
chin.
'It's decent of you to be like that about it, Mrs Erskine-Brown.
It's absolutely no reflection on you, of course. But...' Bernard
looked deeply embarrassed. 'I'm afraid I'll have to take in a chap
to lead you.'
They had arrived at the gatehouse and were about to be sprung,
when Phillida Erskine-Brown looked at Mr Bernard and said she
wondered who the chap would be exactly, agfe
'It goes against the grain,' said Bernard, 'buf we've really got
no choice, have we?' i
A good deal later that evening I was on my way home when I
happened to pass Pommeroy's Wine Bar and, in the hope that
they might be offloading cooking claret at a reasonable rate, I
went in and saw, alone and palely loitering at the bar with an
oldish sandwich and a glass of hock, none other than Claude
Erskine-Brown. I saw the chance of playing another card in the
long game of 'Getting Fiona into Chambers', and I engaged the
woebegone figure in conversation, the burden of which was that
Phillida was so enormously busy at the Bar that the sandwich
might well have to do for the Erskine-Brown supper.
'Of course,' I said sympathetically. 'Your wife must be pretty
hard pressed now she's taken the Timsons off me.'
'She doesn't get home in the evenings until Tristan's gone to
bed,' Erskine-Brown told me, and I looked at him and said, 'Just
as well.' I;?
'Do you think so?' The man sounded slightly offended. - '.
150
Rumpole and the Female of the Species
'Just as well young Fiona Allways isn't coming into Chambers,'
I explained.
'You agree that we shouldn't take her?'
'In all the circumstances, well, perhaps I'd better not say anything.'

'What do you mean, Rumpole?' Erskine-Brown was puzzled.
'It might have raised all sorts of problems. I mean, it might have
got too much for you to handle.'
'What might have got too much for me to handle?'
'It would create all sorts of difficulties, in the spring, and all
that sort of thing. We don't want the delicate perfume of young
Fiona floating round Chambers, do we?' I said, as casually as
possible.
'Well, I don't suppose I'd've seen much other.'
'Oh, but you would, you know.'
'Not as a silk.'
'You'd've been thrown together. Chambers meetings. Brushing
past each other in the clerk's room. Before you knew where
you were you'd be popping out for tea and a couple of chocky
biscuits in the ABC.' I looked as gravely concerned as I knew
how. 'Terribly dangerous!'
'Why on earth?' He still hadn't quite caught my drift.
'Well, you know exactly what these young lady barristers are,
impressionable, passionate even, and enormously impressed with
the older legal hack, especially one teetering on the verge of knee
breeches and a silk gown.'
'You don't mean...?'! could see that now he had perked up
considerably.
'And she seems to find you extremely personable, Claude!' I
laid it on thick. 'You put her in distinct mind, so she has told me, of a film actor - "Newman", could that be the name?' I asked
innocently, and drained my glass. At which moment, Claude
Erskine-Brown took off his spectacles and admired himself in one
of the mirrors, decorated with fronds of frosty vegetation, that
cover Pommeroy's walls. 'Ridiculous!' he said, but I could see
that the old fish was well and truly hooked.
'Of course it's ridiculous,' I agreed. 'But on second thoughts,
,^r better she doesn't get into Chambers. Wouldn't you agree?' I
A ^
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
left him then, but as I went out of Pommeroy's, Erskine-Brown
was still looking at himself shortsightedly in the mirror.
The next day Henry gave me the glad news that I was to be leading the extraordinarily busy Mrs Phillida Erskine-Brown in
the Timson defence. It seemed that Mr Bernard had seen sense
on the subject of our little disagreement at Uxbridge, but Henry
told me, extremely severely, that he couldn't go on clerking for
me if I called my instructing solicitor a 'viper' again. I asked him
if he'd pass 'snake', assured him I wasn't serious, and then went
up to seek out our new Head of Chambers in his lair.
I was going to play the next card in the Fiona Allways game. I
knocked at the door, heard a cry of 'Who is it?' and found Ballard
with a cup of tea and a ginger biscuit working on some massive
prosecution involving a large number of villains who were all
represented by different-coloured pencils.
'Oh. It's you.' Our leader didn't sound particularly welcoming.
All the same I came in, pushed Ballard's papers aside and sat on
the edge of his desk.
'Just thought I ought to give you a friendly warning,' I started
confidentially.
'Isn't it you that needs warning? Henry tells me that you've
taken to being offensive to Mr Bernard.'
I lit up a small cigar and blew out smoke. Ballard coughed
pointedly.
'It doesn't do Chambers any good, you know, insulting a
solicitor,' he told me. By way of an answer I closed my eyes and
tried a vivid description.
'Fascinating character!' I began. 'Marvellous hair, burnished
like autumn leaves. Tender white neck, sticking out of the
starched white collar...' ?»
'Mr Bernard?' Ballard was puzzled. - "
'Of course not!' I put him right. 'I was speaking of Miss Phillida
Tram, now Mrs Erskine-Brown.' I brought out the packet of
small cigars and offered it. 'You don't smoke, I suppose?'
: Riia'You know I don't.'
.S-f'What do you do, I wonder?' There was a short diversion as
Ballard blew my ash off his depositions and then I said thoughtfully,
'Gorgeous creature in many ways, our Portia.'
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Rumpole and the Female of the Species
'With a most enviable practice, I understand,' Ballard agreed.
'Perhaps she's polite to solicitors.'
'Determined to rise to the absolute top.'
'I have the highest respect for Phillida, of course, but...'
'Devious.' I supplied the word. 'A brilliant mind, of course, but
devious!'
'Rumpole. What are you trying to tell me?' Ballard seemed
anxious to bring our dialogue to a swift conclusion.
'The way she got you to show your sexual prejudices at that
Chambers meeting!' I said with admiration.
'My what... ?' ;
'Your blind and Victorian opposition to women in the legal
profession. I believe she's writing a report on that to the Bar
Council. Plus ten articles for the Observer, in depth.'
'But Rumpole, she spoke against Allways.' Ballard was already
arguing weakly.
'What a tactician!' For the sake of emphasis, I gave Ballard a
brisk slap on the shoulder.
'She seemed totally opposed to the girl.' : .
I slipped off his desk and took a turn round the room. 'Just to
lead you on, don't you see? To get you to show your hand. You
walked right into it. Bollard. I can see the headlines now!
"Christian barrister presides over sexist redoubt!" "Bollard, Q.c.,
puts the clock back fifty years."'
'Ballard.' He corrected me without too much conviction and
said, 'I didn't take that attitude, surely.'
'You will have done!' I assured him, 'by the time our Phillidf 's
finished with you. Don't cross her. Bollard, I warn you. She has
the ear of the Lord Chancellor. I don't know if you were ever
hoping for some sort of minor judgeship ...' I went to the door
and then turned back to Ballard. 'Of course, you have one thing
in your favour.'
'What's that?' He seemed prepared to clutch at a straw. It was
then that I played the ace. 'Our Portia seems to have taken
something of a shine to you,' I told him. '"Craggily handsome"
I think was the way she put it. I suppose there's just a chance you
might get round her. Try using your irresistible charm.'
II left him then. The poor old darling was looking like a person
i53
Rumpole and the Gola
who has to choose bet
of hemlock.
Whatever may be s
still something about man almost entirely fi
both Erskine-Brown
resolute. When the q
young woman, they I
thoughts passed throi
at the ceiling, while F brushing her hair bef
'What are you thil
Rumpole. You're lyir
'I was thinking,' '. female of the species.
'Oh, were you inde
'On the one hand
terror!'
'Really, Rumpole,.
'And fierce resentn
'Is that what you w
'And yet he finds hi
ibie. Faced with a wh
a state bordering on i.
'Rumpole. Are yoi
siderably. The room
water. Hilda was spra
'She is a w(
She is a we
I repeated sleepily.
I saw Hilda emerge the bed. She said, '(
sleep claimed me, am
One afternoon I to
my learned junior, }
Rumpole and the Female of the Species
Mr Bernard waiting for us and replying to my hearty greeting in
a somewhat guarded manner.
'Hail to thee biythe Bernard!' I said, and he replied, 'We're
taking you in on the express wishes of the client, Mr Rumpole.
Just for this case.'
I then became aware of a pleasant-looking young woman with
blonde hair and a small, rather plump child who was sitting
slumped in a pushchair, regarding me with a wary eye.
'Mr Rumpole.' The lady introduced herself. 'I'm April Timson.
Tony's that glad that you're going to be his brief.'
My companion looked less than nattered, but I greeted our
client's family warmly.
'Mrs Timson, good of you to say so. And who's this young
hopeful?'
'That's our young Vince. Been in to see his dad,' said the child's
proud mother.
'Delighted to meet you, Vincent,' I said, and managed to
leave a thought with April which might pay off in the course
of time. 'Let me know,' I said, 'the moment he gets into
trouble.'
'Straight up, it's a sodding plant,' said Tony Timson, and then
turned apologetically to my junior. 'Pardon my French.'
'Don't be so silly. Tony.' Phillida didn't like not being taken for
one of the boys. We were sitting in a small glass-walled room in
the interview block at Brixton, and I felt I had to question Tony
further as to his suggested defence.
'What sort of a plant are you suggesting,' I asked. 'A floribunda
of the Serious Crimes Squad or an exotic bloom cultivated by the
Molloys?'
'That D.I. Broome. He's got no love for the Timsons,' Tony
grumbled. .
'Neither have the Molloys.' ; •; ' „; •
'That's true, Mr Rumpole. That's very true.'
'A plant by the supergrass's family? I suppose it's possible.' I
considered the suggestion.
'I'd say it's typical.'
'So some person unknown brought in the cash and popped it
•EEi^
?' . '* 155
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
into your Super Snow White Extra DeLuxe Easy-Wash?' I
framed the charge.
'The jury may now wonder how Tony can afford all these
luxuries out of window-cleaning,' Phillida suggested.
'It's not a luxury. My April says it's just something you got to
have,' said Tony, the proud householder.
'You know how he affords these things, Portia?' I explained our
case to one not expert in the Timson branch of the law. 'Tony's a
minor villain. Small stuff. Let's have a look at his form.' I plucked
a sheet of paper from my brief. 'Warehouse-breaking, shopbreaking,
criminal damage to a set of traffic lights ...'
'I misjudged a turning, Mr Rumpole,' Tony admitted. It was
the item of which he seemed slightly ashamed. But there was more
to come.
'Careless driving, dangerous driving, failure to report an accident,'
I read out. 'Look here, old sweetheart. If I get you out of
this, do promise not to give me a lift home.'
t;.-'
That same evening, Claude Erskine-Brown put his head round
the door of my room, where Miss Fiona Allways was looking up
a bit of law, and invited her to join him in a bottle ofPommeroy's
bubbly. Naturally anxious to be on friendly terms with those who
held her legal future in their hands, she accepted the invitation,
and I am indebted to her for an account of what then took
place.
Once ensconced at a corner table in the shadowy regions of the
wine bar, Erskine-Brown took off his spectacles and sighed as
though worn out by the cares of office.
'It can be lonely at the top, Fiona,' he said. 'I mean, you may
wonder what it feels like to be on the verge of becoming a Q.C.'
Perhaps he was waiting for her to say something, but as she didn't
he repeated with a sigh, 'I'll tell you. Lonely.'
'But you've got Mrs Erskine-Brown.' Fiona was puzzled.
Claude gave her a sad little smile. 'Mrs Erskine-Brown! I seem
to see so little of Phillida nowadays. Pressures of work, of course.
No,' he went on seriously, 'there comes a time in this job when a
person feels terribly alone.'
'I suppose so.' Fiona felt the topic was becoming exhausted.
156
Rumpole and the Female of the Species
'I envy you those happy, carefree days when you hop from
Magistrates Court to Magistrates Court, picking up little crumbs
of indecent exposure.'
'Frozen chicken,' Fiona corrected him.
'What?' Erskine-Brown looked puzzled.
'I was doing a case about frozen chicken pieces. It seemed quite
a responsibility to me.'
As the subject had moved from himself Claude's attention
wandered. He looked across to the bar and said, 'Is that old
Rumpole over there?' : ;a ,f''/:'
'Why?' Fiona asked, in all innocence. 'Can't you see without your glasses?'
In fact, and this Erskine-Brown didn't notice, perhaps because
she was hidden in the melee at the bar, I had come into the joint
with Phillida in order that we might refresh ourselves after a hard
conference at Brixton. I said I hoped she had no hard feelings
about me being taken in to lead her in the Timson affair. She
confessed to just a few hard feelings, but was then sporting
enough to buy us a perfectly reasonable bottle.
'Criminals and barristers, Portia,' I told her as Jack Pommeroy
was uncorking the claret. 'Both extremely conservative professions
...'
But before she had time to absorb this thought, Phillida was off
like a hound on the scent towards a corner of the room. Again I
have to rely on Miss Allways's account for what was going on at
the distant table.
'And if ever you have the slightest problem,' Erskine-Brown
was saying gently, 'of a legal nature, or anything else come to that,
don't hesitate, Fiona. A silk's door is always open to a member of
Chambers, however junior.'
'A member of Chambers?' Fiona repeated hopefully.
'I'm sure. I mean, some old squares are tremendously prejudiced
against women, of course. But speaking for myself...'
He put a hand on one of Fiona's which she had left lying about on
the table. 'I have absolutely no objection to a pretty face around
Number 3 Equity Court.'
'Haven't you, Claude?' Mrs Erskine-Brown had fetched up
_eside the table and spoke with considerable asperity.
I r-
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
'Oh, Philly.' Erskine-Brown hastily withdrew his hand. 'Are
you going to join us for a drink? You know Fiona, of course...'
'Yes. I know Allways.' Phillida looked suspiciously at the goldtopped
bottle. 'What is it? Somebody's birthday? No, I'm not
joining you two. I'm going to go straight back to Chambers and
write a letter.'
At which Phillida Erskine-Brown banged out of Pommeroy's,
leaving her husband with a somewhat foolish expression on his
face, and me with an entire bottle of claret.
Phillida, always as good as her word, did go back to her room
in Chambers and started to write a lengthy and important letter
to an official quarter. It was whilst she was doing this that there
came a tap at her door, which she ignored, and then the devout
Ballard entered uninvited. This time I have to rely on our Portia
for a full account of what transpired, and when she told me, over
a rather hilarious celebratory bottle about a month later, her
recollection may have grown somewhat dim; but she swears that
it was a Ballard transformed who came gliding up to her desk. He
was wearing a somewhat garish spotted tie (in pink and blue, as
she remembered it), a matching silk handkerchief lolled from his
top pocket, and surrounding the man was a fairly overpowering
odour of some aftershave which the manufacturers advertise as
'Trouble-starter'. He was also smiling.
'I saw your light on,' Ballard murmured. Apparently Phillida
didn't find this a statement of earth-shaking interest and went on
writing.
'Mrs Erskine-Brown,' Ballard tried again. 'You won't mind me
calling you Phyllis?'
'If you want to, but it doesn't happen to be my name.' Phillida
didn't look up from her writing.
'Burning the midnight oil?'
'It's only half past six.' y
Although she had given him little encouragement, Ballard came
and perched, no doubt as he thought, jauntily, on the corner of
her desk and made what seemed to Phillida to be an entirely
unnecessary disclosure. 'I've never married of course,' he said.
'Lucky you!' Phillida said with meaning as she went on with her
work.
158
Rumpole and the Female of the Species
'I lead what I imagine you'd call a bit of a bachelor life in
Dulwich. Decent-sized flat, though, all that sort of thing.'
'Oh, good,' Phillida said in as neutral a manner as possible.
'But I don't want you to run away with the idea that I don't like women, because I do like women ... very much indeed. I am a
perfectly normal sort of chap in that regard,' Ballard assured her.
'Oh, jolly good.' Phillida was still busy.
'In fact, I have to confess this to you. I find the sight of a woman
wigged and wearing a winged collar surprisingly, well, let's be
honest about this, alluring.' There was a considerable pause and then he blurted out, 'I saw you the other day, going up the stairs
in the Law Courts. Robed up!'
'Did you? I was on my way to do a divorce.' Phillida was folding
her letter with grim determination.
'Well, I just didn't want you to be under any illusions.' Ballard
stood and gave Phillida what was no doubt meant to be a challenging
look. 'I'm thoroughly in favour of women, from every point
of view.'
'I'm sure the news will come as an enormous relief to the
women of the world!' She licked the envelope and stuck it down.
What she said seemed to have a strange effect on Ballard and he
became extremely nervous.
'Oh, I don't want it published in the papers!' he said anxiously.
'I thought I'd make it perfectly clear to you, in the course of
private conversation.'
'Well, you've made it clear, Ballard.' Phillida looked him in the
eye for the first time, and didn't particularly like what she saw.
'Please, "Sam",' he corrected her skittishly.
'All right, "Sam". You've made it terribly clear,' she repeated.
'Look. Some day when you're not in Court,' he was smiling at
her again, 'why don't you let me take you out to a spot of lunch?
They do a very decent set meal at the Ludgate Hotel.'
Phillida looked at him with amazement and contempt. She
then got up and walked past him to the door, taking her letter.
'I've got to put this out to post,' was all she had to say to ^at. fr:.1 SstVt
I had gone back to our clerk's room to pick up some forgotten
papers and was alone there. Henry and Dianne having left for
i59
Rwnpole and the Golden Thread
some unknown destination, when Phillida came to put her letter
in the 'Post' tray on Dianne's desk.
'What on earth happened, Portia?' I asked her. 'You left me to
finish the bottle.'
'Has everyone in this Chambers gone completely out of their
heads?' she replied with another question.
'Everyone?'
'Ballard just made the most disgusting suggestion to me.' She
did seem extremely angry.
'Bollard did? Whatever was it?' I asked, delighted.
'He invited me to have the set lunch at the Ludgate Hotel. And
as for my so-called husband...' Words failing her, she went to the
door.'Goodnight, Rumpole!' <
'Goodnight, Portia.'
It was then that I looked down at the letter she'd just written.
The envelope was addressed to 'The Lord Chancellor, The Lord
Chancellor's Office, The House of Lords, London, S.W.I.'
A good deal, I thought, was going on under the calm surface of
life in our Chambers at Equity Court. I was speculating on the
precise nature of such movements with considerable pleasure as
I started to walk to the Temple station. On my way I found Miss
Fiona Allways waiting for a bus.
'I say,' she hailed me. 'Any more news about my getting into
Chambers?'
'There is a tide in the affairs of women barristers, Fiona,' I told
her, 'which, taken at the flood, leads God knows where.'
'What's that mean, exactly?'
'It means that they'll either let you in, or they'll throw me out.'
I moved on towards Hilda and home. 'Best of luck,' I said, 'to
both of us.'
His Honour Judge Leonard Dover was a fairly recent appointment
to the collection of Old Bailey judges. He was a youngish
man, in his mid forties perhaps, certainly young enough to be my
son, had fate chosen to inflict such a blow. He wore rimless glasses
and was a fairly rimless character. He was the sort of judge who
has about as many laughs in him as a digital computer, and seemed
to have been programmed by the Civil Service. Press all the right
160
Rumpole and the Female of the Species
buttons - you know the type - and he gives you seven years in the
Nick. I have often thought that if he were plugged into the mains,
Tudge Dover could go on passing stiff sentences for ever.
On my way into Dover's Court I had passed Mrs April Timson,
made up to the nines and wearing a sky-blue trouser suit, come to
celebrate her husband's day of fame. She accosted me anxiously.
'Tony says you've never let the Timsons down, Mr Rumpole.'
'Mrs Timson!' I greeted her. 'Where's young Vincent today?
Otherwise engaged?'
'He's with my friend, Chrissie. She's my neighbour and she's
minding him. What are our chances, Mr Rumpole?'
'Talk to you later,' I said, not caring to commit myself.
After the jury had been sworn in. Judge Dover leant towards
them and said, in his usual unremarkable monotone, 'Nothing
that I am going to say now must be taken against the defendant in
any way...'
I stirred in my seat. Whatever was going on, I didn't like the
sound of it.
'This is a case in which it seems there is a particular danger of
your being approached ... by someone,' Dover went on, sounding
grave. 'That often happens in trials of alleged armed robbery by
what is known as a "gang" of serious professional criminals.'
It was time to throw a spanner in his programming. 'My Lord,'
I said firmly, and rose to the hind legs, but Dover was locked in
conversation with the jury.
• 'You will be particularly on your guard, and purely for your
'assistance, of course, you will be kept under police observation.'
He seemed to notice me at long last. 'What is it, Mr Rumpole?
Don't you want this jury to be protected from interference?'
'I don't want the jury to be told this is a case concerning a
serious crime before they've heard one word of evidence,' I said
with all possible vehemence. 'I don't want hints that my client
belongs to a gang of serious professionals when the truth may be
that he's nothing but a snapper-up ofunconsidered trifles. I don't
want the jury nobbled, but nobbled they have already been, in my
respectful submission, by your Lordship's warning.'
'Mr Rumpole! That's an extraordinary suggestion, coming
from you.' !!;••:•.
S^- - • 161
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
'It was made to answer an extraordinary statement coming
from your Lordship.'
'What is your application, Mr Rumpole?' Judge Duver asked
in a voice several degrees below zero.
'My Lord, I ask that a fresh jury be empanelled, who will have
heard no prejudicial suggestions against my client.'
'Your application is refused.' I had pressed the wrong button
and got the automatic print-out. There was nothing for it but to
sit down looking extremely hard done by.
'Members of the jury.' The Judge turned back to them. 'I have
already made it perfectly clear to you that nothing I have said
contains any suggestion whatever against Mr Timson. Does that
satisfy you, Mr Rumpole?'
'About as much as a glass of cold carrot juice, old darling,' I
muttered to Phillida.
'I'm sorry, I didn't hear you, Mr Rumpole.' ;
'I said, I suppose it will have to, my Lord.' I rose in a perfunctory
manner.
'Yes, Mr Rumpole,' the Judge said. 'I suppose it will.' . .
Back in the alleged mansion flat things weren't going too well
either. Hilda, in the course of tidying up, found my old Oxford
Book of English Verse on a chair (I had been seeking solace in the
'Intimations of Immortality' the night before), and she put it on
my excellent shelf. No doubt she thumped it down a fair bit, for
my elegant carpentry creaked and then collapsed, casting a good
many books and a certain amount of wine to the ground. I have
spoken already of the strength of my wife's character. Apparently
she went out, purchased a number of rawlplugs and an electric
drill and started a career as a handyman, the full effects of which
weren't noticed by me for some time.
In Court, the prosecution was in the hands of Mr Hilary
Onslow, a languid-looking young man whose fair curly hair came
sprouting out from under his wig. In spite of his air of well-born
indifference; he could be, at times, a formidable opponent. One
of the earliest witnesses was the supergrass, Gerry Molloy, an
overweight character with a red face and glossy black hair,
162
Rumpole and the Female of the Species
who sweated a good deal and seemed about to burst out of his
buttons.
'Mr Molloy. I want to come now to the facts of the Pond Hill
bank raid.'
'The Pond Hill job. Yes, sir.' Gerry sounded only too eager to
help.
'How many of you were engaged on that particular enterprise?'
'There was two with sawn-offs. One collector...' « 'And you with the sledgehammer?' Onslow asked. '"' 'I was the sledge man, yes. There was five of us altogether.'
'Five of you counting the driver?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Did you see the driver?'
'Course I did.' The witness sounded very sure of himself. 'The
driver picked me up at the meet.'
'Had you seen him before?' ;
'Seen him before?' Molloy thought carefully, and then answered,
'No, sir...'
'Some weeks later did you attend an identification parade?'
Onslow turned to me and asked languidly, 'Is there any dispute
as to whom he picked out at the I.D.?'
'No dispute as to that. No,' I granted him.
'Thank you, Mr Rumpole.' The Judge gave me a faint look of
approval.
'Delighted to be of assistance, my Lord,' I rose to say, and sank
back into my seat as quickly as possible.
'Did you pick out the defendant, Mr Timson?' Onslow asked.
Tony Timson was staring at the witness from the dock. Gerry
Molloy looked away to avoid his accusing eyes and met a glare
from April Timson in the public gallery.
'Yes.' The answer was a little muted. 'I pointed to him. I got
no hesitation.'
'Thank you, Mr Molloy.'
Hilary Onslow sat and crossed his long legs elegantly. I rose,
full of righteous indignation, and looked at the jury in a pained
manner as I cast my questions in the general direction of the
witness-box.'; ; A
'Mr Molloy. You have turned Queen's Evidence in this case?'
163
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
'Come again?' The answer was impertinent, so I put my voice
up several decibels. 'Translated into everyday language, Mr
Molloy, you are a grass. Not even a "supergrass". A common or
garden ordinary bit of a grass.'
There was a welcome stir of laughter from the jury, immediately
silenced by the computer on the Bench.
'Members of the jury,' Judge Dover reminded them, if they
needed reminding, 'this is not a place of public entertainment.
This witness is giving evidence for the prosecution,' he added, as
though that covered the matter.
- 'You're giving evidence for the prosecution because you were
caught.' I turned to the witness-box then. 'Not being a particularly
efficient sledge, you tripped over your holdall in the street
and missed the getaway car. You were apprehended, Mr Molloy,
in the gutter!' ,
'They nicked me, yes,' Molloy admitted.
'And you have already been sentenced to two years for your part
in the robbery?'
'I got a two, yes.'
'A considerable reduction because you agreed with the police
to grass on your colleagues,' I suggested.
'I got under the odds, yes,' he agreed, less readily.
'Considerably under the odds, Mr Molloy, and for that you
were prepared to betray your own family?' |fc;
'Come again?' s-
'Three of your colleagues were members of the clan Molloy.'
'They were Molloys, yes.'
'And only one Timson?'
'Yes.'
'And as the Montagues to the Capulets, I put it to you, so are
the Timsons to the Molloys.' ;:'
'Did you say the "Montagues", Mr Rumpole?' The Judge
seemed puzzled by a name he hadn't heard in the case before, so
my literary reference was lost on the computer.
'I simply meant that the Molloys hate and despise the Timsons.
Isn't that so, Mr Gerry Molloy?' I asked the witness.
'We never got on, no. It's traditional. Although...'
'Although what?'
Rumpole and the Female of the Species
'I believe my cousin Shawn's wife what he's separated from
lives quite close to Tony Timson and his wife and...'
I interrupted a speech which I thought might somewhat blur
the picture I had just painted. 'Apart from that, it's true, isn't
it, that the Molloys are in a different league from the Timsons?'
'What league is that, Mr Rumpole?' Judge Dover looked
puzzled.
'The big league, my Lord.' I helped him understand. 'You and
your relations, according to your evidence, did the Barclays Bank
in Penge, the Midland, Croydon, and the NatWest in Barking...'
I was back with the witness.
'That's what I've said.' He was sweating more now, and
two of his lower shirt buttons had gone off about their own
affairs.
'Spreading your favours evenly round the money market. Have
you ever known a Timson to be present at a bank robbery before,
Mr Molloy?'
'Not as I can remember. But my brother Charlie was off sick
and we was short of a driver.'
'Perhaps you were. Unhappily all your Molloy colleagues seem
to have vanished.'
At which point my learned friend, Mr Hilary Onslow, felt it
right to unwind his legs and draw himself to his great height. 'My
Lord,' he said, 'I explained to the jury that determined efforts to
trace the other participants in this robbery are still being made by
the police...'
'If my learned friend wishes to give evidence, perhaps your
Lordship would like him to go into the witness-box,' I said, and
got the automatic judicial rebuke: 'Mr Rumpole. That comment
was quite uncalled-for.'
'Steady on, Rumpole. Don't tease him.' Phillida whispered a
bit of sound advice, so I said, with deep humility, 'So it was, my
Lord. I entirely agree.' I turned back, with no humility at all, to
Gerry Molloy. 'With your relations all gone to ground you had to
have a victim, didn't you, to justify your privileged treatment as
a grass?' The jury, who looked extremely interested, clearly saw
the point. The witness pretended that he didn't.
'A victim?' He was playing for time, I gave him none.
1 165
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
'So you decided to pick one out of the despised Timsons and
put him in the frame.'
'Put him in the what, Mr Rumpole?' The Judge affected not to
understand. I hadn't time to teach him plain English.
'Put him in the driver's seat, where he certainly never was,' I
suggested to the supergrass.
'He was there. I told you.' Gerry Molloy was growing indignant.
'Where did you meet?' ;
'One of the Molloy houses,' he said, after a pause.
'Which one?' „,
'I think it was Michael's ... Or Vic's. I can't be sure.' .,,, . '
'Can't you... ?' ^' ...A^ '
,'.; 'It was Shawn's,' he decided.
'And having decided to frame Tony,' I went on quickly, 'was
it some member of the Molloy family who planted a packet of
stolen banknotes in the Timson home?'
'It couldn't have been him, could it, Mr Rumpole?' The Judge
was looking back in his notes. 'This witness has been in custody
ever since...'
'Since the robbery, yes, my Lord,' I agreed, and then asked
Molloy, 'Did you receive visits in prison, before you made your
statement?' i;;;,- y»^. . :
'A few visits, yes.' ' a-s;.^; ' "
'From your wife?' wf"
'One or two.'
'And was it through her that the word was sent out to plant the
money on Tony Timson?'
I made the suggestion for the benefit of the jury, but it deeply
shocked Gerald Supergrass Molloy. 'I wouldn't ask my wife to do
them sort of messages,' he said, deeply pained.
Back at home Hilda, swathed in an overall, was drilling the wall
to receive a new consignment of 'Easy-Do' shelving in a completely
professional manner. I was also plugging away in Court,
asking a few pertinent questions of Detective Inspector Broome,
the officer in charge of the case.
'Gerry Molloy made his statement two days after the robbery,
at about 2.30 in the afternoon?' I suggested.
166
1';^1^ Rumpole and the Female of the Species
'2.35, to be precise.' The D.I. put me right.
'Oh, please. I'm sure my Lord would like you to be very precise.
You went straight round to Tony Timson's house?'
'We did.'
'In a police car, with the siren blaring?'
'I think we had the siren on for some of the time. We were in a hurry.'
'And you were lucky enough to find him at home?'
'Well, he wasn't out doing window-cleaning, sir.' *rt
There was a small titter from the jury. I interrupted it as soon
as possible.
'My client opened the door to you at once?' ;< S^-''
'Soon as we knocked. Yes.' P|'
'No sort of interval while he tried to move the money to a more
sensible hiding place, for instance?' ,.
'Perhaps he was happy with it where it was.' ' :
Before he got another laugh, I came in quickly with 'Or perhaps,
Inspector, he had no idea that the money had been put
there.'
'I don't know about that.'
'Don't you? One last matter. Was it Gerry Molloy who told you
that Tony Timson was a dangerous member of a big-time robbery
firm who might try and nobble the jury?'
'Molloy told us that, yes.' Inspector Broome was a little reluctant
to answer. „.' fy-f.
'So a solemn warning was given by the learned Judge on the
word of a self-confessed sledgehammer man who has already been
convicted of malicious wounding, robbery and grievous bodily
harm.'
'Yes.' The short answer came even more reluctantly from the
Inspector.
'And doesn't that solemn warning give a quite unfair impression
of Tony Timson?'
'Unfair, sir?' Broome did his best to look puzzled.
'You'd never put Tony Timson in for the serious crime award,
would you? He's a small-time thief, who specializes in relieving
householders of their home entertainment, video machines, teasniades
and the like...' ; :%" ^
167
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
'That would seem to be so, yes,' the Inspector admitted.
'So if I said to you that this robbery was quite out of Tony
Timson's league, how would you translate that suggestion?'
'I would say it's out of his character, sir. Judging by past form.'
So I sat down with some heartfelt thanks to Detective Inspector
Broome.
At the end of the day I went with Phillida and Bernard to visit
our client in the cells. He appeared pleased with our progress, but
I hadn't yet an answer to what seemed to me the single important
question in the case.
'The money in the washing machine. Tony,' I asked him.
'It must have been put there by someone. Does April go out
much?'
'She takes young Vince round her friend's.'
'Her friend Chrissie?' The question seemed important to me,
but Tony answered vaguely, 'I think that's her name. I don't
know the woman.'
'Money found in the kitchen,' I said thoughtfully. 'I don't
suppose you do much cooking, do you. Tony?'
'Oh, leave it out, Mr Rumpole!' Tony found the suggestion
highly diverting. , ,
'Never wash up?'
'Course I don't!' He could hardly suppress his laughter. 'That's
April's job, innit?'
'I suppose it's only barristers who spend the evenings up to
their wrists in the Fairy Liquid. Yes ... And of course you don't
run young Vince's smalls through the washing machine?'
'Now would I be expected to do a job like that?' He looked to
Mrs Erskine-Brown for support. 'Would I?'
'You mean, it would be a bit like having a woman defend you?'
Phillida asked in a pointed sort of way. Tony Timson had the
grace to look apologetic.
'I never meant nothing personal,' he said. 'It just doesn't seem
natural.' 'Really.'
Phillida was unappeased. 'As a matter of fact my
husband is quite a good performer on the spindrier.'
'Poor bloke!' Tony was laughing again, fc
I interrupted the badinage. 'Let's take it that you leave such
168
Rumpole and the Female of the Species
matters to April. When does she do the washing. Tony? On a.
Monday?'
'Suppose so.' He didn't sound particularly interested.
'The bank raid was on Monday. Gerry Molloy made his statement
on Wednesday afternoon and the police were round at once.
Whoever put it there didn't have much time.'
'I don't know,' and he added hopelessly, 'I just never go near
the bleeding washing machine.'
I gathered up my brief and prepared to return to the free world.
'See you tomorrow, Tony,' I said. 'Come on, Portia. I think
we've got what we wanted.'
When I left the Old Bailey that evening and stepped off the
pavement, a small white sports car, driven with great speed and
expertise, flashed past me, almost cutting me off somewhere past
my prime, and, passing two or three slowly moving taxis on the
inside, zipped off and was lost in the traffic. I caught sight of a
blonde head behind the wheel and deduced that the driver was
none other than that devoted housewife, Mrs April Timson.
I didn't sleep much that night. I was busy putting two and two
together to make about five thousand nicker. Around dawn I
drifted off and dreamt of washing machines and spindriers, and
Ballard was bringing me a bouquet of roses and inviting me to
lunch, and Fiona Allways had decided to leave the Bar and take „
up life as a coalminer, saying the pay was so much better. ;,
So I arrived at the Old Bailey in a somewhat jaded condition.
Having robed for the day's work, I went up to the canteen on the
third floor and bought myself a black coffee and a slightly flaccid
sausage roll. I wasn't enjoying them much when Erskine-Brown
came up to me in a state of considerable distress, holding out a
copy of The Times in a trembling hand. The poor fellow looked
decidedly seedy.
'The silk list, Rumpole!' he stammered. 'Have you seen the new
Q.C.s?'
'Haven't got beyond the crossword.' I opened the paper and
found the relevant page. 'Well, here's your name. What are you
worrying about?'
'My name?' Erskine-Brown asked bitterly.
H SH;. ^'::' 169
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
'Erskine-Brown. Mrs
'She never warned me, Rumpole! I had no idea she'd applied.
Had you?'
'No.' I honestly hadn't. 'Haven't you asked her about it?'
'She left home before the paper came. And now she's gone to
ground in the ladies' robing room!' Then he asked with a faint
hope, 'Do you think it might be some sort of misprint?'
I might have sat there for some time commiserating with
Claude, but I saw a blonde head and a blue trouser suit by the
tea-urns. I rose, excused myself to the still suffering, still junior
barrister, and arrived alongside Mrs April Timson just in time to
pay for her coffee.
'You're very kind, Mr Rumpole,' she said.
'Sometimes,' I agreed. She moved to a table. I went with her.
'Young Vincent well this morning, is he? Chrissie Molloy looking
after him properly?'
'Chrissie's all right.' She sat and then looked up at me and spoke
very quietly. 'Tony doesn't know she's a Molloy.'
I sat down beside her and took my time in lighting a small cigar.
'No. Mrs Timson,' I said. 'Tony doesn't know very much, does
he?'
'We were at school together. Me and Chrissie. Anyway, she and
Shawn Molloy's separated.'
'But still friends,' I suggested. 'Close enough for the Molloy
firm to meet at Chrissie's house.' I blew out smoke and then
asked, 'When did you know they were short of a driver?'
'I may have heard ... someone mention it.' She looked away
from me and stirred her coffee. So I told her the whole story, as
though she didn't know. 'Your husband wouldn't have been the
slightest use in a getaway car, would he?' I said. 'He'd have had
three parking tickets and hit a milk float before they'd got clear of
the bank. You, on the other hand, I happen to have noticed, are
distinctly nippy, driving through traffic.' A silence fell between
us. It lasted until I said, 'What was the matter? Tony not ambitious
enough for you?'
'Why ever should you think... ?' She looked up at me then.
Whatever it was meant to be, the look was not innocent.
170
Rumpole and the Female of the Species
'Because of where you put the money,' I told her quietly. 'It
was the one place in the house you knew your husband would
never look.'
She had the nerve of an accomplished villain, had Mrs April
Timson. She took a long swig of coffee and then she asked me
what I was going to do.
'The real question is,' I said, 'what are you going to do?' And
then I gave her my legal advice. 'Leave it out, April,' I said. 'Give
it up, Mrs Timson. Keep away from it. It's men's work, you
know. Let the men make a mess of it.' I paused to let the advice
sink in, then I stood up to go. 'It was the first time, I imagine.
Better make it the last.'
I got into Court some time before the learned computer took
his seat on the Bench. As soon as Phillida arrived I gave her,
believing it right to take my junior into my full confidence, my
solution to the case, and an account of my conversation with
April Timson.
She thought for a moment, and then asked, 'But why didn't
Gerry Molloy identify herV
'He was ashamed, don't you understand? He didn't want to
admit that the great Molloys went out with a woman driver!'
'What on earth are we going to do?'
'We can't prove it was April. Let's hope they can't prove it was
Tony. The jury don't much care for the mini-grass, and the
Molloys might have planted the money.'
Hilary Onslow came in then, gave us a cheerful 'Good morning',
and took his place. I spoke to Phillida in a whisper.
'Only one thing we can do, Portia. I'll just give them the speech
about reasonable doubt.'
'No. / will...' she said firmly.
'What?' I wasn't following her drift.
'I'm your leader now. Don't you read The Times, Rumpole? I
have taken silk!'
At which point the Usher shouted, 'Be upstanding,' and
Judge Dover was upon us. He looked at the defence team,
said, 'Yes, Mr Rumpole?' and then saw that Phillida was on her
feet.
171
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
'Mrs Erskine-Brown. I believe that certain congratulations are
in order?'
'Yes, my Lord. I believe they are,' said our Portia, and
announced that she would now call the defendant.
Tony gave evidence. As he denied knowing anything about the
money, or the whereabouts of the Pond Hill bank, or even the
exact situation of his own washing machine, he was a difficult
witness to cross-examine. Onslow did his best, and made a
moderately effective final speech, and then I sat quietly and
listened to Mrs Phillida Erskine-Brown, now my learned leader.
I smiled as I heard her reach a familiar peroration.
'Members of the jury.' She was addressing them with carefully
controlled emotion. 'Soon this case will be over. In a little while
you will go back to your jobs and your families, and you will forget
about it. At most it is only a small part of your lives, but for my
client. Tony Timson, it is the whole of his life! And it is that life
I leave with confidence in your hands, certain that there can be
only one verdict in this case, "Not Guilty"!'
And then Phillida sank down in her seat exhausted, just as I had
taught her to, as I had taught Fiona Allways, and anyone else who
would care to listen.
'Good speech.' I congratulated Phillida as we came out of Court
when the Timson case was over. wi ;•
'Yes. It always was.' As , ;?
'Portia of Belmont ... Phillida Erskine-Brown, nee Trant ...
and Fiona Allways ... the great tradition of female advocates
should be carried on!' I lit a small cigar.
Phillida looked at me. 'It's not enough for you that we won
Timson, is it? Not enough that you got the jury to disbelieve
Gerry Molloy and think the money may have been planted. You
want to win the Allways case as well.'
'Well,' I said reasonably, 'why shouldn't we take on Fiona?'
'Over my dead body!'
She moved towards the lifts. I followed her. .' •:,
'But why?'
'She was making a play for Claude. I found them all over each
other in Pommeroy's. That's when I got so angry I applied for silk.'
172
Rumpole and the Female of the Species
'Without telling your husband?' I asked sorrowfully.
'I'm afraid so.'
'I'd better come clean about this.' I took off my wig, and stood
looking at her. She looked back at me., deeply suspicious.
'What've you been up to, Rumpole?'
'Well, I just wanted your Claude to look on Miss Allways with
a warm and friendly eye. I mean, I thought that'd increase her
chances of getting in, so...'
'You wanted Claude to warm to her...' Phillida's voice was
rising to a note of outrage, ^a ,: ;,
'I thought it might help. Yes,' I admitted.
'Rumpole! I suppose you told him that she fancied him.'
'Now, Portia. Would I do such a thing?' I protested.
'Very probably. If you wanted to win badly enough. I imagine
you told him she thought he looked like Robert Redford.'
'No. I protest!' I was hurt. 'That is utterly and entirely untrue!
I told him she thought he looked like a fellow called Newman.'
'And had Allways actually said that?' Phillida was still uncertain
of the facts. ;
'Well, if you want me to be entirely honest...'
'It would make a change,' she said, unnecessarily, I thought.
'Well, no. She hadn't.'
And then, quite unexpectedly, our Portia smiled. 'Poor old
Claude,' she said. 'You know what you were doing, Rumpole?
You can't rely on a girl to get in on her own talents, can you? You
have to manipulate and rely on everyone else's vanity. You- were
simply exploiting the male sex.'
'So now you know,' I asked her, 'will you vote for Fiona?'
'Tell me one good reason.'
'Ballard's against her.' ': ^l
'I suppose that's one good reason. And because of you I've
ended up a silk. What on earth can I tell Claude?' She seemed, for
a delightful moment, overcome with guilt, and blushed very
prettily, as though she had to admit the existence of a lover.
'Tell him,' I suggested, 'that the Lord Chancellor just thought
there weren't enough women silks. So that's why you got it.
He'll feel better if he thinks there's no damn merit about this
thing.'
H - ' 173
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
'I suppose so.' She looked a little disappointed as she asked me,
'Is that true?'
'Quite possibly,' I told her. After all, I hadn't undertaken to tell
her the whole truth about anything.
When I got home that night, Hilda asked me if I had noticed
anything. Suspecting that she had had a new hair-do or bought a
new dress, I said that of course she was looking extremely pretty.
'Not me,' she said. 'Look at the walls.'
The shelf I had put up was not only firmly screwed and looking
even better than usual, it seemed to have pupped and there were
shelves all over the place, gamely supporting potted plants and
glasses, telephone directories and bottles of plonk.
'What did you do, Hilda,' I asked her. 'Did you get a man
in?'
'Yes,' she said. The.'
It all ended once again with a Chambers party. The excuse for
that particular shindig was the swearing-in at the House of Lords
of Mrs Phillida Erskine-Brown as One of Her Majesty's Counsel.
She made a resplendent figure as she came to split a few bottles
of champagne with us in Ballard's room. Her handsome female
face peeped out between the long spaniel's ears of her fullbottomed
wig. She wore a long silk gown with a black purse on
her back. There were lace cuffs on her tailed coat, and lace at her
throat. Her black skirt ended with black stockings and diamondbuckled
shoes. She carried her white gloves in one hand and a
glass ofMercier (on offer at Pommeroy's) in the other. Just when
matters were going with a certain amount of swing, Ballard took
it upon himself to make a speech.
'In our great profession...' he was saying, and I muttered an,
'Amen.' 'We are sometimes accused of prejudice against the
female sex.'
'Shame!' said Erskine-Brown.
'That may be true of some sets of Chambers, but it cannot be
said of us at 3 Equity Court,' Ballard continued. 'As in many other
things, we take the lead and set the example! Today we celebrate
the well-deserved promotion of Mrs Phillida Erskine-Brown to
the front row!'
Rumpole and the Female of the Species
'Philly looks very fine in a silk gown, doesn't she, Rumpole?'
the proud husband said to me.
'Gorgeous!' I agreed.
'And we welcome a new member of our set. Young Fiona
Allways,' Ballard concluded. All around me barristers were toasting
the triumph of women.
'You know, between ourselves, Philly got it because it's the
Lord Chancellor's policy to appoint more women Q.C.s,' ErskineBrown
told me confidentially.
'How appalling.' I looked on the man with considerable sympathy. 'You're a victim of sexual discrimination!'
'But Philly's made me a promise. Next year she's going to take
some time off.'
'Good. I might get my work back.'
'We're going to have' - his voice sank confidentially -- 'a little
companion for Tristan.'
'Isolde?' I suggested.
'Oh, really, Rumpole!'
I moved away from him as I saw Phillida in all her glory go up
to Fiona, who was wearing wide trousers which, coming to just
below the knees, had the appearance of a widish split skirt.
'Well done, Allways!' Phillida gave the girl an encouraging
smile. 'Welcome to Chambers.'
'Thank you, Mrs Erskine-Brown.' Fiona seemed genuinely
pleased. But Phillida had stopped smiling.
'Oh, just one thing, Allways. No culottes!'
'Oh,'said Fiona.'Really?'
'If you want to get on at the Bar, and it is a pretty tough
profession,' Phillida told her, 'just don't go in for those sort of
baggy trouser arrangements. It's just not on.'
'No. Remember that, Fiona,' I put my oar in. 'A fellow looks
so much better in a skirt.'
I
Rumpole and the Sporting Life
'Rumpole,' said She Who Must Be Obeyed over breakfast one
morning in the mansion flat. 'We're going to the Bar Races on
Saturday, aren't we?' It was less a question than a statement of
fact, less a statement of fact than a Royal command. It was no
use protesting, for instance, that Rumpole has never been a racing
man. s!|
Claude Erskine-Brown, somewhat disappointed in his application
for silk, had come to the conclusion that a more active part
in the social life of the Bar might bring him to the attention of
the powers that be. He joined the Bar Golfing Society, he put
up for election to the Bar Council, and he decided that it would
be just as well to be seen hobnobbing with those sporting judges
who patronized the Bar Races. He decided to make up a party
for this event, but Ballard, quite naturally, didn't approve of
gambling, and Hoskins didn't want to lose his girls' school fees
on a piece of fallible horseflesh. Accordingly, it was suggested
that a party should be made up of the Erskine-Browns, Henry
our clerk (who, being by far the wealthiest of us, undertook to
supply three or four bottles of champagne). Uncle Tom, and the
Rumpoles.
'We must go, Rumpole,' Hilda said as soon as she heard of
the invitation. 'Daddy always went to the Bar Races.'
I had a distant memory of attending this annual point-to-point
with C. H. Wystan when he was Head of Chambers. We
journeyed down to the Cotswolds in his large and hearse-like
motor, feasted on ham sandwiches and rock cakes, and the
warmish hock flowed like cement. Once or twice, as I remember
it, Hilda Wystan was in the party, and She would be in charge
of the thermos and getting her father perched on his shooting
stick in time to see the end of the Barristers' Handicap, j
176
Rumpole and the Sporting Life
Over the course of the years fewer barristers have been able to find the spare currency to keep horses in livery, being hard
nushed to keep their nearest and dearest in regular feed and
stabling. The Barristers' Races have therefore shrunk to one
event in an afternoon of races for adjacent hunts and military
soortsmen, but a few alcoholic juniors with a taste for hunting
still put their mounts, like nervous clients, to various jumps and
hazards, and a great many judges and barristers and barristers'
wives dress up in old caps and trilby hats, tweeds and green
padded waistcoats, and consume, with icy fingers, large picnics
from the boots of their motor cars and so join happily in the
Sport of Kings.
'It'll be like the old days, won't it, Rumpole?' Hilda said
as she daubed the ham sandwiches with mustard and wrapped
them in greaseproof paper. 'And it'll do you so much good
to have a day out in the countryside.' I was already marvelling
at the English longing to journey vast distances to some damp
and uncomfortable place and then, with none of the normal
facilities such as knives and forks and dining-room furniture,
eat a packed meal. I was busy storing as many bottles as possible
of the Chateau Fleet Street into my red robe bag in the hope
that I might, with their assistance, be able to keep out the
cold.
We left London at a ridiculously early hour in the ErskineBrown
Volvo Estate. Phillida Erskine-Brown, q.c., was wearing
a sort of tweed cape and deerstalker, which gave her the curious
appearance of a red-headed and personable female Sherlock
Holmes. Claude, a great one for uniforms, was wearing the
regulation padded waistcoat and green wellies. Uncle Tom
sported an old hacking jacket with leather patches, and Henry
wore a tweed suit with knife-edge creases, a sheepskin car coat
and had, slung about his neck, a huge pair of racing binoculars.
You have the complete picture when I tell you that Hilda was
in a tweed two-piece with brogues and a Burberry, and I was in
the old Sunday jacket, cavalry twill bags and everyday mac.
When we had all assembled in the street outside Froxbury Court,
I piled my bag of booze and Hilda's sandwiches into the hatchback,
as Henry rather quaintly called it, and it was tally ho and
177
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
we were off to the races. A fine drizzle was falling then, and it
went on falling for the rest of the day.
The point-to-point course was a fairly representative slice of
the English countryside. There was a damp and distinct prospect
of fields and hedgerows and a hillside on which the cars were
parked and the bookies had set up their stands. The Mecca of
the place, the large tent in which food and drink were supplied,
had been pitched next to the saddling enclosure. I would have
wished to spend most of the afternoon under canvas, but Hilda,
encouraged by Phillida Erskine-Brown, who showed considerable
sporting interest, insisted on trekking down to the rails to
watch the finish of each race, and then climbing back to the
bookies to put money on another loser.
My involvement with the sporting life, and the events which .
led to one of the most interesting murder cases of the Rumpole
career (I put it not far below the Penge Bungalow affair in the
list of my more engaging cases) started as we were watching the
three o'clock race, in which members of the adjacent hunts contested
the field with a few barristers. We were positioned near
to the last fence as a bunch of riders, helmeted, goggled and
pounding through a cloud of flying mud, approached the high
brushwood and flung their horses at it. ;,;% i ;
'Into the last fence now and it's Number 13, Atlantic Hero,
owned and ridden by the Honourable Jonathan Postern of the
Tester Hunt in the pink and green colours,' the loudspeaker,
crackling out a rasping commentary, informed us.
'Come on, Atlantic Hero! Don't hang about, Atlantic Hero!'
Hilda was shouting lustily. For the first time in a long day it
seemed that one of our party had backed a winner. What with
the pounding of hooves and the shouts of the aficionados, I
wasn't sure that Hilda's fancied animal could hear her. And then
the last horse crashed through the brushwood, landed awkwardly,
deposited its rider on the ground and galloped off as though
happy to be out of the contest.
'And there's another one down,' the loudspeaker crackled.
'Number n. Tricycle. Ridden by Maurice Fishbourne of the
Tester Hunt.'
Two St John Ambulancemen with a stretcher were pounding
K ' Rumpole and the Sporting Life
out to the fallen rider as the victory of Atlantic Hero was
announced, and Hilda sent up a resounding cheer. I looked
around and saw a handsome woman in her early thirties, dressed
in the regulation headscarf and padded waistcoast, running
towards the fallen rider. My attention was held, I suppose,
because her face seemed vaguely familiar. Her mouth was open
as she ran, as though in a silent scream. And then I saw the
horseless rider sit up and stretch out his hand for a pair of
gold-rimmed glasses. One lens had been shattered in his fall. He
seemed a slight, unsportsmanlike character, who smiled a nervous
apology at the ambulancemen and then stood, unsteadily, hooking
on his glasses. At this the woman in the headscarf stopped
running, her mouth closed, and she turned quickly and walked
away in the general direction of the refreshment tent.
'First, Number 13, Atlantic Hero. Second, Number 8, Flash
point. Third, Number 4, Ironside ...' the loudspeaker told us.
'Come along, Rumpole, for heaven's sake! We've got to collect
my winnings.' Hilda was triumphant.
'What did you have on it? One quid each way?' I asked her.' 'We shall be able to retire to Biarritz.'
So our group started to plod up the hill, where the increasing
rain was producing yet more mud. As we made our way to the
old and reliable firm where Hilda proudly collected the fruits of
50p each way. Uncle Tom and Henry were discussing form for
the 3.30, the Barristers' Handicap.
'His clerk tells me that Mr Lorrimer's not all that fit,' Henry
was saying. 'He's been overworking on his Revenue cases.'
'Likely to fall at the first fence.' Uncle Tom marked his race
card and then asked, 'Harley Waters, Q.C., in good condition, is
he? Been taking his oats and all that?'
'Rather too liberally, his clerk informs me, sir. The fancy is,'
Henry lowered his voice confidentially, 'Mr E. Smith on Decree
Absolute.'
'Mr Smith in good form, is he?' Uncle Tom sounded anxious.
'Teetotal, according to his clerk.' Henry had no doubts. 'And
he does press-ups in Chambers.'
When bets had been laid on various members of the Bar, we
Went into the tent where Hilda was determined to fritter away
179
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
her winnings on loose living and self-indulgence. I was bringing
up the rearguard with Erskine-Brown, when I heard a dry and
elderly voice calling, 'There you are, Rumpole! Ah, ErskineBrown
...' Claude immediately raised his hat and I turned to
see the small, wrinkled, parchment-coloured face, inappropriately
crowned by a jaunty bowler hat, of Mr Justice Twybume,
one of the old school of spine-chilling judges of the Queen's
Bench, a man so old that he had been appointed before the age
for retirement was inflicted on the Judiciary, and who stayed on
- to the terror of unwary criminals and barristers alike.
'I haven't had you before me lately,' said this antique Judge.
'I suppose you don't get the serious crime nowadays.'
'I have been engaged elsewhere,' I said loftily and looked
towards the bar as an avenue of escape. 'I must join my wife.
She's spending the winnings.'
'Been having a little flutter here, have you? I don't see you as
a gambling man, Rumpole?' The tent was full of horsy girls in
well-fitting jods, and convivial farmers. It was my fate to be
stuck with this daunting old codger.
'I suppose a person can't spend a lifetime in Old Bailey trials
without getting a bit of a taste for games of chance,' I told
him.
'What's that supposed to mean?' Mr Justice Twyburne clearly
didn't like the analogy.
'Don't you ever feel that forecasting the results of cases is
rather like sticking a pin in the Sporting Life with your eyes
shut?' I asked him.
'The aim of an English criminal trial is to do justice,' the Judge
said coldly. 'I don't see how you can possibly compare it to a
horse race. Good day, Erskine-Brown.' He touched the rim of
his bowler with a yellow-gloved hand, and went off to pass an
adverse judgement on the animals in the saddling enclosure.
When he had gone, Erskine-Brown looked at me as though I
had failed to stand up during the National Anthem, or had been
caught filling out my football pools while doing a case in the
House of Lords.
? 'Rumpole!' he protested. 'Twyburne's our oldest Judge.'
.' I 'I know,' I answered him with some distaste. 'One of the few
180
Rumpole and the Sporting Life
survivors who's ever passed a death sentence. They say he
ordered muffins at his Club after those occasions.'
And then the rider of Atlantic Hero and the author of Hilda's
good fortune came into the tent, recognizable to us by his green
and pink silks and his white, mud-splattered riding breeches as
well as the silver cup he was carrying. He was followed by a
considerable retinue, including at least two pretty girls, a tall
young man with longish hair and an amused expression and,
bringing up the rear, the woman who had run with such distress
towards the fallen rider.
As the crackling loudspeaker had told us, the victor of the
three o'clock (the Adjacent Hunts Challenge Cup) was Jonathan
Postern. I was watching as the Hon. Jonathan slapped his silver
trophy down on the bar and shouted to one of the fresh-faced
waitresses who had just served drinks to Hilda.
'Come on, sweetheart. Fill this jerry up with champers!'
'A loving cup - Jonno, how excessively brill!' one of the pretty
girls chirruped as she held the arm of the winning rider. My
attention was momentarily engaged by Hilda handing me a small
rum. A bit of a disappointment, I thought. With her luck I
expected her at least to fill my gum boots with champagne. As
I sank my nose towards the rum, I heard the dulcet tones of
Miss Fiona Allways greeting Hilda and the Erskine-Browns.
She was dressed like most of the other girls in a padded waistcoat,
green cord trousers, a sweater and the sort of man's flat cap
which charladies used to wear.
'I see you're in uniform too, Fiona,' I greeted her. 'All you
khaki figures, slogging through the mud to the encampment, put
me in distinct mind of the retreat from Mons.'
'You were never at the retreat from Mons,' Erskine-Brown
told Fiona, unnecessarily, I thought. 'Rumpole was in the R.A.F.
Ground Staff. Weren't you, Rumpole?'
'All right. It puts me in mind of the Naafi at R.A.F. Dungeness
after a heavy night,' I was saying, when the woman I had seen
rushing to the fallen rider came up to greet Fiona. Then I knew
why I had thought there was a familiar look to her.
I'Hullo, Pimpsey,' the woman said.
'Oh, hi, Sprod,' Fiona answered.
181
Rumpole and the Golden Thread ' '
'Disgusting to see you,' said the woman, and I made the somewhat
obvious comment, 'You two obviously know each other.'
'My big sister, Jennifer Postern. This is Rumpole, Mrs
Rumpole,' Fiona introduced us.
'How riveting!' Jennifer turned to me. 'I've heard so much
about you. Pimpsey says you got her into Chambers. By some
miracle!' ,.;:...
'Well, it was one of my trickier cases,' I admitted, ^a
'Oh, but Pimpsey says you win them all, because you're the
most super barrister in the whole of England. Absolutely brill, thinks Pimpsey.'
'Did you come on your own, Fiona?' Claude had moved away
from his wife and was asking Fiona a quiet and hopeful question.
'No. With my boyfriend, Jeremy Jowling. He's rather dull,
but he is a solicitor. He's the one doing the serious drinking.'
We looked across to the group by Jonathan Postern. Jeremy
Jowling appeared to be the longish-haired, amused young man
who had just received a dark brown whisky. Hilda recognized
her favourite rider's racing colours then and trumpeted loudly,
'Oh look. That's my gorgeous winner!'
'I say, your wife. Is she really the one you call "She Who
Must...'" Jennifer whispered to me. 3'aSj
'No. She's the one I call "Mrs Rumpole",' I answered. Hilda
was, after all, almost within earshot, but her attention was still
on the young man in racing silks.
'Rumpole! That's the chap who won for me. On Atlantic Hero,'
she told me once again. I looked at the winner and realized how
remarkably handsome he was. He had close-cropped curly hair
and a straight nose, putting me in mind of those Greek statues
in which the eyelids are somehow heavy with exhaustion at
maintaining the heroic pose. If Jonathan Postern looked like
some minor antique deity, he was surrounded by his votive
priestesses. As he drank from the huge silver cup, a number of
girls kissed him, none of whom was his wife.
'Such a nice-looking young man. Do you know him?' Hilda
said admiringly to Jennifer, who answered, 'He's my husband.'
'Oh, really? I do feel I should thank him personally.'
'Come on then. Why don't we whizz over?'
182
Rumpole and the Sporting Life
So our group moved over towards Jonathan Postern's celebration.

Hilda, flushed with her winnings and a small rum, engaged
the hero in conversation at once.
'I just had to say "Well done". It does make a day at the races
so much more thrilling when you're on a winner!'
'Were you? I can't say I saw you,' Jonathan answered, and
then said, in a loud aside to one of the attendant maidens, 'Who
are these amazing old wrinklies?'
'This is Mr and Mrs Rumpole, Jonno. And Mr Claude
Erskine-Brown.' Fiona looked at him disapprovingly.
'Mr Rumpole's a tremendous legal eagle,' Jennifer Postern
explained to her husband.
'My God! You're not one of the galloping barristers?' the Hon.
Jonathan asked me.
'Hardly.' .:.
'None of your lot got placed. Terribly bad luck.' He raised
the chalice 'Care for a swig?'
'Thank you.'
I might have saved my thanks, for I never got a drink. At that
moment the rider who fell, the man whose name the loudspeaker
had given as Maurice Fishboume, muddy and with his glasses
broken, came into the tent and was peering round with a look
of shortsighted amiability. Jonathan raised the cup and had a
long refreshing drink, ignoring me.
'Thank you very much,' I muttered.
Jonathan lowered the cup and, still holding it, looked across
at Fishboume and called, 'Fishface!'
'He's cutting us dead!' one of the maidens said.
'He's being frightfully grand,' said another.
'Come on. Fish. Don't be weedy!' a red-haired girl in a hacking
jacket shouted.
Fishboume came towards them smiling in a hopelessly ingratiating
way. Hilda, who was in a mood to greet anyone, greeted
him. 'Good afternoon.'
'Oh, this is Maurice Fishboume. He lives next to Jennifer and
Jonno.' Fiona was keeping her head admirably in a difficult social
situation.
183
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
'D ... delighted to meet you.' Fishboume came towards us
grinning weakly. His stammer seemed as much part of his character
as his broken spectacles.
'How did you manage to stick on till the last fence. Fishy?
Superglue?' Jonathan bayed at him, and the entourage laughed.
'He was hanging on to the mane. I saw him!' It was Jennifer
Postern, joining in.
'C... congratulations, Jonathan.' The man Fishboume seemed
to be perfectly civil.
'Oh, aren't you a lovely loser! If you want to ride something
in the next race, why not try a bicycle?'
Once again the claque laughed at Jonathan Postern's sally, and
once again Jennifer joined in;
'I'm not r ... riding in the next race.' Fishboume smiled round
at the laughing faces.
'Is Mummy taking you home to tea?' Again, to my surprise, it
was Jennifer who asked the question. It didn't sound kindly meant.
'I'm driving Mother home, yes, Jennifer.' Fishboume looked
at her through his broken lens.
'Come on. Fishy. Have a slug of champers!' Jonathan Postern
invited him.
'Oh ,.. Th ... thanks.' Fishboume took the chalice.
'It's quite all right, only got all our germs in it,' one of the
girls said.
Fishboume smiled and started to drink. Jonathan knocked the
bottom of the cup sending a wave of champagne over Fishbourne's
face and down his neck. He emerged wet and still grinning
to look round at his tormentors as though delighted to afford them all a little harmless fun.
At the next memorable breakfast we shared at Froxbury Court
I noticed, in a state of considerable shock, that Hilda was reading Country Life. Not only did she read it to herself, she gave me
a nugget from this strange periodical.
'"Lodge for sale on gentleman's estate, in wooded country
near Tester.'"
'Why are you reading that, Hilda?' I asked her. 'Were there
no Daily Telegraphs'^'
184
Rumpole and the Sporting Life
'"Three bedrooms, two receps, with access to good, rough
shooting",' she went on. 'Doesn't that sound attractive, Rumpole?'
'I honestly think I have enough troubles in my life without
you taking up rough shooting.'
'What did you say?'
'I said it might be more peaceful in Tooting. Or in Gloucester
Road. Or round the Inner London Sessions, or the Old Bailey.
I mean, there you can go out for a walk without being in imminent
danger of a charge of buckshot or whatever it is.'
'Nonsense, Rumpole!' Hilda was nicking over glossy pages
full of Georgian manor houses and sporting prints. 'That day at
the Bar Races made me realize what we're missing.'
'Mud?' I suggested.
'The countryside, Rumpole! Now, if we sold our lease here ...'
'We could buy a deer park, and a Palladian mansion. Fancy
having your Country Life ironed by the butler?'
'Daddy always said that what a barrister needed was a place
in the country,' Hilda said with quiet dignity.
'13 Acacia Road, Horsham. Wasn't that your Daddy's stately
home?' I asked as I folded up The Times, preparing for my
journey to the Temple.
'Can't you see us, Rumpole?' Hilda began to look distinctly
dreamy. 'Sitting by a log fire, taking a glass of sherry, perhaps,
as the sun sets over the home wood ...'
'I see us with the boiler out, and all trains to London cancelled,
and mud up to your elbows.' I stood up, gulping coffee. 'And out
in the home wood there's bound to be someone killing something.'
Not long after that an elderly man called Figgis, who lived in
a cottage in the woods on Jonathan Postern's Tester estate heard
a shot and a woman's cry. He ran out of his overgrown garden
and, just outside his tangled hedge, propped up against a fallen
tree, he saw the dead body of the rider and owner of Atlantic
Hero. Standing not a dozen yards away from him and holding
a shotgun was Fiona's sister, Jennifer. Figgis asked her what
had happened and her answer was one that was going to prove
a serious problem to her defending counsel. 'I did it,' she said,
and added, somewhat lamely, 'It was an accident.'
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
'Sprod wants you to defend her,' Fiona said.
'That's because you've been giving your sister a quite exaggerated
view of my abilities in matters of shotgun wounds, murder
and sudden death,' I told her.
'Is it really possible to exaggerate your abilities?'
'Perhaps not,' I said modestly.
'Why shouldn't my sister have the best counsel available?'
She sat down in my client's chair. I lit a small cigar and looked
at her. She had rushed back from Court to see me when she
heard the news. Still in her stiff white collar and bands, she
looked absurdly young, like a distressed choirboy.
'Friends,' I said.
'What?' She frowned, puzzled.
'One rule at the Bar, Fiona. Never appear for friends. Your
judgement gets blurred. You care too much. You can't see the
weaknesses in your own case. And if you lose, of course, they
never, ever forgive you.'
'My sister's not your friend. Quite honestly, you hardly know her.'
'But I know you, Fiona.' I hoped I sounded gentle. ^.^
'Of course, but...'
'All the trouble I had to get you in here! I did it by some
pretty ruthless maneuvering, if you want to know the truth. And
then to have to spend the rest of my life avoiding your eye in
the clerk's room, ducking over to the other side of the road when
I saw you walking back from the Bailey, and never feeling safe
to pop into Pommeroy's for a strengthener in case I found you
staring at me more in sorrow than in anger because I lost your
sister's case. Life would be intolerable!' ;,;
'I do understand that,' she admitted. 'But...'
'But me no buts, Fiona,' I said firmly.
'I was only going to say, "But you're not going to lose it, are
you?"'
So, in the course of time, and much against my better judgement,
I found myself sitting in the corner of a railway carriage,
studying a brief which contained a bundle of not uninteresting
mortuary photographs. I was on my way to Tester Crown Court, to play my part in the case of the Queen against Jennifer Postern.
Rumpole and the Sporting Life
In London you hardly ever see death, I thought, as I looked
from the photograph of the wounded body of Jonathan Postern
to the fields and woodlands, the streams and bridges, the greystone
houses and farm buildings of the Cotswold countryside.
Once or twice in a lifetime, you may see an old age pensioner, perhaps, collapsed on a cold night in the tube, or a shape under
a blanket and a small crowd as you drive past an accident.
In that peaceful landscape they saw death every day. They
watched hounds tearing foxes to pieces or coursing hares. They hung up magpies and jays in the woods as a warning to others.
No doubt at the end of the garden I saw from the passing train
there was some retired naval man tearfully putting down his dog.
Death is a routine event in the country. Well, I asked myself,
what's a husband more or less in the shooting season?
And then we were in the outskirts of a grey, stony town. The
train gasped to a standstill and I heard a porter calling, 'Tester!
Change here for Deepside and Watching Junction.'
When I got outside the station, burdened, as usual on my
travels, with my suitcase, briefcase and robe bag, I was hailed
by the young man I had seen briefly in Jonathan Postern's
entourage, and who had been pointed out as the boyfriend of
Miss Fiona Allways.
'Horace Rumpole!' he was calling as he tried to stuff,an extremely
large and melancholy-looking dog into the back seat of
a battered sports car. 'Do hop in. I'm Jeremy Jowling, instructing
you. Don't mind Agatha. She's a soppy old date really. Here, let me take your luggage.' As we put my travelling wardrobe
into his boot, I fitted myself with some difficulty into the sports
car. The front seat was covered with dog hairs and the Hound
of the Baskervilles was breathing lugubriously down my neck.
'Where'd you like to go first,' young Jowling said as he forced
himself into the driver's seat and switched on the engine. 'The
Tester Arms or the prison?'
'Which is the least uncomfortable?' I asked him.
'I'd say the prison. Run you there, shall I? I must say it's all
aG.M.B.U. ...'
'G.M.B.U.?' I asked, puzzled, as we roared off through the
heart of Tester.
^ 187
'Grand Military Balls-up,' he explained. 'Years since we had
a murder in the Tester Hunt. Well, it'll get those dotty blood
sports protestors going. Agatha! For God's sake don't kiss Mr
Rumpole!'
I had, in fact, felt the slap of a warm tongue on the back of
the neck. I leant forward and lit a small cigar. As he squeaked
past a bus and slipped by as the light went red, I wondered how
useful Fiona's swain would be in the coming trial.
'You're a partner?' I asked him.
'In Jowling and Leonard. My old man's firm, quite honestly.
But he doesn't care for murder. So he handed this case on to
me. "Well, my boy," he said. "You may as well start at the
bottom ..." You knew Jonathan Postern at all?'
'Only momentarily.'
'People round here had a tremendous lot of time for Jonno.'
'I'm sorry.' I meant it.
'What?' -,, si
'It's not what you need in a murder case, a well-liked corpse.'
'Well, you'd know about that, wouldn't you? Agatha. Don't
kiss! I shan't tell you again. Only one trouble with Jonno Postern.
He had a bad case of the M.T.F.s.'
'The what?' The young man seemed to need a simultaneous
translation.
'Must Touch Flesh! Particularly the flesh of Debbie Pavier.
Well, that's what the row was all about, wasn't it? A Grand
Military Shout-up. I mean, if it hadn't been for that the constabulary
might have taken Sprod's story about an accident, and
no questions asked.'
'Debbie Pavier?' I asked. 'Was she the girl who was kissing
him in the tent at the races?'
'One of them, yes. All the girls were crazy about Jonno.'
Tester prison was a smallish Victorian castle, not far from
the centre of town. Jennifer Postern had been brought up from
Holloway and we sat in a small, dark interview room and I
rummaged in my brief and asked her questions. She seemed
remarkably calm and self-possessed. She had none of the prison
pallor I was used to in my clients, but seemed to bring into the
stuffy little room a fresh breeze from the countryside.
Rumpole and the Sporting Life
'It was an accident,' she told me, as she had told the old man
Figgis. 'Your housekeeper says you were quarrelling with your
husband that afternoon.'
'Bit of a hangover. After some serious drinking the night
before.'
'Do you remember saying something about "killing him"?'
'Isn't it the sort of thing one says?' Jennifer asked with a smile.
'Is it?'
'Well, don't you quarrel sometimes, with She Who ...?'
'Happily, neither of us owns a shotgun.' I meant it. 'After the
quarrel your husband went out?'
'Jonno wanted a walk, I suppose. To cool off.'
'And so did you?'
'Yes. I went out after he did.'
'And you took your twenty-bore with you?'
'You know something about guns?' For the first time, I
thought, she looked a little worried.
'A little. Why did you take it?'
'I thought it might calm my nerves if I shot something.'
'Not the most tactful way of explaining your feelings to the
jury.' I ground out the end of a small cigar on the tin ashtray
on the table.
'I meant rough shooting. A rabbit, perhaps, or a pigeon or ...'
'The gun was loaded when you met your husband in the wood?'
'Of course.' ; v
'And the safety catch?'
'I put up a pheasant and I was about to have a shot, and
then I remembered it was after February. Closed season for
pheasants.' But not for husbands, I thought, but didn't say, as
Jennifer went on, 'I must have forgotten to put the safety catch
on again. I walked on a little.'
'Down the track in the wood?' I had another bundle of photographs
in. my brief, not of the mortuary but of rural scenes.
'Yes.'
'And then?'
She paused, seemed to be in some difficulty, and looked to
the young solicitor for help. 'I've told Jeremy,' she said.
189
jl
I'll:
Rumpole and the Sporting Life
a shotgun in my hands. The weapon was the property of my
instructing solicitor and I held it as though I were about to shoot
a startled and unwary pheasant. Then I stumbled on the rough
and overgrown ground and brought the gun up to point to Jeremy
Jowling's chest, roughly the area in which Jonathan Postern had
received the fatal charge of shot.
'I suppose it's possible,' I speculated. 'More likely I'd've shot
your feet off, though.'
Jeremy took the gun from me gently. k ''"W^t1;
'Never, never let your gun .'„
„ . , , "" .-..W,B
Pointed be at anyone. ;;; '
^^ ' . <?'
^1 That it should unloaded be ^^ Matters not the least to me.'
'Come again?'
'You don't know that?' He sounded incredulous.
'No. We must have learnt different nursery rhymes.' Then an
uncomfortable thought struck me. 'Jennifer Postern would've
known it, though, wouldn't she? She must have leamt gun training
on her Nanny's knee.' I was looking moodily at the ground, the trees and the bushes, the track that runs through the wood.
'Her father was a terrific shot. Runs in the family. What are
you looking at?'
'The scene of the crime,' I told him. 'The locus in quo.'
'What do you do now?' Jeremy was interested to know. 'Crawl
about on your hands and knees collecting bits of cigarette ash
in an old envelope?'
'Not exactly. The locus in quo looks just like any old bit of the
English countryside to me.'
I moved a little way along the track to a sign on a post, which
bore the direction to badger's wood, and a picture of the
appropriate animal.
'Where's that lead to?' I asked. 'More Postern country?'
'Fishbourne country, actually.'
Who?' y.
'Maurice Fishbourne. Something of a weed with a good deal
of money. Gets ragged a lot for trying to ride at point-to-points.
Invariably hits the deck.'
| y"' , . 191
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
'Fishface!' Yes, of course I remembered.
'You know him?'
'Hardly at all. He isn't a friend of the Posterns?'
'They can't stand him. No one can, actually. He's not P.L.U.
exactly.'
'People Like Us?' I hazarded a guess.
'Well, he puts up those poncy little signs on his land and gets
all his cash from laxatives: "Fishbourne's keep you regular."'
I was looking at the top windows of the cottage which were
visible above the tangled hedge. 'I rely on medicinal claret
myself,' I told him. And then I was startled by a raucous cry, coming from somewhere quite near us. It was a strangely sad
sound, like the lament for some irreparable loss. 'What the hell's
that?' I asked Jeremy. 'Someone in pain?'
'Not at all. That is a yell of pure randiness. Look, I'll show
you.' He led me to a gap in the hedge and a gate into the untended
cottage garden. And there, on the grass, was a rough coop in
which a plump brown bird with a beady eye was imprisoned and
letting people know about it. 'That's a calling bird. A cock
pheasant,'Jeremy told me.
'A calling pheasant in a cage,
Puts all Heaven in a rage,'
I suggested, and went on, ;
-,- ; ' ,L^^-
'The wanton boy that kills the fly 1 Shall feel the spider's enmity.'
'Figgis, the old devil who lives here, keeps it to entice all the
Postern pheasants into his front garden. Of course, when they
get there he knocks them off from his front window with a shotgun.
Cunning isn't it?'
'Did Jonathan Postern know he was being robbed?'
'I suppose he just let it go on. He couldn't get Figgis out of
the cottage. Old Jonno was a bit of an innocent in spite of everything.'

I was looking at the cottage. A thin line of smoke was coming
out of the chimney. 'Did you say "Figgis"?'
'I bet he's in there. Want to talk to him?'
A I
Rumpole and the Sporting Life
Talk to a prosecution witness?' I looked at Jeremy with deep
disapproval. 'Not sporting, old fellow. Definitely not sporting.'
But as we moved away I saw a shape behind the blurred glass
of a downstairs window. The prosecution witness was no doubt
watching us with interest. , ,,„
When I got to know the Tester Arms Hotel I realized how
right Jeremy Jowling had been to take me straight to the prison.
That evening I had what was known as the 'set meal': Pate
Maison in the form of liver ice-cream, a steak from the rump of
some elderly animal lightly singed under the X-ray machine, a
cheeseboard aptly named because the Cheddar tasted exactly like
wood, and a bottle of chilled claret which made Pommeroy's
plonk seem like Chateau-Lafite.
I didn't sleep well that night. It wasn't just the firewood in
the mattress, or the intense cold, or the noise in the water pipes
like a giant's indigestion. I had sat up until well after midnight
reading the post mortem report of a certain Dr Overton, a local
man no doubt and hitherto unknown to me, and looking again
and again at the photographs of the wound. Thoughts about
shotguns raced through my head all night, and in the dawn I
ordered the cooked breakfast which was there in about an hour's
time, cold as charity but better than dinner. At exactly nine
o'clock I put through a call to the Forensic Department at St
Cuthbert's Hospital in London and asked to speak to Professor
Andrew Ackerman.
There are two people in England who know most of what
there is to know about bloodstains: Horace Rumpole and Professor
Andrew Ackerman. I have crossed swords with the good Prof
across many a courtroom, one of the most recent occasions being
in the case of a strange young man who fell in with an appalling
religious sect. It was a case which turned on a nice point of
blood, and I think I got one up on Ackerman on that occasion.*
We are firm friends, however, and once a year Andrew Ackerman
invites me to lunch at the Athenaeum, where we discuss various
corpses of our acquaintance over a chop. My night thoughts on
* See Rumpole's Return, Penguin Books, 1980.
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Rumpole and the Golden Thread
the Postern case had convinced me that what I now needed was
a bit of help from the good Professor. By good fortune I got
hold of him before he went down to the morgue, and the conversation
we had about shotgun wounds was long and enthralling.
In due course young Jeremy Jowling came up to my room to
fetch me for the corrida and, as I buttoned myself into the black
jacket and waistcoat, I asked him if he'd read Dr Overton's
report.
'I've glanced at it,' Jeremy said.
I was tying up my brief. 'Sure of himself, our Dr Overton.
Perhaps a little too sure of himself for an experienced pathologist.
Know anything about him?'
'Never heard of him. Gravely usually does all the stiffs for the
Home Office.'
'How interesting!' I was checking the robes, and fitting the
thick bundle of papers into my briefcase.
'What're our chances?' Jeremy Jowling asked with a small
show of nerves.
'Speaking as a sporting man - you'd like to know the odds?'
'Any better than evens?'
'It's not exactly an easy defence,' I admitted. 'But she's a
woman. She was probably badly treated by her husband. All we
need is a sympathetic judge.'
And then young Jeremy Jowling dropped his bombshell.
'We've got a fellow called Mr Justice Twyburne,' he said, as
though he were referring to the state of the weather. I must
confess that the Rumpole jaw dropped.
'What do you think?' He must have noticed my dismay.
'I think - the odds have lengthened considerably.'
'Why? What's he like then?'
I sat down, recovered my breath, lit a small cigar to steady
my nerves and asked young Jowling if he remembered Martin
Muschamp.
'No ...'
'One of the last death penalty cases. He went out with a gang,
and was tried for shooting a copper. Twyburne summed up dead
against him. Couple of years later another boy confessed and
Marty Muschamp was cleared by a Home Office Inquiry.'
194
aa»a
Rumpole and the Sporting Life
'That was all right then,' Jeremy suggested.
'Oh, lovely for everyone. Except for Martin Muschamp. He'd
already been hanged.' I got up and went to the door. 'Don't
worry too much. We don't do that sort of thing any more.'
Mervyn Harmsway was a pleasant, middle-aged prosecutor, who, so I was told, had a pretty Queen Anne house in Tester,
and an impressive collection of Crown Derby. He opened the
case perfectly fairly in the chilly atmosphere of Twybume's
Court, and the old Judge, more paper-coloured than ever,
listened without expression.
The Court was full. I recognized a few faces, including the
pretty girls who had kissed Jonno at the point-to-point. Fiona
was in mufti on the bench behind me, and her sister smiled at
her, apparently unworried, from the dock. The solid-looking
county jury listened to Harmsway as though they were determined
not to let anyone know what they were thinking.
'That is all I have to say in opening this sad case, members
of the jury,' Harmsway finished. 'And now, with the assistance
of my learned friend Mr Gavin Pinker, I hope to fairly put the
evidence before you.'
'You are causing me a great deal of pain, Mr Harmsway.' A
dry voice came from the Bench.
'I'm sorry, my Lord?' Harmsway looked puzzled.
'Please. Don't split them.' The Judge was looking extremely
pained.
'Don't split what, my Lord?'
'Your infinitives!' his Lordship cracked back. 'This is a distressing
case, in all conscience. Do we have to add to the disagreeable
nature of the proceedings the sound of you tormenting the
English language? You hope to put the evidence fairly.'
'Yes, my Lord.' Harmsway looked cowed.
'Then why don't you start to do it?' Twybume asked testily.
'My learned friend, Mr Pinker, will call the first witness.'
Poor old Harmsway subsided, deflated, to his seat. His junior, -ravin Pinker, who seemed made of sterner stuff, rose and
lannounced that he would now call Mrs Marian Hempe. As the
Posterns' dear old housekeeper waddled into the witness-box
195
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
and took the oath, Harmsway whispered to me bitterly, 'What
a charming Judge!'
'Don't worry, old darling,' I comforted him. 'Twyburne's
quite impartial. He'll be just as ghastly to me.' And then I turned
my attention to the dialogue between Mrs Hempe and Mr Gavin
Pinker.
'Mrs Hempe. How long have you worked for the Posterns?'
Pinker started quietly.
'Ten years now, for Master Jonathan. And his father before
him.'
'You don't live in?'
'I comes on my bicycle. They drive me home if it's a late
dinner.' ffe ;^.
'On the afternoon that Jonathan Postern died ... did you hear
anything going on, between him and his wife?'
'Yes. They was quarrelling, like. In the sitting room. I could
hear voices.'
'Whose voices?'
'Both, I reckon.' ^
'Could you hear any words?' - :
'I hear two words.'
'What were they?' .
'"Kill you" - I heard that said. Loud. By her.'
'By Mrs Postern.' Pinker paused to let the evidence sink in.
'And after that?'
'Then I see Mr Postern go out. He walked towards the woods.'
'What happened then?'
'Mrs Postern stayed indoors. Then she went out.'
'How long did she stay out?'
'I don't rightly know. Ten minutes, quarter of an hour perhaps.
Then she came back and got it.'
'Got what?'
Mrs Hempe pursed her lips as though about to have to mention S. some indelicacy, looked at the jury and said, 'Her shotgun.'
'Did you see her get it?' Pinker asked.
'No. But I see her go out with it under her arm. She went a, back towards the woods again.' I'll 'That is the direction Mr Postern had taken?'
196
Rumpole and the Sporting Life
'Yes.'
'What happened next? Just tell the jury.'
'I heard a shot from the wood,' Mrs Hempe just told the jury.
'From the way they'd both gone.'
'Yes.^
'Thank you, Mrs Hempe.'
Gavin Pinker consulted Harmsway, who took the view that
Mrs Hempe had done all that could be expected of her to scupper
the defence, and I rose to cross-examine. I knew I would get
nowhere at all by calling Mrs Hempe a liar, so I began to
investigate the points that interested me, hoping to get the
cooperation of the good Mrs Hempe.
'You heard one shot?' I asked her.
'No. I heard others.'
'You heard others. When?'
'I heard some shooting from the wood. That was before Mrs
Postern went out.'
'But after Mr Postern went out?'
'Yes?'
'After Mrs Postern went out, how many shots did you hear?'
'Just one.'
'Are you sure of that?'
'I'll take my Bible oath to it.' Mrs Hempe sounded nettled.
'Just one shot and that is all?'
'It was enough, wasn't it?'
The jury nodded in sympathy with the witness. I hurried on
to another topic. 'Now, you heard these words, "Kill you".
You've sworn that was all you heard her say?'
'That's right.'
I took my courage in my hands and launched an extremely
dangerous question. 'You didn't hear her say, "/'// kill you", for
instance?' I suggested, and held my breath until the witness gave
me a hesitant and reluctant, 'No.'
'So she might possibly have been warning him that someone
else might kill him?'
I'I suppose so,' Mrs Hempe sounded extremely grudging. 'But
she was the only one there, wasn't she?'
'Exactly.' Twyburne was no longer able to restrain himself.
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Rumpole and the Golden Thread
'Are you suggesting that someone else might have killed him,
Mr Rumpole?'
'My Lord. I was merely exploring the possibilities.' I gave the
old darling my most charming smile and sat down.
Sometime during that morning I glanced up at the public
gallery and saw the face of Maurice Fishbourne staring down at
me through a new pair of spectacles. Mr Figgis from the cottage
in the woods near the Postern house was in the witness-box. He
was a grizzled, stooping man in his late sixties, I judged, wearing
an old torn tweed jacket. He was imperfectly shaved, and his
shirt looked as though it hadn't been washed for some time. He
was an old man who lived alone. Harmsway took him through
his evidence-in-chief and then I rose to cross-examine.
'When did you first see Mrs Postern on that day?'
'When she was holding the shotgun. Standing about ten
yards off him.' Figgis was only too anxious to repeat his
evidence.
'Eventually you took the gun off her and broke it open?'
'I did, yes.'
'How many cartridges had been fired?'
'Just the one.' Figgis seemed to think the evidence damning, but I blessed him silently for it.
'Just the one,' I repeated for the jury. 'You ejected the spent
cartridge?'
'Yes.'
'And did you go with her back to the house where she telephoned
the police?'
'I did.' The old man seemed proud of the important part he
played in these stirring events.
'And was her gun in your possession until the police arrived?'
'Yes.'
'I'm much obliged.' I gave the jury another look. 'Now, when
you first saw Mrs Postern, what did she say, exactly?'
'She said, "/ did it. It was an accident."'
'She said, "I did it." Might it not have been, "I did it"?'
'Is there a dispute as to what your client said, Mr Rumpole?'
Twyburne was irritated at what he clearly thought was a quibble.
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Rumpole and the Sporting Life
'No dispute as to what she said, my Lord. I am only interested
to discover where the emphasis was put.'
'You may be interested in that, Mr Rumpole. It remains to
be seen in the fullness of time whether the point interests the
jury.' Twyburne looked at the jury and sighed heavily. The solid
citizens continued to give nothing away.
'It may be a question of some importance, my Lord.'
'The words are there.' And then Twyburne delivered himself
into my hands. 'How they were said seems to be a matter of
unimportant insignificance,' he said weightily.
'May I suggest that it might be better to say, "of insignificance",
my Lord.' I was extremely polite.
'What?' The Judge looked as puzzled as Harmsway had been
on a similar occasion.
' "Unimportant insignificance" might be a bit of a tautology,
might it not? Something of a torment to the English language,'
I suggested innocently. The barristers in Court seemed too
stunned to laugh. There was a moment's appalled silence when
it seemed that the Judge might be prepared to commit me for
Contempt of Court. Then he said quietly, 'Ask your question,
Mr Rumpole.'
'Thanks awfully.' Harmsworth gave me a whisper of gratitude,
and I whispered back, 'Don't mention it.' Then I asked Figgis
again if he could remember how Jennifer Postern had emphasized
the words of her admission.
'She said, "/ did it,"' he decided, after a good deal of thought.
'Now I wonder why she said that,' I speculated. 'There was
no one else about who could have done it, was there?'
'Not as I could see.'
'Not that you could see.' I gave the jury time to think about
that answer and then attacked another subject.
'Mr Figgis. Do you keep a calling pheasant?'
'I don't know what you mean,' he protested.
'Oh, I think you do. A cock bird in a cage whose cries invite
numerous lady pheasants to visit your front garden when you
knock them off from your downstairs window. So far as I can
gather, you must have pheasant for breakfast, dinner and
tea.'
| i99
' ^L
Rumpole and the Sporting Life
On my way out to the Judge's Rolls, I saw Maurice Fishbourne.
He was standing on the pavement outside the Court, and he
seemed about to speak to me, but then he changed his mind and
turned away.
The invitation to take lunch in the Judges' 'lodgings', referred
to above, may require some explanation for those not deeply
versed in legal matters. In the olden days judges, barristers and
their respective clerks and hangers-on, used to roll up in large
coaches on circuit from one Assize town to the other, emptying
the jails and usually despatching their inhabitants to some further
proceedings beyond the grave. Each town had to provide fitting
accommodation for the judges' regular visits. A house was set
aside, provided with silver, decanters, wine and servants, bed
linen and firewood and all appropriate comforts by the municipality, and was known as the 'Judges' lodging'.
Although the same enlightened planner (his name now escapes
me) who abolished the greater part of the railways also cut out the
circuit system - as though it were a rather slow branch line from
Ashby de la Zouch - Red Judges, Judges of the Queen's Bench, still go on tour and sit to try criminal cases in provincial centres
and once there, become prisoners in their own lodgings. They are
waited on by elderly retainers, they have no worries about
queueing at Tesco's, and they find it difficult to go to the pictures
without a police escort. I have often wondered what would induce
anyone to sentence themselves to such long terms of confinement.
The lodgings, of course, are usually large and pleasant old
houses, and the one at Tester was no exception. It was of a warm
red brick, much decorated by honeysuckle and clematis and
surrounded by a carefully manicured lawn. We had travelled
there with a couple of policemen on motorbikes as outriders and
I resisted a strong temptation to wave in a royal fashion to a little
crowd of women at a bus stop. We left our wigs on the hall table,
where they lay like dead and dirty white birds while we ate in our
robes. Twyburne sat at the head of the table, Rumpole for the
defence on his right, and Harmsway and Pinker on his left. The
lunch, which was plain but excellent, passed without any particular
embarrassment, except that Twyburne ignored me and
201
•'V
Rumpole and the Sporting Life
or an apology. I didn't oblige him. 'All you could do was sum up
and leave the matter to the jury.' There was a new note in his voice
now. It was no longer the voice of a Judge, but of an advocate,
pleading for something. At last he said, 'Nothing else I could do, was there?'
I had a sudden feeling that Mr Justice Twybume wanted to be
forgiven, but who was I to forgive him? The only answer I had
was, 'I don't know.'
A long silence followed and ended when Twybume popped a
quarter of the apple in to his mouth, chewed it and asked, 'Are
you a gardener, Rumpole?'
'I'm afraid not.' I was no use to him.
'Excuse me. Judge, where ...?' Harmsway asked, and when the
Judge told him it was on the right just outside the door, he left,
followed by his learned junior.
'I'm a rose man myself,' the Judge told me when we were left
alone. 'Of course, it's been difficult to get round all the pruning
since my wife died. Come and look at this:' Twybume got up and
went to the sideboard. I knew now, without a doubt, that he
wanted me to feel pity for him. He took a silver-framed photograph
off the long stretch of mahogany. I was looking at two little
girls in the garden.
'The Mrs Sam Macreadys are flowering well, don't you think?
And that's two of the grandchildren. I've got six now, altogether.
This one's the budding show-jumper.'
He put the photograph down slowly and looked at me. He
seemed very tired and enormously old. 'I think I summed up
Muschamp quite fairly,' he said. ; :S
'Didn't you tell the jury they might well not believe a word of
his evidence?' I wasn't letting him off.
'That was my personal opinion. They were quite free to come
to their own conclusion, wouldn't you agree?'
I said nothing. I didn't want to give him what he wanted from
me, not even a crumb of comfort. We stood facing each other in
silence for a moment, and then Harmsway came back from the
lavatory.
'So kind of you. Judge,' he said. 'Such an agreeable luncheon.'
203
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
When we had made our royal progress back to Court I crossexamined
Detective Inspector Clover, the comfortable, rubicund
local officer in charge of the case. I took hold of Exhibit One,
which was Jennifer Postern's shotgun, and held it up for his
inspection. I put my questions gently. I was saving all my strength
for the coming battle with Dr Overton, the pathologist.
'This was the gun that fired the shot. You're satisfied of that,
Inspector?'
'Quite satisfied, sir.'
'It was, of course, immediately submitted to the ballistics
expert, Mr Collinson, whose evidence has been read. You know
his view is that only one barrel had been fired within the hours before he saw it?'
'Yes.'
'And you found one cartridge case and one only at the scene of
the crime?'
'Yes.'
'So your view of this case, after the most thorough inquiries by
the police, is that Mrs Postern fired one shot at her husband and
one shot only?'
The good Inspector turned to the Judge and gave me what I
wanted. 'That is absolutely clear, my Lord,' he said.
'Absolutely clear.' I looked at the jury, willing them to remember
what he'd said, and then I let the Inspector go.
Dr Overton was young and extremely pleased with himself. He
stood in the witness-box, with his reports and the mortuary
photographs spread out in front of him, and lectured us as though
we were a collection of housewives taking a course in elementary
pathology on the University of the Air. He smiled at the jury
after every answer and, when addressed by the Judge, he bowed
like an over-eager hall porter working his way up to a generous
tip. He wore a neat blue suit, his hair came over the tops of his
ears, and he sported a small moustache. As Harmsway took him
through his evidence, I stirred in my seat restlessly. I couldn't
wait for my turn to cross-examine.
'Dr Overton, have you investigated previous cases of death by BNc shotgun wounds?' I began, when my opportunity came at last.
s?Ms q think one.' He smiled modestly at the jury.
204
Rumpole and the Sporting Life
'Just one. And have you been called on to give evidence in a
murder trial before?'
'Well, no. Not, actually ...'
'Congratulations on your debut.' I gave him a smile for which
he wasn't grateful. 'Why was it that you were called in to perform
the post mortem in this most important case? Is not Dr Gravely
the most experienced and aptly named Home Office pathologist
for the Tester district?'
'Dr Gravely was away at a conference in Scarborough. I was called in at short notice.'
'And saw your big chance?'
'His big chance of what, Mr Rumpole?' Twyburne didn't like
my tone with the young doctor.
'Perhaps your big chance of ingratiating yourself with the local
police by agreeing with their conclusions?' I suggested.
'I did agree with their conclusions, yes.'
'And with their view that Jonathan Postern's body had received
the impact of one, and only one, shotgun wound.'
'That was my conclusion.' The doctor gave the Judge another
small bow, and Twyburne gave him a shadowy smile of approval.

'From which we may draw the inference that it was the shot
from Mrs Postern's gun which caused his death, either deliberately,
or by accident?'
'Yes.' Dr Overton felt it was quite safe to agree.
'Shotgun pellets enter the body at one central point surrounded
by an area of scatter?'
'That's true.'
'And the area of scatter is larger if the gun has been fired from a
greater distance.' Elementary, of course, but I wanted also to give
the jury a lesson in first principles.
'I agree.' Dr Overton was clearly feeling that he was emerging
from my cross-examination unscathed. I was doing my best to lure him into a false sense of security. 'I'm glad you do. Take
Photograph Three, if you will.'
I The witness, the Judge and the jury opened the volume of
mortuary photographs.
'You have made a pencil circle round the entry hole which you
205
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
consider fatal. It's the right side of the chest in the jury's photograph.'

'I see that, yes.'
'That is where you consider the fatal shot entered?'
'I'm sure of it.'
'Absolutely positive?'
'I have no doubts whatever on the subject, Mr Rumpole.' For
a moment I felt sorry for the young doctor - he was so sure of
everything. I hardened my heart and said, 'There is another,
smaller wound to the left, and a little above that, is there not?
Perhaps you would like to borrow my glass?' I held out a magnifying
glass, but the doctor scorned its assistance.
'No. I can see perfectly well, thank you.' ; : 'Is that the darker spot on the photograph? Just show us where
you're looking.' Twyburne was following carefully. Dr Overton
held up his photograph and pointed and then gave another little
bow.
'Yes. At about two o'clock from the pencil circle, members of
the jury,' said the Judge. The jury found it and some nodded.
'What did you take that to be?' I asked the witness.
'I took that to be part of the scatter,' the doctor said very
positively, hoping that would settle the matter. It didn't.
'Could it not be the central wound of a second shot, fired,
perhaps, from some yards further away?' I suggested. I was
rewarded by a considerable pause and when Dr Overton spoke
again it was with rather less confidence. 'I suppose that's a possibility.'
. feifel
'It wasn't a minute ago, was it, Dr Overton?'
'Just a possibility, my Lord,' the witness appealed to the Judge,
but got no help.
'So when you told us you were absolutely certain there was only
one shot, you were giving this jury an opinion which was not
entirely reliable.' I saw the jury looking fairly sternly at the
witness.
'I see no reason to suppose that there was more than one shot.'
Dr Overton tried a retreat to his previously held position.
'But it's a possibility^.'
; 'Yes ' he had to admit. s '-'
I- Rumpole and the Sporting Life
'What would turn that possibility into a probability, Dr
Overton?'
'Well, I suppose if there was some strong additional evidence.'
He made a concession which he clearly believed was safe.
'And you say there is none?'
'Not so far as I know, my Lord.' Another small bow to the
Judge was received in sepulchral silence by Twyburne.
'What this jury has to consider, Dr Overton, is the extent of
your knowledge. How many pellets, on an average, are there in a
twenty-bore shotgun cartridge?' I had the satisfying feeling that
I had fired him a question he wasn't prepared for. The doctor
frowned, and answered with extreme care, 'I would say ... about
an ounce of shot.'
'Well done. Very promising.' Now I was being the teacher.
'And so how many pellets are there in an ounce of shot?'
'How many pellets?' he frowned.
'Are you hard of hearing, Dr Overton?'
'Not in the least.' .
'Then could you force yourself to tell this jury the answer to
my question.'
'I think, my Lord,' he said with a small bow of apology now, 'I
would have to look that up.'
It was time for a bit of carefully controlled indignation, and I
said, 'It didn't occur to you to look it up before you came here to
give so-called expert evidence against a lady of unblemished
character on a charge of murder?'
'No,' was the only answer possible.
'Then let us see if you remember this. When you carried out.
your post mortem examination you found a large number of
shotgun pellets in the body, did you not?'
'A very large number indeed.' He seemed pleased by the fact,
so was I.
'I'm obliged. Did you count them?'
'May I look at my notes?' But Dr Overton was now looking at
Inspector Clover, sitting in the well of the Court, for help.
'Look at anything you like,' I said, 'except the Inspector in
I charge of the case. He's not going to be able to help, you know.'
'Mr Rumpole!' I heard a dry voice from the Bench and
207
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
apologized at once, of course. 'Your Lordship objected to that
observation? Then I will withdraw it and we can get on with
something more interesting. How many pellets did you find in the
deceased's body, Dr Overton?'
'About four hundred and eighty, my Lord ...' he said, and the
Judge made a careful note.
'And there may have been others you didn't find?'
'There may well have been.'
'Now let me tell you something, doctor, which may be a help to
you if you ever come to give evidence in a murder trial again. Your
average cartridge for a twenty-bore shotgun contains two
hundred and fifty pellets.'
'Well, I must accept that, of course.' The doctor couldn't very well do anything else. It was all in Ackerman.
'So does not the presence in the deceased's body of almost
double that number of pellets indicate to you that there were
probably two shots?'
The silence seemed endless. The Judge sat with his pencil
poised over his notebook. In the dock Jennifer Postern looked as
though the answer concerned her not at all. Then Dr Overton
said, 'It might do so ...'
'Might it not?' I came down on the answer quickly. 'And if Mrs
Postern only fired one shot, might not some other person have
fired the other?'
'Surely that is a conclusion for the jury, Mr Rumpole,' Twybume
suggested, but this time it was not a rebuke.
'My Lord, it will be my submission that it is the only conclusion.
Thank you, Dr Overton.' I started to sit down, then
changed my mind. 'Oh, doctor, before you go ...' Dr Overton was
leaving the witness-box with considerable relief. He paused disconcertedly
as I held up the small volume which had been my
inspiration for the day. 'If you intend to continue in your present
line of work, I would recommend a study by Professor Andrew
Ackerman on Gunshot Wounds in Forensic Medicine. Such a useful
little volume, and quite easy reading for the beginner.' I'-'
'Of course, that cross-examination was wonderful enter»yg
tainment, Rumpole.' Miss Allways had come up to me after the
8*1 .,
208
Ip Rumpole and the Sporting Life
Tudge kft Court, and I was packing up my brief for another
evening of quiet contemplation.
'One of my best, Fiona,' I said with becoming modesty. 'Perhaps
my very best of a medical witness. Luckily I couldn't warm toDrOverton.'
'But where does it get my sister?' Fiona asked.
'Just possibly, off.'
She frowned, as though she couldn't see it personally. 'Sprod
says it was an accident. Are you suggesting that there were two
accidents?'
'No, Fiona. Only one accident.'
'What are you getting at?'
'Your sister's not too keen on the truth coming out in this case, is she, Fiona? Tell her I'll be down to the cells to see her first thing
tomorrow morning.' ^-fl ?*
'Why not tonight?'
'Not tonight. No. I'm going back to the Tester Arms. I've got
to see somebody else first.'
I had seen Fishbourne hanging about in the back of the Court
when I was talking to Fiona, which is why I had announced my
evening's plans in as loud a voice as possible. But when I turned
away from her he had gone and I couldn't find him in the corridor
or waiting for me outside the building. So I went back to the
hotel, had a bath to wash away the courtroom atmosphere and
changed into an old pair of grey flannels and a tweed jacket that
had seen better days. No one rang to say that I had a visitor and,
as I struggled through the appalling grapefruit segments, battery
hen and frozen veg, no one came up to my table.
Only as I sat in the residents' lounge, with a bottle of less
than average claret and a small cigar, was my patience rewarded.
He was coming towards me through a maze of deserted coffee
tables.
'Thank you for coming, Mr Fishboume,' I said. 'Do please sit
down.'
He sat, refused a drink, and looked at me as though desperate
for good news. 'Y ... y ... you can't get her off, can you?' he said. ^--Suppose you tell me the answer to that, Mr Fishbourne.'
209
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
'I mean. Id... don't see how you can. She said she did
it.'
'What she said was, "/ did it,"' I reminded him. 'Who else did
she think might have done it, do you suppose?'
He looked at me then, I was glad to see, with considerable
surprise. My suggestion, it seemed was one that hadn't occurred
to him before.
'It couldn't possibly've been me.' He spoke quite calmly, without
indignation or protest.
'Couldn't?'
'I d ... didn't see him. I'd gone up to London. Quite unexpectedly.
I had a call from our solicitors and I went up just after
lunch. All sorts of people saw me.'
I had no doubt they had, and felt a surge of relief. 'That's what
we call an alibi in the trade,' I told him. 'Our first bit of luck in
this case. But you know why Postern came to see you, don't you?
I mean, it wasn't to criticize your riding abilities.'
'N ... n ... no. It wasn't for that.' He was looking at me,
deciding to trust me. Then he accepted a glass of wine and started
to tell me the whole story. ; ,..
'How did you guess?' Jennifer Postern asked me when we met,
early the next morning, in the cells under Tester Court. We had
been given thick mugs of tea by the lady dock officer, and I felt
easier in my mind than I had since the trial began.
'I saw you when Fishface fell at the last fence,' I told her. 'I
thought you were his wife. Then you laughed at him with the
others, so I knew you were hiding something. I suppose Jonathan
found out about you and Maurice Fishbourne.'
'It's such a mess.' For the first time, she lost her extraordinary
composure. She bowed her head, her hands were over her face
and her shoulders shaking. Then she made a great effort, looked
up, and said, 'What do you want me to do?'
'Why not try telling the truth? Sometimes people win cases like
that. What do you say - shall we give it a try?'
So, when the Court assembled, I called Jennifer Postern into
the witness-box, and she swore to tell the truth, the whole truth
and nothing but the truth.
210
Rwnpole and the Sporting Life
'Mrs Postern,' I went straight to the heart of the case, 'the
afternoon your husband died you had a quarrel. What was that
quarrel about?'
'About Maurice Fishboume.' ^
Twybume looked up at a new name, the jury were puzzled. I
explained with a question, 'He is your next-door neighbour?'
'Yes.' :: .
'What did you tell your husband?' <• •:
'I told Jonno that I loved Maurice and if he would divorce me
we hoped to marry. I had been unhappy with my husband for a
long time.' Now she had made up her mind to tell her story,
Jennifer spoke simply and convincingly.
'Had Jonathan Postern been violent to you?' p ^# A;
'Yes. Quite often.' •""'•"
'And so, on the afternoon you quarrelled ...?'
'Jonno said he'd go over and see Maurice and tell him never
to see me again. He threatened to beat Maurice up. I knew
Maurice could have a violent temper and that he hated Jonno. I
think I shouted at my husband that if he went, Maurice might kill
him.'
'Was Mrs Hempe in the house when you shouted that?'
'She was, yes.'
'And might have heard part of it?'
'Yes. Easily.' W^x^'s.'^ •••'•.
'Had Maurice told you he might kill your husband?' ;'•*»;;
'When he heard how Jonno had treated me. Yes.'
'Did you take these threats seriously?'
'I knew that Maurice was a very determined man. He has a very
strong will.' '.
'Let's come to the time wh'en your husband left the house.'
'Jonno said he was going out to cool off, but after a while I
thought he'd gone to Maurice's, so I decided to follow him. I got
as far as the track by Figgis's cottage and I saw Jonathan. There
was blood ...' She paused, seemed unable to go on, and then
controlled herself. 'I saw that he was dead.'
'What did you think?'
'Of course I thought that Maurice had done it.' She looked at
the jury. 'It was just by Maurice's wood. I thought he'd met
r. '• 211
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
Jonathan there and they quarrelled and ...' For a moment her
voice faded.
'And?'
'I knew Maurice wouldn't be able to get away with it.' She
was summoning up reserves of strength. 'I thought he'd be
convicted of murdering Jonathan. Oh, I was in a sort of panic, I
suppose.'
'So what did you decide to do?' I asked her very quietly.
The Court and the jury were totally silent, almost breathless
with attention as Jennifer answered, 'I decided to pretend I'd shot
Jonathan. By mistake. In an accident. I went back to the house
and got my shotgun. When I got to the wood again Jonathan was
still there. I put in one cartridge and I fired.' Now she'd said it, the witness looked enormously relieved.
'One shot only?' ,
'Yes, only one.'
'Into his dead body?'
Jennifer's answer was hardly above a whisper. 'Yes.',.
..vo >''
In the course of time my task was done, and I sat listening to
Mr Justice Twyburne summing up to the jury. He spoke quietly:
at times we had to strain our ears to hear him. With his lined face
and thin neck emerging from a stiff collar that seemed too big for
him, he looked like an aged tortoise. He was a lonely old Judge
who refused to retire and who had come to me, of all people, for
reassurance. And then he looked at me, and I gave his words my
full attention.
'Members of the jury,' the Judge was saying, 'contrary to the
views of some people, a British criminal trial cannot be compared
in any way to a horse race.' He turned back to the jury. 'You
do not get the result by closing your eyes and sticking a pin into
the list of runners. If you are sure that, for whatever reason,
Mrs Postern deliberately shot at her husband with the intention
of killing him or doing him serious harm, why then you must
convict her. But if you think that the account she gave you
might be true, I say might be true, then she is entitled to be
acquitted. There is some support for Mrs Postern's story, is
there not, in the medical evidence?' Twyburne paused, searching
Rumpole and the Sporting Life
for a place in his notebook. I was filled with amazement, as I
slowly realized we were getting a fair, even a favourable summing
up. I wondered for a moment if we had Martin Muschamp to
thank for it. Then Twybume went on to the jury, 'You have to
consider the possibility that, in an accident caused by the man
Figgis shooting from the window of his cottage, Mr Postern met
his death on that woodland track. That Mrs Postern, coming on
the body, assumed her lover to have been responsible, and took
extraordinary steps to cover up what she thought had been a
crime. This is not a Court of morals, members of the jury, and
it is not a racetrack. What we are concerned with is certainty, and the truth.'
Hilda had the television on as I let myself into Casa Rumpole
at Froxbury Court. It was booming news from Tester Assizes,
and telling a waiting world that Jennifer Postern had been
acquitted.
'Well, Rumpole,' said Hilda. 'I suppose you think you've done
something frightfully clever.'
She was standing by the mantelpiece, on which she had put
the photograph of a gentleman's lodge near Tester, cut carefully
out of Country Life. Hilda was still hankering, quite clearly, for
rural living and membership of the County set.
'No.' I told her, 'I think I've done something absolutely
"brill".'
I went into the kitchen, opened a well-earned bottle of Pommeroy's
plonk, and brought my wife a brimming glassful. Then
I raised my own beaker in a toast. 'To Jennifer Postern,' I said.
'A wonderful woman in some ways. She took the most extraordinary
risks to protect the man she loved.'
'Fiona's sister?' Hilda was frowning.
'Yes. Doesn't look all that much like Fiona.' I was staring at
.the cutting on the mantelpiece. 'Far more beautiful, don't you
think? Fine-looking woman. We'll be able to see a good deal of
her if we take that gentleman's lodge arrangement near Tester
you're always talking about. Jennifer promises to give me shooting
lessons.'
I'Shooting lessons? You, Rumpole?' She was clearly worried.
213
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
'Oh yes. We plan to spend a good deal of time together. You'll
be kept busy, I suppose, bottling fruit.' .
Hilda went to the mantelpiece. She looked thoughtful. :
'Rumpole. I've been thinking. It's really very convenient for
us, this flat in the Gloucester Road.'
'Yes, but...'
'We can always have days out in the country.'
'I suppose that's true, but...' :,, vf-
'I think I've decided against Tester.'
She Who Must Be Obeyed took the advertisement, crumpled
it up and threw it into the waste-paper basket.
'Well, Hilda,' I said. 'It's entirely your decision, but perhaps
it'll be better for our health, living quietly in London.'
<y«( fish:
Rumpole and the Last Resort, ,
3 | " i»t--' ^
"" "''' '"I'"'' ?','»< ''" - ^w^
__ ^ ^ ysi& ^ . aafc
H 11-. -N' ;"
I have almost caught up with myself. Decent crime has not been
too thick on the ground recently, and time has been hanging a
little heavily on the Rumpole hands. I have had a good deal of
leisure to spend on these chronicles of the splendours and miseriesofan
Old Bailey hack and, although I have enjoyed writing them,
describing and remembering is something of a secondhand
occupation. I am happiest, I must confess, with the whiff of
battle in my nostrils, with the Judge and the prosecuting counsel
stacked against me, with the jury unconvinced, and everything
to play for as I rear to my hind legs and start to cross-examine
the principal witness for the Crown. There has been a notable
decrease in the number of briefs in my tray in Chambers of late, and I have often set out for Number 3 Equity Court with nothing
but the Times crossword and the notebook in which I have spent
otherwise undemanding days recalling old murders and other
offences. A barrister's triumphs are short-lived: a notable victory
may provide gossip round the Temple for a week or two, a row
with the Judge may be remembered a little longer; but those you
have got off don't wish to be reminded of the cells where they
met you, and those whose cases you have lost aren't often keen
to share memories. By and large, trials are over and done with
when you pack up your robes and leave Court after the verdict.
For that reason it has been some satisfaction to me to write these
accounts, although the truth of the matter is, as I have already
hinted, that I haven't had very much else to do.
So up to date have I become that I can recount no more cases °f sufficient interest and importance which have engaged my
talents since my unexpected return from retirement. All I have
left to do is something new to me - that is, to write about a case as I am doing it, in the hope that it will turn out to be sufficiently
215
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
unusual to be included among these papers which will form somi
sort of memorial to the transient life of Horace Rumpole
barrister-at-law. I am soon to go into Court with one of nr
dwindling number of briefs, as counsel for the defence of a young
businessman named Frank Armstrong, Chairman and Managing
Director of Sun-Sand Holidays Ltd, an organization which sup
plies mobile homes to holidaymakers in allegedly desirable site:
in the West Country, the Lake District and other places whici
have every known inconvenience, including being much too fa:
away from Pommeroy's Wine Bar. The case itself may have somi
points of interest, including the mysterious mobility of Sun-Sane
Mobile Homes, and the period about which I am writing contain;
another minor mystery, that is to say, the disappearance of a M:
Perivale Biythe, solicitor of the Supreme Court, a fellow who
so far as I am concerned, is fully entitled to disappear off thi
face of the earth, were it not for the fact that he has, for longe
than I care to remember, owed me money.
One of the many drawbacks of life at the Bar is the length o
time it takes to get paid for services rendered. As the loyal punte
may not appreciate, he pays the solicitor for the hire of ;
barrister and, in theory at any rate, the solicitor passes the loo
on to the member of the Bar, the front-line warrior in thi
courtroom battle, with the greatest possible despatch. In man;
cases, unhappily, the money lingers along the line and months
even years, may pass before it percolates into the barrister's ban]
account. There is really nothing much the average advocate cai
do about this. In the old days, when barristering was regarde<
as a gentlemanly pursuit for persons of private means, rathe.
like fox-hunting or collecting rare seaweed, the rule grew up tha
barristers couldn't sue for their fees, on the basis that to be seei
suing a solicitor would be as unthinkable as to be found dancing
with your cook.
So it was not only a decline in the number of briefs bearing
the Rumpole name, but a considerable slowing down in thi
paying process, which caused my account at the Temple brand
of the United Metropolitan Bank to blush an embarrassing red
One day I called in to cash a fifty-pound cheque, mainly tt
defray the costs of those luxuries Hilda indulges in, matters sucl
Rumpole and the Last Resort
as bread and soap powder, and I stood at the counter breathing
a silent prayer that the cashier might see fit to pay me out. Having
nresenied my cheque, I heard the man behind the grille say, to
my considerable relief, 'How would you like the money, sir?'
'Oh, preferably in enormous quantities.' Of course it was a
stupid thing to say. As soon as the words had passed my lips, I
thought he'd take my cheque off to the back of the shop and
discover the extent of the Rumpole debt. Why was he reading
the thing so attentively? The art of cheque-cashing is to appear
totally unconcerned.
'How would I like the money?' I said rapidly. 'Oh, I'll take?
it as it comes. Nothing fancy, thank you. Not doubloons. Or,
pieces of eight. Just pour me out a moderate measure of pounds
sterling.'
To my relief the notes came out on a little wheel under the;,
glass window. I scooped up the boodle and told myself thafr">
the great thing was not to run. Break into any sort of jog trot on the
way to the door and they check up on the overdraft at once. The
secret is to walk casually and even whistle in a carefree manner.
I was doing exactly that when I was stopped with a far from
cheery good morning by Mr Medway, the Assistant Manager. I
should have made a dash for it. ;
'Paying in or drawing out today, are we?' Medway looked at
the money in my hand, 'Oh. Drawing out, I see. Could you step
into my office, sir?' 'c.^. :'.. 'vy,
'Not now. Got to get to Court. A money brief, of course.' I
was hastily stuffing the notes into my pocket.
'Just a moment of your time, Mr Rumpole.' Medway was not
to be put off. Within a trice I found myself closeted with him
as I was grilled as to my financial position. .
'Gone right over the limit of our overdraft, haven't we, Mr
Rumpole?' The man smiled unpleasantly.
'My overdraft? A flea bite, compared with what you chaps are
lending the Poles.'
I searched for a packet of cigars, feeling that I rather had him
there.
'I don't think the Poles are making out quite so many cheques
in favour of Jack Pommeroy ofPommeroy's Wine Bar.'
P
217
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
'Those are for the bare necessities of life. Look here, Medway.
A fellow's got to live!'
'There's bound to come a time, Mr Rumpole, when that may ,
not be necessary at the expense of the United Metropolitan Bank.'
A peculiarly heartless financier, this Medway. --
' "The Bank with the Friendly Ear".' I quoted his commercial,
lit the cigar and blew out smoke.
'There comes a time, Mr Rumpole, when the United Metropolitan
goes deaf.'
'That little overdraft of mine. Peanuts! Quite laughable compared
to my outstanding fees.' It was my time to bring out the
defence. 'My fees'll come in. Of course they will. You know how
long solicitors keep owing us money? Why, there's one firm who
still hasn't paid me for a private indecency I did for them ten
years ago. No names, of course, but...'
'Is that Mr Perivale Biythe?' Medway was consulting my
criminal record. 'Of Biythe, Winterbottom and Paisley?'
'Yes. I believe that's the fellow. Slow payer, but the money's
there, of course.'
'Is it, Mr Rumpole?' Medway was a banker of little faith.
'Every time we've had one of these little chats, you've told me
that you're owed a considerable amount in fees by Mr Perivale
Biythe.'
'Can't remember how much, of course. But enough to pay off I
my overdraft and make a large contribution to the National Debt.'
I stood up, anxious to bring this embarrassing interview to a conclusion.
'Must be scooting along,' I said. 'Got to earn both of
us some money. Engaged in Court, you know.'
'My advice to you, Mr Rumpole,' Medway said darkly, 'is to
take steps to make this Mr Perivale Biythe pay up. And without
delay.'
'Of course. Get my clerk on to it at once. Now don't you worry,
Medway.' I opened the door on my way to freedom. 'Having
the Poles in next, are you? Hope you give them a good talking to.'
When I had told Medway that I had an engagement in Court .
it was a pardonable exaggeration. In fact I had nothing much to
do but settle into my room at 3 Equity Court and write these
Rumpole and the Last Resort
memoirs. I had found the tete-a-tete in the bank somewhat deDressing
and I was in a low mood as I turned into the Temple
and approached the entrance of our Chambers. There I met our
demure Head, Sam Ballard, Q.c., who was standing on the step
in conversation with a young man with dark hair, soft eyes and
an expression of somewhat unjustified self-confidence which reminded
me of someone. Ballard greeted me with 'Hullo there,
Rumpole. How are you?'
'"Tir'd with all these, for restful death I cry,"' I told him
candidly.
'As to behold desert a beggar born,
And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity,
And purest faith unhappily forsworn,
And gilded honour shamefully misplac'd ...'
'What's this talk of death, Rumpole?' Ballard was brisk and disapproving.
'You know young Archie Featherstone, don't you?
Mr Justice Featherstone's nephew.' He introduced the young
man, who smiled vaguely.
'My God. More Featherstones!' I was amazed. '"What! will
the line stretch out to the crack of doom?"'
'I'm sure he'd like your advice about starting out at the
Bar.'
'My advice is, "Don't",' I told the young man.
'Don't?' he repeated, pained.
'Don't slog your heart out. Don't tramp for years round some
pretty unsympathetic Courts. What'll you have to show at the
end of it? You're up to your eyes in debt to the United Metropolitan
Bank and they'll grudge you such basic nourishment as
a couple of dozen non-vintage Chateau Thames Embankment.'
'Young Featherstone would love to get a seat in our Chambers,
Rumpole.' Ballard had clearly not followed a word I'd said. 'I've
told him that at the moment there's just not the accommodation
available.'
At the moment?' Was the man expecting a sudden departure _from our little band of barristers?
'Well, I don't suppose you'll be in your room for ever.' Ballard
didn't sound too regretful. 'The time must come when you take
219
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
things a little more easily. Henry was saying how tired he thought
you looked.'
'"Tir'd with all these, for restful death I cry ...'" I repeated,
and I looked at Ballard, remembering, '"And gilded
honour shamefully misplac'd". Oh yes, Ballard. The time's got
to come. Cheer up, young Featherstone,' I told him. 'You'll soon
be able to take over my overdraft.'
I left them there and went to report to the clerk's room. When
I got there I found Henry in position at his desk and Dianne
rattling her typewriter in a corner.
'Henry, how much does Perivale Biythe owe me in fees?' I
asked at once. ' ^ ':^ '^ite, }
'Two thousand, seven hundred and sixty-five pounds, ninetythree
pence, Mr Rumpole,' Henry said, as if he knew it all by
heart.
'You tell me of wealth undreamed of by the United Metropolitan
Bank. It's a debt stretching back over a considerable time,
eh. Henry?'
'Stretching back, Mr Rumpole, to the indecency at Swansea in
April, 1973.' Henry confirmed my suspicions.
'You have, I suppose, been on to him about it. Henry?'
'Almost daily, Mr Rumpole.' '" $,'
'And what has this blighter Biythe to say for himself?' ^ i
'The last time his secretary told us a cheque was in the post.'
'Not true?' I guessed. ^i,s
'Not unless it evaporated mysteriously between here and
Cheapside.'
'Get after him. Henry, like a terrier. Get your teeth into the
man Biythe, and don't let him go until he disgorges the loot.'
I looked at Henry's desk and my eyes were greeted with the
unusual and welcome sight of a brief bearing the Rumpole name.
'Is that a set of papers for me you're fingering?' I asked with
assumed indifference.
'Mr Myers brought it in, sir. It's a case at the Bailey.' Henry
confirmed the good news.
'God bless old Myersy. A man who pays up from time to time.'
I looked at the brief. 'What is it. Henry? Murder? Robbery?
Sudden death?'
Ru>npole and the Last Resort
'Sorry, Mr Rumpole.' Henry realized that I would be disappointed.
'It seems to be about Sun-Sa.nd Mobile Homes.'
When I went up to my room to fan-iiliarize myself with the
brief Henry had given me, I threw my hat, as usual, on to the
hatstand; but, the hatstand not being there, the Rumpole headgear
thudded to the ground. Of course, I knew what had happened.
Erskine-Brown had always coveted the old hatstand that
had stood in my room for years and, when he had a big conference,
he put it in his room to impress the clientele. Before I started
work I crept along the passage, found Erskine-Brown's room
empty and purloined the old article of furniture back again. Then
I sat down, lit a small cigar, and studied the facts in the case of
R. v. Armstrong.
The trouble had started at a Sun-Sand holiday site in Cornwall.
A family returned from a cold, wet day on the beach and had
their mobile holiday home towed away before they could get at
their high tea. Other punters were apparently sold holidays in
mobile homes which were said to have existed only in the fertile
imagination of my client, Frank Armstrong.
In due course police officers - Detective Inspector Limmeridge
and Detective Sergeant Banks - called on Sun-Sand Holidays in
North London. The premises were small and unimposing but the
officers noticed that they were elaborately equipped with all the
latest gadgets of computer technology. The young chairman of
the company was there, busily pressing buttons and anxiously
watching figures flash and hearing the bleeps and hiccoughs of
such machines at work. When arrested, Mr Armstrong was given
permission to telephone his solicitor, but when he did so he
found that the gentleman in question had just slipped out of the
office.
Eventually Frank Armstrong was allowed bail and turned up
in my room at Chambers with old Myers, the solicitor's clerk
(or legal executive, as such gentlemen are now called), whom I
would rather have with me on a bad day at the Bailey than most
of the learned friends I can think of. I had asked Miss Fiona
Allways to join us and generally help with the sums.
I'My brother Fred and I, we was born into the modern world,
221
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
Mr Rumpole,' said Frank. 'And what is the name of the game,
in the world today?'
'Space Invaders?' I hazarded a guess. My client looked at me
seriously. In spite of a sharp business suit, his Gaucho moustache,
longish hair, gold watch and bracelet. Playboy Club tie and the
manner of a tough young businessman, Frank Armstrong looked
younger than I had expected, and both pained and puzzled by
the turn of events.
'The name of the game is leisure interests and computer technology,'
he told me seriously. 'You won't believe this, Mr
Rumpole. You will not believe it.'
'Try me.'
'Our old dad kept a fruit barrow in the Shepherd's Bush
Market.'
'Not incredible,' I assured him.
'Yes, indeed. Well, he made a few bob in his time and when
he died my brother and I divided the capital. Fred went into
hardware, right?'
'Ironmongery?'
'You're joking,' Frank said. 'Fred joined the microchip revolution.
Looking round your office now, Mr Rumpole, I doubt it's
fully automated. There are delays in sending your bills out, right?'
'Sometimes I think my bills are sent out by a carrier pigeon
with a poor sense of direction,' I admitted.
'Trust in the computer, Mr Rumpole, and you'd have so much
more time, leisure-wise. That's the ...'
'Name of the game?' I hazarded.
'Yes, indeed. That's why I saw my future definitely in the
leisure industry."; «»*»'
'"Leisure industry". Sounds like a contradiction in terms.'
Frank didn't hear my murmur. He was clearly off on a favourite
subject. 'Who wants hotel expenses these days? Who needs
porters, tips, waiter service? All the hassle. The future, as I see
it, is in self-catering mobile homes set in A3 and Bi popularity,
mass appeal holiday areas. That's the vision, Mr Rumpole, and
it's got me where I am today.'
'On bail, facing charges of fraud and fraudulent conversion,'
I reminded him.
i 222
Rumpole and the Last Resort
'Mr Rumpole. I want you to believe this ...'
'Try me again.'
'I just don't understand it. I want to tell you that very frankly.
I was doing my best to run a go-ahead service industry geared
to the needs of the eighties. What went wrong exactly?' Frank
asked plaintively. I got up, stretched the legs and lit a small cigar.
'I imagine a close study of the accounts might tell us that,' I
said. 'By the way, that's one of the reasons I've asked you to give
Miss Allways a little brief. She's got a remarkable head for figures.'
'And quite a figure for heads, I should think.' Frank gave our
lady barrister one of his 'Playboy Club' leers and laughed. Fiona
froze him with a look.
'Pardon me. Miss Allways. Probably out of place, right?' Our
client apologized and Miss Allways ignored him and rattled out
some businesslike instructions to old Myers. 'I'd like the
accounts sent down to Chambers as soon as possible,' she said.
'There's a great deal of spadework to be done.'
'This is where we're in a certain amount of difficulty.' Myers
coughed apologetically.
'Surely not?'
'You see, the accounts were all given to Mr Armstrong's previous
solicitor. That was the firm that acted for his father back
in the fruit barrow days and went on acting till after our client's
arrest.'
'It's perfectly simple.' Fiona was impatient. 'You've only got
to get in touch with the former solicitors.'
'Well, not quite as simple as all that. Miss Allways. We've
tried writing but we never get an answer to our letters and when
we telephone, well, the gentleman dealing with the matter always
seems to have just slipped out of the office.'
'Really? What's the name of the firm?' Miss Allways asked,
but I was ahead of her. 'Don't tell me, let me guess,' I said.
'What about Biythe, Winterbottom and Paisley?'
'Well,' our client admitted dolefully. 'This is it.'
At the end of the day I called into Pommeroy's Wine Bar and
the first person I met was Claude Erskine-Brown on his way
out. Of course I went straight into the attack.
I 3
1
•It
Rumpole and the Last Resort
Queen Elizabeth's Buildings had the same problem, his clerk
was telling me. Biythe owed well into four figures, and they
couldn't find hide nor hair of him, sir.'
'But poor old Tommy Brushwood is ...' The claret had come
and I resorted to it.
'No longer with us. I know that, sir. And as soon as he'd gone,
Biythe called on Mr Brushwood's widow and got her to give him
some sort of release for a small percentage. She signed as executor,
not quite knowing the form, I would imagine. Cheers, Mr
Rumpole.'
'Oh, yes. Cheers everso.' Dianne-smiled at me over the fizzy
concoction.
'But Henry, why has this Biythe not been reported to the Law
Society? Why hasn't he been clapped in irons,' I asked him, 'and
transported to the colonies?'
'All the clerks have thought of reporting him, of course. But
if we did that we'd never get paid, now would we?'
'Despite that drink you indulge in, which has every appearance
of chilled Lucozade, I believe you still have your head screwed
on. Henry. I have another solution.'
'Honestly, Mr Rumpole? I'd be glad to hear it.'
'We need Biythe as a witness in the Sun-Sand Mobile Homes
case.'
'R. v. Armstrong?'
'Your memory serves you admirably. We'll get Newton the
Private Dick to find Biythe so he can slap a subpoena on him.
If "Fig" Newton can't find the little horror, no one can. Isn't
that all we need?'
'I hope so, Mr Rumpole,' Henry said doubtfully. 'I really hope
so.'
Ferdinand lan Gilmour Newton, widely known in the legal
profession as 'Fig' Newton, was a tall, gloomy man who always
seemed to be suffering from a heavy cold. No doubt his work,
forever watching back doors, peering into windows, following
errant husbands in all weathers, was responsible for his pink
nostrils and the frequent application of a crumpled handkerchief.
|I have known 'Fig' Newton throughout my legal career. He
225
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
appeared daily in the old-style divorce cases, when his evidence was invariably accepted. Since the bonds of matrimony can now be severed without old 'Fig' having to inspect the sheets 01 observe male and female clothing scattered in a hotel bedroom
his work has diminished; but he can still be relied upon to serve a writ or unearth an alibi witness. He seems to have no interest' outside his calling. His home life, if it exists at all, is a mystery
I believe he snatches what sleep he can while sitting in his battered
Cortina watching the lights go on and off in the bedroom of e semi-detached, and he dines off a paper of fish and chips as he guards the door of a debtor who has gone to earth.
'Fig' Newton called at the offices of Biythe, Winterbottorr
and Paisley early one morning and asked to see Mr Perivak
Biythe. He was greeted by a severe-looking secretary, a lad^ named Miss Claymore, with spectacles, a tweed skirt and
cardigan, and a Scots accent. Despite her assuring him thai
Perivale Biythe was out of the office and not expected back thai day, the leech-like 'Fig' sat down and waited. He learned nothing
of importance, except that round about noon Miss Claymore
went into an inner office to make a telephone call. The detective
was able to hear little of the conversation, but she did say something
about the times of trains to Penzance.
When Miss Claymore left her office, 'Fig' Newton followed
her home. He sat in his Cortina in Kilburn outside the Victorian
building, divided into flats, to which Miss Claymore had driven
her small Renault. He waited for almost two hours, and when
Miss Claymore finally emerged she had undergone a considerable
change. She was wearing tight trousers of some satin-like material
and a pink fluffy sweater. Her feet were crammed into highheeled
gold sandals and she was without her spectacles. She goi
into the Renault and drove to Soho, where she parked with
considerable daring halfway up a pavement, and went into an
Italian restaurant where she met a young man. 'Fig' Newton
kept observation from the street and was thus unable to share
in the lasagne and the bottle of Valpolicella, which he carefully noted down. Later the couple crossed Frith Street and entered
a Club known as the 'Pussy Cat A-Go-Go', where particularly loud music was being played. 'Fig' Newton was later able to
Rumpole and the Last Resort
neer down into the basement of this Club, where, lit by sporadic,
coloured lights. Miss Claymore was dancing with the same young
man, whom he described as having the appearance of a young
business executive with features very similar to those of our
client, i.. ; . Ky-,-,
On the evening that Mr Perivale Biythe's secretary went
dancing, I was reading on the sofa at 25B Froxbury Court,
smoking a small cigar and recovering from a hard day of writing
this account in my Chambers. Suddenly, and without warning,
my wife. She Who Must Be Obeyed, dropped a heavy load of
correspondence on to my stomach.
'Hilda,' I protested. 'What are these?'
'Bills, Rumpole. Can't you recognize them?'
'Electricity. Gas. Rates. Water rates.' I gave them a glance.
'We really must cut down on these frivolities.' ,
'All gone red,'Hilda told me. - ;,
'It's only last month's telephone bill.' I looked at a specimen.
'We should lay that down for maturing. You don't have to rush
into paying these things, you know. Mr Biythe hasn't paid me
much of anything since 1972.'
'Well, you'd better tell Mr Perivale Biythe that the London
Electricity Board aren't as patient as you are, Rumpole,' She
said severely.
'Hilda. You know we can't sue anyone for our fees.'
'I can't think why ever not.' My wife has only a limited understanding
of the niceties of legal etiquette.
'It wouldn't be a gentlemanly thing to do,' I explained. 'Against
the finest traditions of the Bar.'
'Perhaps it's a gentlemanly thing to sit here in the dark with
the gas cut off and no telephone and nasty looks every lime you
go into the butcher's. All I can say is, you can sit there and be
gentlemanly on your own. I'm going away, Rumpole.'
I looked at Hilda with a wild surmise. Was I, at an advanced
age, about to become the product of a broken home? 'Is that a
threat or a promise.' I asked her.
'What did you say?'
'I said, "Of course, you'll be missed,"' I assured her.
227
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
'Dodo's been asked to stay with a friend in the Lake District,
Pansy Rawlins, whom we were both at school with, if you
remember.'
'Well, I don't think I was there at the time.'
'And Pansy's lost her husband recently.'
'Careless of her,' I muttered, moving the weight of the bills
off me.
'So it'll be a bachelor party. Of course, when Dodo first asked
me I said I couldn't possibly leave you, Rumpole.'
'I am prepared to make the supreme sacrifice and let you go.
Don't worry about me,' I managed to say bravely.
'I don't suppose I shall, unduly. But you'd better worry about
yourself. My advice to you is, find this Colindale Biythe.'
'Perivale, Hilda.'
'Well, he sounds a bit of a twister, wherever he lives. Find
him and get him to pay you. Make that your task.' She looked
down at me severely. 'Oh, and while I'm away, Rumpole, try
not to put your feet on the sofa.'
Today I arrived in good time at the Old Bailey. I like to give
myself time to drink in the well-known atmosphere of floor polish
and uniforms, to put on the fancy dress at leisure and then go
down to the public canteen for a cup of coffee and a go at the
crossword. I needed to build up my strength particularly this
morning, as Henry had let me know the name of our Judge
the evening before. I therefore ordered a particularly limp sausage
roll with the coffee, and I had just finished this and was lighting
a small cigar, when Myers appeared carrying Newton's latest
report, accompanied by Miss Fiona Allways, wigged and gowned
and ready for the fray. Since the curious sighting of Biythe's
secretary tripping the light fantastic at the Pussy Cat A-Go-Go,
'Fig' had kept up a patient and thorough search for the elusive
Perivale Biythe, with no result whatsoever.
'I still think Biythe's an essential witness.' Fiona was sticking
to her guns.
'Of course he is,' I agreed.
'We just need more time for Newton to make inquiries. Can't
we ask for an adjournment?' Myers suggested hopefully.
228
Rumpole and the Last Resort
'We can ask.' I'm afraid my tone was not particularly encouraging.

'Surely, Mr Rumpole, any reasonable judge would grant it.'
Perhaps Myers was right; but it was then that I had to remind
him that we'd been landed with his Honour Judge Roger
Bullingham. I stood up in front of him, with the jury out of
Court and Ward-Webster, our young and eager prosecutor,
relaxing in his seat, and asked for an adjournment in no less than
five distinct and well-considered ways. It was like trying to shift
a mountain with a teaspoon. Finally his Honour said, in a
distinctly testy tone of voice,
'Mr Rumpole! For the fifth time, I'm not adjourning this case.
So far as I can see the defence has had all the time in the world.'
'Your Lordship may know how long it takes to find a solicitor.'
I tried the approach jovial. 'If your Lordship remembers his
time at the Bar.' The joke, if it can be dignified with such a title,
went down like a lead balloon.
'Mr Rumpole, neither your so-called eloquence nor your
alleged pleasantry are going to make me change my mind.'
Bullingham was beginning to irritate me. I raised the Rumpole
voice a couple of decibels. 'Then let me tell you an indisputable
fact. For years my client's business life was in the hands of Mr
Perivale Biythe.'
'Your client's business life, such as it was, was in his own
hands, Mr Rumpole.' The Judge was unimpressed. 'And it's
about time he faced up to his responsibilities. This case will
proceed without any further delay. That is my final decision.'
There is a way of saying 'If your Lordship pleases' so that
it sounds like dumb insolence. I said it like that and sat down.
'You did your best, sir,' Myers turned and whispered to me.
Good old Myersy. That's what he always says when I fail
dismally.
For the rest of the day I sat listening to prosecution evidence.
From time to time my eyes wandered around the courtroom and, on one such occasion, I saw a severe-looking female in spectacles
sitting in the front of the Public Gallery, taking notes.
It was a long day in Court. When I got back to the so-called
mansion flat, I noticed something unusual. She Who Must Be
| 229
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
Obeyed was conspicuous by her absence. I called, 'Hilda!' in
various empty rooms and then I remembered that she had gone
off, in none too friendly a mood, to stay with her old school
chums. Dodo and Pansy, in the Lake District. So I poached a
couple of eggs, buttered myself a slice of toast and sat down to
a bottle of Pommeroy's plonk and this account. Now I am up
to date with my life and with events in the Sun-Sand Mobile
Holiday Home affair. Tomorrow, I suppose, will bring new
developments on all fronts. The only thing that can be said with
any certainty about tomorrow is that I shan't become any
younger, nor will Judge Bullingham prove any easier to handle.
Now the bottle's empty and I've smoked the last of my small
cigars. The washing up can take care of itself. I'm going to bed. '
the narrative of Miss fiona allways
I should never have taken this on. From the first day I met him
in Chambers, after I had received a severe ticking-off from Mrs
Erskine-Brown, Q.c., Rumpole was extremely decent to me. I'm?
still not absolutely sure how he managed to persuade the men at'
3 Equity Court to take me on, but I have a feeling that he did
something pretty devious for my sake. I took a note from him in
quite a few of his cases and he was able to winkle a junior brief
in R. v. Armstrong for me out of his instructing solicitor. So you
see, although a lot of people found him absolutely impossible, and
he could say the most appalling things quite unexpectedly,
Rumpole was always extremely kind to me and, above all, he
saved my sister Jennifer from doing a life sentence for murder.
So you can imagine my feelings about what happened to
Rumpole in the middle of the Armstrong trial. Well, you'll have
to imagine them, I'm afraid to say, because although I never got
less than B + for an essay at school, and although I can get a set
of facts in order and open a case fairly clearly at Thames
Mags Court now, I'm never going to have Rumpole's talent for
emotional speeches. All I can say is that the day R, v. Armstrong
was interrupted, as it was, was a day I hope I never have to live
through again. What I'm trying to say is, my feelings of gratitude
to old Rumpole made that a pretty shattering experience.
Rumpole and the Last Resort
All the same, I do realize that the records of one of Rumpole's
more notable cases should be complete, and that's why I've agreed
to give my own account of the closing stages of the Armstrong
trial. I suppose my taking this on is the least I can do for him
now. So, anyway, here goes.
I have to say that I never particularly liked our client, Frank
Armstrong. He had doggy eyes and a good deal of aftershave
and I got the feeling that he was trying to make some sort of a
pass at me at our first conference; and that sort of thing, so far
as I am concerned, is definitely not on. When he came to give
evidence I think Rumpole soon realized that Armstrong wasn't
going to be a particularly impressive witness, and he looked fairly
gloomy as we sat listening to our client being cross-examined by
Ward-Webster, who was doing a pretty competent job for the
prosecution. I took a full note and, looking at it now, I see that
the moment came when the witness was shown the photograph
of the Sun-Sand Mobile Home site in Cornwall, and Judge
Bullingham, who didn't seem to like Rumpole, turned to the
jury and said, 'Hardly looks like the Cote d'Azur, does it,
members of the jury? It looks like an industrial tip.'
'Looking in the other direction, there's a view of the sea, my
Lord.' I remember our client sounding distinctly pained.
'What, between the crane and the second lorry?' Bullingham
was still smiling at the jury.
'A great deal of our patrons' time is spent on the beach,'
Armstrong protested.
'Perhaps they want a quiet night!' the Judge suggested, and
the jury laughed.
'Mr Armstrong. Do you agree that on no less than fifty
occasions holidays on the site in Cornwall turned out to have
been booked in non-existent mobile homes?' Ward-Webster went
on with his cross-examination.
'Yes indeed, but ...' the witness was sounding particularly
hopeless. >;
'And that your firm was paid large deposits for such holidays?'
Ward-Webster went on.
'Well, this is it, but...'
'And on one occasion at least a mobile home was actually
231

Rumpole and the Last Resort
doubt extremely fascinating, but has it really anything to do
with the case?'
'I agree, my Lord. And I will pass to another matter ...'
While this was happening, Rumpole asked me in a whisper if
I thought that our client had ever danced with Biythe's secretary.
I told him that I had no idea. In fact, I couldn't see the point
of the question. But Rumpole leaned forward and asked Mr
Myers, of our instructing solicitor's office, to get Mr Newton
down to the Old Bailey during the lunch adjournment.
Mr Newton came and we met him with our client in the public
canteen. He took a look at Frank Armstrong and said that Biythe's
secretary's dancing partner did look like our client but he was
sure that he wasn't the same man. Rumpole, who seemed to have
a great deal of confidence in this detective whom he always called
'Fig' Newton, seemed to accept this and asked Frank Armstrong
if he had a photograph of his brother.
'Yes, indeed.' Frank Armstrong got out his wallet. 'Taken in
Marbella. The summer before last.' He handed a photograph to
Newton.
'That's the gentleman,' Mr Newton said. 'No doubt about it.'
'Fred's been dancing!' Rumpole laughed. 'Where is he now?'
'In the Gulf. Dubai. So far as I know. He's been asked to
develop a computer centre,' Frank Armstrong answered vaguely.
'How long did you think he'd been away?'
'Six months. All of six months.'
'Since before you were arrested?' Rumpole was puzzled. 'You
see, Newton saw him a couple of weeks ago in London.'
'Mr Rumpole, I don't know what you're getting at. I'm sure
Fred would help me if he possibly could,' Mr Armstrong said.^i''
'You've never quarrelled?'
'Only one little falling out, perhaps. When he wanted to buy
the land in Cornwall.'
'Did he offer you much money?' That seemed to interest
Rumpole.
'Enormous! Stupid sort of price, I called it. But I wasn't selling.
Bit unbrotherly of me perhaps, but I wanted to build up my
| empire.'
'Perhaps Fred wanted to build up his,' Rumpole said, and
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
then he turned to us and gave orders. He seemed, at that moment,
quite determined and in charge of the case.
'There's a lot to be done,' he said. 'Newton's got to find brother
Fred.'
'In Dubai?' Mr Newton protested. »
'Keep a watch on the office of Sun-Sand Holidays after hours,
late at night, early in the morning. Biythe, too. We have to get
hold of Biythe. You may have to go to Cornwall,' he told Newton.
'I suppose you want all that before two o'clock?' Mr Myers
was used to Rumpole's moments of decision.
'No. No, Myersy. Come on, Fiona. This time I've got to get
the Mad Bull to give us an adjournment, or die in the attempt!'
So much of what Rumpole said that day sticks in my memory
- that last sentence is one I shall never forget, as long as I live.
Of course, when Rumpole got to his feet after lunch Judge
Bullingham was as unreceptive as ever.
'So what is the basis of this application, which you are now
making for the fifth time since the start of this case?' the Judge
asked, and when Mr Mason, the Clerk of the Court, rose to
remind him of something, he was delighted to correct himself.
'Is it? Oh, thank you. Mason. For the sixth time, Mr Rumpole!'
'The basis should be clear, even to your Lordship,' Rumpole
said; it was pretty typical of him, actually. 'It is vital that justice
should be done to the gentleman I have the honour to represent.'
'Mr Rumpole. This case has been committed for six months.
If Mr Biythe could have helped you he'd have come forward
long ago.'
'That's an entirely unwarranted assumption! Perivale Biythe
may have other reasons for his absence.'
'It seems you know very little about Mr Biythe. May I ask,
have you a proof of his evidence?'
'No.'
'No?' The Judge raised his voice angrily.
'No, I haven't.' I remember Rumpole spoke casually and I
remember he sounded quieter than usual.
'So you have no idea what this Mr Biythe is going to say?'
'No, but I know what I'm going to ask him. If he answers
truthfully, I have no doubt that my client will be acquitted.'
234
Rumpole and the Last Resort
'A pious hope, Mr Rumpole!' The Judge was smiling at the
jury now.
'Of course, if your Lordship wishes to exclude this vital
evidence, if you have no interest in doing justice in this case,
then I have little more to say ...' His voice was really tired and
quiet by then, and I wondered if he was going to give up and
sit down, but he was still on his feet.
'Well, I have a lot more to say. As you should know perfectly
well, Mr Rumpole, getting through the work at the Old Bailey
is a matter of considerable public importance ...'
'Oh, of course. Far more important than justice!' Rumpole's
voice was still faint and I thought he looked pale.
'In my view these constant applications by the defence are
merely an attempt to put off the evil hour when the jury have
to bring in a verdict,' the Judge went on, quite unnecessarily I
thought. 'It's my duty to see that justice is done speedily. Mr
Rumpole, I believe you have a taste for poetry. You will no
doubt remember the quotation about the "law's delays".'
I'Oh yes, my Lord. It comes in the same passage which deals
with "the insolence of office". My Lord, if I might say ...'
'Mr Rumpole!' the Judge barked at him. 'This application for
an adjournment is refused. There is absolutely nothing you could
say which would persuade me to grant it.'
Then Rumpole seemed to be swaying slightly. He raised a
finger to loosen his collar. His voice was now hoarse and almost
inaudible. ' ' : 'Nothing,
my Lord5'
'No, Mr Rumpole. Absolutely nothing!' The Judge had
reached his decision. But Rumpole was swaying more dangerously.
Judge Bullingham watched, astonished, and the whole
Court was staring as Rumpole collapsed, apparently unconscious.
The Judge spoke loudly over the gasps of amazement.
'I shall adjourn this case.' Judge Bullingham rose, and then
bent to speak to Mr Mason, the Clerk of the Court. 'Send for
Matron!'he said.
In a while, when the Court had cleared, Mr Myers, the Usher
|and I managed to get Rumpole, who seemed to have recovered
""yfe"
:-i?:. 235
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
a certain degree of consciousness, out into the corridor and sit
him down. He was still looking terribly grey and ill and the Usher
went off to hurry up Matron.
'Always thought I'd die with my wig on,' Rumpole just
managed to murmur.
'Did he say die?' A woman in glasses, whom I had noticed
in Court, asked the Usher and, when he nodded at her, walked
quietly away. I took his wig off then and stood holding it.
'Nonsense, Rumpole.' I tried to sound brisk. 'You're not going
to die.'
'Fiona.' His voice was now a sort of low croak. I had to bend
down to hear what came out like a last request. 'Air ... Miss
Allways ... Must have air. Take me ... Take me out...'
He was pulling feebly at his winged collar and bands. I
managed to get them undone and then he rose to his feet and
stood swaying. He looked absolutely ghastly. Mr Myers was supporting
him under one arm. 'Just a breath of air ... Want to
smell Ludgate Circus ... Your little runabout, Fiona ... Is it
outside? Can't spend my last moments outside Bullingham's
Court.'
I suppose I shouldn't have done it, but he looked so pathetic.
He whispered to me about not being taken to some hospital full
of bedpans and piped Capital Radio, and promised that his wife
would send for their own doctor - he could at least die with
dignity. Myers and I helped him out to my battered Deux
Chevaux and I drove Rumpole to his home.
It took a long time to help him up the stairs and into his flat,
but he seemed happy to be home and managed a sort of fleeting
smile. His wife wasn't there but he muttered something about
her having only just slipped out - said that she'd be back in a
moment from the shops and that Dr MacClintock would look
after him - for so long, he murmured, as anything could be done.
At least, I told him, I'd help him into bed. So we moved towards
the bedroom, but at the door he seemed to have second thoughts.
'Perhaps ... Better not. She Who Must Be Obeyed ... Bound
to stalk in ... Just when I've lowered the garments ... Gets
some ... funny ideas ... does She.'
All the same, I helped him as he staggered into the bedroom
236
Rumpole and the Last Resort
and I hung his wig and gown, which I was carrying, over the
bedrail as he lay down, still dressed. It was very cold in the
mansion flat and I thought that the old couple must be extremely
hardy. I covered Rumpole with the eiderdown and he was babbling,
apparently delirious.
'Ever thought about... the hereafter, Fiona?' I heard him say.
'Hereafter's all right. Until Bollard gets there ... He's bound
to make it... Have to spend all eternity listening to Bollard ... on
the subject of "Lawyers for the Faith" ... Difficult to make an
excuse ... and slip away. He'll have me buttonholed ... in the
hereafter. Go along now ...'
'Are you sure?' I hated to leave him but I knew that our
wretched client had been taken down to the cells when the trial
was interrupted.
Someone would have to go and get him released until he was
needed again.
'And bail,' Rumpole was muttering very faintly, echoing my
thoughts. 'Ask bail ... from the dotty Bull. For Frank. Suppose
Bullingham'll be turning up there too ... in the hereafter. Apply
for bail... Fiona.'
'I'll ring you later,' I promised as I moved to the door. / '
'Later ... Not too late ...' Rumpole closed his eyes as I went
out of the door; he was quite motionless, apparently asleep.
Judge Bullingham was looking at me, smiling, apparently
deeply sympathetic, when I applied for bail. Mr Mason, the
Court Clerk, later told me that the Judge had taken something
of a 'shine' to me and was considering sending me a box of chocolates.
Life at the Bar can be absolute hell for a girl sometimes.
'Bail? Yes, of course. Miss Allways. By all means,' said the
Judge. 'On the same terms. And what is the latest news of Mr
Rumpole?'
'He is resting peacefully, my Lord,' I told him truthfully.
'Peacefully.' The Judge sounded very solemn. 'Yes, of course.
Well, that comes to all of us in time. Nothing else for this afternoon,
is there. Mason?'
The Judge went home early. But in the Old Bailey, round the
other London Courts and in the Temple the news spread like

Rumpole and the Golden Thread
wildfire. Rumpole had collapsed, the stories went, it was all over
and the old boy had gone home at last. I heard that in the cells
villains, with their trials due to come up, cursed because they
wouldn't have Rumpole to defend them. , .
Some said he'd died with his wig on, others told how he'd
been suddenly taken away before the Matron could get at him.
Quite a lot of people, from Detective Inspectors to safe-blowers,
said that, if he had to go, Rumpole would have wanted it to come
as it did, when he was on his feet and in the. middle of a legal
argument.
When I got back to Chambers I found a crowd gathered in
our clerk's room. Henry had been trying the phone in Rumpole's
flat over and over again and getting no reply.
'No reply from Rumpole's flat!' said Hoskins, a rather dreary
sort of barrister who's always talking about his daughters.
'Probably no one at home,' Uncle Tom, our oldest inhabitant,
hazarded a guess.
'That would appear to be the natural assumption. Uncle Tom.'
Erskine-Brown was as sarcastic as usual.
'Surely, we've got absolutely no reason to think ...' Hoskins
said. .^i
'I agree. All we know is that Rumpole suffered some sort of
a stroke or a seizure,' Ballard told them.
'Rumpole often said Judge Bullingham had that effect on him,'
Uncle Tom said. ,,„.,,
'And that he's clearly been taken somewhere,' Erskine-Brown
added.
'"Taken somewhere" expresses it rather well.' Uncle Tom
shook his head. "'Taken somewhere" is about the long and short
of it.'
Then I told them I'd taken Rumpole home where his wife
would be able to get their own doctor to look after him. In the
pause that followed Henry gave me the good news that he had got
me a porn job in Manchester and I'd have to travel up overnight.
'A porn job!' Our Head of Chambers looked shocked. Td've
thought this was hardly the moment for that sort of thing.'
'Mr Rumpole would want Chambers to carry on, sir, I'm sure.
As usual,'Henry said solemnly, fc-t-p „ . >.
^"?w^ , "'' '-'' ' '
238
Ht Rumpole and the Last Resort
'Poor old fellow. Yes,' Uncle Tom agreed. 'Well. One thing
to be said for him. He went in harness.'
'I don't really think it's the sort of subject we should be discussing
in the clerk's room,' Ballard decided. 'No doubt I shall be
calling a Chambers meeting, when we have rather more detailed
information.'
As they went, I lingered long enough to hear Dianne, our rather
hit-and-miss typist, give a little sob as she pounded her machine.
'Oh, please, Dianne,' Henry protested. 'Didn't you hear what
I said to Mr Ballard? Chambers must go on. That would have
been his wishes.'^,; :

So I went to Manchester and read a lot of jolly embarrassing
magazines in a dark corner of the railway carriage. Meanwhile
Mr Newton, the inquiry agent, was still keeping a watch on the
offices of Sun-Sand Holidays every night. Of course, I saw his
reports eventually and it seemed that the office was visited, late
at night and in a highly suspicious manner, by our client's brother
Fred, who spent a long time working on the computers.
And there were other developments. Archie Featherstone, the
Judge's nephew, was still very anxious to get into our Chambers
and, when there was no news of Rumpole's recovery, I suppose
the poor chap felt a bit encouraged in a horrible sort of way,
Perhaps I can understand how he felt because, although I never
liked Archie Featherstone much (he'd danced with me at some
pretty gruesome ball and his way of dancing was to close his
eyes, suck in his teeth, and bob up and down in the hope that
he looked like Mick Jagger, which he didn't), I knew jolly well
what it was like to be desperate to get a seat in Number 3 Equity
Court, t^.;^.'^
It was while I was still in Manchester that Henry received
a telemessage about Rumpole and immediately took it up to our
Head of Chambers. Sometime later, when I bought him his usual
Cinzano Bianco in Pommeroy's Wine Bar, Henry gave me a full
account of how his meeting with Ballard went. First of all our
Head read the message out aloud very carefully and slowly. Henry
told me.
>
'"Please let firm of Biythe, Winterbottom and Paisley know
239
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
sad news. Deeply regret Rumpole gone up to a Higher Tribunal.
Signed Rumpole.'" Ballard apparently looked puzzled. 'What is it. Henry?'
'It's a telemessage, sir. Telegrams having been abolished, per se,' Henry explained.
'Yes, I know it's a telemessage. But the wording. Doesn't it
strike you as somewhat strange?'
'Mr Rumpole was always one for his joke. It caused us a good
deal of embarrassment at times.'
'But presumably this can't be signed by Rumpole. Not in the
circumstances.' Ballard was working on the problem. 'On any
reasonable interpretation, the word "Rumpole", being silent so
far as sex is concerned, must surely be construed as referring to Mrs Rumpole?' He was being very legal. Henry told me, and
behaving like a Chancery barrister.
'That's what I assumed, sir,' said Henry. 'Unfortunately I can't
get through to the Gloucester Road flat on the telephone. It seems
there's a "fault on the line".' ii^lS^
'Have you tried calling round?' , .ai?.
'I have, sir. No answer to my ring.' ?.
'Well, of course, it's a busy time in any family. A busy and
distressing time.' But Ballard was clearly worried. 'Does it strike
you as rather odd. Henry?'
'Well, just a bit, sir.'
'As Head of Chambers I surely should be the first to be informed
of any decease among members. Am I not entitled to
that?'
'In the normal course of events, yes.' Henry told me he agreed
to save any argument.
'In the normal course. But this message doesn't refer to me,
or to his fellow members, or even to the Court where he was
appearing when he was stricken down. This Biythe, Sidebottom
and ...'
'Winterbottom, sir. And Paisley.' :^
'Was it a firm to which old Rumpole was particularly attached?'
'I don't think so, Mr Ballard. They owed him money,' Henry
said he told him frankly.
'They owed him money! Strange. Very strange.' Ballard was
ao^
240 i^a
~ "' Rumpole and the Last Resort
thoughtful, it seems. 'From the way he was talking the other
day, I think the old fellow had a queer sort of premonition that
die end was pretty close.' And then our Head of Chambers went
back to the document Henry had given him. 'All the same. Henry.
There is something hopeful in this telemessage.'
'Is there, sir?'
'I mean the reference to a "Higher Tribunal". You know, I'm
afraid I'd always found Rumpole a bit of a scoffer. I couldn't get him interested in "Lawyers As Churchgoers". He wouldn't
even come along to one meeting of LAC! But his wife's message
says he was thinking in terms of a "Higher Tribunal". It suggests
he found faith in the end. Henry. It must have been a great
comfort to him.' as-
As I say. Henry told me this after I got back from Manchester,
when I was buying him a drink in Pommeroy's Wine Bar. As
we were talking I noticed that the frumpy sort of woman in
glasses, the one who'd been listening to the Armstrong trial, was
doing her best to overhear our conversation. She carried on listening
when Jack Pommeroy slid his counter cloth up to us and
said to Henry,
| 'I say. Has old Rumpole really had it? I've got about twentythree
of his cheques!'
'My clerk's fees aren't exactly up to date either,' Henry said.
'You'll miss him round here, won't you. Jack?'
'Well, he did use to pass some pretty insulting remarks about
our claret. Called it Chateau Thames Embankment!' Jack Pommeroy
looked pained. 'Didn't exactly help our business. And
when he wasn't paying cash ...'
I wasn't really listening to him then. I was watching the woman
in glasses. She was talking into the telephone on the wall and
I distinctly heard her say, 'True? Yes, of course it's true.'
Mr Newton, the inquiry agent, later pointed her out to me
as Biythe's secretary, whom he had once seen dancing in Soho
wearing, incredibly enough, pink satin trousers.
Oddly enough I won my case in Manchester. My solicitor told
me that an elderly man on the jury had been heard to say that
j if a nice girl like me read those sort of magazines there couldn't
241
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
be much harm in them. It seems I'm to get a lot more dirty
books from Manchester! Anyway, I was back in time for the
Chambers meeting and all of us, except for Mrs Erskine-Brown
who was apparently doing something extremely important in
Wales, assembled in Ballard's room. I was taking the minutes
so I can tell you more or less exactly what happened. It started
when Ballard read out the telemessage again in a very sad and
solemn sort of way.
'Bit rum, isn't it? What's he mean exactly, "Higher Tribunal"?'
Uncle Tom said.
'I have no doubt he means that Great Court of Appeal before
which we shall all have to appear eventually. Uncle Tom,' Ballard
explained.
'I never got to the Court of Appeal. Never had a brief to go
there, as a matter of fact. Probably just as well. I wouldn't've
been up to it.' Uncle Tom smiled round at us all. ^"
'Knowing Rumpole,' said Erskine-Brown, 'there must be a
joke there somewhere.'
'It must have been sent by Mrs Rumpole. Poor Rumpole is
clearly not in a position to send "telemessages",' our Head of
Chambers told us.
'Not in a position? Oh. See what you mean. Quite so. Exactly.'
Uncle Tom got the point.
'Now, of course, this sad event will mean consequent changes
in Chambers.' Ballard moved the discussion on.
'So far as the furniture is concerned. Yes.' Erskine-Brown
opened a favourite subject. 'I don't suppose anyone will have any
particular use for the old hatstand which stood in Rumpole's room.'
'His hatstand, Erskine-Brown?' Ballard was surprised.
'I happen to have conferences, from time to time, with a
number of solicitors. Naturally they have hats. Well, if no one
else wants it...'
'I don't think there'll be a stampede for Rumpole's old hatstand,'
Uncle Tom assured him.
'I was thinking that there ought to be a bit more work about,'
Hoskins said. 'I mean, I suppose Henry can hang on to some
of Rumpole's solicitors. Myers and people like that. Now the
work may get spread around a bit.' .
Rumpole and the Last Resort
'I'm not sure I agree with Hoskins.' Erskine-Brown was doubtful
'There's some part of Rumpole's work which we might be
glad to lose. I mean the sort of thing you were doing in
Manchester, Allways.'
'You mean porn?' I asked him brightly.
'Obscenity! That's exactly what I do mean. Or rape. Or indecent
assault. Or possessing house-breaking instruments by
night. I mean, this may be our opportunity, sad as the occasion
is, of course, to improve the image of Chambers. I mean, do
we want dirty-book merchants hanging about the clerk's room?'
'Speaking for myself,' Ballard agreed, 'I think there's a great
deal in what Erskine-Brown says. If you're not for these moral
degenerates, in my view, you should be against them. I'd like
to see a great deal more prosecution work in Chambers.'
'Well, you are certain of the money, with prosecutions.'
Hoskins was with him. 'Speaking as a man with daughters.'
'There is a young fellow who's a certainty for the Yard's list
of prosecutors,' Ballard said. 'I think I've mentioned young
Archie Featherstone to you, Erskine-Brown?'
'Of course. The Judge's nephew.'
'It may be, in the changed circumstances, we shall have a room
to offer young Archie Featherstone.'
'He won't be taking work from us?' Hoskins was more than
a bit nervous at the prospect.
'In my opinion he'll be bringing it in,' Ballard reassured him,
'in the shape of prosecutions. Now, there are a few arrangements
to be discussed.'
'I hope "arrangements" doesn't mean a crematorium,' Uncle
Tom said mournfully. 'I always thing there's something terribly
depressing about those little railway lines, passing out through
the velvet curtain.'
'Of course, it is something of an event. I wonder if we'd get
the Temple Church?' Hoskins seemed almost excited.
'Oh, I imagine not.' Erskine-Brown was discouraging. 'And, of course, we've seen nothing in the Times Obituaries. I'm afraid
Rumpole never got the cases which made legal history.'
'I suppose they might hold some sort of memorial service in
Pommeroy's Wine Bar,' Uncle Tom said thoughtfully. Our Head
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
of Chambers looked a bit disapproving at that, as it didn't seem
to be quite the right thing to say on a solemn occasion.
'I think we should send a modest floral tribute,' he suggested.
'Henry can arrange for that, out of Chambers expenses. Everyone
agreed?' They all did, and Ballard went on, 'In view of the fact
that at the eleventh hour he appeared to be reconciled to the
deeper realities of our brief life on earth, you might all care to
stand for a few minutes' silence, in memory of Horace Rumpole.'
So we all stood up, just a bit sheepishly, and bowed our heads.
The silence seemed to last a long time,' like it used to in Poppy
Day services at school.
": .'.'tl!!'
As I have been writing up this account for the completion of Rumpole's papers, I have got to know Mrs Rumpole and, in the
course of a few teas, come to get on with her jolly well. As we
all knew in Chambers, Rumpole used to call her She Who Must
Be Obeyed and always seemed to be in tremendous awe of her,
but I didn't find her all that alarming. In fact she always seemed
grateful for someone to talk to. She told me a lot about the old
days, when her father, C. H. Wystan, was Head of Chambers,
and of how Rumpole always criticized him for not knowing
enough about bloodstains; and she described how Rumpole proposed
to her at a ball in the Temple, when he'd had, as she
described it, 'quite enough claret cup to be going on with'. During
,„: one of our teas (she took me, which was very decent of her, to 9 Fortnum's) she described the visit she had received at her flat
in the Gloucester Road shortly before Mr Myers restored R. v.
I Armstrong for a further hearing before Judge Bullingham.
One afternoon there came a ring, so it seemed, at the door
bell of the Rumpole mansion flat. Mrs Rumpole - I'll call her
'Hilda' from now on since we've really become quite friendly I
opened the door to see a small, fat, elderly man (Hilda described
i him to me as toad-like), who had a bald head, gold-rimmed
spectacles and the cheek to put on a crepe armband and a black
tie. As he sort of oozed past her into her living room, he looked, I ' Hilda told me, like a commercial traveller for a firm of undertakers.
She wasn't entirely unprepared for this visit, however.
The man had rung her earlier and explained that he was Mr
, Rumpole and the Last Resort
Perivale Biythe, a solicitor of the Supreme Court and anxious
to pay his respects to the Widow Rumpole.
When he had penetrated the living room, Mr Biythe sat on
a sofa with his briefcase on his knee and began to talk in hushed, respectful tones, Hilda told me.
'I felt I had to intrude,' he said softly. 'Even at this sad, sad
moment, Mrs Rumpole. I do not come as myself, not even as
Biythe, Winterbottom and Paisley, but I come as a representative,
if I may say so, of the entire legal profession. Your husband was
a great gentleman, Mrs Rumpole. And a fine lawyer.' i
'A fine lawyer?' Hilda was puzzled. 'He never told me.'
'And, of course, a most persuasive advocate.'
'Oh, yes. He told me that,' Hilda agreed.
'We all join you in your grief, Mrs Rumpole. And I have to
tell you this! There are no smiling faces today in the firm of
Biythe, Winterbottom and Paisley!'
'Thank you.' Hilda did her best to sound grateful.
'Nor anywhere, I suppose, from Inner London to Acton
Magistrates. He will be sorely missed.'
'I have to tell you what will be sorely missed, Mr Biythe,' Hilda
said then, and said it in a meaningful kind of way.
'What, Mrs Rumpole?'
I think she said she stood up then and looked down on her
visitor's large, pale, bald head, 'All those fees you owe him. Since
the indecency case, I believe, in 1973.' --
Biythe was clearly taken aback. He cleared his throat and began
to fiddle nervously with the catch on his briefcase. 'You have
heard a little about that?'
'I've heard a lot about it!'
'Well, of course, a great deal of that money hasn't been completely
recovered from the clients. Not in full. But I'm here to
settle up,' he assured her. 'I imagine you're the late Mr Rumpole's
executor?'
He opened his briefcase; Hilda looked into it and noticed a
cheque book. Biythe got out a document and shut the briefcase
quickly. . . a 'Of course I'm his executor,'Hilda told him. :.
I 'Then no doubt you're fully empowered to enter into what
245
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
I think you'll agree is a perfectly fair compromise. Now, the sum
involved is ...'
'Two thousand, seven hundred and sixty-five pounds, ninetythree
pence,' Hilda said quickly. She has a jolly good memory.
'Quite the businesswoman, Mrs Rumpole.' The beastly Biythe
smiled in a patronizing manner. 'Now, would an immediate payment
of ... let's say ten per cent, be a nice little arrangement?
Then it'll be over and done with.'
'Mr Biythe. I have to face the butcher!' Hilda told him.
'Yes, of course, but...' Biythe didn't seem to understand.
'And the water rates. And the London Electricity Board.
And the telephone has actually been cut off during my visit
to the Lake District. I can't offer them a nice little arrangement,
can I?'
'Well. Possibly not,' Biythe admitted.
'But I will offer you one, Mr Perivale Biythe,' Hilda said firmly.
'Well, that's extremely obliging of you ...' Biythe took out
his fountain pen.
And then Hilda spoke to him along the following lines. It was
undoubtedly her finest hour. 'I will offer you this,' she said. 'I
won't report this conversation to the Law Society, although this
year's President's father was a close personal friend of my father,
C. H. Wystan. I will not take immediate steps to have you struck
off, Mr Biythe, just provided you sit down and write out a cheque
for two thousand, seven hundred and sixty-five pounds, ninetythree
pence, in favour of Hilda Rumpole.'
The effect of this on the little creep on the sofa was apparently
astonishing. For a moment his mouth sagged open. Then, in
desperation, he patted his pockets. 'Unfortunately forgot my
cheque book,' he lied. 'I'll slip one in the post.'
'Look in your briefcase, Mr Biythe. I think you'll find your
' cheque book there.' Hilda's words of command were interrupted
by the sound of a ring at the door. As she went to open it she
said, 'Excuse me. And don't try the window, Mr Biythe. It's
really a great deal too far for you to jump.'
No doubt about it, she was a woman born to command. When
she was out of the room, Biythe, with moist and trembling fingers,
wrote out a cheque for the full amount. She returned with a tall,
Rumpole and the Last Resort
lugubrious figure who was scrubbing the end of his nose with
a crushed pocket handkerchief.
'Thank you, Mr Biythe,' Hilda said politely as she took the
cheque. 'And now there's a gentleman to see you.'
At which the new arrival whisked a paper out of his pocket
and put it into the hand of the demoralized Perivale Biythe.
'"Fig" Newton!' he said. 'Whatever's this?'
'It's a subpoena, Mr Biythe,' Mr Newton explained patiently.
'They want you to give evidence in a case down the Old
Bailey.' '
The case was, of course, R. v. Armstrong. On the morning
when it started again I sat in Rumpole's place, the only defending
barrister. When the jury was reassembled the Usher called for
silence and his Honour Judge Bullingham came into Court,
looked towards me, noticed the gap that used to be Rumpole,
and clearly decided that it would be in order to say a few words
of tribute to the departed. They took the form of a speech to
the jury in which his Lordship sounded confidential and really
jolly sincere. 'Members of the jury,' he said, and they all turned
their faces solemnly towards him. 'Before we start this case, there
is something I have to say. In our Courts, warm friendships
spring up between judges and counsel, between Bench and Bar.
We're not superior beings as judges; we don't put on "side".
We are the barristers' friends. And one of my oldest friends, over
the years, was Horace Rumpole.' Both Ward-Webster "for the
prosecution and I looked piously up to the ceiling. We carefully
hid our feelings of amazement.
'During the time he appeared before me, in many cases, I can
truthfully say that there was never a cross word between us, although
we may have had trivial disagreements over points of law,'
Bullingham went on. 'We are all part of that great happy family,
members of the jury, which is the Criminal Court.'
It was at that moment that I heard a sound beside me and
smelt the familiar shaving soap and small cigar. The Judge and
the jury were too busy with each other to notice, but WardWebster
and almost everyone else in Court were looking towards
_s in silent stupefaction. Rumpole was, I must say, looking in
247
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
astonishingly fine condition, pinker than usual and well rested.
He was obviously enjoying the Judge's speech.
'Mr Horace Rumpole was one of the old brigade.' By now
Judge Bullingham was clearly deeply moved. 'Not a leader, perhaps,
not a general, but a reliable, hard-working and greathearted
old soldier of the line.'
Of course, Rumpole could resist it no longer. He got slowly
to his feet and bowed deeply, saying, 'My Lord.' The jury's faces
swivelled towards him. Bullingham looked away from the jurybox
and into the Court. If people who see ghosts go dark purple,
well, that's how Bullingham looked.
'My Lord,' Rumpole repeated, 'I am deeply touched by your
Lordship's remarks.'
'Mr Rumpole ... Mr Rumpole ... ?' The Judge's voice rose
incredulously. 'I heard ...'
'Greatly exaggerated, my Lord, I do assure you.' Of course, Rumpole had to say it. 'May I say what a pleasure it is to be
continuing this case before your Lordship.'
'Mason. What's this mean?' Bullingham leant forward and
whispered hoarsely to the Clerk of the Court. We heard Mr
Mason whisper back, 'Quite honestly. Judge, I haven't a clue.'
'Mr Rumpole. Have you some application?' The Judge was
looking at Rumpole with something like fear. Perhaps he thought
he was about to call someone from the spirit world.
'No application.' Rumpole smiled charmingly. 'Your Lordship
kindly adjourned this case, if you remember. It's now been restored
to your list. Our inquiries are complete and I will call
Mr Peri vale Biythe.' f^s;
After the sensation ofRumpole's return from the tomb, where
Bullingham quite obviously thought he'd been, I'm afraid to say
that the rest of R. v. Armstrong was a bit of an anticlimax.
Perivale Biythe padded into the witness-box, took the oath in
a plummy sort of voice, and I have the notes of Rumpole's
examination-in-chief.
'Mr Biythe,' the resurrected old barrister asked. 'After their
father's death, did you act for the two Armstrong brothers, my
client Frank and his brother Frederick?'
Rumpole and the Last Resort
'Yes, I did,' Biythe agreed.
'And did Fred supply the computers set up in the offices of
Sun-Sand Holidays, my client Frank Armstrong's firm?'
'I believe he did.' Biythe sounded uninterested.
'Mr Biythe, would you take the photograph of the Cornish
holiday site?'
As the usher took the photograph to the witness-box, Bullingham
staged a bit of a comeback and said, 'The industrial area, Mr
Rumpole?'
'Exactly, my Lord.' Rumpole bowed politely. 'Do you know
what that industry is, Mr Biythe?'
"I'm mines, my Lord. I rather think.' Once again, Biythe
sounded deliberately unconcerned.
'You know, don't you? Didn't you visit that site on behalf of
your client Mr Frederick Armstrong?'
'I did. He was anxious to buy his brother Frank's site.'
'Because he knew tin would also be discovered there.'
'Yes, of course.' And then Biythe forgot his lack of interest.
'I don't believe he told his brother that.' 'I
don't believe he did.' Rumpole was after him now. 'And
when his brother refused, didn't Fred take every possible step
to ruin his brother Frank's business, no doubt by interfering with
the computers that he'd installed so that they constantly gave
misleading information, booked non-existent holiday homes and
gave false instructions for caravans to be towed away?'
'I never approved of that, my Lord. I am an officer' of the
Court. I wouldn't have any part of it.' Perivale Biythe was sweating.
He patted his bald head with a handkerchief and protested
his innocence. I'd say he made a pretty unattractive figure in
the witness-box.
'Although you knew about it. Come, Mr Biythe. You must
have known about it to disapprove.' Rumpole pressed his advantage
but the Judge, back to his old form, was getting restless.
'Mr Rumpole! I take the gravest objection to this in examinationin-chief.
It is quite outrageous!'
'A trivial objection, surely?' Rumpole gave a sweet smile.
'Your Lordship has told the jury we only have trivial disagreements.'

249
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
'You are putting an entirely new case to this witness, so far
as I can see, on no evidence.'
'Oh, there will be evidence, my Lord.'
'I hope my learned friend doesn't intend to give that evidence?'
Ward-Webster rose to his feet to object for the prosecution.
'I hope that my learned friend doesn't wish to conceal from
the jury the fact that Detective Inspector Limmeridge arrested
Frederick Armstrong when he had entered his brother's office
by night and was reprogramming the computers. There has been
a charge of Perverting the Course of Justice,' Rumpole said,
looking hard at the jury. 'In fact, Mr Newton has given the results
of all his observations to the officer in charge of the case.'
'Is that right, Mr Ward-Webster?' Bullingham asked incredulously.
ssy s:''
'So I understand, my Lord.' Ward-Webster subsided.
'I shall be recalling the Detective Inspector, my Lord,'
Rumpole said triumphantly, 'as a witness for the defence.'
Well in the end, of course, the jury saw the point. Brother
Fred had set out to ruin brother Frank's business by interfering
with the computers so that they sold non-existent holidays, or
removed existing caravans. With Frank in prison Fred could have
got hold of the Cornish mobile home site and a great deal of
tin. It wasn't one ofRumpole's greatest cases, but a jolly satisfying
win. Horace Rumpole has taught me a lot about criminal procedure,
but I don't think I'd ever dare try his way of getting
an adjournment.
Well, I've written my bit. I hope it's all right and that someone
will check it through for grammar. It tells what happened so far
as I knew it at the time, or almost as far as I knew it.
(Signed) Fiona Patience Allways, barrister-at-law.
3 Equity Court .
Temple
London, E.c.4 : 'I'm
extremely grateful to my learned friend. Miss Fiona
Allways, for dealing with that part of the story. It had been
necessary, as I expect you have guessed, to take her into my
confidence (a little earlier than she divulges in her account) when
250
Rumpole and the Last Resort
I decided to lie doggo, to feign death and lure the wretched
Perivale Biythe out of hiding. Of course I saw Hilda as soon
as she got back from her 'bachelor holiday' in the Lake District
and I had to let her in on the scheme. But I must say. She was
something of a sport about the whole business and the way she
dealt with the appalling Biythe, much of which I heard from
a point of vantage near our bedroom door, seemed to me masterly.
When She Who Must Be Obeyed is on form, no lawyer can
possibly stand up to her.
On the whole the incident gave me enormous pleasure. One
of the many drawbacks of actually snuffing it will be that you
can't hear the things people say about you when they think you're
safe in your box. I enormously enjoyed Fiona's account of the
Chambers meeting and the silent prayer which marked my
passing - just as I will never let Judge Bullingham forget his
funeral oration.
Oh, and one other marvellous moment: Hilda and I were sitting
at tea one afternoon when I was out of circulation and a ring
came at the door bell. Some boy was delivering Hilda a socking
great wreath from Chambers, compliments of Sam Ballard and
all the learned friends. The deeply respectful note to Hilda explained
that the tribute was sent to her home as they didn't quite
know when the interment was due to take place.
After I had won Frank Armstrong's case I walked up to
Chambers and called on our learned Head. For some reason my
appearance in the flesh seemed to irritate the man almost beyond
endurance.
'Rumpole,' he said, 'I think you've behaved disgracefully.'
'I don't know why you should say that,' I told him. 'Isn't there
a Biblical precedent for this sort of thing?'
'I suppose you're very proud of yourself,' Ballard boomed on.
'Well, it wasn't a bad win.' I lit a small cigar. 'Got the Sun-Sand
Mobile Homes owner away and clear. Made the world safe for
a few more ghastly holidays.'
'I am not referring to your case, Rumpole. You caused us all... ,,. You caused me personally ... a great deal of unnecessary grief!'
I 'Oh, come off it, Bollard. I understand you couldn't wait to
relet my room to young Archie Featherstone.
W 251
Rumpole and the Golden Thread
A little month; or ere those shoes were old
With which you follow'd poor old Rumpole's body,
Like Niobe, all tears ...'
I gave him a slice of Hamlet which he didn't appreciate.
'We had to plan for the future, Rumpole. Deeply distressed
as we all were ...'
'Deeply distressed indeed! I hear that Uncle Tom suggested
a memorial service in Pommeroy's Wine Bar.'
Ballard had the decency to look a little embarrassed. 'I never
approved of that,' he said.
'Well, it's not a bad idea. And I happen to be in funds at the
moment. Why don't I invite you all to a piss-up at Pommeroy's?'
Ballard looked at me sadly. 'And I thought you had finally
found faith!' he said. 'That's what I can never forgive.'
In due course the learned friends assembled in Pommeroy's
at the end of a working day. I had invited Hilda to join us. We
were on friendly terms at the time and, as a result of Biythe's
cheque, her bank balance was in a considerably more healthy
state than mine. So I got Jack Pommeroy to dispense the plonk
with a liberal hand and during the celebrations I heard She Who
Must Be Obeyed talking to our Head of Chambers.
'It was very naughty of Rumpole, of course,' She said, 'but
there was just no other way of getting his fees from that appalling
man, Perivale Biythe.'
'Mrs Rumpole. Can I get this clear? You were a knowing party
to this extraordinary conspiracy?'
'Oh yes.' And Hilda sounded proud of it.
'I'll have you after my job, Mrs Rumpole,' Henry said. 'I
couldn't get Mr Biythe to pay up. Not till we got this idea.'
'Henry! You're not saying you knew?'
'I'm not saying anything, Mr Ballard,' Henry answered with
a true clerk's diplomacy. 'But perhaps I had an inkling.'
'Airways! You took Rumpole home. You must have thought...'
Ballard clearly guessed that he was on to an appalling conspiracy.
'That he'd died?' Fiona smiled at him. 'Oh, I can't see how
anyone could think that. He'd never die in the middle of a case,
would he?' _ „
Rumpole and the Last Resort
'It was exactly the same when we believed he'd retired,' Uncle
Tom told the world in general. 'Rumpole kept popping back,
like a bloody opera singer!'
At which point I felt moved to address them and banged a
glass on the bar for silence.
'Well my learned friends!' I said in my final speech. 'Since
no one else seems inclined to, it falls on me to say a few words.
After the distressing news you have heard, it comes as a great
pleasure to welcome Horace Rumpole back to the land of the
living. When he was deceased he was constantly in your thoughts.
Some of you wanted his room. Some of you wanted his work.
Some, I know, couldn't wait to get their fingers on the old boy's
hatstand. You are all nonetheless welcome to drink to his long life and continued success in a glass of Chateau Thames Embankment!'

I must say that they all raised their glasses and drank with
every appearance of enjoyment. Then I went over to Jack
Pommeroy and asked him to bring out, from behind the bar, the
tribute from Ballard which I had concealed there before the party
began.
'Bollard,' I said as I handed it to him, 'this came to my home
address. I'm afraid you went to some expense over the thing.
Never mind. As I shan't be needing it now, keep it for one of
your friends.'
So, at the end of the day, Sam Ballard was left holding the
wreath.
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