Six new tales of the Wordswoeth-loving,
cigar-smoking, irrepressible pillar of the
British legal system, Horace Rumpole. And
for the very first time, Hilda, She Who Must
Be Obeyed, tells a story all of her own.

'Rumpole is simply one of the great fictional
characters of modern English literature'

- Marcel Berlins in the Sunday Times

'A Rumpole adventure is the nearest thing I
know to the Wodehousian perfection of the
Jeeves stories, from which they are lineally
descended' - Richard Last in the Daily
Telegraph

'One of the great comic creations of modern
times' - Christopher Matthew in the
Evening Standard .

'I thank Heaven for small mercies. The first
of these is Rumpole' - Clive James

'Rumpole is worthy to join the great gallery
of English oddballs ranging from pickwick
to Sherlock Holmes, Jeeves and Berrie
Wooster' - J. W. Lambert in the Sunday

Times

'The best mock heroic fatty since Falstaff'

- Alan Coren

By the same author

Charade

Rumming Park

Answer Yes or No

Like Men Betrayed

Three Winters

The Narrowing Stream

Will Shakespeare (An Entertainment)
Paradise Postponed

Summer's Lease

Titmuss Regained

Dunster

Rumpole of the Bailey

The Trials of Rumpole

Rumpole for the De fence
Rumpole' s Return

Rumpole and the Golden Thread
Rumpole's Last Case

Rumpole and the Age of Miracles
Rumpole la Carte

Rumpole on Trial

The Best of Rumpole

Under the Hammer

With Love and Lizards (with Penelope Mortimer)

Clinging to the Wreckage
Murderers and Other Friends

In Character
Character Parts

.4 Voyage Round My Father, The Dock Brief,
What Shall We Tell Caroline?

The Wrong Side of the Park

Two Stars for Comfort

The Judge

Collaborators

Edwin, Bermondsey, Marble ,4rch, Fear of Heaven,
The Prince of Darkness

The Captain of Kopenick (trans.)
Three Boulevard Farces (trans.)
Cat among the Pigeons (trans.)
Die Fledermaus (trans.)

Famous Trials (ed.)

The Oxford Book of Villains (ed.)

John Mortimer

Rumpole and the
Angel of Death

VIKING

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Books Ltd, 27 (/rights Lane, London w8 5TZ, England

Penguin Books USA Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 1ooi4, USA

Penguin Books Australia Ltd, Ringwood, Victoria, Australia

Penguin Books Canada Ltd, Ko Alcorn Avenue, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4v 3Be

Penguin Books (NZ) Ltd, I8a-xgo Wairan Road, Auckland xo, New Zealand

Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: Harmondsworth, Middlesex, England

First published x995

xo9 8 7 6 5 4 3 z I
First edition

opyright � Advanpress Ltd, t995

The moral right of the author has been asserted

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

Filmset in I 1.25/X3.25

Printed in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, St Ives pie

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

ISBN o-67o-8645 I--X

For Stephen Ttlmin

'So shines a good deed in a naughty world' 'l'

Contents

Rumpole and the Model Prisoner

Rumpole and the Way through the Woods

Hilda's Story

Rumpole and the Little Boy Lost

Rumpole and the Rights of Man

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

x35

x78

217

Rumpole and the Model Prisoner

Quintus Blake, O.B.E. and the staff cordially invite

Horace Rumpole Esq.

to a performance of A Midsummer Night's Dream by
William Shakespeare
x5th September at 7 p.m. sharp.

Entry by invitation only. Proof of identity will be required.

RSVP
The Governor's Office
Worsfield Prison
Worsfield, Berks

I had been to Worsfield gaol regularly over the years and never
without breathing a sigh of relief, and gulping in all the fresh
air available, after the last screw had turned the last lock and
released me from custody. I never thought of going there to
explore the magical charm of a wood near Athens.
'Hilda,' I said, taking a swig of rapidly cooling coffee and
lining myself up for a quick dash to the Underground, 'can you
prove your identity?'
'Is that meant to be funny, Rumpole?' Hilda was deep in the Daily Telegraph and unamused.
'I mean, if you can satisfy the authorities you're really She I
mean (here I corrected myself hastily) that you're my wife,
I'll try for another ticket and we can go to the theatre together.'
'What's come over you, Rumpole? We haven't been
to the
theatre together for three years - or whenever Claude last
dragged you to the opera.'
'Then it's about time,' I said, 'we went to the Dream.'

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

'Which dream?'
'The Midsummer Night's 'one.'
'Where is it?' Hilda seemed prepared to put her to� the
water. 'The Royal Shakespeare?'
'Not exactly. It's in Her Majesty's Prison, Wrsfield. Fifteenth
September. Seven p.m. sharp.'
'You mean you want to take me to Shakespeare d0e by
criminals?'
'Done, but not done in, I hope.'
'Anyway' - She Who Must Be Obeyed foun a 0st'ir�n
alibi - 'that's my evening at the bridge school th ig01d
Featherstone.'
Hilda, I thought, like most of the non-criminal classY, likes
to think that those sentenced simply disappear off theface of
the earth. Very few of us wonder about their wasted lies, or
worry about the slums in which they are confinel, or,deed,
remember them at all.
'You'll have to go on your own, Rumpole,' she si. 'I'm
sure you'll have lots of friends there, and they'll all be l/ighted
to see you.'

'Plenty of your mates in here, eh, Mr Rumpole? The,'l{ all be
glad to see you, I don't doubt. I thought it reaarl0Ie that
both She Who Must Be Obeyed and the screw who vssl�vly
and carefully going over my body with some form of netal
detector should have the same heavy-handed anti rotarticularly
diverting sense of humour.
'I have come for William Shakespeare,' I saicl wiallthe
dignity I could muster. 'I don't believe he's an irsre here.
Nor have I ever been called upon to defend him.'
Worsfield gaol was built in the z85os for far ewera the
number of prisoners it now contains. What the Victor forces
of law and order required was a granite-faced Castle 0fdpair
whose outer appearance was thought likely teter the
passers-by from any thoughts of evil-doing. Inide,Ve large
cellular blocks formed the prison for men, with smiler block
set aside for the few women prisoners. In its earltdays all
within was secrecy and silence, with prisoners, oridder to
speak to each other, plodding round the exercise yarand the

Rumpole and the Model Prisoner

treadmill - the cat o' nine tails and the rope for ever lurking in
the shadows. When it was built it was on the outskirts of a
small industrial town, a place to be pointed out as a warning to
shuddering children being brought back home late on winter
evenings from school. Now the town has spread over the green
fields of the countryside and the prison is almost part of the
city centre. This, I thought, as my taxi passed it on the way
from the station, looked in itself, with its concrete office blocks,
grim shopping malls and multi-storey carparks, as if it were
built like the headquarters of a secret police force or a group of
houses of correction.

Inside the prison there were some attempts at cheerfulness.
Walls were painted lime green and buttercup yellow. There
was a dusty rubber plant, and posters for seaside holidays, in
the office by the gate where I filled in a visitor's form and did
my best to establish my identity. But the scented disinfectant
was fighting a losing battle with the prevailing smell of stale
air, unemptied chamber-pots and greasy cooking.

The screw who escorted me down the blindingly lit passages,
with his keys jangling at his hip, told me he'd been a school
teacher but became a prison warder for the sake of more pay
and free membership of the local golf club. He was a tall,
ginger-haired man, running to fat, with that prison pallor
which can best be described as halfway between sliced bread
and underdone potato chips. On one of his pale cheeks I
noticed a recent scar.

The ex-teacher led me across a yard, a dark concrete area
lined with borders of black earth in which a few meagre plants
didn't seem to be doing well. A small crowd of visitors from
the outer world - youngish people whom I took to be social
workers and probation officers with their partners, grey-haired
governors of other prisons with their wives, enlightened magis-trates
and a well-known professor of criminology - was waiting.
Their voices were muted, serious and respectful, as though,
instead of having been invited to a comedy, they were expecting
a cremation. They stood in front of the chapel, a gaunt Gothic
building no doubt intended to put us all in mind of the terrible
severity of the Last Judgement. There, convicted murderers
had prayed while their few days of life ticked away towards the

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

last breakfast. 'Puts the wretch that lies in woe I In remembrance
of the shroud' - I remembered the lines at the end of the
play we were about to see. Then the locked doors of the chapel
opened and we were shepherded in to the entertainment.

'I have a device to make all well. Write me a prologue; and let the
prologue seem to say, we will do no harm with our swords, and
that Pyramus is not kill'd indeed; and for the more better assurance,
tell them that I Pyramus, am not Pyramus but Bottom the
weaver. This will put them out of fear!' The odd thing was - I had
discovered by a glance at my programme before the chapel lights
dimmed and the cold, marble-paved area in front of the altar was
bathed in sunlight and became an enchanted forest - the prisoner
playing Nick Bottom was called Bob Weaver. What he was in for I
had no idea, but this weaver seemed to be less of a natural actor
than a natural Bottom. There was no hint of an actor playing a
part. The simple pomposity, the huge self-satisfaction, and the
like-ability of the man were entirely real. When the audience
laughed, and they laughed a good deal, the prisoner didn't seem
pleased, as an actor would be, but as hurt, puzzled and resentful
as bully Bottom mocked. And, when he came to the play scene,
he acted Pyramus with intense seriousness which, of course,
made it funnier than ever.
We were a segregated audience, divided by the aisle. On one
side, like friends of the groom, sat the inmates in grey prison
clothes and striped shirts - and trainers (which I used to call
sand-shoes when I was a boy) were apparently allowed. On the
other side, the friends of the bride were the great and the good,
the professional carers and concerned operators of a curious
and notoriously unsuccessful system. Of the two sides, it was
the friends of the groom who coughed and fidgeted less,
laughed more loudly and seemed more deeply involved in the
magic that unfolded before them:

'But we are spirits of another sort.
I with the morning's love have oft made sport,
And like a forester the groves may tread
Even till the eastern gate, all fiery red,
Opening on Neptune with fair bless&d beams
Turns into yellow gold his salt green streams.'

Rumpole and the Model Prisoner

I hadn't realized how handsome Tony Timson would look
without his glasses. His association, however peripheral, with
an armed robbery (not the sort of thing the Timson family had
any experience of, nor indeed talent for) had led him to be
ruler of a fairy kingdom. Puck, small, energetic and Irish, I
remembered from a far more serious case as a junior member
of the clan Molloy. All too soon, for me anyway, he was alone
on the stage, smiling a farewell:

'If we shadows have offended,
Think but this, and all is mended:
That you have but slumbered here,
While these visions did appear...'

Then the house lights went up and I remembered that all the
lovers, fairies and Rude Mechanicals (with the exception of the
actresses) were robbers, housebreakers, manslaughterers and
murderers, there because of their crimes and somebody's perhaps
my- unsuccessful defence.
'I think you'll all agree that that was a pretty good effort.'
The Governor was on the stage, a man with a ramrod back,
cropped grey hair and pink cheeks, who spoke like some commanding
officer congratulating his men after a particularly
dangerous foray into enemy territory. 'We owe a great deal to
those splendid performers and all those who helped with the
costumes. I suggest we might give a hand to our director who
is mainly responsible for getting these awkward fellows acting.'
A small, middle-aged man with steel-rimmed spectacles rose
up from the front row of the inmates and lifted a hand to
acknowledge the applause. This the Governor silenced with a
brisk mutter of words of command. 'Now will all those of you
who live in, please go out. And those of you who live out,
please stay in. You'll be escorted to the boardroom for drinks
and light refreshments.'
The screws who had been waiting, stationed round the walls
like sentries, reclaimed their charges. I saw the director who
had been applauded walking towards them with his knees
slightly bent, moving with a curious hopping motion, as though
he were a puppet on a string. I hadn't seen his face clearly but
something in the way he moved seemed familiar, although I

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

couldn't remember where I'd met him before, or what crime
he might, or might not, have committed.

'Never went much for Shakespeare when I was at school,'
Quintus Blake, the Governor, told me. He was holding a flabby
sausage-roll in one hand and, in the other, a glass of warmish
white wine which, for sheer undrinkability, had Pommeroy's
house blanc beaten by a short head. 'Thought the chap was a
bit long-winded and couldn't make his meaning clear at times.
But, by God, doesn't he come into his own in the prison
service?'

'You mean, you use him as a form of punishment?'

'That's what I'd'ye thought when I .was at school. That's
what I'll tell Ken Fry if he complains we're giving the chaps
too good a time. If they misbehave, I'll tell him we put them
on Shakespeare for twenty-eight days.' Ken Fry is our new,
abrasive, young Home Secretary who lives for the delighted
cheers of the hangers and floggers at party conferences. Given
time, he'll reintroduce the rack as a useful adjunct to police
questioning.

'The truth of the matter' - Quintus bit bravely into the tepid
flannel of his sausage-roll - 'is that none of the fellows on
Shakespeare duty have committed a single offence since rehears-als
began.'

'Is that really true?'

'Well, with one exception.' He took a swig at the alleged
Entre Deux Mers, decided that one was enough and put his
glass down on the boardroom table. 'Ken Fry says prison is
such a brilliant idea because no one commits crimes here. Well,
of course, they do. They bully each other and get up to sexual
shenanigans which put me in mind of the spot behind the fives
court at Coldsands. I don't know what it is about prison that
always reminds me of my school-days. Anyway, as soon as they
landed parts in the Dream, they were as good as gold, nearly all

of them. And for that I've got to hand it to Gribble.'
'Gribble?'

'Matthew Gribble. Inmate in charge of Shakespeare. Just
about due for release as he's got all the remission possible.'

'He produced the play?'

Rumpole and the Model Prisoner

'And even got a performance out of that human bulldozer
who played bully Bottom. One-time boxer who'd had his
brains turned into mashed potatoes quite early in his career.'
'Gribble was the man who stood up at the end?'
'I thought I'd get this lot to give him a round of applause.'
The Governor looked at the well-meaning elderly guests, the
puzzled but hopeful social workers, who were taking their
refreshments, as they took all the difficulties in their lives, with
grim determination. It was then I remembered Matthew Gribhie,
an English teacher at a Berkshire polytechnic, who had
killed his wife.
'I think,' Lsaid, 'I defended him once.'
'I know you did!' The Governor smiled. 'And he wants you
to do the trick again before the Board of Visitors. I said I'd try
and arrange it because, so far as I'm concerned, he's an absolutely
model prisoner.'

All this happened at a time when Claude Erskine-Brown (who
had not yet become a Q.C. - I call them Queer Customers)
took to himself a young lady pupil named Wendy Crump.
Mizz Crump was a person with high legal qualifications but no
oil painting --' as Uncle Torn, of blessed memory, would have
been likely to say. She had, I believe, been hand-picked by
Claude's wife, the Portia of our Chambers, who had not yet got
her shapely bottom on to the Bench and been elevated to the
title of Mrs Justice Phillida Erskine-Brown, a puisne judge of
the High Court.
'Your Mizz Crump,' I told Claude, when we met at breakfast
time in the Tastee-Bite eatery a little to the west of our
Chambers, 'seems a bit of an all-round asset.'
'All round, Rumpole. You've said it. Wendy Crump is very
all round indeed.' He gave a mirthless laugh and spoke as a
man who might have preferred a slimline pupil.
'Hope you don't mind,' I told him, 'but I asked her to look
up the effect of self-induced drunkenness on crimes of violence.
She came up with the answer in a couple of shakes, with
reference to all the leading cases.'
'I'll agree she's a dab hand at the law.'
'Well, isn't that what you need a pupil for?' I knew it was a

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

silly question as soon as I'd asked it. An ability to mug up cases
on manslaughter was not at. all what Claude required of a
pupil. He wanted someone willing, husky-voiced and alluring.
He wanted a heartshaped face and swooping eyelashes which
could drive the poor fellow insane when they were topped by a
wig. He wanted to fall in love and make elaborate plans for
satisfying his cravings, which would be doomed to disaster.
What the poor old darling wanted was yet another opportunity
to make a complete ass of himself, and these longings were
unlikely to be fulfilled by Wendy Crump.
'What a barrister needs, Rumpole, in a busy life with heavy
responsibilities and a great deal of nervous tension is, well, a
little warmth, a little adoration.'
'I shouldn't be in the least surprised if Mizz Crump didn't
adore you, Claude.'
'Don't even suggest it!' The clever Crump's pupil master
gave a shudder.
'Anyway, don't you get plenty of warmth and affection from
Philly?'
'Philly's been on circuit for weeks.' Claude took a quick swig
of the coffee from the Old Bailey machine and didn't seem to
enjoy it. 'And when she's here she spends all her time criticizing
me.'
'How extraordinary.' I simulated amazement.
'Yes, isn't it? Philly's away and I have to spend my days
stuck here with Wendy Crump. But not my nights, Rumpole.
Never, ever, my nights.'
I lost his attention as Nick Davenant from King's Bench
Walk passed us, followed by his pupil Jenny Attienzer. She
was tall, blonde, willowy and carrying his coffee. Poor old
Claude looked as sick as a dog.
That afternoon I was seated at my desk, smoking a small
cigar and gazing into space - the way I often spend my time
when not engaged in Court - when there was a brisk knock at
the door and Wendy Crump entered and asked if I had a set of
Cox's Criminal Reports. 'Not in here,' I told her. 'Try upstairs.
Cox's Reports are Soapy Sam Ballard's constant reading.' And
then, because she looked disappointed at not finding these
alluring volumes at once, I did my best to cheer her up.

Rumpole and the Model Prisoner

'Claude thinks you're a wonderful pupil.' I exaggerated, of
course. 'I told him you were a dab hand at the law. He's very
lucky.'

It's rare nowadays that you see anyone blush, but Wendy's
usually pale cheeks were glowing. 'I'm the lucky one,' she said,
and added, to my amazement, 'to be doing my pupillage with
Erskine-Brown. Everyone I know is green with envy.' Everyone
she knew, I thought, must be strangely ignorant of life at the
Bailey, where prosecution by Claude has come to be regarded
as the key to the gaolhouse door.

Wendy ended her testimonial with 'I honestly do regard it as
an enormous privilege.' I supposed the inmates of Worsfield
would consider basketball or macram a privilege if it got them
out of solitary confinement. Looking at the enthusiastic Mizz
Crump I thought that Claude had been unfair about her appear-ance.
It was just that she had acquired the look of an intelligent
and cheerful middle-aged person whilst still in her twenties.
She was, I suppose, what would be called considerably over-weight,
but there was nothing wrong with that. With her wiry
hair scraped back, her spectacles and her willing expression,
she looked like the photographs of the late Dorothy L. Sayers,
a perfectly pleasant sight.

'I just hope I can be a help to him.'

'I'm sure you can.' Although not, I thought, the sort of help
the ever-hopeful Claude was after.

'I could never rise to be a barrister like that.'

'Perhaps it's just as well,' I encouraged her.

'I mean I could never stand up and speak with such command
- and in such a beautiful voice too. Of course he's handsome,
which means he can absolutely dominate a courtroom. You

need to be handsome to do that, don't you?'

'Well,' I said, 'thank you very much.'

'Oh, I didn't mean that. Of course you dominate all sorts of
courtrooms. And it doesn't matter what you look like.' She
gave a little gasp to emphasize her point. 'It doesn't matter in
the least!"

'The extraordinary thing is that his name is Weaver. He was on
the same floor as me, a couple of cell doors away.' Matthew

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

Gribble spoke as if he were describing a neighbour in a country
village. 'Bob Weaver. He used to laugh at me because I kept
getting books from the library. He was sure I got all the ones
with dirty bits in because I knew where to look for them. Of
course, in those days, he couldn't tell the difference between
soft porn and Mansfield Park. He was hardly literate.'
'You say he was.'
'Until I taught him to read, that is.'
'You taught him?'
'Oh, yes. I honestly don't know how I'd'ye got through the
years here if I hadn't had that to do.' He gave a small, timid
smile. 'As a matter of fact, I enjoyed the chance to teach again.'
'How did you manage it?'
'Oh, I read to him at first. I read all the stories I'd liked
when I was a child. gre started with l/innie-the-Pooh and got
on to Treasure Island and Kidnapped. Then he began to want
to read for himself.'
'So you decided to cast him?'
'If We ever did the Dream. He looked absolutely right. A
huge mountain of a man with the outlook of a child. And kind,
too. He even had the right name for it.'
'You mean, to play Nick, the weaver?'
'Exactly! I asked him to do it a long time ago. Two years at
least. I asked him if he'd like to play Bottom.'
'And he agreed?'
'No.' The timid smile returned. 'He looked profoundly
shocked. He thought I'd made some sort of obscene
suggestion.'
We had been in the Worsfield interview room four and a bit
years before, sitting on either side of the same table, with the
bright blue paint and the solitary cactus, and the walls and
door half glass so the screws could look in and see what we
were up to. Then, we had been talking about his teaching, his
production with the Cowshott drama group, the performances
which he got out of secretaries and teachers and a particularly
dramatic district nurse - and of his wife who apparently hated
him and his amateur theatricals. rhen she flew at him and tore
at his face with her fingernails during one of their nightly
quarrels over the washing up, he had stabbed her through the

Rumpole and the Model Prisoner

heart. I thought I had done the case with my usual brilliance
and got the jury to find provocation and reduce the crime to
manslaughter, for which the Judge, taking the view that a
kitchen knife is not the proper reply to an attack with fingernails,
had given him seven years. As the Governor told me, he
was a model prisoner. With full remission he'd be out by the
end of the month. That is, unless he was convicted on the
charge I was now concerned with. If the Board of Visitors did
him for dangerous assault on a prison warden, he'd forfeit a
large chunk of his remission.
'The incident we have to talk about,' I said, 'happened in the
carpenter's shop.'
'Yes,' he sighed, 'I suppose we have to talk about it.'
All subjects seemed to him, I guessed, flat, stale and unprofitable
after the miracle of getting an illiterate East End prizefighter
to enjoy acting Shakespeare. I remembered his account
of the last quarrel with his wife. She had told him he was
universally despised. She had mocked him for his pathetic
sexual attainments while, at the same time, accusing him, quite
without foundation, of abusing his child by a previous marriage.
He had heard it all many, many times before. It was only when
she told him that he had produced Hamlet as though it were a
television situation comedy that their quarrel ended in
violence.
'Yes, the carpenter's shop.' Matthew Gribble sighed. Then
he cheered up slightly and said, 'We were building the set for
the Dream.'
I had a note of the case given to me by the Governor. There
were only four members of the cast working on the scenery,
one civilian carpenter and a prison officer in overall charge.
His name was Steve Barrington.
'Do you know' - my client's voice was full of wonder -'Barrington
gave up a job as a teacher to become a screw? Isn't
that extraordinary?'
'Do you think he regrets it? He may not have got chisels
thrown at him in class, with any luck.'
What was thrown was undoubtedly the tool which Matthew
had been using. The screw was talking to one of the carpenters
and didn't see the missile before it struck his cheek. The other

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

cast members, except for one, said they were busy and didn't
see who launched the attack.

'I put the chisel on the bench and I was just turning round
to tack the false turf on to the mound we'd built. I didn't see
who threw it. I only know that I didn't. I told you the truth in
the other case. Why should I lie to you about this?'

Because you don't want to spend another unnecessary minute
as a guest of Her Majesty, I thought of saying, but resisted the
temptation. It was not for me to pass judgement, not at any
stage of the proceedings. My problem was that there was a
witness who said he'd seen Matthew Gribble throw the chisel.
A witness who seemed to have no reason to tell lies about his
friend and educator. It was Bob Weaver who had made the
journey from illiteracy to Shakespeare, and been rewarded with
the part of bully Bottom.

'Rumpole, a terrible thing has happened in Chambers!' Mizz
Liz Probert sat on the edge of my client's chair, her face pale
but determined, her hands locked as though in prayer, her
voice low and doom-laden. It was as though she were announc-ing,
to waiting relations on the quayside, the fact that the
Titanic had struck an iceberg.

'Not the nailbrush disappeared again?'

'Rumpole, can't you ever be serious?'

'Hardly ever when it comes to things that have happened in
Chambers.'

'Well, this time, perhaps your attitude will be more helpful.'
'It depends on whether I want to be helpful. What is it?
Don't tell me. Henry blew the coffee money on a dud
horse?'

'Claude has committed the unforgivable sin.'

'You mean, adultery? Well, that's something of an achieve-ment.
His attempts usually end in all-round frustration.'

'That too, most probably. No. This is what he said in the
clerk's room.'

'Go on. Shock me.'

'Kate Inglefield, who's an assistant solicitor in Damiens,
heard him say it. And, of course, she was tremendously
distressed.'

Rumpole and the Model Prisoner

'Can you tell me what he said?' I wondered. 'Or are you too
embarrassed? Would you prefer to write it down?'
'Don't be silly, Rumpole. He asked Henry if he'd seen his fat
pupil about recently.'
There followed a heavy silence, during which I thought I
was meant to say something. So I said, 'Go on.'
'What do you mean?'
'Go on till you get to the bit that caused Kate Inglefield not,
I would have thought, a girl who distresses easily - such
pain.'
'Rumpole, I've said it. Do I have to say it again?'
'Perhaps if you do, I'll be able to follow your argument.'
'Erskine-Brown said to Henry, "Have you seen my fat
pupil?"'
'Recently?'
'What?'
'He said recently.'
'Really, Rumpole. Recently is hardly the point.'
'So the point is my fat pupil?'
'Of course it is!'
I took out a small cigar and placed it between the lips.
Sorting out the precise nature of the charge against Claude
would require a whiff of nicotine. 'And he was referring- I
merely ask for clarification - to his pupil Mizz Crump?'
'Of course he meant Wendy, yes.'
'And he called her fat?'
'It was' - Liz Probert described it as though murder had
been committed - 'an act of supreme chauvinism. It's daring to
assume that women should alter the shape of their bodies just
for the sake of pleasing men. Disgusting!'
'But isn't it' - I was prepared, as usual, to put forward the
argument for the Defence - 'a bit like saying the sky's blue?'
'It's not at all like that. It's judging a woman by her
appearance.'
'And isn't the other judging the sky by its appearance?'
'I suppose I should have known!' Mizz Probert stood up, all
her sorrow turned to anger. 'There's no crime so contemptible
that you won't say a few ill-chosen words in its favour. And,
don't you dare light that thing until I'm out of the room.'

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

'I'm sure you're busy.'

'I certainly am. We're having a special meeting tonight of
the Sisterhood of Radical Lawyers. We aim to blacklist anyone
who sends Claude briefs or appears in Court with him. We're
going to petition the Judges not to listen to his arguments and
Ballard's got to give him notice to quit.'

'Mizz Liz,' I said, 'how would you describe me?'
'As a defender of hopeless causes.'
'No, I mean my personal appearance.'

'Well, you're fairly short.' The Prosecutor gave me the once
over. 'Your nose is slightly purple, and your hair - what's left

of it - is curly and you're...'

'Go on, say it.'

'Well, Rumpole. Let's face it. You're fat.'
'You said it.'
'Yes.'

'So should I get you blackballed in Court?'
'Of course not.'
'Why not?'

'Because you're a man.'

'I see.'

'I shouldn't think you do. I shouldn't think you do for a
moment.'

Mizz Probert left me then. Full of thought, I applied the
match to the end of the small cigar.

It was some weeks later that Fred Timson, undisputed head of
the Timson clan, was charged with receiving a stolen video
recorder. The charge was, in itself, something of an insult to a
person of Fred's standing and sensitivity. It was rather as if I
had been offered a brief in a case of a non-renewed television
licence, or, indeed, of receiving a stolen video recorder. I only
took the case because Fred is a valued client and, in many
respects, an old family friend. I never tire of telling Hilda that
a portion of our family beef, bread, marmalade and washing-up
liquid depends on the long life of Fred Timson and his talent
for getting caught on the windy side of the law. I can't say that
this home truth finds much favour with She Who Must Be
Obeyed, who treats me, on these occasions, as though I were

Rumpole and the Model Prisoner

only a moderately successful petty thief working in Streatham
and its immediate environs.

The Defence was elaborate, having to do with a repair job
delivered to the wrong address, an alibi, and the fact that the
chief prosecution witness was a distant relative of a member of
the Molloy family - all bitter rivals and enemies of the Timsons.
While Fred and I were drinking coffee in the Snaresbrook
canteen, having left the Jury to sort out the complexities of this
minor crime, I told him that I'd seen Tony Timson playing the
King of the Fairies.

'No, Mr Rumpole, you're mistaken about that, I can assure
you, sir. Our Tony is not that way inclined.'

'No, in Midsummer Night's Dream. An entirely heterosexual
fairy. Married to the Fairy Queen.'

Fred Timson said nothing, but shook his head in anxious
disbelief. I decided to change the subject. 'I don't know if
you've heard of one of Tony's fellow prisoners. Bob Weaver, a
huge fellow. Started off as a boxer?'

'Battering Bob Weaver!' Fred seemed to find the memory
amusing. 'That's how he was known. Used to do bare-knuckle
fights on an old airfield near Colchester. And my cousin Percy
Timson's young Mavis married Battering Bob's brother, Billy
Weaver, as was wrongly fingered for the brains behind the
Dagenham dairy-depot job. To be quite candid with you, Mr
Rumpole, Billy Weaver is not equipped to be the brains behind
anything. Pity about Battering Bob, though.'

'You mean the way he went down for the Deptford minicab
murder?'

'Not that exactly. That's over and done with. No. The way

he's deteriorated in the nick.'

'Deteriorated?'

'According as Mavis tells Percy, he has. Can't hold a decent

conversation when they visits. It's all about books and that.'

'I heard he's learnt to read.'

'Mavis says the family's worried desperate. Bob spent all
her visit telling her a poem about a nightingale. Well, what's the
point of that? I mean, there can't be all that many nightingales
round Worsfield Prison. Course, it's the other bloke they
put it down to.'

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

'Matthew Gribble?'
'Is that the name? Anyway, seems Bob thinks the world of
this chap. Says he's changed his life and that he worships him,
Mr Rompole. But Mavis reckons he's been a bad influence on
Bob. I mean that Gribble's got terrible form. Didn't he kill his
wife? lxlo one in our family ever did that.'
'Of course not. Although Tony Timson was rumoured to
have attempted it.'
'Between the attempt and the deed, as you well know, Mr
Rumpole, there is a great gulf fixed. Isn't that true?'
'Very true, Fred.'
'And Mavis says Bob's been worse for the last three months.
Nervous and depressed like as though he was dreading something.'
What, I wondered, had been bugging Battering Bob? I.t
couldxa't have been the fact that his friend was in trouble for
attacking a warden; that had only happened a month before. 'I
suppose,' I suggested, 'it was stage-fright. They started rehearsing
Midsummer Night's Dream around three months ago.'
'You mean like he was scared of being in a play?'
'He might have been.'
'I hardly think a bloke what went single-handed against six
Molloys during the minicab war would be scared of a bit of a
play.'
It was then that the tireless Bernard came to tell me that the
Jury were back with a verdict. Fred stood up, gave his jacket a
tug, and strolled off as though he'd just been called in to
dinner at the local Rotary Club. And I was left wondering
again why Battering Bob Weaver should decide to be the sole
witness against a man he had worshipped.

I got back to Chambers in a reasonably cheerful mood, the
Jury having decided to give Uncle Fred the generous benefit of
a rather small supply of doubt, and there waiting in my client's
chair was another bundle of trouble. None other than Wendy
Crump, Claude's pupil, clearly in considerable distress. 'I had
to tall< to you,' she said, 'because it's all so terribly unfair!'
Was unfair the right word, I wondered. Unkind, perhaps,
but not unfair, unless she meant it as a general rebuke to the
Almighty who handed out sylphlike beauty to the undiscerning

Rumpole and the Model Prisoner

few with absolutely no regard for academic attainment or
moral worth. 'Of course,' I said, 'I think you look very
attractive.'

'What?' She looked at me surprised and, I thought, a little
shocked.

'In the days of Sir Peter Paul Rubens,' I assured her, 'a girl
with your dimensions would have been on page three of the
Sun, if not on the ceiling of the Banqueting Hall.'

'Please, Rumpole,' she said, 'there are more important things
to talk about.'

'Well, exactly,' I assured her. 'People have suggested that
Frn a little overweight. They have-hinted that from time to
time, but do I let it worry me? Do I decline the mashed spuds
or the fried slice with my breakfast bacon? I do not. I let such
remarks slide off me like water off a duck's back.'

'Rumpole!' she said, a little sharply, I thought. 'I don't think
your physical appearance is anything to do with all this
trouble.'

'Is it not? I just thought that we're birds of a feather.'

'I doubt it!' This Mizz Crump could be very positive at
times. 'I came to see you about Erskine-Brown.'

'Of course, he shouldn't have said it.' I was prepared, as I
have said, to accept the brief for the Defence. 'It was just one
of those unfortunate slips of the tongue.'

'You mean he shouldn't have told me about Kate Inglefield?'
'What's he told you about Mizz Inglefield? You mean that
rather bright young solicitor from Damiens? She's quite skinny,
as far as I can remember.'

'Rumpole, why do you keep harping on people's personal
appearances?'

'Well, didn't Claude say...?'

'Claude told me that Kate Inglefield had decided never to
brief him again. And she's taken his VAT fraud away from
him. And Christine Dewsbury, who's meant to be his junior in
a long robbery, has said she'll never work with him again, and
Mr Ballard...'

'The whited sepulchre who is Head of our Chambers?'

'Mr Ballard has been giving him some quite poisonous
looks.'

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

'Those aren't poisonous looks. That's Soapy Sam's usual
happy expression.'

'He's hinted that Erskine-Brown may have to look for other

Chambers. He's such a wonderful advocate, Rumpole!'

'Well now, let's say he's an advocate of sorts.'

'And a fine man! A man with very high principles.' I listened
in some surprise. Was this the Claude I had seen stumbling
into trouble and lying his way out of it over the last twenty
years? 'And he has absolutely no idea why he is being
victimized.'

'Has he not?'
'None whatever.'
'But you know?'

'No, really. I have no idea.'

'Well' - I breathed a sigh of relief- 'that's all right then.'
'No, it's not all right.' She stood up, her cheeks flushed, her
voice clear and determined. Mizz Crump might be no oil
painting, but I thought I saw in her the makings of a fighter.
'We've got to find out why all this is happening. And we've got
to save him. Will you help me get him out of trouble? Whatever
it is.'

'Helping people in trouble,' I assured her, 'has been my job
for almost half a century.'

'So you're with me, Rumpole?' She was, I was glad to see, a
determined young woman who might go far in the law.

'Of course I am. We fat people should stick together.' Natu-rally,
I regretted it the moment I had said it.

'The Governor says you're a model prisoner.'

'Yes. '

'Well, that's a kind of tribute.'

'Not exactly what I wanted to be when I was at university.
I'd just done my first Twelfth Night. I suppose I wanted to be
a great director. I saw myself at the National or the R.S.C. If I
couldn't do that, I wanted to be an unforgettable teacher of
English and open the eyes of generations to Shakespeare. I
never thought I'd end up as a model prisoner.'

'Life is full of surprises.' That didn't seem too much of a
comfort to Matthew Gribble as we sat together, back in the

Rumpole and the Model Prisoner

prison interview room. Spring sunshine was fighting its way
through windows that needed cleaning. I had sat in the train,
trees with leaves just turning green, sunlight on the grass. A
good time to think of freedom, starting a new life and forgetting
the past. 'If we can get you off this little bit of trouble, you
should be out of here by the end of the month.'

'Out. To do what?' He was smiling gently, but I thought
quite without amusement, as he stared into the future. 'I
shouldn't think they'll ever ask me to direct a play for the
Cowshott amateurs. "You'd better watch out for this one,
darling," I can just hear them whispering at the read through.

"He stabbed his wife to death with a kitchen knife."'

'There may be other drama groups.'

'Not for me. Do you think they'd have me back at the poly?
Not a hope.'

'Anyway' - I tried to cheer him up - 'you did a pretty good
job with A Midsummer Night's Dream.'

'Shakespeare with violent criminals, deputy-governors' wives
and wardens' daughters. Not the R.S.C. exactly, but I can put
on a good show in Worsfield gaol. Wasn't Bob Weaver
marvellous?'

'Extraordinary.'

'And you know what I discovered? He responds to the sound
of poetry. He's got to know it by heart. Great chunks of it.'
From Battering Bob to Babbling Bob, I thought, treating his
bewildered visitors to great chunks of John Keats. It was
funny, of course, but in its way a huge achievement. Matthew
Gribble appeared to agree. 'I suppose I'm proud of that.' He
thought about it and seemed satisfied. I turned back to the
business in hand.

'Those other cast members in the carpenter's helping make
the scenery - Tony Timson, the young Molloy? Do you think
either of them saw who threw the chisel?'

'If they did, they're not saying. Grassing's a sin in prison.'
'But your protg Babbling Bob is prepared to grass on you?'

'Seems like it.' He was, I thought, resigned and strangely
unconcerned.

'Have you talked to him about it?'

'Yes. Once.'

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

'What did you say?'

'I told him to always be truthful. That's the secret of acting,
to tell the truth about the character. I told him that.'

'Forget about acting for a moment. Did you ask him why he
said you attacked the screw?'

There was a silence. Matthew Gribble seemed to be looking
past me, at something far away. At last he said, 'Yes, I asked
him that.'

'And what did he say?'

'He said' - my client gave a small, not particularly happy
smile - 'he said we'd always be friends, wouldn't we?'

The master-pupil relationship - the instructing of a younger,
less experienced person in the mysteries of some art, theatrical
or legal - seemed a situation fraught with danger. While Mat-thew
Gribble's devoted pupil was turning on his master with
damaging allegations, Wendy Crump's pupil master was in
increasing trouble, being treated by the Sisterhood of Radical
Lawyers as a male pariah. As yet, neither Erskine-Brown, nor
his alleged victim, had been informed of the charges against
him, although Mizz Probert and her supporters were about to
raise the matter before the Bar Council as a serious piece of
professional misconduct by the unfortunate Claude, who sat,
brooding and unemployed in his room, wondering what it was
that his best friend wouldn't tell him which had led to him
being shunned by female lawyers. I learnt about the proposed
petitioning of the Bar Council when I visited the Soapy Head
of our Chambers in order to scotch any plan to drive the
unfortunate sinner from that paradise which is 4 Equity
Court.

'There is no doubt whatever' - here Ballard put on his
carefully modulated tone of sorrowful condemnation - 'that
Erskine-Brown has erred grievously.'

'Which one of the Ten Commandments is it exactly, if I may
be so bold as to ask, which forbids us to call our neighbour
fat?'

'There is such a thing, Rumpole' - Ballard gave me the look
with which a missionary might reprove a cannibal - 'as gender
awareness.'

Rumpole and the Model Prisoner

'Is there, really? And who told you about that then? I'll lay
you a hundred to one it was Mizz Liz Probert.'

'Lady lawyers take it extremely seriously, Rumpole. Which
is why we're in danger of losing all our work from Damiens.'

'The all-female solicitors? Not a man in the whole of the
firm. Is that being gender aware?'

'However the firm is composed, Rumpole, they provide a
great deal of valuable work for all of us.'

. 'Well, I'm aware of gender,' I told Soapy Sam, 'at least I
think I am. You're a man from what I can remember.'

'That remark would be taken very much amiss, Rumpole. If
made to a woman.'

'But it's not made to a woman, it's made to you, Ballard. Are
you going to stand for this religious persecution of the unfortu-nate
Claude?'

'What he said about Wendy Crump was extremely
wounding.'

'Nonsense! She wasn't wounded in the least. None of these
avenging angels has bothered to tell her what her pupil master
said.'

'Did you tell her?'

'Well, no, I didn't, actually.'

'Did you tell Wendy Crump that Erskine-Brown had called
her fat?' For about the first time in his life Soapy Sam had
asked a good question in cross-examination. I was reduced, for
a moment at least, to silence. 'Why didn't you repeat those
highly offensive words to her?'

I knew the answer, but I wasn't going to give him the
pleasure of hearing it from me.

'It was because you didn't want to hurt her feelings, did you,
Rumpole? And you knew how much it would wound her.'
Ballard was triumphant. 'You showed a rare flash of gender
awareness and I congratulate you for it!'

Although a potential outcast from the gender-aware society,
Claude hadn't been entirely deprived of his practice. New
briefs were slow in arriving, but he still had some of his old
cases to finish off. One of these was a complex and not particu-larly
fascinating fraud on a bookmaker in which Claude and I

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

were briefed for two of the ,alleged fraudsters. I needn't go into
the details of the case except to say that the Prosecution was in
the hands of the dashing and handsome Nick Davenant who
had a large and shapely nose, brown hair billowing from under
his wig, and knowing and melting eyes. It was Nick's slimline
pupil, Jenny Attienzer, whom Claude had hopelessly coveted.
This fragile beauty was not in Court on the day in question;
whether she thought the place out of bounds because of the
gender-unaware Claude, I'm unable to say. But Claude was
being assisted by the able but comfortably furnished (slenderly
challenged) Wendy Crump and I was on my own.

The case-vas being tried by her Honour Judge Emma
MacNaught, Q.C., sitting as an Old Bailey judge, who had
treated Claude, from the start of the case, to a number of
withering looks and, when addressing him in person became
inevitable, to a tone of icy contempt. This circus judge turned
out to have been the author of a slender handbook entitled
'Sexual Harassment in the Legal Profession'. (Wendy Crump
told me, some time later, that she would challenge anyone to
know whether they had been sexually harassed or not unless
they'd read the book.)

Nick Davenant called the alleged victim of our clients' fraud
- a panting and sweating bookmaker whose physical attributes
I am too gender aware to refer to - and his last question was,
'Mr Aldworth, have you ever been in trouble with the police?'

'No. Certainly not. Not with the police.' On which note of
honesty Nick sat down and Claude rose to cross-examine.
Before he could open his mouth, however, Wendy was half
standing, pulling at his gown and commanding, in a penetrating
whisper, that he ask Aldworth if he'd ever been in trouble with
anyone else.

'Are you intending to ask any question, Mr Erskine-Brown?'
Judge MacNaught had closed her eyes to avoid the pain of
looking at the learned chauvinist pig.

'Have you been in trouble with anyone else?' Claude plunged
in, clay in the hands of the gown-tugger behind him.

'Only with my wife. On Derby night.' For this, Mr Aldworth
was rewarded by a laugh from the Jury, and Claude by a look
of contempt from the Judge.

Rumpole and the Model Prisoner

'Ask him if he's ever been reported to Tattersall's.' The
insistent pupil behind Claude gave another helping tug. Claude
clearly didn't think things could get any worse. 'Have
you ever been reported to Tattersall's?' he asked,
adding 'the racing authority' by way of an unnecessary
explanation.
'Well, yes. As far as I can remember,' Mr Aldworth admitted
in a fluster, and the Jury stopped laughing.
'Ask him how many times!'
'How many times?' Wendy Crump was now Claude's pupil
master.
'I don't know I can rightly remember.'
'Do your best,' Wendy suggested.
'Well, do your best,' Claude asked.
'Ten or a dozen times... Perhaps twenty.'
I sat back in gratitude. The chief prosecution witness had
been holed below the waterline, without my speaking a word,
and our co-defendants might well be home and dry.
At the end of the cross-examination, the learned Judge subjected
Claude to the sort of scrutiny she might have given a
greenish slice of haddock on a slab, long past its sell-by date.
'Mr Erskine-Brown!'
'Yes, my Lady.'
'You are indeed fortunate to have a pupil who is so skilled in
the art of cross-examination.'
'Indeed, I am, my Lady.'
'Then you must be very grateful that she remains to help
you. For the time being.' The last words were uttered in the
voice of a prison governor outlining the arrangements, temporary
of course, for life in the condemned cell. Hearing them,
even my blood, I have to confess, ran a little chill.
When the lunch adjournment came Claude shot off about
some private business and I strolled out of Court with the
model pupil. I told her she'd done very well.
'Thank you, Rumpole.' Wendy took my praise as a matter of
course. 'I thought the Judge was absolutely outrageous to poor
old Claude. Going at him like that simply because he's a man.
I can't stand that sort of sexist behaviour? And then she was
off in search of refreshment and I was left wondering at the

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

rapidity with which her revered pupil master had become 'poor
old Claude'.

And then I saw, at the end of the wide corridor and at the
head of the staircase, Nick Davenant, the glamorous Prosecutor,
in close and apparently friendly consultation with the leader of
the militant sisterhood, Mizz Liz Probert of our Chambers. I
made towards them but, as she noticed my approach, Mizz Liz
melted away like snow in the sunshine and, being left alone
with young Nick, I invited him to join me for a pint of
Guinness and a plateful of steak and kidney pie in the pub
across the road.

'I saw you were talking to Liz Probert?' I asked him when
we were settled at the trough.

'Great girl, Liz. In your Chambers, isn't she?'

'I brought her up, you might say. She was my pupil in her
time. Did she question your gender awareness?'

'Good heavens, no!' Nick Davenant laughed, giving me a
ringside view of a set of impeccable teeth. 'I think she knows
that I'm tremendously gender aware the whole time. No. She's
just a marvellous girl. She does all sorts of little things for me.'

'Does she indeed?' The pie crust, as usual, tasted of card-board,
the beef was stringy and the kidneys as hard to find as
beggars in the Ritz, but they couldn't ruin the mustard or the
Guinness. 'I suppose I shouldn't ask what sort of things.'

'Well, I wasn't talking about that in particular.' The learned
Prosecutor gave the impression that he could talk about that if
he wasn't such a decent and discreet young Davenant. 'But I

mean little things like work.'

'Mizz Liz works for you?'

'Well, if I've got a difficult opinion to write, or a big case to
note up, then Liz will volunteer.'

'But you've got Miss Slenderlegs, the blonde barrister, as
your pupil.'

'Liz says she can't trust Jenny to get things right, so she
takes jobs on for me.'

'And you pay her lavishly of course.'

'Not at all.' Still smiling in a blinding fashion, Nick Davenant
shook his head. 'I don't pay her a thing. She does it for the
sake of friendship.'

Rumpole and the Model Prisoner

'Friendship with you, of course?'

'Friendship with me, yes. I think Liz is really a nice girl.

And I don't see anything wrong with her bum.'
'Wrong with what?'
'Her bum.'

'That's what I thought you said.'

'Do you think there's anything wrong with it, Rumpole?' A
dreamy look had come over young Davenant's face.

'I hadn't really thought about it very much. But I suppose
not.'

'I don't know why she has to go through all that performance
about it, really.'

'Performance?'

'At Monte's beauty parlour, she told me. In Ken High
Street. Takes hours, she told me. While she has to sit there and
read Hello/magazine.'

'You don't mean that she reads this - whatever publication
you mentioned - while changing the shape of her body for the
sake of pleasing men?'

'I suppose,' Davenant had to admit reluctantly, 'it's in a
good cause.'

'Have the other half of this black Liffey water, why don't
you?' I felt nothing but affection for Counsel for the Prosecu-tion,
for suddenly, at long last, I saw a chink of daylight at the
end of poor old Claude's long, black tunnel. 'And tell me all
you know about Monte's beauty parlour.'

The day's work done, I was walking back from Ludgate Circus
and the well-known Palais de Justice, when I saw, alone and
palely loitering, the woman of the match, Wendy Crump. I
hailed her gladly, caught her up and she turned to me a face on
which gloom was written large. I couldn't even swear that her
spectacles hadn't become misted with tears.

'You don't look particularly cheered up,' I told her, 'after
your day of triumph.'

'No. As a matter of fact I feel tremendously depressed.'
'What about?'

'About Claude. I've been thinking about it so much and it's
made me sad.'

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

'Someone told you?' I was sorry for her.
'Told me what?'
'Well' - I thought, of course, that the damage had been done
by the sisterhood over the lunch adjournment - 'what Claude
had said about you that caused all the trouble.'
'All what trouble?'
'Being blackballed, blacklisted, outlawed, outcast, dismissed
from the human race. Why Liz Probert and the gender-aware
radical lawyers have decided to hound him.'
'Because of what he said about me?'
'They haven't told you?'
'Not a word. Butyou know what it was?'
'Perhaps.' I was playing for time.
'Then tell me, for God's sake.'
'Quite honestly, I'd rather not.'
'What on earth's the matter?'
'I'd really rather not say it.'
'Why?'
'You'd probably find it offensive.'
'Rurapole, I'm going to be a barrister. I'll have to sit through
rape, indecent assault, sex and sodomy. Just spit it out.'
'He was probably joking.'
'He doesn't joke much.'
'Well, then. He called you, and I don't suppose he meant it,
fat.'
She looked at me and, in a magical moment, the gloom
lifted. I thought there was even the possibility of a laugh. And
then it came, a light giggle, just as we passed Pommeroy's.
'Of course I'm fat. Fatty Crump, that set me apart from all
the other anorexic little darlings at school. That and the fact
that I usually got an A-plus. It was my trademark. Well, I
never thought Claude looked at me long enough to notice.'
When this had sunk in, I asked her why, if she hadn't heard
from Liz Probert and her Amazonians, she was so shaken and
wan with care.
'Because' - and here the note of sadness returned - 'I used to
hero-worship Claude. I thought he was a marvellous barrister.
And now I know he can't really do it, can he?'
She looked at me, hoping, perhaps, for some contradiction. I

Rumpole and the Model Prisoner

was afraid I couldn't oblige. 'All the same,' I said, 'you don't
want him cast into outer darkness and totally deprived of
briefs, do you?'

'Good heavens, no. I wouldn't wish that on anyone.'

'Then, in the fullness of time,' I told her, 'I may have a little
strategy to suggest.'

'Hilda,' I said, having managed to ingest most of a bottle of
Chateau Fleet Street Ordinaire over our cutlets, and with it
taken courage, 'what would you do if I called you fat?' I
awaited the blast of thunder, or at least a drop in the tempera-ture
to freezing, to be followed by a week's eerie silence.

To my surprise she answered with a brisk 'I'd call you
fatter!'

'A sensible answer, Hilda.' I had been brave enough for one
evening. 'You and Mizz Wendy Crump are obviously alike in
tolerance and common sense. The only trouble is, she couldn't
say that to Claude because he has a lean and hungry look. Like
yon Cassius.'

'Like yon who?'

'No matter.'

'Rumpole, I have absolutely no idea what you're talking
about.'

So I told her the whole story of Wendy and Claude and
Mizz Probert, with her Sisterhood, ready to tear poor Erskine-Brown
apart as the Bacchantes rent Orestes, and the frightened
Ballard. She listened with an occasional click of the tongue and
shake of her head, which led me to believe that she didn't
entirely approve. 'Those girls,' she said, 'should be a little less
belligerent and learn to use their charm.'

'Perhaps they haven't got as much charm as you have,
Hilda,' I flannelled, and she looked at me with deep suspicion.

'But you say this Wendy Crump doesn't mind particularly?'
'She seems not to. Only one thing seems to upset her.'
'What's that?'

'She's disillusioned about Claude not because of the fat chat,
but because she's found out he's not the brilliant advocate she
once thought him.'

'Hero-worship! That's always dangerous.'

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

'I suppose so.'

'I remember when Dodo nd I were at school together, we
had an art mistress called Helena Lampos and Dodo absolutely
hero-worshipped her. She said Lampos revealed to her the true
use of watercolours. Well, then we heard that this Lampos
person was going to leave to get married. I can't think who'd
agreed to marry her because she wasn't much of a catch, at
least not in my opinion. Anyway, Dodo was heartbroken and
couldn't bear the idea of being separated from her heroine so,
on the morning she was leaving, Lampos could not find the
blue silky coat that she was always so proud of.'

When she starts on her schooldays I feel an irresistible urge
to apply the corkscrew to the second bottle of the Ordinaire. I
was engaged in this task as Hilda's story wound to a conclusion.
'So, anyway, the coat in question was finally found in Dodo's
locker. She thought if she hid it, she'd keep Miss Lampos. Of
course, she didn't. The Lampos left and Dodo had to do a
huge impot and miss the staff concert. And, by the way,
Rumpole, there's absolutely no need for you to open another
bottle of that stuff. It's high time you were in bed.'

At the Temple station next morning I bought a copy of Hello.t,
a mysterious publication devoted to the happy lives of people I
had never heard of. When I arrived in Chambers my first port
of call was to the room where Liz Probert carried on her now
flourishing practice. She was, as the saying is, at her desk, and
I noticed a new scarlet telephone had settled in beside her
regulation black instrument.

'Business booming, I'm glad to see. You've had to install
another telephone.'

'It's a hotline, Rumpole.'

'Hot?' I gave it a tentative touch.

'I mean it's private. For the use of women in Chambers
only.'

'It doesn't respond to the touch of the male finger.'

'It's so we can report harassment, discrimination and verbally
aggressive male barrister or clerk conduct direct to the S.R.L.
office.'

The S-?'

Rumpole and the Model Prisoner

'Sisterhood of Radical Lawyers.'

'And what will they do? Send for the police? Call the fire
brigade to douse masculine ardour?'

'They will record the episode fully. Then we shall meet the
victim and decide on action.'

'I thought you decided on action before you met Wendy
Crump.'

'Her case was particularly clear. Now she's coming to the
meeting of the Sisterhood at five-thirty.'

'Ah, yes. She told me about that. I think she's got quite a lot
to say.'

'I'm sure she has. Now what do you want, Rumpole? I'm
before the Divisional Court at ten-thirty.'

'Good for you! I just came in to ask you a favour.'

'Not self-induced drunkenness as a defence? Crump told me
she had to look that up for you.'

'It's not the law. Although I do hear you work for other
barristers for nothing, and so deprive their lady pupils of the
beginnings of a practice.'

Mizz Probert looked, I thought, a little shaken, but she
picked up a pencil, underlined something in her brief and
prepared to ignore me.

'Is that what you came to complain about?' she asked without
looking at me.

'No. I've come to tell you I bought Hello.t magazine.'

'Why on earth did you do that?' She looked up and was
surprised to see me holding out the publication in question.

'I heard you read it during long stretches of intense boredom.
I thought I might do the same when Mr Injustice Graves sums
up to the Jury.'

'I don't have long moments of boredom.' Mizz Liz sounded
businesslike.

'Don't you really? Not when you have to sit for hours in
Monte's beauty parlour in Ken High Street?'

'I don't know what you're talking about ' The protest
came faintly. Mizz Probert was visibly shaken.

'It must be awfully uncomfortable. I mean, I don't think I'd
want to sit for hours in a solution of couscous and assorted
stewed herbs with the whole thing wrapped up in tinfoil. I

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

suppose Hello.t magazine is a bit of a comfort in those circumstances.
But is it worth it? I mean, all that trouble to change
what a bountiful nature gave you - for the sake of pleasing
men?'
I didn't enjoy asking this fatal question. I brought Mizz Liz
up in the law and I still have respect and affection for her. On a
good day she can be an excellent ally. But I was acting for the
underdog, an undernourished hound by the name of Claude
Erskine-Brown. And the question had its effect. As the old-fashioned
crime writers used to say in their ghoulish way, the
shadow of the noose seemed to fall across the wimess-box.
'No one's mentioned that to the S.R.L.?'
'I thought I could pick up the hotline, but then it might be
more appropriate if Wendy Crump raised it at your meeting
this afternoon. That would give you an opportunity to reply.
And I suppose Jenny Attienzer might want to raise the complaint
about her pupil work.'
'What are you up to, Rumpole?'
'Just doing my best to protect the rights of lady barristers.'
'Anyone else's rights?'
'Well, I suppose, looking at the matter from an entirely
detached point of view, the rights of one unfortunate male.'
'The case against Erskine-Brown has raised strong feelings
in the Sisterhood. I'm not sure I can persuade them to drop
it.'
'Of course you can persuade them, Liz. With your talent for
advocacy, I bet you've got the Sisterhood eating out of your
hand.'
'I'll do my best. I can't promise anything. By the way, it may
not be necessary for Crump to attend. I suppose Kate Inglefield
may have got hold of the wrong end of the stick.'
'Exactly. Claude said "that pupil". Not "fat pupil". Try it
anyway, if you can't think of anything better.'

And so, with the case of the Sisterhood v. Erskine-Brown settled, I was back in the gloomy prison boardroom. When I'd
first seen it, members of the caring, custodial and sentencing
professions were feasting on sausage-rolls and white wine after A Midsummer Night's Dream. Now it was dressed not for a

B�

Rumpole and the Model Prisoner

party but for a trial, and had taken on the appearance of a
peculiarly unfriendly Magistrates Court.

Behind the table at the far end of the room sat the three
members of the prisoners' Board of Visitors who were entitled
to try Matthew Gribble. The Chairwoman centre stage was a
certain Lady Bullwood, whose hair was piled up in a jet-black
mushroom on top of her head and who went in for a good deal
of costume jewellery, including a glittering chain round her
neck from which her spectacles swung. Her look varied between
the starkly judicial and the instantly confused, as when she
suddenly lost control of a piece of paper, or forgot which part
of her her glasses were tied to.

Beside her, wearing an expression of universal tolerance and
the sort of gentle smile which can, in my experience, precede
an unexpectedly stiff sentence, sat the Bishop of Worsfield,
who had a high aquiline nose, neatly brushed grey hair and the
thinnest strip of a dog-collar.

The third judge was an elderly schoolboy called Major Oxbor-row,
who looked as though he couldn't wait for the whole
tedious business to be over, and for the offer of a large gin-and-tonic
in the Governor's quarters. Beside them, in what I
understood was a purely advisory capacity, sat my old friend
the Governor, Quintus Blake, who looked as if he would rather
be anywhere else and deeply regretted the need for these
proceedings. He had, I remembered with gratitude, been so
anxious to see Matthew Gribble properly defended that he had
sent for Horace Rumpole, clearly the best man for the job.
There was a clerk at a small table in front of the Visitors,
whose job was, I imagined, to keep them informed as to such
crumbs of law as were still available in prison. The Prosecution
was in the nervous hands of a young Mr Fraplington, a solicitor
from some government department. He was a tall, gangling
person who looked as though he had shot up in the last six
months and his jacket and trousers were too short for him.

What I didn't like was the grim squadron of screws who
lined the walls as though expecting an outbreak of violence,
and the fact that my client was brought in handcuffed and sat
between two of the largest, beefiest prison officers available.
After Matthew had been charged with committing an assault,

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

obstructing an officer in the course of his duty, and offending
against good order and discipline, he pleaded not guilty on my
express instructions. Then I rose to my feet. 'Haven't you
forgotten something?'
'Do you wish to address the Court, Mr Rumpole?' The
clerk, a little ferret of a man, was clearly anxious to make his
presence felt.
'I certainly do. Have you forgotten to read out the charges of
mass murder, war crimes, rioting, burning down E-wing and
inciting to mutiny?'
The ferret looked puzzled. The Chairwoman sorted hopelessly
through her papers and Mr Fraplington for the Prosecution
said helpfully, 'This prisoner is charged with none of
those offences.'
'Then if he is not,' I asked, with perhaps rather overplayed
amazement, 'why is he brought in here shackled? Why is this
room lined with prison officers clearly expecting a dreadful
scene of violence? Why is he being treated as though he were
some hated dictator guilty of waging aggressive war? My client,
Mr Gribble, is a gentle academic and student of Shakespeare.
And there is no reason for him to attend these proceedings in
irons.'
'Your client, as I remember, was found guilty of the manslaughter
of his wife.' The handsome bishop was clearly the
one to look out for.
'For that,' I said, 'he has almost paid his debt to society.
Next week, subject to the dismissal of these unnecessary
charges, that debt will be fully and finally settled and, as I'm
sure the Governor will tell you, during his time in Worsfield
he has been a model prisoner.'
Quintus did his stuff and whispered to the Chairwoman.
She found her glasses, yanked them on to her nose and said
that, in all the circumstances, my client's handcuffs might be
removed.
After that the proceedings settled down like an ordinary trial
in a Magistrates Court, except for the fact that we were all in
gaol already. Mr Fraplington nervously opened the simple
facts. Then Steve Barrington, the screw who received the
flying chisel, clumped his way to the witness stand and gave

Rumpole and the Model Prisoner

the evidence which might keep Matthew Gribble behind bars
for a good deal longer. He hadn't seen the chisel thrown. The
first he knew about it was when he was struck on the cheek.
Gribble had been the only prisoner working with a chisel and
he had seen him using it immediately before he turned away to
answer a request from prisoner D4 Molloy. Later he took
statements from the prisoners, and in particular from Bx9
Weaver. What Weaver told him led to the present charges
against Ax3 Gribble. What Weaver told him, I rose to point
out, had better come from Weaver himself.

'Mr Barrington' - I began my cross-examination - 'you were

a teacher once?'

'Yes, I was.'

'And you gave it up to become a prison officer?'

'I did.'

'Is that because you found teaching too difficult?'

'I wonder if this is a relevant question?' Young Fraplington
had obviously been told to make his presence felt and interrupt
the Defence whenever possible.

'Mr Fraplington, perchance you wonder at this question?
But wonder on, till truth make all things plain.'

'Mr Rumpole, I'm not exactly sure what you mean.' The
Chairwoman's glasses were pulled off and swung gently.

'Then you didn't see A Midsummer Night's Dream? You
missed a treat, Madam. Produced brilliantly by my client and
starring Prisoner Weaver as bully Bottom. You enjoyed it,
didn't you, Mr Barrington?'

'I thought they did rather well, yes.'

'And I don't suppose, as a teacher who gave up the struggle,
you could have taught a group of hard-boiled villains to play
Shakespeare?'

'Mr Rumpole, I must agree with Mr Fraplington. How is
this in the least relevant to the charge of assault?' The Bishop
came in on the act.

'Because I think we may find, Bishop, that this isn't a case
about assault, it's a case about teaching. Mr Barrington, you
would agree that my client took Weaver and taught him to
read, taught him about poetry and finally taught him to act?'

'To my knowledge, yes, he did.'

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

'And since this pupillage and this friendship began, Weaver,
too, has been a model prisoner?'
'We haven't had any trouble from him lately. No.'
'Whereas before the pupillage, he was a general nuisance?'
'He was a handful. Yes. That's fair enough. He's a big man
and...'
'Alarming when out of control?'
'I'd have to agree with you.'
'Good. I'm glad we see eye to eye, Mr Barrington. So before
Matthew Gribble took him on, so to speak, there'd been several
cases of assault, three of breaking up furniture, disobeying
reasonable orders, throwing food. An endless list?'
'He was constantly in trouble. Yes.'
'And since he and Gribble became friends, nothing?'
'I believe that's right.'
'So you believe Matthew Gribble's influence on Weaver has
been entirely for the good.'
'I said, so far as I know.'
'So 'far as you know. Well, we'll see if anyone knows better.
Now, you questioned the other prisoners, Timson and Molloy,
about this incident in the carpenter's shop?'
'Yes, I did.'
'And what did they tell you?'
'They said they hadn't seen anything.'
'And did you believe them?'
'Do I have to answer that question?'
'I have asked the question, and I'll trouble you to answer it.'
'No, I didn't altogether believe it.'
'Because prisoners don't grass.'
'What was that, Rumpole?' The Chairwoman asked for an
explanation.
'Prisoners don't tell tales. They don't give evidence against
each other. On the whole. Isn't that true, Mr Barrington?'
'I thought they might have seen something, but they were
sheltering the culprit. Yes.'
'So Timson might have seen Molloy do it. Or Molloy might
have seen Timson do it. Or either of them might have seen
Weaver do it. But they weren't telling. Is that possible?'
'I suppose it's possible. Yes.'

Rumpole and the Model Prisoner

'Or Weaver might have seen Timson or Molloy do it and
blamed it on Gribble to protect them?'

'He wouldn't have done that.' There was an agitated whisper

from my client and I stooped to give him an ear.

'What?'

'He wouldn't have blamed it on me. I know Bob wouldn't do
that.'

'Matthew,' I whispered sternly, 'your time to give evidence
will come later. Until it does, I'd be much obliged if you'd take
a temporary vow of silence.' I went back to work. 'Yes, officer.
What was your answer to my question?'

'Bx9 Weaver had a particular admiration for Ax3 Gribble,
sir. I don't think he'd have blamed him. Not just to protect the
other two.'

'He wouldn't have blamed him just to protect the other two,
eh?' The Bishop, who seemed to have cast himself as the
avenging angel, dictated a note to himself with resonant
authority.

Bottom the Weaver towered over the small witness table and
the screws that stood behind him. He looked at the Visitors, his
head slightly on one side, his nose broken and never properly
set, and smiled nervously, as he had stood before the court of
Duke Theseus, awkward, on his best behaviour, likely to be a
bore, but somehow endearing. He didn't look at Ax3 Gribble,
but my client looked constantly at him, not particularly in
anger but with curiosity and as if prepared to be amused. That
was the way, I thought, he might have watched Bob Weaver
rehearsing the play.

Mr Fraplington had no trouble in getting the witness to tell
his story. He was in the carpenter's shop in the morning in
question. They were making the scenery. He was enjoying
himself as he enjoyed everything about the play. Although he
was dead nervous about doing it, it was the best time he'd ever
had in his life. Ax3 Gribble was a fantastic producer, absolutely
brilliant, and had changed his life for him. 'Made me see a new
world', was the way he put it. Well, that morning when all the
others were busy working and Mr Barrington was turned away,
he'd seen Ax3 Gribble pick up the chisel and throw it. It

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

struck the prison officer on the cheek, causing bleeding which
he fully believed was later sen to by the hospital matron. He
kept quiet for a week, because he was reluctant to get the best
friend he ever had into trouble. But then he'd told the investigat-ing
officer exactly what he saw. He felt he had to do it. Doing
the play was the best day in his life. Standing there, telling the
tale against his friend, was the worst. Sometimes he thought
he'd rather be dead than do it. That was the honest truth. To
say that Battering Bob was a good witness is an understatement.
He was as good a witness as he was a Bottom; he didn't seem to
be acting at all.

'The first question, of course, is why?'

'Pardon me?'

'Why do you think your friend Matthew threw a chisel at the
officer? Can you help me about that?' It would have been no
use trying to batter the batterer - he had clearly won the hearts
of the Visitors - so I came at him gently and full of smiles.
'He's always been a model prisoner. Not a hint of violence.'

'Perhaps' - Bob Weaver closed one eye, giving me his careful
consideration - 'he kind of had it bottled up, his resentment
against Mr Barrington.'

'We haven't heard he resented Mr Barrington?'
'Well, we all did to an extent. All of us actors.'
'Why was that?'

'He put Jimmy Molloy on a charge, so he lost two weeks'
rehearsal with Puck.'

The Visitors smiled. I had gone and provided my client with
a motive. Up to now this cross-examination seemed a likely

candidate for the worst in my career so I tried another tack.
'All right. Another why.'
'Yes, sir.'

'If you feel you'd rather be dead than do it, why did you
decide to grass against your friend?'

'I don't know why you have adopted the phrase "grass"
from prison argot, Mr Rumpole.' The Bishop was clearly a
circus judge manque. 'This inmate has come here to give
evidence.'

'Evidence which may or may not turn out to be the truth.
Very well then. The Bishop has told us to forget the argot.'

Rumpole and the Model Prisoner

'Forget the what?' Bob looked amicably confused and the
Bishop smiled tolerantly. 'Slang,' he translated. 'I should have
called it slang.'
'Why did you decide to give evidence against your friend?'
'Let me tell you this quite honestly.' The Batterer turned
from me and faced the Visitors. 'Years ago, I might not have
done it. In fact, I wouldn't. Grass on a fellow inmate. Never.
Might have given him a bit of a hiding like. If I'd felt the need
of it. But never told the tale. Rather have had me tongue cut
out. But then ... Well, then I got to know Matthew. I'd still
like to call him that. With all respect. And he taught me ...
Well, he taught me everything. He taught me to read. Yes. He
taught me to like poetry, which I'd thought worse than a
punch in the kidneys. Then he taught me to act and to enjoy
myself like I never did even in the old days of the minicab
battles, which now seem a complete waste of time, quite honestly.
But Matthew taught me more than that. "You have to be truthful, Bob", those were his words to me. Well, that's what I
remembered. So, when it came to it, I remembered his words.
That's all I've got to say.'
'You took his advice and told the truth.' The Bishop was
clearly delighted, but I was looking at Bob. It had never
happened before. It certainly didn't happen when he performed
in the Dream, but now I knew that he was an actor playing a
part.
And then something clicked in my mind. A picture of Dodo
Mackintosh at school, not wanting to let her heroine go, and I
knew what the truth really was.
'You've told us Matthew Gribble is the friend who meant
most to you.'
'Meant everything to me.'
'The only real friend you've ever had. Would you go as far
as to say that?'
'I would agree with that, sir. Every word of it.'
'And one who has let you into a new world.'
'He's already told us that, Mr Rumpole.' I prayed for the
Bishop to address himself to God and leave me alone.
'It's too true. Too very true.'
'I don't suppose life in Worsfield Category A Prison could

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

ever be compared to a holiday in the Seychelles, but he has
made your life here bearable?

'More than that, Mr Rumpole. I wouldn't have missed it.'

'And in a week, if he is acquitted on this charge, Matthew
Gribble will be free.'

It was as if I had got in a sudden, unexpectedly powerful
blow in the ring. Bob closed his eyes and almost seemed to stop
breathing. When he shook his head and answered, he had come

back, it seemed to me, to the truth.
'I don't want to think about it.'
'Because you may never see him again?'
'Visits. There might be visits.'

'Are you afraid there might not be?' Matthew appeared to be
about to say something, or utter some protest. I shot some sotto
voce advice into his earhole to the effect that if he uttered
another sound, I would walk off the case. Then I looked back
at the Batterer. He seemed not to have recovered from the

punch and was still breathless.

'It crossed my mind.'

'And did it cross your mind that he might move away, to
another part of England, get a new job, work with a new
drama group and put on new plays with no parts in them for
you? Did you think he might forget the friend he'd made in
prison?'

There was a long silence. Bob was getting his breath back,
preparing to get up for the last round, but with defeat staring
him in the face.

He said, 'Things like that do happen, don't they?'

'Oh yes, Bob Weaver. They happen very often. If a man
wants to make a new life, he doesn't care to be reminded of the

people he met inside. Did that thought occur to you?'

'I did worry about that, I suppose. I did worry.'

'And did you worry that all that rich, fascinating new world
might vanish into thin air? And you'd be left with only a few
old lags and failed boxers for company?'

There was silence then. Bob didn't answer. He was saved by
the bell. Rung, of course, by the Bishop.

'Where's all this leading up to, Mr Rumpole?'

'Let me suggest where it led you, Bob.' I ignored the cleric

Rumpole and the Model Prisoner

and concentrated on the witness. 'It led you to think of the one
way you could stop Matthew Gribble leaving you.'
'How was I going to do that?'
'Quite a simple idea but it seems to have worked. Up to now.
The way to do it was to get him into trouble.'
'Trouble?'
'Serious trouble. So he'd lose his remission. I expect you
thought of that some time ago and you waited for an opportunity.
It came, didn't it, in the carpenter's shop?'
'Did it?'
'Matthew turned away to fix the grass covering on the
mound. No one else was looking when you picked up his
chisel. No one saw you throw it. Like all successful crimes it
was helped by a good deal of luck.'
'Crime? Me? What are you talking about? I done no crime.'
Bob looked at the Visitors. For once even the Bishop was
silent.
'I suppose I'm talking about perverting the course of justice.
Of assaulting a prison officer. I've got to hand it to you, Bob.
You did it for the best of motives. You did it to keep a friend.'
Bob's head was lowered, but now he made an effort to raise
it and looked at the Visitors. 'I didn't do it. I swear to God I
didn't. Matthew did it and he's got to stay here. You can't let
him go.' By then I think even they thought he was acting. But
that wasn't the end of the story.

'Why did you do it?' The trial, if you could call it a trial, was
over. Matthew and I were together for the last time in the
interview room. We were there to say goodbye.
'I told you. What've I got outside? Schools that won't employ
me. Actors and actresses who wouldn't want to work with me.
What would they think? If I didn't like their performances, I
might stab them. They'd be talking about me, whispering,
laughing perhaps. And I'd come in the room and they'd be
silent or look afraid. Here, they all want to be in my plays.
They want to work with me, and I want to work with them. I
thought of Much Ado next. Won't Bob make a marvellous
Dogberry? Then, I don't know, do you think he could possibly
do a Falstaff?.'

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

'Become an old English gent? Who knows. You've got plenty
of time. They knocked a year and a half off your remission.'
'Yes. A long time together. You were asking me why I threw
the chisel?'
He knew I wasn't asking him that. At the end of Battering
Bob's evidence I had to decide whether or not to call my client.
Matthew had kept quiet when I'd told him to, and I knew he'd
make a good impression. He walked to the witness table, took
the oath and looked at me with patient expectation.
'Matthew Gribble. We've heard you were a model prisoner.'
'I've never been in trouble here, if that's what you mean.'
'And of all you've done for Bob Weaver.'
'I think it's been a rewarding experience for both of us.'
'And you are due to be released next week.'
'I believe I am.'.
I drew in a deep breath and asked the question to which I
felt sure I knew the answer. 'Matthew, did you ever throw that
chisel at Prison Officer Barrington?'
The answer, when it came, was another punch in the stomach,
this time for me. 'Yes, I did. I threw it.' Matthew looked
at the Visitors and said it as though he was talking about a not
very interesting part of the prison routine. 'I did it because I
couldn't forgive him for putting Puck on a charge.' After that,
the case was over and Matthew's exit from Worsfield inevitably
postponed.
'You know I wasn't asking you why you threw the chisel
because you didn't throw it. I'm asking you why you said you
did.'
'I told you. I've decided to stay on.'
'You knew Battering Bob did it and he blamed you to keep
you here because he thought he needed you.'
'Don't you think that's rather an extraordinary tribute to a
friendship?'
There seemed no answer to that. I didn't know whether to
curse Matthew Gribble or to praise him. I didn't know if he
was the best or the worst client I ever had. I knew I had lost a
case unnecessarily, and that is something I don't like to
happen.
'You can't win them all, Mr Rumpole, can you?' Steve

4�

Rumpole and the Model Prisoner

Barrington looked gratified at the result. He took me to the
gate and, as he waited for the long unlocking process to finish,
he said, 'I don't think I'll ever go back to teaching. They seem
half barmy, some of them.'

At last the gates and the small door in the big one were open.
I was out and I went out. Matthew was in and he stayed in.
Damiens sent a brief in a long case to Claude and I told him he
had a brilliant pupil.

'I suppose she'll be wanting a place in Chambers soon?'
Claude didn't seem to welcome the idea.

'So far as I'm concerned she can have one now.'

'Young Jenny Attienzer is apparently not happy with Nick
Davenant over in King's Bench Walk. Do you think I might
take her on as a pupil?'

'I think,' I told him, 'that it would be a very bad idea indeed.
I'm sure Philly wouldn't like it, and I'd have to start charging
for defending you.'

'Rumpole' - Claude was thoughtful - 'do you know why

everyone went off me in that peculiar way?'

'Not really.'

But Claude had his own solution. 'It never ceases to amaze
me,' the poor old darling said, 'how jealous everyone is of

SUCCESS.'

Six months later I saw a production of Much Ado About
Nothing in Worsfield gaol with Bob Weaver as Dogberry. I
enjoyed it very much indeed.

Rumpole and the Way through
the Woods

There are times, I have to admit, when even the glowing flame
of Rumpole sinks to a mere flicker. It had been a bad day. I
had finished a case before old Gravestone, a long slog against a
hostile judge, an officer in charge of the case who seemed to
regard the truth as an inconvenient obstacle to the smooth and
efficient running of the Criminal Investigation Department,
and a client whose unendurable cockiness and self-regard rap-idly
lost all hearts in the Jury. It had been a hard slog which
would have seemed as nothing if it had ended in an acquittal. It
had not been so rewarded and, when I said goodbye to my
client in the cells, carefully failing to remind him that he might
be away for a long time, he said, 'What's the matter with you,
Mr Rumpole? Losing your touch, are you? They was saying in
the Scrubs, isn't it about time you hung up the old wig and
took retirement?' Every bone in my body seemed to ache as I
stumbled into Pommeroy's where the Chfiteau Thames Embank-ment
tasted more than ever of mildew and Claude Erskine-Brown
cornered me in order to describe, at interminable length,
the triumph he had enjoyed in a rent application. Leaving for
home early, I had to stand up in the tube all the way back.
Returning to the world from the bowels of Gloucester Road
station, I struggled towards Froxbury Mansions with the falter-ing
determination of a dying Bedouin crawling towards an
oasis. All I wanted was my armchair beside the gas fire, a
better bottle of the very ordinary claret, and a little peace in
which to watch other people in trouble on the television. It was
not to be.

When I entered the living-room the lights were off and I
heard the sound of heavy and laboured breathing. My first
thought was that She had fallen asleep by the gas fire, but I

Rumpole and the Way through the Woods

could hear the clatter of saucepans from the kitchen. I sniffed
the air and received the usual whiff of furniture polish and
cabbage being boiled into submission. But, added to this brew,
was a not particularly exotic perfume, acrid and pervasive,
which might, if bottled extravagantly, have been marketed as
wet dog. Then the heavy breathing turned into the sort of dark
and distant rumble which precedes the arrival of an Under-ground
train. I snapped on the light and there it was: long
legged, overweight and sprawled in my armchair. It was awake
now, staring at me with wide-open, moist black eyes. I put out
a hand to shift the intruder and the sound of the approaching
train increased in volume until it became a snarl, and the
animal revealed sharp and unexpectedly white pointed teeth.
'Hilda,' I called for help from a usually reliable source, 'there's
a stray dog in the living-room.'

'That's not a stray dog. That's Sir Lancelot.' I turned round
and She was standing in the doorway, looking with disapproval
not at the trespasser but at me.

'What on earth do you mean, Sir Lancelot?'

'That's your name, isn't it, darling?' She approached the
animal with a broad smile. 'Although sometimes we call you
Lance for short, don't we?' To these eager questions the dog
returned no answer at all, although it did, I was relieved to see,
put away its teeth.

'Whatever its name is, shall we call the police?'

'Why?'

'To have it removed.'

'Have you removed, Sir Lancelot? What a silly husband I've
got, haven't I?' In this, the dog and my wife seemed to be of
the same mind. It settled itself into my chair and she tickled it,
in a familiar fashion, under the chin.

'Better be careful. It's got a nasty snarl.'

'He only snarls if you do something to annoy him. Was
Rumpole doing something to annoy you, Lance?'

'I was trying to budge it off my chair,' I told her quickly,
before the dog could get a word in.

'You like Rumpole's chair, don't you, Lance? You feel
at home there, don't you, darling?' I was starting to feel
left out of the conversation until she said, 'I think we might

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

make that his chair, don't you, Rumpole? Just until he settles
in.'

'Settles in? What do you mean, settles in? What's this, a
home of rest for stray animals?'

'Lance isn't a stray. Didn't I tell you? I meant to tell you. Sir
Lancelot is Dodo Mackintosh's knight in shining armour.
Aren't you, darling?' Darling was, of course, the dog.

'You mean he's come up from Cornwall?' I looked at the
hound with new respect. Perhaps he was one of those animals
they make films about, that set off on their own to travel vast
distances. 'Hadn't we better ring Dodo to come and fetch
him?'

'Don't be silly, Rumpole.' Hilda had put on one of her
heroically patient voices. 'Dodo brought Lancelot up here this
afternoon. She left him on her way to the airport.'

'And what time's she getting back from the airport? I suppose
I can wait until after supper to sit in my chair.'

'She's going to Brittany to stay with Pegsy Throng who was
jolly good at dancing and used to be at school with us. Of
course, she couldn't take Sir Lancelot because of the quarantine
business.'

'And how long is Pegsy Throng entertaining Dodo?' I could
feel my heart sinking.

'Just the three weeks, Rumpole. Not long enough, really.
Dodo did ask if I thought you'd mind and I told her, of course
not, Lance will be company for both of us. Come and have
supper now, and after that you can take him out on the lead to
do his little bit of business. It'll be a chance for you two to get
to know each other.'

Sleep was postponed that night as I stood in the rain beside a
lamp-post with the intruder. Sir Lancelot leapt to the extent of
his lead, as though determined to choke himself, wrenching my
arm almost out of its socket, as he barked savagely at every
passing dog. Looking down at him, I decided that I never saw
a hound I hated more, and yet it was Sir Lancelot that brought
me a case which was one of the most curious and sensational of
my career.

'What on earth are we doing here, Hilda?' Here was a stretch

Rumpole and the Way through the Woods

of countryside, blurred by a sifting March rain so, looking
towards the horizon, it was hard to tell at which precise point
the soggy earth became the sodden sky.
'Breathe in the country air, Rumpole. Besides which, Sir
Lancelot couldn't spend all his time cooped up in a flat He
had to have a couple of days' breather in the Cotswolds. It'll do
you both good.'
'Couldn't Sir Lancelot have gone for a run in the Cotswolds
on his own?'
'Try not to be silly, Rumpole.'
The dog was behaving in an eccentric manner, making wild
'forays .into the undergrowth as though it had found something
to chase and, ending up with nothing, it came trotting back to
the path quite unconscious of its own stupidity. It was, I
thought, an animal with absolutely no sense of humour.
'Why on earth does your friend Dodo Mackintosh call that
gloomy hound Sir Lancelot?'
'After Sir Lancelot of the Lake, of course. One of the
knights of the Table Round. Dodo's got a very romantic
nature. Come along, Lance. There's a good boy. Enjoying your
run in the country, are you?'
'Lance,' I told her firmly, 'or, rather, Launce is the chap who
had a dog called Crab in Two Gentlemen of Verona. Crab got
under the duke's table with some "gentlemanlike dogs" and
after "a pissing while" a terrible smell emerged. Launce took
responsibility for it and was whipped.'
'Do be quiet, Rumpole! You always look for the seamy side
of everything.' At which point, Lance, in another senseless
burst of energy, leapt a stile and started chasing sheep.
'Can't you keep that dog under control?' The voice came
from a man in a cap, crossing the field towards us, with a
golden labrador trotting in an obedient manner at his side.
Hilda and I, having climbed the stile and called Lance, with
increasing hopelessness, were set out on a course towards
him.
'I'm afraid we can't,' I apologized from a distance. 'The
animal won't listen to reason.'
'What did you say its name was?'
'Sir Lancelot,' Hilda.boasted.

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

'Of the Lake. To give him his full title,' I added, trying to
make the best of our lamentable attachment.
'Sir Lancelot! Here, boy!' the man in the cap called in a
commanding tone and gave a piercing whistle. Whereupon
Dodo's dog stood still, shook itself, came to its senses and,
much to the relief of the sheep, joined our group. At which, the
man in the cap turned, looked me in the face for the first time
and said, 'By God, it's Horace Rumpole!'
'Rollo Eyles!'
'And this is your good lady?"
I resisted the temptation to say, 'No, it's my wife.' Rollo was
telling Hilda about our roots in history. He had been the
Prosecution junior in the Penge Bungalow affair, arguably the
classic murder of our time and undoubtedly the greatest
moment of triumph in the Rumpole career.
Until they heard my first devastating cross-examination of
the police surgeon, legal hacks in the Penge Bungalow case
treated me as an inexperienced white-wig who shouldn't be
allowed out on a careless driving. A notable exception was
young Rollo Eyles, the Prosecution junior, then a jovial, school-boyish
young man, born, like me, without any feelings of
reverence. He was a mimic, and we would meet after Court in
Pommeroy's to drown our anxiety, and Rollo would do his
impressions of the Judge, the prosecuting silk and the dry,
charnel-house voice of Professor Ackerman, master of the
morgues. In the middle of his legal career Rollo inherited an
estate, and a good deal of money, from an uncle, and left the
busy world of the Old Bailey for, it appeared, these damp fields
where he was a farmer, Master of Foxhounds and Chairman of
the Bench.
For a while he wrote to me at Christmas, letters in neat
handwriting, full of jokes. After a while, I forgot to answer
them and our friendship waned. Now he said, 'Why don't you
come up to the house and we'll all have a strong drink.' Rollo
Eyles always had a sensible solution to the most desperate case.
Sir Lancelot, realizing he had met a man he couldn't trifle
with, came and joined us with unusual docility.
It was over a large whisky in front of a log fire that I told
Rollo where we were staying. Our hotel was a plastic and

Rumpole and the Way through the Woods

concrete nightmare of a building conveniently situated for the
trading estate outside the nearest town. It had all the joys of
piped music in the coffee shop, towels in a thinness contest
with the lavatory paper, and waitresses who'd undergone
lengthy training in the art of not allowing their eyes to be
caught. It was the only place we could find where we were
allowed, after slipping a bribe larger than the legal aid fee for a
guilty plea to the hall porter, to secretly have Sir Lancelot in
the bathroom. There, he was due to spend a restless night on a
couple of wafer-thin blankets. Having heard this sad story,
Rollo offered us dinner and a bed for the night; Lancelot could
be kennelled with the gentlemanlike dogs. Our host said he was
looking forward to hearing the latest gossip from the Old
Bailey and, in return, we could have the pleasure of seeing the
hunt move off from his front drive before we went back to
London.

The rain had stopped during the night and the March morning
was cold and sunny. Sir Lancelot was shivering with excite-ment,
as if delightedly aware that something, at some time, was
going to be killed; although I doubted if, during his peaceful
cohabitation with Dodo Mackintosh in Lamorna Cove, he had
ever met foxhunters before. However, he leapt into the air,
pirouetted at the end of his lead, barked at the horses and did
his best to give the impression that he was entirely used to the
country sports of gentlemanlike dogs. So there I was, eating
small slices of pork pie and drinking port which tasted, on that
crisp morning, delicious. Hilda, wearing an old mac and a
tweed hat which she'd apparently bought for just such an
occasion, was doing her best to look as though, if her horse
hadn't gone lame or suffered some such technical fault, she'd've
been up and mounted among our dinner companions of the
night before.

I looked up with my mouth full of pork pie to join in Hilda's
smiles at these new acquaintances who had merged with the chil-dren
on ponies, the overweight farmers, the smart garage owners
and the followers on foot. Rollo was there, sitting in the saddle
as though it was his favourite armchair, talking to a whipper-in,
or hunt servant, or whatever the red-coated officials

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

may be called. Mrs Rollo - D or0thea - was there, the relic of
a great beauty, still slim and upright, her calm face cracked
with lines like the earth on a dried-up river bed, her auburn
hair streaked with grey, bundled into a hairnet and covered
with a peaked velvet cap. I also recognized Tricia Fothergill,
who had clung on to the childish way she mispronounced her
name, together with the good looks of an attractive child, into
her thirties. She was involved in a lengthy divorce and had,
during dinner, bombarded me with questions about family law
for which I had no ready answer. And there, raising his glass of
port to me from the immense height of a yellow-eyed horse,
sitting with his legs stuck out like wings, was the old fellow
who had been introduced to us as Johnny Logan and who
knew the most intimate details of the private lives of all sporting
persons living in the Cotswolds. Rollo Eyles, in the absence of
any interesting anecdotes from the Central Criminal Court,
clearly relied on him for entertaining gossip. 'Roll 'em in the
aisles, that's what I call him,' Logan whispered to me at
dinner. 'Our host's extremely attractive to women. Of course,
he'll never leave Dorothea.'

Now, at the meet in front of Wayleave Manor, Logan said,
'Seen our charming visitors at the end of the drive? You might
go and have a look at them, Horace. They're the antis.'

Dorothea Eyles was leaning down from her horse to chat to
Hilda in the nicest possible way, so I took Lancelot for a stroll
so I could see all sides of the hunting experience. A van was
parked just where the driveway met the road. On it there were
placards posted with such messages as STOP ANIMAL MURDER,
HUNT THE FOXHUNTERS, and so on. There was a small group
standing drinking coffee. At that time they seemed as cheerful
and excited as the foxhunters, looking forward as eagerly to a
day's sport. There was a man with a shaven laead and earrings,
but also a woman in a tweed skirt who looked like a middle-aged
schoolmistress. There was a girl whose hair was clipped
like a sergeant-major back and sides, with one long, purple lock
left in the middle. The others were less colourful - ordinary
people such as I would have seen shopping in Safeway's and
there, I thought, probably buying cellophane-packed joints and
pounds of bacon. The tallest was a young man who remained

Rumpole and the Way through the Woods

profoundly serious in spite of the excited laughter around him.
He was wearing jeans and a crimson shirt which made him
stand out as clearly, against the green fields, as the huntsmen
he had come to revile.

There was the sound of a horn. The dogs poured down the
drive with their tails waving like flags. Then came Rollo,
followed by the riders. The antis put down their sandwiches,
lowered their mugs of coffee and shouted out such complimen-tary
remarks as 'Murdering bastards,', 'Get your rocks off
watching little furry animals pulled to pieces, do you?' and
'How would you like to be hunted and thrown to the dogs this
afternoon, darling?' - an invitation to Tricia.

Then Dorothea came riding slowly, to find the Crimson
Shirt was barring her path, his arms spread out as though
prepared to meet his death under a ton of horseflesh. A dialogue
then took place which I was to have occasion to remember.

'You love killing things, don't you?' from the Crimson Shirt.
'Not particularly. Mostly, I enjoy the ride.'
'Why do you kill animals?'

'Perhaps because they kill other animals.'

'Do you ever think that something might kill you one fine
afternoon?'

'Quite often.' Dorothea looked down at him. 'A lot of people

die, out hunting. A nice quick death. I hope I'll be so lucky.'
'You might get killed this afternoon.'
'Anyone might.'

'It doesn't worry you?'

'Not in the least.'

'It's only what you deserve.'

'Do you think so?' Looking down from her horse, I thought
she suddenly seemed thin and insubstantial as a ghost, her
lined face very pale. Then she pulled a silver flask from her
jacket pocket, unscrewed it and leant down to offer the Crimson
Shirt a drink.

'What have you got in there?' he asked her.

'Fox's blood, of course.'

He looked up at her and said, 'You cruel bitch!'

'It's only whisky. You're very welcome.' He shook his head
and the cobweb-faced lady took a long pull at the flask. Other

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

riders had come up beside her and were listening, amused at
first and then angry. There Were shouts, conflicting protests,
and the Crimson Shirt called out in the voice of doom, 'One of
you is going to die for all the dead animals. Justice is sure to be
done!'

I saw a whip raised at the back of the cavalcade but the
Crimson Shirt had dropped his arm and moved to join his
party by the van. Dorothea Eyles put away her flask, kicked
her horse's sides and trotted with the posse after her. They
were chattering together cheerfully, after what had then seemed
no more than a routine confrontation between the hunters and
the sabs - rather enjoyed by both sides.

The sound of the horn, the baying of the dogs and the
clattering of horses had died away. The van, after a number of
ineffectual coughs and splutters, started its engine and went. It
was very quiet as Lancelot and I walked back down the drive
to join Hilda who was enjoying a final glass of port. We went
into the house to wait for the taxi which would take us back to
the station.

That evening we were at home at the mansion flat and I had
been restored to my armchair. Lancelot, exhausted by the
day's excitement, was asleep on the sofa, breathing heavily and,
no doubt, dreaming of imaginary hunts. The news item was on
the television after a war in Africa and an earthquake in Japan.
There were stock pictures of hunters and sabs. Then came the
news that Dorothea Eyles, out hunting and galloping down a
woodland track, had ridden into a high wire stretched tight
between two trees. Her neck was broken and she was dead
when some ramblers found her. An anti-hunt demonstrator
named Dennis Pearson was helping the local police with their
inquiries.

Rollo Eyles had returned to my life, suffered a terrible
tragedy and immediately disappeared again. Of course I tel-ephoned
but his recorded voice always told me he was not
available. I left messages of sorrow and concern but the calls
were never answered, and neither were the letters I wrote to
him. Tragedy too often causes embarrassment and we didn't
visit Rollo in the Cotswolds. Tragedy vanishes quickly, swept
on by the tide of horrible events in the world, and I began to

Rutpole and the Way through the Woods

think less often of Dorothea Eyles and her ghastly ride to
death. Rollo joined the unseen battalion of people whom I
liked but never saw.

'Rumpole! I have heard reports of your extraordinary
behaviour!'

'Don't believe everything you hear in reports.'
'Erskine-Brown has told ne that Henry told him...'
'I object! Hearsay evidence! Totally inadmissible.'

'Well well. I have had a direct account from Henry himself.'

'Not under oath, and certainly not subject to cross-examination!'

'You were seen entering the downstairs toilet facility with a
bowl.'

'What's that meant to prove? I might have been rinsing out
my dentures. Or uttering prayers to a water god to whose rites
I have been recently converted. What on earth's it got to do
with Henry, anyway? Or you, for that matter, Bollard?'

'Having filled your bowl with water, you were seen to carry
it to your room.'

'It would be inappropriate to say prayers to the water god in
the downstairs toilet facilities.'

'Come now, Rumpole, don't fence with me.' Soapy Sam
Ballard was using one of the oldest and corniest of legal phrases,
long fallen into disuse in the noble art of cross-examination,
and I allowed myself a disrnissive yawn. It wasn't the brightest
period of my long and eventful practice at the bar. Since our
visit to the Cotswolds, and its terrible outcome, briefs had been
notable by their absence. I came into Chambers every day and
searched my mantelpiece in vain for a new murder, or at least a
taking away without the owner's consent. My wig gathered
dust in my locker down the Bailey; the ushers must have for-gotten
me and I looked back with nostalgia on the days when
I had laboured long and lost before Mr Injustice Gravestone.
At least something was happening then. Now the suffocating
boredom of inactivity was made worse by the arrival of an out-raged
Head of Chambers in my room, complaining of my conduct
with something so totally inoffensive as a bowl of water.

'You might as well confess, Rumpole.' Ballard's eye was lit

Rurnpole and the Angel of Death

with a gleam of triumph. 'There was one single word written in

large letters on that chipped enamel bowl.'

'W'ater?'

'1'4o, Rumpole. Henry's evidence was quite clear on this

point. What was written was the word DOG.'

' So what?'

'W'hat do you mean, so what?'

'Plenty of people wash their socks in bowls with DOG written
on them.'

Before Ballard could meet this point, there was that low but
threatening murmur, like the sound heralding the dark and

distant approach of a tube train, from behind my desk.

'What was that noise, Rumpole?'

'Low-flying aircraft?' I suggested, hopefully. But at this
point the accused, like so many of my clients, ruined his
chances by putting in a public appearance. Sir Lancelot, looking
extra large, black and threatening, emerged like his more
famous namesake - with lips curled, dog teeth bared - eager to
do battle in the lists. There was no contest. At the sight of the
champion, even before the first snarl, Sir Soapy Sam, well-known
coward and poltroon of the Table Round, started an
ignominious retreat towards the door, crying in terror, 'Get
that animal out of here at once!'

'1'4o!' I relied on my constitutional rights. 'Not until the
matter has been properly decided by a full Chambers' meeting.'

'I shall call one,' Ballard piped in desperation, 'as a matter of
urgency.' And then he scooted out and slammed the door
behind him.

The fact of the matter was that Hilda had been out a lot
recently at bridge lessons and coffee mornings, and I, lonely
and Unoccupied in Chambers, started in a curious way to relish
the company of a hound who looked as gloomy as I felt. On the
whole, the dog was not demanding. Like many judges, Lancelot
fought, nearly all the time, a losing battle against approaching
sleep. Water from the downstairs loo, and the dog biscuits I
brought in my briefcase, satisfied his simple wants. The sound
of regtlar breathing from somewhere by my feet was company
for me as I spent the day with The Times crossword.

Rumpole and the Way through the Woods

The Chambers' meeting was long and tense. At first the case
for the Prosecution looked strong. Henry sent a message to
say that he undertook to clerk for a barristers' chambers and
not a kennel. He added that the sight of Sir Lancelot peering
round my open door and baring his teeth had frightened
away old Tim Daker of Daker, Winterbotham & Guilden-stern,
before he'd even delivered a brief. Erskine-Brown ques-tioned
the paternity of Sir Lancelot and when I said labrador
loudly, he replied, 'Possibly a labrador who'd had hanky-panky
with a dubious Jack Russell.' He ended up by asking
in a dramatic fashion if we really wanted a mongrel taking
up residence in 4 Equity Court. This brought a fiery reply
from Mizz Liz Probert who said that animals had the same
rights to our light, heat, comforts, and presumably law

ports, as male barristers. She personally could remember the
days, not long past, when she, as a practising woman, was
treated as though she were a so-called labrador of doubtful
parentage. Gender awareness was no longer enough. In Mizz
Probert's considered opinion we needed species awareness as
well. She saw no reason, in the interests of open government
and tolerance of minorities, why a living being should be
denied entrance to our Chambers simply because it had four
legs instead of two. 'Of course,' Mizz Probert concluded,
looking at Erskine-Brown in a way which forced him to recon-sider
his position, 'if we were to support the pin-striped chau-vinists
who hated mongrels and women, we should be alienat-ing
the Sisterhood of Radical Lawyers, devoted to animal
rights.'

I took up her last point in my speech for the Defence and did
so in a way calculated to make Soapy Sam's flesh creep. I had
seen something of animal rights enthusiasts. Did we really
want their van parked outside Chambers all day and most of
the night? Did Ballard want a shorn-headed enthusiast with
earrings shouting, 'Get your rocks off shutting out innocent
dogs, do you?' Could we risk a platoon of grey-haired, middle-class
dog-lovers staging a sit-in outside our front door every
time we wanted to go to Court? After this, the evidence
of a Member of Chambers, to the effect that dogs made him
sneeze, seemed to carry very little weight. The result of our

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

deliberations was, of course, leaked and a paragraph appeared
in next day's Londoner's Diaryin the Evening Standard:

Should dogs be called to the Bar? The present showing of the legal
profession might suggest that they could only be an improvement
on the human intake. Indeed, a few Rottweilers on the Bench might
help reduce the crime rate. The question was hotly debated in the
Chambers of Samuel Ballard, Q.C. when claret-tippling Old Bailey
character Horace Rumpole argued for the admittance of a pooch,
extravagantly named Sir Lancelot. Rumpole won his case but then
he's long been known as a champion of the underdog.

It was a pyrrhic victory. Dodo came back from holiday a
week later and reclaimed Sir Lancelot. She was delighted he
had been mentioned in the newspapers but furious he was
called a pooch.

Sir Lancelot's trial had a more important result, however.
Henry told me that a Mr Garfield of Garfield, Thornley &
Strumm had telephoned and, having heard that I was a stalwart
battler for animal rights, was going to brief me for a hunt
saboteur charged with murder. I was relieved that my period of
inactivity was over, but filled with alarm at the thought of
having to tell Hilda that I had agreed to appear for the man
accused of killing Dorothea Eyles.

Mr Garfield, my instructing solicitor, was a thin, colourless
man with a pronounced Adam's apple. He had the rough,
slightly muddy skin of the dedicated vegetarian. The case was
to be tried at Gloucester Crown Court and we sat in the
interview room in the prison, a Victorian erection much rebuilt,
on the outskirts of the town. Across the plastic table-top our
client sat smiling in a way which seemed to show that he was
either sublimely self-confident or drugged. He was a young
man, perhaps in his late twenties, with a long nose, prominent
eyes and neat brown hair. The last time I had seen him he was
wearing a crimson shirt and telling the hunt in general, and
Dorothea Eyles in particular, that one of them was going to die
for all the dead animals. Garfield introduced him to me as
Den; my instructing solicitor was Gavin to my client. I had the
feeling they had known each other for some time and later

Rumpole and the Way through the Woods

discovered that they sat together on a committee concerned
with animal rights.
'Gavin tells me you fought for a dog and won?' Den looked
at me with approval. Was that to be my work in the future, I
wondered. Not white-collar crime but leather-collar crime,
perhaps?
'More than that,' I told him. 'I'm ready to fight for you and
win the case.'
'I'm not important. It's the cause that's important.'
'The cause?'
'Den feels deeply about animals,' Gavin interpreted.
'I understand that. I was there, you know. Watching the
hunt move off. I'd better warn you I heard what you said, so
it's going to be a little difficult if you deny it.'
'I said it,' Den told me proudly. 'I said every word of it.
We're going to win, you know.'
'Win the case?'
'I meant the war against the animal murderers. Did you see
the looks on their faces? They were going out to enjoy
themselves.'
I remembered the words of the historian Lord Macaulay:
'The Puritan hated bear-baiting, not because it gave pain to the
bear, but because it gave pleasure to the spectators.' But I
wasn't going to be drawn into a debate about fox-hunting when
I was there to deal with my first murder case for a long time,
too long a time, and I fully intended to win it. I rummaged in
my papers and produced the first, the most important witness
statement, the evidence to be given by Patricia Fothergill of
Cherry Trees near Wayleave in the county of Gloucester.
'I'd better warn you that I met this lady at dinner.'
'I don't mind where you met her, Mr Rumpole.'
'I'm glad you take that view but I had to tell you. All right,
Tricia - that's what she calls herself- Tricia is going to say
that she saw a man in a red shirt in the driveway of the Eyles's
house, Wayleave Manor. She heard you shout at Mrs Eyles.
Well, we all know about that. Now comes the interesting bit.
At about one o'clock in the afternoon of the day before the
meet she'd been out for a hack and was riding home past
Fallows Wood - that's where Dorothea Eyles met her death.

Rumpole and the Angel of Death
She says she saw a man in a red shirt coming out of the wood,
carrying what looked like a coil of wire: "I didn't think much
of it at the time. I suppose I thought he had to do with the
telephone or the electricity or something. There was a moment
when I saw him quite clearly and I'm sure he was the same
man I saw at the meet, shouting at Dorothea." We can challenge
that identification. It was far away, she was on a horse,
how many men wear red shirts - all that sort of thing...'
'I'm sure you will destroy her, Mr Rumpole.' Gavin was
trying to be helpful.
'I'll do my best.' I hunted for another statement. 'I'm just
looking... Here it is! Detective Constable Armstead searched
the van you came in and found part of a coil of wire of exactly
the same make and thickness as that which was stretched across
the path and between the trees in Fallows Wood.' I looked at
my client and my solicitor. Neither had, apparently, anything
to say. 'Who drives the van?'
'Roy Netherborn. It's his van,' Gavin volunteered.
'Is he the hairless gentleman with the earrings?'
'That's the one.'
'And did Mr Netherborn pack the things in the van? The
tools and so on?'
'He did, didn't he, Den?' Gavin had been answering the
questions. When he was asked one, Dennis Pearson was silent.
'Had you taken wire with you before?'
'We'd discussed it,' Den admitted. 'There'd been some talk
of using it to trip up the horses.'
'Did you know there was wire in the van that day?' I asked
Den the question direct, but Gavin intervened, 'I don't think
you did, did you?'
Den said nothing but shook his head.
'Did you know that exactly the same wire was used as a
death-trap in Fallows Wood?'
'Den didn't know that. No.' Gavin was positive.
'When did you arrive in Wayleave village? And that's a question for Mr Dennis Pearson,' I invited.
'We came up the morning before. We were staying with
Janet Freebody who lives in the village. Janet's a
schoolteacher.'

Rumpole and the Way through the Woods

'And chair of our activist committee.' Gavin was finding it
difficult to keep quiet.

'Where was the van parked?'
'In front of Janet's house.'
'From what time?'
'About midday.'

'You hadn't taken a trip in it to Fallows Wood before then?'

'Den tells me he hadn't.' Once again, Gavin took on the
answering.

'Was the van kept locked?'

'Supposed to be. Roy's a bit careless about this, isn't he,
Den?'

'Roy's careless about everything,' Den agreed.

There were a lot more questions that required answering,
but I didn't want them all answered by way of the protective
Gavin Garfield.

'There's one other thing I should tell you,' I said as I
gathered up my papers. 'I know Rollo Eyles. I met him when
he was at the Bar. And I was staying with him the night before
... Well, the night before the fatal accident. I'll have to tell
him I'm defending the man accused of murdering his wife. If
you don't want me to defend you, you know that, of course, I
shall understand.' I was giving them a chance to sack me even
before my precious murder case had begun. I kept my fingers
crossed under the table.

'I'd like you to carry on with the case, Mr Rumpole,' Den
was now speaking for himself. 'Seeing what you did for that

dog, I don't think I'll cause you much trouble.'

'Oh, why's that?'

'Well, you see...' Dennis Pearson was still smiling pleas-antly,
imperturbably.

Gavin looked at him anxiously and started off, 'Den...'
But my client interrupted him, 'You see, I did it.'

'You knew he was going to do that?' Gavin was driving me from
the prison to Gloucester station in a car littered with bits of
comics, old toys, empty crisp packets and crumpled orange
juice cartons with the straws still stuck in them. I supposed
that, in his pale, vegetarian way, he had fathered many children.

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

'I had an idea. Yes,' Gavin admitted it. 'What do we do

now?'

'We're entitled to cross-examine the prosecution witnesses
and see if they prove the case. We can't call Dennis to deny the
charge, so, if the Prosecution holds up, we'll have to plead
guilty at half-time.'

'Is that what you'd advise him to do?'
'I'd advise him to tell us the truth.'
'Why do you say that?'
'Because I don't believe he is.'

I wanted to work on the case away from the garrulous Gavin
and the uncommunicative Den. I thought that they lurked
somewhere between the world of human communication and
the secret and silent kingdom of animals, and I didn't feel
either of them would be much help down the Bailey. The case
seemed to me to raise certain awkward and interesting ques-tions,
not to say a matter of legal ethics and private morality
which was, not to put too fine a point upon it, devilishly tricky
to cope with.

As I sat in Chambers I decided it was better for a legal hack
like me to stop worrying about such things as ideas of proper
or improper behaviour and concentrate on the facts. I lit a
small cigar and opened a volume of police photographs. As I
did so, I stooped for a moment to pat the head of the gloomy
Lancelot, who had become my close companion, and then
realized he was gone, ferreting for disgusting morsels, no doubt,
at the edge of the sea while Dodo Mackintosh sat at her easel
and perpetrated a feeble watercolour. I felt completely alone in
the defence of Den Pearson, who didn't even want to be
defended.

I hurried past the mortuary shots of Dorothea and her fatal
injuries, and got to a picture of a path through trees. It was a
narrow strip hardly wide enough for two people to pass in
comfort, so the beech trees on either side were not much more
than six feet apart. A closer shot showed the wire, then still
stretched between nails driven into the trees. The track was
muddy, with patches of grass and the bare earth. I picked up a
magnifying glass and looked at the photo carefully. Then I
rang little Marcus Pitcher, who, I had discovered, was to be in

Rumpole and the Way through the Woods

charge of the Prosecution. 'Listen, old darling,' I said, when I
got his chirrup on the line, 'what about you and me organizing
a visit to the locus in quo?' When he asked me what I meant, I
said, 'There was once a road through the woods.'

'A day out in the country?' Marcus sounded agreeable.
'Whyever not. I'll drive you.'

My learned friend was a small man with a round face,
slightly protruding teeth and large, horn-rimmed glasses, so
that he looked like an agreeable mouse, although he could be a
cunning little performer in Court. Marcus owned a bulky old
Jaguar and had to sit up very straight to peer out of the
windscreen. In the back seat a white bull-terrier sat, pink-eyed
and asthmatic, looking at me as though she wondered why I'd
come to ruin the day out.

'Meet Bernadette,' Marcus introduced, us. 'As soon as she
heard about the trip to the Cotswolds, she had to come. Hope
you don't mind.'

'Not at all. In fact I might have brought my own dog, but
Lancelot's away at the moment.'

At the scene of the crime Bernadette went bounding off into
the undergrowth, while Marcus, his solicitor from the D.P.P.'s
office, and I stood with the Detective Inspector in charge of
the case. D. J. Palmer was a courteous officer who lacked the
tendency of the Metropolitan force to imitate the coppers
they've seen on television. He led us to the spot where death
had taken place. The wire and nails had been removed to be
exhibited in the case, and the hoof marks had been rubbed out
by the rain.

'"There was once a road through the woods,"' I told the
Inspector, '"Before they planted the trees./It is underneath
the coppice and heath,/And the thin anemones..." But this
one isn't, is it, Inspector?'

'I'm not quite sure that I follow you, Mr Rumpole.'

'This road hasn't disappeared so that

Only the keeper sees

That, where the ring-dove broods,

And the badgers roll at ease,

There was once a road through the woods.'

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

'It's a footpath here as I understand it, Mr Rumpole.' The
D.I. was ever helpful. 'Mr Eyles is very good about keeping
open the footpaths on his land.' It did seem that the edges of
the path had been trimmed and the brambles cut back.

'Is the footpath used a lot? Did you ever find that out,
Inspector?'

'Ramblers use it. It was ramblers that found Mrs Eyles. A
shocking experience for them.'

'It must have been. Don't know why they call it rambling,
do you? We used to call it going for a walk. So people don't
ride down here much?'

'I wouldn't think a lot. You'd have to be a good horseman to
jump that.'

We had come to a stile at the end of the narrow track. Beside
it there was a green signpost showing that the footpath contin-ued
across the middle of a broad field dotted with sheep. The
stile had a single pole to hold on to and a wide step set at right
angles to the top bar. I supposed it would have been a difficult
jump but I saw a scar in the wood. Could that have been the
mark of a hoof that had just managed it?

Marcus Pitcher called Bernadette and she came lolloping
over the brambles and started to root about in the long grass at
the side of the stile.

'You gents seen all you want?' the D.I. asked us.

Marcus was satisfied. I wasn't. I thought that if we waited
we might learn something else about that cold, sunny day in
March when Dorothea died as quickly as she'd said she'd
always wanted to. And then I was rewarded. Bernadette pulled
some weighty object out of the grass, carried it in her mouth
and laid it, as a tribute, at the feet of Marcus Pitcher. I said I'd
like a note made of exactly where we found the horseshoe.

'I don't see what it can possibly prove.' Marcus was doubtful.
'It might have been dropped from any horse at any time.'

'Let's just make a note,' I asked. 'We'll think about what it
proves later.'

So the polite Inspector took charge of the horseshoe and he,
Marcus and Bernadette moved on across the field on their way
back to the road. I sat on the stile to recover my breath and
looked into the darkness of the wood. What was it at night? A

Rumpole and the Way through the Woods

sort of killing field - owls swooping on mice, foxes after small
birds - a place of unexpected noises and sudden death? Was it
a site for killing people or killing animals? I remembered
Dorothea, old and elegant, handing down with a smile to Den
what she said was a flask of fox's blood. I thought about the
hunters and the antis shouting at each other and Den's yell:
'One of you is going to die for all the dead animals.' And I
tried to see Dorothea, elated, excited, galloping down the
narrow path and her sudden, unlooked-for near-decapitation.
From somewhere in the shadows under the trees, I seemed to
hear the sound of hoofs and I remembered more of Kipling, a
grumpy old darling but with a marvellous sense of rhythm. I
chanted to myself:

'You will hear the beat of a horse's feet,
And the swish of a skirt in the dew,
Steadily cantering through
The misty solitudes,
As though they perfectly knew
The old lost road through the woods.
But there is no road through the woods.'

But there was no swish of a skirt. It was Rollo Eyles who came
cantering down the track, reined in his horse and sat looking
down on me as I sat on his stile.
'Horace! You here? I heard the police were in the wood.'
I looked up at him. He was getting near my age but
healthier and certainly thinner than me. He was not a tall
man, but he sat up very straight in the saddle. His reins
were loose and his hands relaxed; his horse snorted but
hardly moved. He wore a cap instead of a hard riding-hat,
regardless of danger, and an old tweed jacket. His voice was
surprisingly deep and there was little grey in the hair that
showed.
'I was having a look at the scene of the crime.' Then I told
him, as I had to, 'I'm defending the man who's supposed to
have killed your wife.'
'Not the man who killed her?'
'We won't know that until the Jury get back. Do you mind?'
'That he killed Dorothea?'

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

'No. That I'm defending him.'

'You have to defend even the most disgusting clients, don't
you?' His voice never lost its friendliness and there was no hint

of anger. 'It's in the best traditions of the Bar.'

'That's right. I'm an old taxi.'

'Well, I wish you luck. Who's your judge?'

'We're likely to get stuck with Jamie MacBain.'

'"I was not born yesterday, y'know, Mr Rumpole. I think
I'm astute enough to see through that argument!"' Rollo had
lost none of his talents as a mimic and did a very creditable
imitation of Mr Justice MacBain's carefully preserved Scottish
accent. 'Why don't you come down to the house for a whisky
and splash?' he asked in his own voice.

'I can't. They'll be waiting for me in the car. You're sure
you don't mind me taking on the case?'

'Why should I mind? You've got to do your job. I've no
doubt justice will be done.'

I climbed over the stile then walked away. When I looked
back, he wasn't going to jump but turned the horse and trotted
back the way he had come. He had said justice would be done
but I wasn't entirely sure of it. '

I kept all of this to myself and said nothing to She Who Must
Be Obeyed, although I knew well enough that the time would
come when I'd certainly have to tell her. As the trial of Dennis
Pearson drew nearer, I decided that the truth could no longer
be avoided and chose breakfast time as, when the expected
hostilities broke out, I could retreat hastily down the tube and
off to Chambers and so escape prolonged exposure to the
cannonade.

'By the way,' I said casually over the last piece of toast, 'I'll
probably be staying down in the Gloucester direction before
the end of the month.'

'Has Rollo Eyles invited us again?'

'Well, not exactly.'

'Why exactly, then?' With Hilda you can never get away

with leaving uncomfortable facts in a comforting blur.
'I've got a trial.'
'What sort of a trial?'

RumpoIe and the Way through the ll?oods

,p rather important murder as it so happens. You'll be glad
to lnow, Hilda, that when it comes to the big stuff, the
questions of life and death, the cry is still "Send for
Rurnpole" .'
,grho got murdered?'
The question had been asked casually, but I knew the
moment of truth had come. 'Well, someone you've met, as a
matter of fact.'
'Who?'
My toast was finished. I took a last gulp of coffee, ready for
the off.
'Dorothea Eyles.'
'You're defending that horrible little hunt saboteur?'
'Well, he's not so little. Quite tall actually.'
'You're defending the man who murdered the wife of your
friend?'
'I suppose someone has to.'
'Well! It's no wonder you haven't got any friends, Rumpole.'
Was it true? Hadn't I any friends? Enemies, yes. Acquaintances.
Opponents down the Bailey. Fellow Members of Chambers.
But friends? Bonny Bernard? Fred Tirnson? Well, I suppose
we only met for work. Who was my real friend? I could
only think of one. 'I got on fairly well with the dog Lancelot.
Of course he's no longer with us.'
'Just as well. If you defend people who kill your friends'
wives, you're hardly fit company for a decent dog.' You have
to admit that when Hilda comes to a view she doesn't mince
words on the matter.
'We don't know if he killed her. He's only accused of killing
her.'
'No hair and earrings? You only had to take a look at him to
know he was capable of anything!'
'They didn't arrest the one with no hair,' I told her. 'I'm
defending another one.'
'It doesn't matter. I expect they're all much of a muchness.
Can you imagine what Rollo's going to say when he finds out
what you're doing?'
'I know what he thinks.'
'What?'

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

'That it's in the best tradition of the Bar to defend anyone,
however revolting.' , .
'How do you know that's what he thinks?'
'Because that's what he said when I told him.'
'You told him?'
'Yes.'
'I must say, Rumpole, you've got a nerve!'
'Courage is the essential quality of an advocate.'
'And I suppose it's the essential quality of an advocate to be
on the side of the lowest, most contemptible of human beings?'
'To put their case for them? Yes.'
'Even if they're guilty?'
'That hasn't been proved.'
'But you don't know he's not.'
'I think I do.'
'Why?'
'Because of what he told me.'
'He told you he wasn't guilty?'
'No, he told me he was. But, you see, I didn't believe him.'
'He told you he was guilty and you're still defending him? Is
that in the best traditions of the Bar?'
'Only just,' I had to admit.
'Rumpole!' She Who Must Be Obeyed gave me one of her
unbending looks and delivered judgement. 'I suppose that, if
someone murdered me, you would defend them?'
There was no answer to that so I looked at my watch. 'Must
go. Urgent conference in Chambers. I won't be late home. Is it
one of your bridge evenings?' I asked the question, but answer
came there none. I knew that for that day, and for many days
to come, as far as She Who Must Be Obeyed was concerned,
the mansion flat in Froxbury Mansions would be locked in the
icy silence of the tomb.

During the last weeks before the trial Hilda was true to her
vow of silence and the mansion flat offered all the lighthearted
badinage of life in a Trappist order. Luckily I was busy and
even welcomed the chance of a chat with Gavin Garfield
whom, although I had excluded him from my visit to the
Cotswolds, I now set to work. I told him his first job was to get

Rumpole and the Way through the Woods

i.tatemerts from the other saboteurs in the van, and when he

protested that we'd never get so far as calling evidence in view

of what Den had told us, I said we must be prepared for all

eventualities. So Gavin took statements, not hurriedly, but

with a surprising thoroughness, and in time certain hard facts

emerged.

What surprised me was the age and respectability of the

saboteurs. Shaven-headed Roy Netherborn was forty and

worked in the accounts department of a paper cup factory. He

had toyed with the idea of being a schoolmaster and had met

Janet Freebody, who was a couple of years older, at a teacher

training college. Janet owned the cottage in Wayleave where

the platoon of fearless saboteurs had put up for the night. She

taught at a comprehensive school in the nearby town where we

had fled from the dreaded hotel. Angela Ridgeway, the girl

with the purple lock, was a researcher for BBC Wales. Sebas
tian Fells and Judy Caspar were live-in partners and worked

together in a Kensington bookshop, and Dennis Pearson,

thirty-five, taught sociologyat a university which had risen

from the ashes of a polytechnic. They all, except Janet, lived in

London and were on the committee of a society of animal

rights activists.

Janet had kept Roy informed about the meet at Rollo 2Eyles's

house, and they had taken days off during her half-term when

the meet was at Wayleave. The sabbing was to be made the

occasion of a holiday outing and a night spent in the country.

When they had got their rucksacks and sleeping-bags out of the

van, Roy, Angela, Sebastian and Judy retired to the lub in

Wayleave where real ale was obtainable and they used it to

wash down vegetable pasties and salads until closing-time at

three. Janet Freebody had things to do in the cottage, exercise

books to correct and dinner to think about, so she didn't join

the party in the pub. Neither did Den. He said he wanted to go

for a walk and so set off, according to Roy, apparently to

commune, in a solitary fashion, with nature. This meant that

he was alone and unaccounted for at one o'clock when Tricia

was going to swear on her oath that she saw him coming out of

Fallows Wood with a coil of wire.

facts of interest: Fallows Wood was only about ten

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

minutes from Wayleave. Roy couldn't remember there being
any wire in the van when they set out from London; it was true
that they had discussed using wire to trip up horses, but he had
never bought any and was surpxised when the police searched
the van and found the coil there. It was also true that the van
was always in a mess, and probably the hammer found in it was
his. Den had brought a kitbag with his stuff in it and Roy
couldn't swear it didn't contain wire. Den was usually a quiet
sort of bloke, Roy said, but he did go mad when he saw people
out to kill animals: 'Dennis always said that the movement was
too milk and watery towards hunting, and that what was
needed was some great gesture which would really bring us
into the news and prove our sirscerity - like when the girl fell
under a lorry that was taking sheep to the airport.' I made a
mental note not to ask any sort of question likely to produce
that last piece of evidence and came to the conclusion that Roy,
despite his willingness to give Gavin a statement, wasn't entirely
friendly to my client, Dennis Pearson.
The placards, a small plantation at the meet, had become a
forest outside the Court in Gloucester. Buses, bicycles, vans,
cars in varying degrees of disrepair, had brought them, held up
now by a crowd which burst, as I elbowed my way towards the
courthouse door, into a resounding cheer for Rumpole. I didn't
remember any such ovation when I entered the Old Bailey on
other occasions. In the robing-room I found Bernadette asleep
in a chair and little Marcus Pitcher tying a pair of white bands
around his neck in front of a mirror. 'See you've got your
friends from rent-a-crowd here this morning, Rumpole.' He
was not in the best of tempers, our demonstrators having
apparently booed Bernadette for having thrown in her lot with
a barrister who prosecuted the friends of animals.
I wondered how long their cheers for me would last when I
went into Court, only to put my hands up and plead guilty. My
client, however, remained singularly determined: 'When we
plead guilty, they'll cheer. It'll be a triumph for the movement.
Can't you understand that, Mr Rumpole? We shall be seen to
have condemned a murderer to death!'
The approach of life imprisonment seemed to have concentrated
Den's mind wonderfully. He was no longer the silent

Rumpole and the Way through the Woods

and enigmatic sufferer. His eyes were lit up and he was as
excited as when he'd shouted his threats at the faded beauty on
the horse. 'I want you to tell them I'm guilty, first thing. As
soon as we get in there. I want you to tell them that I punished
her.'
'No, you don't want that. Does he, Mr Garfield?' Gavin,
sitting beside me in the cell under the Court, looked like a man
who had entirely lost control of the situation. 'I suppose if
that's what Den has decided...' His voice, never strong, died
away and he shrugged hopelessly.
'I have decided finally' - Den was standing, elated by his
decision- 'in the interests of our movement.' For a moment he
reminded me of an actor I had seen in an old film, appearing as
Sydney Carton on his way to the guillotine, saying, 'It's a far,
far better thing I do, than I have ever done.'
'You're not going to do the movement much good by pleading
guilty straight away,' I told him.
'What do you mean?'
'A guilty plea at the outset? The whole thing'Il be over in
twenty minutes. The animal murderers, as you call them,
won't even have to go into the witness-box, let alone face
cross-examination by Rumpole. Will anyone know the details
of the hunt? Certainly not. Do you want publicity for your
cause? Plead guilty now and you will be lucky to get a single
paragraph on page two. At least, let's get the front page for a
day or so.' I wasn't being entirely frank with my client. The
murder was serious and horrible enough to get the front pages
in a world hungry for bad news at breakfast, even if we were to
plead guilty without delay. But I needed time. In time, I still
hoped, I would get Den to tell me the truth.
'I don't know.' My client sat down then as though suddenly
tired. 'What would you do, Gavin?'
'I think' - Gavin shrugged off all responsibility - 'you
should be guided by Mr Rumpole.'
'All right' - Den was prepared to compromise - 'we'll go for
the publicity.'

'Dennis Pearson, you are accused in this indictment of the
murder of Dorothea E,yles on the sixteenth of March at Fallows
67

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

Wood, Wayleave, in the county of Gloucester. Do you plead
guilty or not guilty?' , �

'My Lord, Members of the Jury' - Den, as I had feared, was
about to orate. 'This woman, Dorothea Eyles, was guilty of the
murder of countless living creatures, not for her gain but
simply for sadistic pleasure and idle enjoyment. My Lord, if
anything killed her, it was natural justice!'

'Now then, Mr-' Mr Justice James MacBain consulted his
papers to make sure who he was trying. 'Mr Pearson. You've
got a gentleman in a wig sitting there, a Mr Rumpole, who's
paid to make the speeches for you. It's not your business to
make speeches now or at any time during this case. Now,
you've been asked a simple question: Are you guilty or not
guilty?'

'She is the guilty one, my Lord. This woman who revelled in
the death of innocent creatures.'

'Mr Rumpole, are you not astute enough to control your
client?'

'It's not an easy task, my Lord.' I staggered to my feet.

'Your first job is to control your client. That's what I learnt
as a pupil. Make the client keep it short.'

'Well, if you don't want a long speech from the dock my
Lord, I suggest you enter a plea of not guilty and then my
learned friend, Mr Marcus Pitcher, can get on with opening
his case.'

'Mr Rumpole, I was not born yesterday!' Jamie MacBain
was stating the obvious. It was many years since he had first
seen the light in some remote corner of the Highlands. He was
a large man whose hair, once ginger, had turned to grey, and
who sat slumped in his chair like one of those colourless
beanbags people use to sit on in their Hampstead homes. He
had small, pursed lips and a perpetually discontented expres-sion.
'And when I want your advice on how to conduct these
proceedings, I shall ask you for it. Mr Moberly!' This was a
whispered summons to the clerk of the court, who rose obedi-ently
and, after a brief sotto voce conversation, sat down again
as the Judge turned to the Jury.

'Members of the Jury, you and I weren't born yesterday and
I think we're astute enough to get over this little technical

Rumpole and the Way through the Woods

difficulty. Now we don't want Mr Pearson, the accused man
here, to start giving us a lecture, do we? So what we're going to
do is to take it he's pleading not guilty and then ask Mr
Marcus Pitcher to get on with it and open the prosecution case.
You see, there's no great mystery about the law. We can solve
most of the problems if we apply a wee bit of worldly wisdom.'
I suppose I could have got up on my hind legs and said,
'Delighted to have been of service to your Lordship,' or, 'If
you're ever in a hole, send for me.' But I didn't want to start a
quarrel so early in the case. I sat quietly while little Marcus
went through most of the facts. The Jury of twelve honest
'Gloucestershire citizens looked stolid, middle-aged and not
particularly friendly to the animal rights protesters who filled
the public gallery to overflowing. I imagined they had grown
up with the hunt and felt no particular hostility to the Boxing
Day meet and horses streaming across the frosty countryside.
They had looked embarrassed by Dennis's speech from the
dock, and flattered when Jamie MacBain shared his lifetime's
experience with them. Like him, they hadn't been born yesterday,
and worldly wisdom, together with their dogs and their
rose gardens, was no doubt among their proudest possessions.
As I listened to my little learned friend's opening, I thought he
was talking to a jury which, whatever plea had been entered,
was beginning to feel sure that Den was as guilty as he was
anxious to appear.
The first witness was the rambler, a cashier from a local
bank who, out for a walk with his wife and daughter, had been
met with the ghastly spectacle of an elderly woman almost
decapitated and fallen among the brambles of Fallows Wood.
'Where was the horse?' was all I asked him in cross-examination.
'The horse?'
'Yes. Did you see her horse by any chance?'
'I think there was a horse there, some distance away, and all
saddled up. I think it was just eating grass or something. I
didn't stay long. I wanted to get my wife and Sandra away and
phone the police.'
'Of course. I understand. Thank you very much, Mr
Ovington.'

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

'Is that all you want to ask, Mr Rumpole?' Jamie MacBain
looked at me in an unfriendly fashion.
'Yes, my Lord.'
'I don't think that question and answer has added much to
our understanding of this case, Members of the Jury. I'd be
glad if the Defence would not waste the time of the Court. Yes.
Who is your next witness, Mr Marcus Pitcher?'
I restrained myself and sat down in silence 'like patience on
a monument'. But my question had added something: Dorothea's
riderless horse hadn't galloped on and jumped the stile.
We learnt more from Bob Andrews, a hunt servant who, when
the hunt was stopped, went back to the wood to recover
Dorothea's horse which had been detained by the police. I
risked Jamie's displeasure by questioning Andrews for a little
longer.
'When you got to the wood, had Mrs Eyles's body been
removed?'
'It was covered. I think it was just being taken away on a
stretcher. I knew the ambulance was in the road. The police
were taking photographs.'
'The police were taking photographs - and where was Mrs
Eyles's horse?'
'I think a police officer was holding her.'
'Can you remember, had Mrs Eyles's horse lost a shoe?'
'Not that I noticed. I looked her over when I took her from
the policeman. He seemed a bit scared, holding her.'
'I'm not surprised. Horses can be a little alarming.'
'Can be. If you're not used to them.'
There were a few smiles from the Jury at this; not because it
was funny but as a relief from the agony of hearing the details
of Dorothea Eyles's injuries. The Jury, I thought, rather liked
Bob Andrews, while the animal rights enthusiasts in the public
gallery looked down on him with unmitigated hatred and
contempt.
'Mr Andrews,' I went on, while Mr Justice MacPain (as I
had come to think of him) gave a somewhat exaggerated performance
of a long-suffering judge, bravely enduring terminal
boredom, 'tell me a little about the hunt that day. You were
riding near to Mr Eyles?'

Rumpole and the Way through the Woods

'Up with the master. Yes.'
'Did your hunt go near Fallows Wood?'
'Not really. No.'
'What was the nearest you got to that wood?'
'Well, they found in Plashy Bottom. Down there they got a
scent. Then we were off in the other direction entirely.'
'How far is Plashy Bottom from Fallows Wood?'
'About half a mile... I'd think about that.'
'Did you see Mrs Eyles leave the hunt and ride up towards
the wood?'
'Well, they'd got going then. I wouldn't have looked round
to see the riders behind me.'
'Did you see anyone else - Miss Tricia Fothergill, for instance
- leave the hunt and ride up towards Fallows Wood?'
'I didn't, no.'
'He's told us he wasn't looking at the riders behind him, Mr
Rumpole.' Jamie managed to sound like a saint holding on to
his patience by the skin of his teeth.
'Then let me ask you a question you can answer. It's clear,
isn't it, that the hunt never went through Fallows Wood that
day?'
'That's right.'
'So, it follows that in order to come into collision with that
wire, Mrs Eyles had to make a considerable detour?'
'That's surely a matter for argument, Mr Rumpole.' Jamie
MacBain did his best to scupper the question so I asked
another one, very quickly.
'Do you know why she should make such a detour?'
'I haven't got any idea, no.'
'Thank you, Mr Andrews.' And I sat down before the Judge
could recover his breath.
Johnny Logan replaced the whipper-in. He was wearing a
dark suit and some sort of regimental tie; his creased and
brown walnut face grinned over a collar which seemed several
sizes too large for him. He treated the Judge with a mixture of
amusement and contempt, as though Jamie were some alien
being who could never understand the hunting community of
the Cotswolds. Logan said he had heard most of the dialogue
between the sabs and the hunters in the driveway of Wayleave

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

Manor. He also told the Jury that he had seen the saboteurs'
van at various points during the day, and heard similar abuse
from them as he rode by.

'You never saw the saboteurs' van near Fallows Wood?' I
asked when it was my turn.

'We never went near Fallows Wood as far as I can
remember.'

'Then let you and I agree about that. Now, will you tell me
this? Did you ever see Mrs Eyles leave the hunt and ride off in
a different direction?'

'No, I never saw that. I'm not saying she didn't do it. We
were pretty spread out. I'd seen a couple of jumps I didn't like
the look of, so I'd gone round and I was behind quite a lot of
the others.'

'Gone round, had you?' Jamie MacBain, about to make a
note, looked confused.

'Quite a lot of barbed wire about. I don't think you'd have
fancied jumping that, my Lord,' Johnny Logan added with a
certain amount of mock servility.

'Never mind what I'd'ye fancied. Just answer the questions
you get asked. That's all you're required to do.' It was clear
that the Judge and the witness had struck up an immediate lack
of rapport.

'Did you see anyone else leave the hunt?'

'I don't think so. Well, you mean at any time?'

'At any time when you were out hunting, yes.'

'Well, I think Tricia Fothergill left. But that was at the very
end, just before the police arrived and told us that Mrs Eyles
had been - well, had met with an accident.'

'So that must have been after Mrs Eyles's death?' The Judge
made the deduction.

'You've got it, my Lord,' Johnny Logan congratulated him
in such a patronizing fashion that I almost felt sorry for the
astute Scot.

'Why did she leave then, do you remember?'

'I'm not sure. Her horse was wrong in some way, I think.'
'Just one more thing, Mr Logan.'

'Oh, anything you like.' Johnny showed his contempt for us
all.

Rumpole and the Way through the Woods

'It would be right to say, wouldn't it, that Mr Rollo Eyles
was devoted to his wife?'

'He would certainly never have left her. Is that what you
mean?'

'That's exactly what I mean. Thank you very much.'

As I was about to sit down, the Judge said, 'And what
were the Jury meant to make of that last question and
answer?'

'They may make of it what they will, my Lord, when they
are in full possession of the facts of this interesting but tragic
case.' At which point I lowered my head in an ornate
eighteenth-century bow and sat down with as much dignity as
I could muster.

'Work at the Bar!' little Marcus said. 'Sometimes I think I'd
rather be digging roads.'

'Only one thing to be said for work at the Bar,' I tended to
agree, 'is that it's better than no work at the Bar.'

It was the lunch adjournment and the three of us - Marcus,
Bernadette and I - were in a dark corner of the Carpenters
Arms, not far from the Court. There they did a perfectly
reasonable bangers and mash. Marcus and I had big glasses of
Guinness and Bernadette took hers from a bowl on the floor.
The little prosecutor said he was looking forward to going for a
holiday with a Chancery barrister called Clarissa Clavering on
the Isle of Elba. 'I'd been living for the day, but now it seems

likely I'll have to cancel.'

'Why on earth?'

'I can't find anyone to leave Bernadette with. Clarissa only
likes cats. And I do love her, Rumpole! Love Clarissa, I mean.
She has a lot of sheer animal magnetism for a girl in the
Chancery Division.'

'Couldn't you put her in a kennel? Bernadette, I mean.'

'I couldn't do that.' Marcus looked as though I'd invited
him to murder his mother. 'Much as I fancy Clarissa, I couldn't
possibly do that.'

'Then, there's nothing else for it...'

'Nothing else for it.' His little mouselike face was creased
with lines of sorrow. My heart went out to the fellow. 'Except

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

cancel the holiday. I won't blame Bernadette, of course. It's
not her fault. But...'
'It's a pity to miss so much animal magnetism?'
'You've said it, Rumpole. You've said it exactly.'
When we arrived back at the Court, there was a certain
amount of confusion among the demonstrators. They started
with the clear intention of cheering me and Bernadette, who,
even if she was part of the prosecution team, was, after all, an
animal. They knew they should boo and revile young Marcus,
the disappointed lover. Finally, when they saw that I, as well
as Bernadette, was on friendly terms with the forces of evil and
the prosecutors of sabs, they decided to boo us all.
In the entrance hall the prospective witnesses sat waiting. I
saw Tricia Fothergill as smartly turned out as a pony at a
show, with gleaming hair, shiny shoes and glistening legs. She
was prepared for Court in a black suit and her hands were
folded in her lap. On the other side of the hall sat the prospective
witnesses for the Defence: purple-haired Angela Ridgeway,
Sebastian and Judy from the bookshop, and shaven-headed
Roy Netherborn. Janet, the schoolteather, sat next to Roy, but
I noticed that they didn't speak to each other but sat gazing, as
though hypnotized, silently into space. Then, as I was wigged
and gowned by now, I crossed the entrance hall towards the
Court. Roy got up and walked towards me slowly, heavily and
with something very like menace. 'What the bell's the idea,' he
muttered in a low voice, full of hate, 'of you getting into bed
with the prosecution barrister?'
'Little Marcus and I are learned friends,' I told him, 'against
each other one day and on the same side the next. We went out
to lunch because his dog Bernadette felt in need of a drink.
And I didn't get into bed with him. I left that to his girlfriend
Clarissa of the Chancery Division. Any more questions?'
'Yes. Haven't you got any genuine beliefs?'
'As few as possible. Genuine beliefs seem to end up in death
threats and stopping other people living as they choose. I do
have one genuine belief, however.'
'Oh, do you? And what's that when it's at home?'
'Preventing the conviction of the innocent. So, if you will
allow me to get on with my job...' I moved away from him

Rumpole and the Way through the Woods

then, and he stood watching me go, his fists clenched and his
knuckles whitening.

Tricia had given her evidence-in-chief clearly, with a nice
mixture of sadness, brightness and an eagerness to help. The
Jury had taken to her and Jamie MacBain seemed no less
smitten than little Marcus was with Clarissa, although there
was a great gulf fixed between them and she called him my
Lord, and he called her Miss Fothergill in a voice which can
best be described as a caressing, although still judicial, purr.
She looked, as she stood in the witness-box and answered
vivaciously, prettier than I had remembered. Her nose was a
little turned up, her front teeth a little protruding, but her eyes
were bright and her smile beguiling.
'Tricia Fothergill, you say your name is?' I rose, after Marcus
had finished with her, doing my best to break the spell woven
by the most damaging prosecution witness. 'Why not Patricia?'
'Because I couldn't say Patricia when I was a little girl. So I
stayed Tricia, even when I went away to school.'
'Which, I'm sure, wasn't long ago. Don't you agree, Members
of the Jury?' the judge purred and a few weaker spirits in
the jury box gave a mild giggle. Tricia Fothergill, in Jamie's
view, it seemed, had been born yesterday.
'I'll call you Miss Fothergill, if I may, if that's your grownup
name. Or is it? Were you once married?'
'Yes.'
'And your husband's name is...?'
'Chafing.'
'Cheering, did you say?'
'No, Charing.'
'Are you going deaf, Mr Rumpole?' the Judge raised his
voice to me as though at the severely afflicted.
'Not quite yet, my Lord.' I turned to this witness. 'Are you
divorced from this Mr Chafing?'
'Not quite yet, Mr Rumpolc,' the witness answered with a
smile and won a laugh from the Jury. The Judge's pursed lips
were stretched into a smile, and the inert beanbag was shaken
up and repositioned in his chair. 'The divorce hasn't gone
through,' Tricia explained when order was restored.

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

'Yet you call yourself Miss Fothergill?'

'It was such an unhappy relationship. I wanted to make a
clean break.'

'Surely you can understand that, Mr Rumpole?' Jamie was
giving the witness his full and unqualified support.

'And have you now found a new and happier relationship?'
Little Marcus, the mouse that roared, rose to object, but the
learned Judge needed no persuading. 'That was an entirely
irrelevant and embarrassing question, Mr Rumpole. Please be
more careful in the future.'

'I hope we shall all be careful,' I said, 'in our efforts to
discover the truth. So I understand you live alone, Miss
Fothergill, in Cherry Trees in the village of Wayleave?'

'That is another entirely improper question. What does it
matter whether this young lady lives alone or not?' This time
the Judge was doing Marcus's objections for him. 'We'd be
greatly obliged, Mr Rumpole, if you'd move on to something
relevant.'

'I'll move on to something very relevant. Do you say you
saw a man coming out of Fallows Wood carrying wire on the

day before the hunt?'
'That's right.'
'What time was it?'
'One o'clock.'

'How do you know?'

'I'd just looked at my watch. I was out for a hack and had to
be home before two because my lawyer was ringing me. I saw
it was only one and I decided to do the long round through
Plashy Bottom. Then I saw the man coming out of the wood,
with the coil of wire.'

'When you saw the man with the wire, you were alone?'
'Yes.'

'No one else saw him at that time?'

'Not so far as I know.'

'You say you thought he might have been working for
Telecom or the electricity company? Did you see a van from

any of those companies?'

'No.'

'Or the van the saboteurs came in?'

Rumpole and the Way through the Woods

'I didn't see the van then, no. Of course it might have been
parked on the road.'
'Or it might still have been parked in the village. As far as
you know.'
'As far as I know.'
'You saw a man the next day, shouting at Mrs Eyles?'
'That was the same man. Yes.'
'Why didn't you warn everyone in the hunt that you'd seen
that man coming out of the wood, carrying wire?'
'I suppose I just didn't put two and two together at the time.
It was only when I heard Dorothea had been killed by a
wire...'
'You put two and two together then?' The Judge was ever
helpful to his favourite witness.
'Yes, my Lord. And I was going to say that, in all the
excitement of starting out with the hunt, I may have forgotten
what I saw, just for a little while.'
'I don't suppose Mr Rumpole knows much about the excitement
of the hunt.' Jamie MacBain was wreathed in smiles and
seemed almost on the point of laying a finger alongside his
nose.
I didn't join in the obedient titters from the Jury, or the
shocked intake of breath from the faces in the public gallery. I
started the long and unrewarding task of chipping away at
Tricia's identification. How far had she been away from the
wood? Was the sun in her eyes? How fast was her horse
moving at the time? As is the way with such questioning, the
more the witness was attacked the more positive she became.
'On your way back to your house in Wayleave, on the day
before the hunt, did you pass Janet Freebody's cottage?'
'Yes, I had to pass that way.' Tricia made it clear that she
wouldn't go near anything of Janet Freebody's unless it were
absolutely necessary.
'Did you sec the sabs' van parked outside Miss Frcebody's
cottage?'
'I think I did. I can't honestly remember.'
'Was it locked?'
'How would she know that, Mr Rumpole?' Jamic put his oar
in.

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

'Perhaps you tried the door.'

'I certainly didn't! I was just iding past.'

'Let me ask you something else. Mr Logan has told us that
you left the hunt shortly before the police arrived with the
news of Mrs Eyles's death. There was something wrong with
your horse. What was it?'

'Oh, Trumpeter had lost a shoe,' Tricia said as casually as
possible. 'It must have happened earlier, but I hadn't noticed
it. I noticed it then and I had to take him home.'

It was a moment when I felt a tingle of excitement, as
though, after a long search in deep and muddy waters, we had
struck some hard edge of the truth. 'Miss Fothergill,' I asked
her, 'were you riding with Mrs Eyles in Fallows Wood on the
day she met her death?'

The Jury were looking at Tricia, suddenly interested. Even
Jamie MacBain didn't rush to her assistance.

'No, of course I wasn't.' She turned to the Judge with a
small, incredulous giggle which meant 'What a silly
question'.

'My Lord. I call on my learned friend to admit that a
horseshoe was found by Inspector Palmer near to .the stile in
Fallows Wood.'

'Perfectly true, my Lord,' Marcus admitted. 'It was found
some weeks after Mrs Eyles died.'

'So it might have been dropped by one of any number of
horses at any unknown time?' Jamie was delighted to point out.
'Isn't that so, Miss Fothergill?' Tricia was pleased to agree and
repeated that she had never ridden through Fallows Wood that
day. I was coming to the end ofmy questions.

'When your divorce proceedings are over, Miss Fothergill,
are you going to embark on another marriage?' I asked and
waited for the protest. It came. Little Marcus drew himself up
to his full height and objected. Jamie agreed entirely and said
that he wouldn't allow any question about the witness's private
life. So my conversation with Tricia ended, finally silenced by
the Judge's ruling.

At the end of the afternoon I came out of Court frustrated,
despondent, seeing nothing in front of me but a pathetic guilty
plea. Gavin hurried away to see Den in the cells and I heard an

Rumpole and the Way through the Woods

urgent voice saying, 'Mr Rumpole! I've got to talk to you.' I
looked around and there was Janet Freebody, showing every
sign of desperation. I saw Roy and a representative group of
the sabs watching us, as well as the hunters who were leaving
the Court. I said I'd meet her in the Carpenters Arms round
the corner in half an hour.

'It's kind of you to see me. So kind.' I realized I had never
looked closely at Janet Freebody before, but just filed her away
in my mind as a grey-haired schoolmistress in a tweed skirt. It
was true that her hair was grey and her skirt was tweed but her
eyes were blue, her eyelids finely moulded and her long, serious
face beautiful as the faces on grave madonnas or serious angels
in old paintings. At that moment her cheeks were pink and her
hands, caressing her glass of gin-and-tonic, were long-fingered
and elegant.

'What is it you want to tell me?'

She didn't answer directly, but asked me a question. 'Wasn't
it at one o'clock that Dennis was meant to be coming out of
that wood, carrying wire?'

'That's what Tricia said.'

'Well, he wasn't. I know where he was.'

'Where?'

'In bed with me.'

I looked at her and said, 'Thank you for telling me.'

'I know I've got to tell that in Court. Den's going to be
furious.' And then it all came out, shyly at first, nervously, and
then with increasing confidence. She'd had an affair with
shaven-headed Roy, who was jealous of Den and now in a
perpetually bad temper. She and Dennis had waited until the
others went out to the pub to go upstairs, where, it seemed, the
solemn Den forgot his duty to the animals in his love for the
schoolmistress. Meanwhile, the saboteurs' van was unlocked
and unattended outside Janet's front gate.

'You can't go on pretending.'

'Pretending what?'

'Pretending you're guilty, just to help animals. I doubt very
much whether the animals are going to be grateful to you. In

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

fact they'll hardly notice. Like Launce's dog, Crab. Do you
know The Two Gentlemen of Ve'ona?'
'How do they come into the case?'
'They don't. They're in a play. So is Launce. &nd so is his
dog, Crab. When Crab farts at the Duke's dinner larty, Launce
takes the blame for it and is whipped out of the room. Launce
also sat in the stocks for puddings Crab stole and stood in the
pillory for geese Crab killed. How did Crab reward him?
Simply by lifting his leg and peeing against Madam Silvia's
skirt. That's how much Crab appreciated Launce's extraordinary
sacrifice.'
There was a silence and then Dennis said, 'Mr Rumpole.'
'Yes, Den.'
'I am not quite following the drift of your argument.'
'It's just that Launce led an unrewarding life trying to take
the blame for other people's crimes. Don't be a martyr! And
don't pretend to be a murderer.'
'I'm not.'
'Of course you are. And what do you think it's going to get
you? A vote of thanks from all the foxes in Gloucestershire?'
'I don't know what you're saying, Mr Rumpole.'
'I'm saying, come out of some fairy-story world full of kind
little furry animals and horrible humans and tell the truth for a
change.'
'What's the truth?'
'That you didn't kill anyone. All right, you can shout bloodthirsty
threats and work yourself into a fury against toffs on
horses. But I don't believe you'd really hurt a fly. Particularly
not a fly.'
It was early in the morning, before Jamie &4acBain had
disposed of bacon and eggs in his lodgings, andI was alone
with my client in the cells. I hadn't bothered to tell Gavin
about this dawn meeting, and he would have been distressed,
I'm sure, at Dennis's look of pain.
'I'm thinking of the cause.'
'The cause that can't accept that we're all hunters, more or
less?'
'And I told you I was guilty.'
'You told me a lie. That was always obvious.'

Rumpole and the Way through the Woods

'Why? Why was it obvious?'

'Because you had no way of knowing that Dorothea Eyles
was going to leave the hunt and gallop between the trees in
Fallows Wood.'

'You can't prove it.' For a moment Den was lit up with the
light of battle.

'Prove what?'

'That I'm innocent.'

'Really! Of all the cockeyed clients. I've had some dotty ones
but never one that didn't want to be proved innocent before.'
It was early in the morning and the hotel had only been serving
the continental breakfast. I'm afraid that my temper was short
and I didn't mince my words. 'I can prove you didn't carry
wire out of the wood at one o'clock on the day before the
murder.'

'How?'

'Because you were doing something far more sensible. You
were making love to Janet Freebody.'

There was a silence. Den looked down at his large hands,
folded on his lap. Then he looked up again and said, 'Janet's
not going to say that, surely?'

'Yes, she is. She's going to brave the story in the Sun and
the giggles in her class at the comprehensive, and she's going
to say it loud and clear.'

'I'm not going to let her.'
'You can't stop her.'
'Why not?'

'Because you're going to tell the truth also. And because
you're going to fight this case to the bitter end. With a little
help from me, you might even win.'

'Why should I fight it?' Den looked back at his hands,
avoiding my eye. 'You give me one good reason.'

So then I gave him one very good reason indeed. 'You can't
tell the story,' I warned Den. 'It can't be proved and you'd be
sued for libel. But I promise to tell them what I know.' Later,
when I had finished with Den, I went into the robing-room to
slip into the fancy dress and there I confronted little Marcus,
combing his mouse-coloured hair. 'My learned friend,' I told
him, 'I'm serving an alibi notice on you. Only one witness.

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

You'll be a sweetheart and tell darling old Jamie that you don't
want an adjournment or anything awkward like that. I can rely
on you, can't I, Marcus?'

'Why on earth' - Marcus looked like a very determined
mouse that morning - 'should you think that you can rely on
me?'

'Because,' I told him, with some confidence, 'if you behave
well, Hilda and my good self might see our way to looking after
Bernadette while you're away in the Chancery Division.'

'That' - little Marcus turned back to the mirror and the
careful arrangement of his hair - 'puts an entirely different
complexion on the matter.'

'What is the single most important fact about this case, Mem-bers
of the Jury? The fact which I ask you to take with you into
your room and put first and last in your deliberations. It's just
this: Mrs Eyles met her death half a mile from any point where
the hunt had been. If Dennis Pearson intended to kill her, how
did he lure her away to that remote woodland path? Did he
offer her a date or an assignation? Did he promise to give her
the winner of the two-thirty at Cheltenham? Or did he say,
"Just gallop along the track in Fallows Wood and you'll prob-ably
be killed by a bit of tight wire I stretched there yesterday
lunchtime"? How did he organize not only that she should be
killed, but that she should go so far out of her way to meet her
death? It was impossible to organize it, was it not, Members of
the Jury? Doesn't that mean that you must have doubts about
Dennis Pearson's guilt?

'Remember, he was seen at various places during the hunt,
with the other saboteurs, shouting his usual abuse at the riders.
So whoever went off and lured Dorothea Eyles to her death, it
certainly wasn't him. And remember this, if he's guilty, the
whole hunt would have had to come down that track, and the
first to be killed wouldn't have been Mrs Eyles but the Master
of Foxhounds himself, or one of the hunt servants. The Prosecu-tion
haven't even tried to explain these mysteries and, unless
they can explain them, you cannot be certain of guilt.'

Little Marcus was reading a guidebook on Elba and Jamie
MacBean was feigning sleep, but the Jury was listening, atten

Rumpole and the Way through the Woods

tive and, I thought, even interested. The abrupt manner in
which the Judge had put an end to my cross-examination of
Tricia had, I suspected, aroused their curiosity. What was it
that the Judge didn't wish them to know? There are moments
when an objection sustained can be almost as good as evidence.

And then Janet Freebody turned out to be a dream witness.
When Jamie asked her, in what he hoped were withering
tones, if she was in the habit of having sexual intercourse with
men at lunch time, she answered, with the smallest of smiles,
'Only when my feelings overcome me, my Lord. And I am
dreadfully in love.' The Judge was silent, the Jury liked her,
and little Marcus closed his eyes and no doubt thought of
Clarissa. I needn't go through all the points I made in my
final speech, brilliant as they were. They will have become
obvious to my readers who have studied my cross-examination.
Jamie summed up for a conviction which, as the Jury were not
entirely on his side, was a considerable help to us. They were
out for an hour and a half, but when they came back they
looked straight at my client and said not guilty. The Judge
then threatened to have those cheering in the gallery commit-ted
to prison for contempt; however astute he was, and how-ever
long ago he'd been born, he had failed to achieve a
conviction.

When I said goodbye to Dennis he was hardly overcome
with gratitude. He said, 'You prevented me from striking a real
blow for animal rights, Mr Rumpole. I came prepared to
suffer.'

'I'm sorry,' I said, 'Janet Freebody ruined your suffering for
you. And I think she's prepared to give you something a good
deal more valuable than a martyr's crown.'

Months later, on the occasion of a long-suffering member of
our Chambers becoming a Metropolitan magistrate, he gave
his fellow legal hacks dinner at the Sheridan Club. She Who
Must was not of the party, having gone off on yet another visit
to Dodo and the dog Lancelot on the Cornish Riviera. As I sat
trying not to drop off during one of Ballard's lively discussions
of the Chambers' telephone bill, I saw, softly lit by candlelight,
Rollo Eyles and Tricia Fothergill dining together at a distant

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

table. I remembered a promise unfulfilled, a duty yet undone.
I excused myself and went over to join them.
'Horace! Have a seat. What's going on over there? A Chambers
dinner? This is the claret we choose on the wine committee.
Not too bad.' Rollo was almost too welcoming. Tricia, on
the other hand, looked studiously at her plate.
'So' - Rollo was signalling to the waiter to bring me a glass 'you
won another murder?'
'Yes.'
'I suppose the Jury thought another of those revolting antis
did it.'
'I don't suppose we'll ever know exactly what they thought.'
'By the way, Horace' - Rollo looked at me, one eyebrow
raised quizzically - 'I thought you'd like to know. Tricia and I
are going to get married.'
'I thought you would be.'
For the first time Tricia raised her eyes from her plate. 'Did
you?'
'Oh, yes. Rollo would never have left his wife, while she was
alive. Thank you.' The waiter had brought a glass and Rollo
filled it. 'You know my client, Dennis Pearson, was going to
take the blame for the crime. He thought, in some strange way,
that it might help the animals. He only agreed to fight because,
if he was acquitted, the real murderer might still be
discovered.'
'The real murderer?' I still didn't believe that Rollo knew
the truth. Tricia knew it and I wanted Tricia to be sure I knew
it too.
'What made Dorothea ride through Fallows Wood?' I looked
at Tricia. 'I think you were riding with her in the hunt and you
said something, probably something about Rollo, which made
her want to know more. But you rode away and she followed
you. When you got on to the track between the trees, you knew
where the wire was and you ducked. Dorothea was galloping
behind and knew nothing. It was a very quick death. You
carried on and jumped the stile, where your horse lost a shoe.'
'You're drunk!' Rollo had stopped smiling.
'Not yet!' I took a gulp of his wine.
Tricia said, 'But I saw the man with the wire.'

Rumpole and the Way through the Woods

'At least we proved you were lying about that. The only
person who went into the wood with wire was you. And when
you'd done the job, you dumped the coil in the sabs' van. You
knew one of them could be relied on to threaten the riders.
Dennis said exactly what was required of him.'
'Tricia?' Rollo looked at her, expecting her furious denial.
He was disappointed.
'You repeat one word of that ridiculous story, Rumpole' - he
was angry now - 'and I'll bloody sue you.'
'I don't think you will. I don't think she'll let you.'
'What are you going to do?' Tricia was suddenly businesslike,
matter of fact.
'Do? I'm not going to do anything. I don't know who could
prove it. Anyway, I'm not the police, or the prosecuting authority.
What you do is for you two to decide. But I promised the
man you wanted to convict that I'd let you know I knew. And
now I've kept my promise.'
I drained my glass, got up and left their table. As I went,
I saw Rollo put his hand on Tricia's and hold it there. Did
he not believe in her crime, or was he prepared to live with
it? I don't know and I can't possibly guess. I had left the
world of the hunters and those who hunted them, and I
never saw Rollo or his new wife again, although Hilda did
tell me that their wedding had been recorded in the Daily
Telegraph.
When I got back to our table I sat in silence for a while
beside Mrs Justice Erskine-Brown, Phillida Trant that was, the
Portia of our Chambers.
'What are you thinking about, Rumpole?' Portia asked me.
'With all due respect to your Ladyship, I was thinking that a
criminal trial is a very blunt implement for digging out the
truth.'

Some weeks later Ballard entered my room when I was busy
noting up an affray in Streatham High Street.
'I'm sending you a memo about the telephone bill,
Rumpole.'
'Good. I shall look forward to that.'
'Very well. I'll send it to you then.' Apparently in search of

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

another topic of conversation, the man sniffed the air. 'No dogs

in here now, are there?'
. �

'Certainly not.'

'I well remember the time when you had a dog in here.'

'No longer.'

'And we had to call a Chambers' meeting on the subject!'

'That was some while ago.'

'And you assure me you now have got no dog here, of any
sort?'

'Close the door behind you, Bollard, when you go.'

As he left, the volume was turned up on the sound of heavy
breathing. Bernadette was sleeping peacefully behind my desk.

Hilda's Story

MRS HILDA RUMPOLE TO DOROTHY (DODO) MACKINTOSH

My dear Dodo

This is the story Rumpole will never tell. It's not at all how he
would wish to present himself to his audience, his readers, his
ladies and gentlemen of the Jury, in the many accounts he has
written of his brilliance down at the Old Bailey, and his
particular cleverness at enabling assorted scamps and scally-wags
to escape their just deserts. Such work Rumpole sees as
protecting the liberty of the subject, Magna Carta and the
presumption of innocence, and he assumes a look of injured
nobility when I tell him that he has become little more than an
honorary uncle to the Timson family - that infamous clan of
South London villains, whom Rumpole, when under attack,
says I have to rely on for my scanty housekeeping allowance.
Rumpole also prides himself on his worldly wisdom and the
fact that he can see further through a brick wall than anyone
else in the legal profession, the entire Bench of Judges, includ-ing
the Lord Chancellor, the Master of the Rolls and the Lords
of Appeal in Ordinary. My reason for writing this account,
entirely for my own consumption - and yours, Dodo, as my
oldest schoolfriend and one who has seen the best and the
worst of Rumpole at quarters which may have been, from time
to time, uncomfortably close - is to show that in the case of R.
v. Skelton, I certainly saw further through a brick wall than he
could without having passed a single Bar exam. I pulled off a
coup to equal his in that case which he never tires of telling us
about, the Penge Bungalow murders.

Rumpole is, I have to tell you, Dodo, a bit of an actor. I
don't think you've ever seen him in Court, with his grey wig
askew (dirty when he bought it secondhand from the ex-Attorney-General
of the Windward Islands, and now even

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

dirtier after fifty years of contact with Rumpole's glistening
forehead), his gown tattered .(he never asks me to mend it), and
his waistcoat gravy-stained (he seldom allows me to take it to
the Smarty Pants cleaners, who give a pretty reliable service in
the Gloucester Road). He is, of course, acting the part of an
inadequately paid and outspoken rebel against authority.
And when he's at home, and you've seen this, my dear old
Dodo, many times, he is acting the part of a free spirit im-prisoned,
through no fault of his own, in marriage, just as the
clients in his less successful cases are banged up in Wormwood
Scrubs.

Dodo, I don't know if you remember the case of Michael
Skelton? There was a good deal about it in the Daily Tel-egraph
at the time, but I know you object to the amount of
quite gratuitous violence there is in crime-reporting these
days, and perhaps you were too busy with your splendid
watercolours to notice it! Your 'Lamorna Cove on a Wet
Afternoon' hangs over the gas fire as I write and I can feel
the dampness rising. We all know that young people have.got
quite difficult lately. Since our Nick went off to teach in
Florida and married his Erica we have hardly been close but,
quite honestly, Dodo, families have got to learn to live to-gether
and, although no one knows better than you how com-pletely
maddening Rumpole can be at times, it's impossible
to imagine Nick ever being tempted to beat his father to
death with a golf club, the crime which the Skelton boy was
up for. I mean, it simply isn't the way youngsters from nice
homes carry on.

You can imagine the poorer sort of people doing it - people
on drugs and income support and such like - although I can't
really imagine them having golf clubs available in their entrance
halls. But young Michael Skelton seemed to have nothing in
the world to complain about. His father, Dimitri Skelton, was
a very successful surgeon. (I believe there was Russian blood in
the family somewhere and, although I can connect the Russians
with violence, they don't seem, in the course of history, to have
played much golf... Just a passing thought, Dodo.) Anyway,
the father did cosmetic surgery, I think they call it, which

Hilda' s Story

means giving other rich people better bosoms or more youthful
faces. I don't know, you and I have lived quite comfortably
with our faces since we were a couple of new bugs, all wet
around the ears, at Chippenham. And, as for Rumpole's face, it
seems to me, it is quite beyond repair - only fit for demolition,
I might think sometimes - but I wouldn't say it aloud, Dodo.
Apart from the various acts he puts on, he can be quite a
sensitive soul at times and I don't wish to cause him pain unless
it's absolutely necessary.
Well, as I was saying, this business of yanking up people's
bosoms and tightening their cheeks had provided the Skeltons
with an extremely nice converted farmhouse in Sussex, with a
marble swimming-pool (there were colour pictures in the Ieek-end
Telegraph), a jacuzzi, four cars in the garage, and all the
trimmings, which we tell each other we wouldn't want but
might quite like if we found them provided for us. Having
been sent to Lancing, and then to Cambridge to study medicine
and follow in his father's footsteps (or should I say his father's
wrinkles, Dodo, if you will 'forgive a small joke on a serious
subject) the boy should have been grateful or, if he couldn't
have managed that, at least not beaten his father about the head
with a favourite driver.

Late one afternoon - could it have been last July? Anyway, I
know it was still light - I came home from my bridge lesson
with Marigold Featherstone. She's Lady Featherstone, you
know, the Judge's wife, and we both suffer from extremely
irritating husbands. Of course she's not an o/d friend like you,
Dodo. Marigold and I were never together as new bugs at
Chippenham. She is a somewhat younger person but actually
not as silly as she quite often sounds. Well, when I got back to
Froxbury Mansions, I found Rumpole home surprisingly early.
An urgent conference in Pommeroy's Wine Bar over a bottle of
Chateau Fleet Street usually takes up at least two hours at the
end of his working day. He had his jacket and waistcoat off and
sat in his braces and shirtsleeves in a flat with closed windows,
where you might have roasted a chicken without the help of the
gas oven.
'You seem to be enjoying that brief, Rumpole,' I said as I

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

forced open a reluctant window, 'even more than a bottle of
your usual third-rate red wine."

'Are you planning to freeze me to death before I can pull off
what promises to be one of my most sensational defences?' he
asked in a plaintive sort of voice.

'If you're cold' - when dealing with Rumpole, you have to
be merciless - 'there's always your cardigan. Don't tell me
you've found another Penge Bungalow murder?'

'Penge Bungalow? What was that exactly? I tell you, R. v.
Skelton is going to outdo the fame of all my previous triumphs.
This is a case which will go down in history. I envisage a final
speech lasting at least a day.'

'Why will you be giving the final speech, Rumpole?'
'Because, needless to say, I am doing this case - as I did that
rather more trivial affair of the Penge Bungalow - alone and
without a leader!'

'Is that because all the leaders realize that Michael Skelton
has simply got no defence?'

'It's because my instructing solicitor knows that I am a far
greater defender than all those self-important amateurs who
wrap themselves in silk gowns and flaunt the initials Q.C. after
their names.'

'And who is your instructing solicitor?' I asked to put an end
to a speech which, after a lengthy marriage to a permanent
non-Q.C., I could repeat by heart. 'Some owner of a South
London bucket-shop? Cut-price defences in hopeless murder
cases offered to close friends of the Timson family?'

'What nonsense you do talk, Hilda.' Rumpole sighed heavily.
'My instructing solicitor happens to be Daniel Newcombe. To
those of us who know him well, and undertake his more
difficult cases, he will always be Danny Newcombe.'

'And who is this Danny, anyway?' It seems extraordinary to
me now, Dodo, that there was ever a time when I had to ask
such a question.

'Hilda, I know you are a complete innocent when it comes to
the law, but Newcombe, Pouncefort & Delaney are quite the
grandest firm dealing in criminal matters. Danny is the senior
partner. I believe that, with me in command, his firm may pull
off something sensational.'

9�

Hilda' s Story

'You mean, get a boy off who murdered his father.'

'Who is alleged to have murdered his father. Young Michael
is as innocent as you are until he's proved guilty.'

'I don't suppose you'd get Nick off if he'd beaten you to
death with a golf club.'

'If he'd beaten me to death I'd scarcely be in a position to
stand up and defend him.' Rumpole had the intolerable expres-sion
he puts on when he thinks he's said something clever, so I
ignored this and opened another window.

'And, by the way, Danny's invited me to dine with him at
the Sheridan Club next Thursday. He said he wanted to get to
know me better.'

'If that's what he wants, he'd be better off talking to me. At

least he'd get an unbiased opinion.'
'Oh, you're coming too.'
'You mean, he's invited me?'

'"And do bring your lovely wife." I assume it was you he
had in mind.'

'But, Rumpole! You hate going to dinner at the Sheridan
Club. You say it is full of pompous bores and...'

'Hilda! We all have to make sacrifices if we are to rise to the
top in the legal profession, and for the sake of a brief from
Newcombe, Pouncefort & Delaney, I would willingly rent a
dog-collar and go to dinner with the Archbishop of Canterbury.
My God! There's a wind whistling round my knees that must
have come straight from the Ural Mountains.'

'I told you, Rumpole. If you're feeling cold, then go and put
on warm clothing.'

He left me then, his lips forming those syllables which, I
had come to understand, spelt out She Who Must Be
Obeyed.

'I'm sorry to drag you to my club, which I'm afraid you'll find
desperately dull, Hilda. My excuse is, we need girls like you to
lighten the old place up occasionally. Don't we, Horace?' Danny
fished the bottle of Chablis out of the ice-bucket and consider-ately
refilled my glass when I was only halfway through the
potted shrimps.

'I really don't know.', I think it was the first time I'd known

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

Rumpole short of an answer to a question. 'I'm not a member
here.' �

'Not a member here?' Danny seemed genuinely surprised.
'We must do something about that. Or are you against Horace
joining the Sheridan, Hilda? Do you want to keep an eye on
him at home?'

'I wouldn't mind in the least. Life at home's far more
peaceful without him. That's provided he can spare time from

his other port of call.'
'What's that?'
'Pommeroy's Wine Bar.'

'I don't know it, I'm afraid,' Danny smiled. 'But it sounds
interesting.' I felt a sudden affection for a lawyer who'd never
heard of Pommeroy's. 'Is that white Burgundy all right for
you?' he was asking Rumpole with what I thought was admira-ble
consideration. To which my husband replied, if you can
believe this, Dodo, 'Thanks. If you're asking, I'd rather have a
slurp of the red. A couple of slurps, if that's at all possible.'. I
suppose I should count myself lucky that Rumpole and I don't
go out to dinner very much.

When the red wine came Rumpole said thoughtfully, 'From
the photographs it's obvious there'd been a hell of a fight in the
hall. The grandfather clock was knocked over and stopped at
ten forty-five. You noticed that, of course?'

'Horace, please! We didn't come here to talk shop.' Danny
put a hand on his Counsel's sleeve and I noticed how clean and
well-manicured his fingernails were, something you could
hardly say for Rumpole. 'We came here to get to know each
other. Thee are some pretty dusty old members here, Hilda.
But we do boast of quite decent pictures. There' - he turned to
look at the portrait of a man in a wig, smiling in what I thought
rather a condescending way, over the mantelpiece - 'Richard
Brinsley himself, a true wit like you, Horace, and a man of
many love affairs.' Not like Horace, I thought. I began to
wonder about Danny ... I must confess, Dodo, he seemed a
great deal more interesting than any other lawyer I'd met. He
had come alone, and there had been no mention of a Mrs
Newcombe. Later I remember him saying that he dreaded
going back to his empty flat. 'Since I lost Deirdre it's been

Hilda' s Story

lonely. I mean, you can't have much of a conversation with the
television. Television is full of discussion programmes, but you
can't discuss anything with it. It's not like a wife. It never
answers back.' When Danny said this, I had to fight a curious
impulse to put my arm round his shoulder to cheer him up.
But, of course, I couldn't do that. Not in the Sheridan Club,
not with Rumpole sitting there slurping his claret and asking a
really charming Indian waiter if he had anything remotely
resembling a toothpick about him.
'And over there,' Danny said, 'is the portrait of Elizabeth
Linley, whom Sheridan loved. There's a difference in years, of
course, but don't you think, Horace, she has a distinct look of
Hilda about her?' Rumpole looked surprised and said, 'No.'

At the weekend Rumpole and I went shopping in Safeway's.
I'd honestly rather he'd stayed at home but he'd become
strangely attentive since our dinner at the Sheridan and had
insisted on coming with me 'to help lug the heavy stuff'. As I
wandered round the shelves - I have to tell you, Dodo, I
wasn't even comparing prices, I was shopping in a kind of
dream - I couldn't help thinking of Danny (whom I no longer
thought of as Mr Newcombe). I wondered how old he might
be and thought he was timeless, anything from the late fifties
to the early seventies. His skin was a healthy pink and as free
from wrinkles, apart from laugh lines around the eyes, as it would've been if Michael Skelton's father had been at it, which
I was quite sure he hadn't. His eyes had a strange brilliance, an
almost unearthly blue, I remembered as I reached for a tin of
pineapple chunks which turned out to be Japanese bean shoots
when I got them home. Danny's eyes were as blue as the
clearest of seas on the sunniest of days. No reflection, Dodo, on
the wonderful way you painted a wet afternoon in Lamorna. I
thought about the well-cut tweed suit, the highly polished
brogues, the silk handkerchief in the breast pocket and the
slight whiff of some completely masculine eau de cologne. And
I thought of the way he leant towards me, one ear always
turned in my direction, seriously interested in anything I
might have to say.
And then I saw Rumpole come padding towards me down

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

the long alleyway between the fancy breads and the pet food,
wearing his weekend uniform of a woollen shirt and cardigan,
tubular grey flannels and battered Hush Puppies, worn with
the feet turned distinctively outwards. He shouted at me from
some distance, 'Blood, Hilda! I've been thinking about blood.'
'Stop making an exhibition of yourself, Rumpole! Everyone
can hear you,' I rebuked him in my most penetrating whisper
as soon as he was in earshot.
'You know why Michael Skelton didn't want to be a doctor
like his father?'
'Young people nowadays are always trying to be different
from their parents.'
'It was the blood. He couldn't stand the sight of blood.'
'Well, some people are squeamish, Rumpole. We all know
you're not squeamish about anything. Now, have you achieved
that simple little list I gave you?'
'Of course I have. Perfectly painless business, shopping -/f
you've got a system. I can't imagine why women make such a
song and dance about it.' At the checkout he returned to his
favourite subject. 'The hallway was covered in blood. Splashes
on the walls, pictures, everything in sight.'
'I see you forgot the washing powder, Rumpole, and I said
frozen potato chips not potato cakes. Is that the result of your
wonderful system?' The girl at the till was looking a little green
and I wanted to shut my husband up. Bloodstains are not the
thing to talk about on a Saturday morning in Safeway's.
'How would a boy who couldn't stand the sight of blood
commit a murder? Poison, perhaps. An electric fire dropped in
the bath, even. Hire a contract killer and he wouldn't have had
the embarrassment of taking any part in it. Surely the last
thing he'd choose is the way they deal with pigs in an abattoir?'
'Rage, Rumpole,' I told him, 'can drive people to forget
squeamishness. Now, give me the list and I'll finish off the
shopping properly.'

How woxald you react, Dodo, to being called a girl? I'm quite
sure Miz Liz Probert, the young radical lawyer in Rumpole's
Chamber, would have found it patronizing at best and probably
deep ly insulting. And yet we were girls, weren't we, Dodo,

Hilda' s Story

when we passed notes to each other in the back row during
Gertie Green's French lesson, or when we used watercolours
as experimental make-up in the art room? I don't know how it
is with you, but I don't feel that we've changed much over the
years. A little stiffer when I wake up perhaps, a lot more
weight to push up off the sofa, and a few hopes dashed. Do you
remember when I made a desperate plan to marry Stewart
Granger - I was going to bump into him, one morning, quite
casually, during the Christmas holidays in Cornwall Gardens,
where that awful little show-off Dorothy Bliss told us, quite
erroneously, he lived at the time. So far as I remember, Dodo,
you were after James Mason? So you've ended up unmarried
and I'm landed with Rumpole, and sometimes I find myself
wondering which of us is more lonely. But I think we're still
girls at heart, time has never robbed us of that, and when
Danny called me one in the Sheridan, I felt, to be quite honest
with you, nothing but pleasure.

All the same, it was a huge surprise as the telephone rang
one morning, when I was looking forward to keeping myself
company in Froxbury Mansions, and some secretary's voice
said, 'Mrs Rumpole? I've got Mr Daniel Newcombe on the
line.'

'It must be some mistake. Mr Rumpole's in Court and...'
She told me there was no mistake. He'd asked for Mrs
Rumpole particularly. I was surprised, Dodo, and even more
surprised when I found myself alone with Danny at a corner
table at the Brasserie San Quentin, and Danny, who had a
meeting with clients in Knightsbridge - a millionaire from
Kuwait, who, he told me, was accused of pinching nighties
from Harrods - was pouring out Beaujolais for me. He had a
double-breasted suit on this time, and gleaming black brogues
instead of brown, and some regimental or old school tie, and
the same bright blue eyes glittered at me.

'Bit of luck,' he said, 'you happened to be free.'
'It wasn't luck at all. I'm free nearly always.'
'And your husband's in Court?'

'Luckily. When he isn't, you'd think there'd been a death in

nily.'

'And when he's bu. sy, it's because there's been a death in

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

someone else's family?' This was rather neatly phrased, don't
you think, Dodo?

'Oh, he doesn't always do murders. It's usually thieving, or
something or other indecent. Murder is a rare treat for
Rumpole. Of course, he's full of himself because you decided
to let him do Skelton alone and without a leader.'

'I didn't want the Jury to think Michael's a poor little rich
boy.' Danny looked at me and I saw the wrinkles at the corner
of his blue eyes. 'If I'd had a top Q.C., they'd've said, "That's
what he does with his father's money!" Your husband, with his
gravy stains and torn gown, might make the good citizens of

East Sussex feel quite sorry for the lad.'

'Is that the reason?'

'I'm sure I can be honest with you, Hilda.'

'I'm sure you can but I don't think I'll tell Rumpole.'

'It might be more tactful not to.' I don't know why I felt a
sort of excitement then, Dodo. It wasn't only because I was
drinking wine in the middle of the day - something I never do.
It was, I'd better admit it, because Danny and I were sharing a
secret, something which Rumpole would never know. I mean,
to put it far more bluntly than he'd have liked, it seemed he

had been chosen because of the state of his waistcoat.
'Rumpole seems to have found a defence.'
'Good for him. I've been racking my brains.'

'Apparently Dimitri Skelton was desperate for Michael to
become a surgeon.'

'Naturally the father wanted his only son to follow in his
footsteps. Didn't Rumpole's son...?'

'Oh, Nick had seen quite enough of the law to put him off it
for ever. It seems that Michael Skelton almost fainted at the
sight of blood.'

'So he told me.'

'So how, Rumpole's going to ask, could he have committed
such a blood-stained murder?'

Danny didn't answer my question, or Rumpole's question,
for a while, but when he did, he was still smiling. 'I suppose
money overcomes a lot of finer feelings. A terrible lot of
money.'

'You mean...?'

Hilda' s Story

'About three million in the estate. New faces can be expensive.
And the profits from the beauty treatment had been
cleverly invested.'
'So it wasn't just a quarrel about the boy's career?'
'More serious than that. Dimitri's wife died of cancer five
years ago. It seems he never got on with her family. Michael
was his sole heir. He stood to gain a huge amount of money
from his father's death. That's the big hurdle Rumpole's got to
get over. I don't envy him that, however much I envy him
other things.'
'I can't imagine what sort of other things.'
'Like your companionship.' I have to say, Dodo, I found
Danny's answer strangely disturbing. 'By the way, Hilda,' he
went on, in quite a businesslike way, to cover my confusion,
'I've got seats at Covent Garden next Thursday. If you happen
to have a free evening?'

' Underneath these granite crosses
No one counts their gains and losses But
they whisper underground
All the answers they have found.

How else can our quarrels end?
Our enemy become our friend?
The dead around us all reply
Peace be with you-you must die.'

'What's that, Rumpole? Poetry?'
'Hardly. Not really poetry. Not the sort of stuff that gets
into The Oxford Book of English Verse, the Quiller-Couch
edition.'
'I thought it was quite good. At least it rhymes. Who wrote
it?'
'It's called "In a Sussex Graveyard" by Michael Skelton.'
'He's a poet?'
'He wants to be. His father wanted him to be a plastic
surgeon. Personally, I don't believe he was suited to either
profession. If you're going to be a poet you've got to be able to
stand the sight of blood.' This was one of Rumpole's epigrams
- or bons mots, as Gertie Green used to call them, Dodo. So,

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

as you may imagine, I ignored it. I was more than a little
irritated by him. He had a load.'of new instructions open on the
kitchen table so I could hardly get at my chops and mash,
and he was slightly above himself, as he always is after he's
been to see a customer in prison in an important case, and he
seemed to regard his day trip to Sussex as something of a day
out.

'A strange young man, Hilda. He seems to think that because
he writes poetry he exists in a world of his own, rather above
ordinary mortals. Can you believe it, he hardly bothered to
answer my questions? He didn't seem nervous or frightened or
even especially concerned about the case. Just bored by it. But
he's wrong, you know. In my opinion poetry is written by
people who live quite ordinary lives and have a way with
words:

"Golden lads and girls all must,

As chimney-sweepers, come to dust."

The man who wrote that went to the pub and worried about
his bank account.'

'You must be a poet then, Rumpole. You spend enough time
in Pommeroy's Wine Bar. Was that another bit of young
Skelton?'

'No, another bit of old Shakespeare.' You know, Dodo, Eng.
Lit. was never my strongest subject, but Rumpole needn't have
sounded so patronizing.

'You're not telling me this boy killed his father because he
wanted to be a poet, are you, Rumpole?'

'I'm not telling you he killed his father full stop. That is a
fact which still has to be decided by twelve honest citizens of
East Sussex.'

I gave a heavy sigh, signalling that I'd heard quite enough
of Rumpole on the burden of proof to last a lifetime. Then I
said, 'I should think he probably killed his father for the
money.'

'Hilda, have you accepted a brief for the Prosecution?'

'Well, he was his father's sole heir, wasn't he? And I don't
suppose cosmetic surgery comes cheap.' In my anxiety to put
Rumpole down I had said rather more than I intended.

Hilda' s Story

'How did you know that?' Rumpole gave me his sharp cross-examiner's
look.

'I really can't remember. Hadn't the mother died and
Michael was the only child? It said that in the Daily
Telegraph.'

'It's not quite true that he's the sole heir.' Rumpole ferreted
about among his papers for a copy of the will. 'Skelton left
pounds oo,ooo to his secretary -an attractive girl, Michael tells me:
"And all the rest and residue of my estate to my son, Michael
Lymington Skelton, or if he should predecease me to my
cousin Ivan Lymington Skelton, now resident in Sydney,
Australia."'

'Well, Michael didn't predecease him, did he? Otherwise you
wouldn't be defending him.'

'Oh, Hilda, what a wonderful grasp of legal principles you
have!' It was at moments like these that I was strongly tempted
to tell Rumpole why he'd been chosen to defend young Skelton
alone and without a leader. However, I contented myself with
saying, 'I don't really know what kind of defence you've got.'

'The grandfather clock' - Rumpole produced the photograph
of the bloodstained hall - 'stopped at ten forty-five. I told you

that was important.'

'Why?'

'Michael's got an alibi for ten forty-five.'

'Really. What is it?'

'That poem. He was walking in the beechwoods, about half a
mile from the house. Composing it.'

'But you said it wasn't even a good poem.'

'Or convincing evidence. In itself. But there were witnesses.'
'Who?'

'New Age travellers. That's what they call themselves. Sort
of politically correct gypsies. They were camping in the woods
and Michael stopped to talk to them. He even recited his poem

to them, so they might remember him.'

'So have you found these gypsies?'

'Not yet. But today, after we'd seen Michael in Lewes gaol,
old Turnbull took me for a walk to the beechwoods near Long
Acre, the Skeltons' home.'

'Who's Turnbull?'

Rumpole and the Angel of Decah

'Newcombe's clerk or legal executive - I think that's what
they call themselves now. I r. eally don't know what you find so
funny, Hilda.'

'Just the thought of you, going for a walk in any sort of
wood.'

'One has to make sacrifices - for all-important murders. We
found some tyre marks, the remains of a sort of camp-fire and

an old shirt bearing the legend LEgBIAN$ WITH ATTITUDE.'
'Talking of Danny Newcombe, Rumpole.'
'I wasn't. I was talking of his clerk.'

'Danny's invited me to Covent Garden next Thursday. He
didn't think you'd care for the opera.'

'Opera? Isn't that the stuff Claude Erskine-Brown takes
young legal ladies to when he's trying to get off with them? No,
Danny's damned right, I wouldn't care for it. I'd rather be
stuck before Mr Iniustice Graves on a six months' post office
fraud. But why on earth has he asked.you, Hilda?'

'I think, Rumpole' - the time had come to take his mind off
his murder case and give him something serious to worry about
- 'that Danny Newcombe has taken a bit of a shine to me.'

There was a short silence and then Rumpole said, 'The first
thing Danny Newcombe's got to do is to find those New Age
travellers.' At that moment he didn't seem to give a hoot
whether his instructing solicitor had taken a shine to me or not,
and, quite honestly, Dodo, I decided to proceed accordingly.

Well, there I was in the Crush Bar at Covent Garden Opera
House, which I had often heard about, but never been crushed
in before. It was the first interval and I had sat for an hour and
a half in the great gold and plush of the place, letting the music
wash over me and getting little clue about the story from the
words which occasionally flickered on a screen over the stage. I
couldn't really understand what the fuss over Don Giovanni
was all about. He was a shortish, stout person, who sweated a
good deal, and I would be prepared to say that, as a lady-killer,
he didn't rank far ahead of Rumpole. I had bought something
new and blue for the occasion from Debenham's and, by an
amazing coincidence, Danny was also wearing a dark blue suit
with a cornfiower-coloured tie which made him look younger

I0O

Hilda' s Story

and went stunningly with his eyes. There at least, I thought, as
he came towards me with two glasses of champagne, was a man
who might have made a thousand and three conquests in
Spain.

'This is a great treat for me,' he said, as he handed me a glass
clouded by the iced wine. 'My favourite opera with a truly
sympathetic companion!'

'A treat for me,' I told him, 'to be in a theatre without
having to give Rumpole a quick dig with my elbow every time

his eyes start to close and the snores threatens to begin.'

'I hope he doesn't mind our going out together?'

'Not at all. He's perfectly happy to be left at home with your
murder.'

'Oh, dear. Is he boring you to death with that?'

'I do get rather a lot of the Skeltons. When I was trying to
eat my supper the other night he insisted on reading out the
father's will...'

'Was that interesting?'

'Not really. Rumpole seemed surprised to discover that
Michael wasn't the only person to benefit.'

'Oh, you mean the Aussie secretary. We checked up on her.
She had gone to a girlfriend's birthday party in Wimbledon
and spent the night there. She was celebrating until she went
to bed around two in the morning. Anyway, I doubt if she'd be
much of a hand with a golf club. You know, looking round this
bar, I can see a good many people I've acted for when they
were charged with various offences. They all look extremely
prosperous and, of course...'

'And what?' I asked when he hesitated, smiling.

'Envious. That I'm with such a charming companion. Oh,
good evening, Judge.' We were joined, not by one of Danny's
clients, but by a woman sent to try them, Mrs Justice Phillida
Erskine-Brown, always known to Rumpole (who, for many
years, had had the softest of spots for her) as the Portia of his
Chambers. In her wake trailed her husband Claude Erskine-Brown,
now a Q.C. You will remember, Dodo, that he only
achieved what Rumpole calls Queer Customer status when his
wife was made up to a scarlet judge, adding beauty and an
unexpected degree of serenity to the Bench. 'Hilda Rumpole

IOI

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

and Mr Newcombe. Good heavens!' her ladyship delivered
judgement. 'It is a surprise seeing you two here together.'

'Hilda had a free evening and I was happy to introduce her
to my favourite opera.'

'I'm afraid it's not my favourite Leporello.' Claude Erskine-Brown
looked as though he'd been invited to a feast and
offered a damp sausage-roll. 'Quite the worst "Non voglio piu
servire" I've ever heard at the Garden.'

'But, of course, you're not usually listening so carefully, are
you, Claude? You're usually far more interested in whomever
you happen to have invited. Isn't that true?' The Judge accom-panied
her question with a sort of humourless laugh, and I
remembered that she'd learnt the art of cross-examination'
from Rumpole.

'How's the Skelton case going?' Claude asked Danny with, I
thought, ill-concealed anxiety. 'I only ask because my diary's
getting pretty full since I took silk.'

'Oh, I think Danny's going to leave R. v. Skelton to
Rumpole.' I spoke as a person with inside knowledge. 'He's
not taking in a leader.'

'Can that be right?' Claude looked seriously concerned, but
his wife said, 'Not a bad idea, that. Rumpole's always at his
best in a hopeless case.'

'But he'll start attacking the police. He'll try to destroy all
the prosecution witnesses. They won't like that sort of thing in
East Sussex.' Claude moved closer to Danny in a vain attempt
to sell his forensic talents as though they were double-glazing,
and Phillida leant forward and asked for a word in my ear.
They were a few words and they came as a question, 'Don't tell

me you're going out with Danny Newcombe?'
'Well, isn't it obvious?'
'Is it?'

'We're not exactly sitting at home watching television, are

we?'

'But, you mean.., you're actually going out with him.'
'Yes, of course. Well, we've only actually done it twice.'

There was what I believe is known as a pregnant pause, and
then Phillida said, 'And Rumpole doesn't know?'

'Well, he knows about the opera. I haven't told him about

I02

Hilda' s Story

the other thing.' I had, you will remember, Dodo, kept quiet
about the Brasserie San Quentin.

The Judge gave me a long look of deep concern and said, 'I
promise you, Hilda, your secret is absolutely safe with me. And
if Claude starts blabbering, I'll do him for contempt of Court!'

Before she could explain this urgent but mysterious message,
the interval was over and the bell called us to the further
adventures of the Don, who, in my honest opinion, Dodo,
couldn't hold a candle to Danny Newcombe in the lady-killing
department.

In the second interval we saw Phillida and Claude together
in the distance, talking to each other with unusual vivacity and
studiously avoiding looking in our direction, as though we
were tedious relations they hoped they need have nothing
further to do with, or people suffering from a contagious
disease. I might have taken some offence at this, Dodo, but I
was too busy listening to what Danny was saying to me.
Although his eyes were still bright and smiling, his voice had
become low and unusually serious. He looked at me, Dodo, in
what I can only describe as a yearning sort of way and said,

'Sometimes I long for a complete change in my life.'

'I'm sure we all do.'

'I'd love to give up the legal treadmill. Go away to the
sunshine. Perhaps with new companions, or a new companion.
You know what, Hilda?'

'No, what?' Quite honestly, Dodo, I was feeling quite weak
at the knees, and I'm quite sure it wasn't the champagne when
he said, ' '"Tis not too late to seek a newer world."'

I couldn't look at him, Dodo. I glanced across at the Judge
and her husband, and caught them turning hurriedly away.
Then I stared down into my glass of champagne and knocked
the rest of it back. My mouth was full of air bubbles which
made me suddenly speechless, which may have been just as
well.

'"Push off, and sitting well in order smite / The sounding
furrows;"' Danny went on and I realized that he was reciting
poetry, as Rumpole does at important moments. I don't know
what you'd'ye thought, Dodo, but I was quite sure that the
words contained some sort of an invitation. Then we were

I03

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

summoned to see the last bit of the opera, where the General's
statue comes to supper, and the unfortunate lady's man is sent
down to hell.

Some nights later the scene was far less exciting. Rumpole and
I were sitting either side of the gas fire in Froxbury Mansions,
and I thought I'd discover whether he was noticing me or not,
so I asked, 'What are those photographs, Rumpole?'

'Oh, nothing very sensational.' His brief in Skelton was
spread out on the floor around him. 'Pictures I got Turnbull to
take in the woods. The remains of the gypsy encampment. I'm
getting Newcombe to advertise: ANY NEW AGE TRAVELLERS
WHO MET A YOUNG MAN WHO READ POETRY TO THEM ABOUT
IO.45 ON THE NIGHT OF I2TH MAY ... I thought he should
put it in Time Out, the Big Issue and the East Sussex Gazette.
Can you think of anything else politically correct gypsies might
read?'

'I have no idea what gypsies read.' I went back to the
Daily Telegraph crossword, but Rumpole was in an unusually
communicative mood. 'I had the most extraordinary conversa-tion
with Claude Erskine-Brown,' he told me. 'By the way,
he's prosecuting me in Skelton. Graves is coming down to try
it.'

'I thought Claude was busy angling to lead you.'

'Did you hear that at your bridge lesson?'

'Yes.' It was very strange, Dodo, how quickly I took to
telling Rumpole some untruths.

'Well, Danny wouldn't brief him, but Ambrose Clough, who
was prosecuting, went off with jaundice and Claude got the
brief. Oh, yes, and he's leading Mizz Liz Probert. She'll know
what paper New Age travellers take in, I'll have to ask her.
Anyway, Claude and I were chatting about the case and he
suddenly said, "Philly and I are tremendously sorry for you,
Rumpole." '

'Why on earth did he say that?' I asked, knowing the answer.
'That's what I asked him. I told him I'd done far more
hopeless cases than Michael Skelton, and I thought I'd been
able to put up with the funereal Graves in the past and the old
Death's Head had no further terrors for me. Furthermore,

zo4

Hilda' s Story

having Claude for the Prosecution was always a distinct plus
for the Defence...'

'How very kind of you, Rumpole, to tell him that.'

'And then he said the reason he felt sorry for me had got
nothing to do with the case.'

'Well, what on earth had it got to do with?'

' "If you don't want to talk about it, of course, I understand
perfectly," Claude said, in a most mysterious way.

' "Have you been taking lessons from the Sphinx, old thing?"
I ventured to ask Claude. "You're speaking in riddles."

'"It must have come" - the chump Claude looked at me
extremely seriously- "like a dagger through the heart."

'"If you're speaking of my occasional fits of indiscretion I
find a quick brandy works wonders," I told him, and then he

asked how long you and I had been married.'
'And what did you tell him?'
'That I couldn't remember.'

'Typical, Rumpole. Entirely typical. Well, it's getting along
for forty-seven years.' Nearly half a century, and, I wondered,
Dodo, if that made it too late to seek a newer world?

'And then Claude said the most extraordinary thing,'
Rumpole said, quite seriously. '"It might make it a lot easier if
you were thinner."'

'What did he mean?'

'I asked him that and he said, "Positions and all that sort of
thing." Can you understand what he meant?'

'No.' That was true, at least, Dodo. Quite honestly I
couldn't.

'Do you think anything would be easier if I were thinner?'
Rumpole was puzzled.

'Putting on your socks, perhaps.'

'Perhaps that's what he meant.' Rumpole thought it over.
'Claude said that a simple diet might make all the difference.
Then he gave me a long, sorrowful look and buggered off.' I
turned my own long, sorrowful look back to the Daily Telegraph
crossword, which had managed to defeat me, and silence
reigned in Froxbury Mansions until Rumpole said, 'Skelton's
fixed for the fourth of next month. It'll be quite an occasion.
Danny Newcombe's attending the trial in person. He'll be

xo5

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

staying in the same hotel. Rather a drawback, really. I don't
want to spend every dinner time getting unhelpful advice from
my instructing solicitor.'
'Rumpole ...' I started, not after I'd thought things over,
but after I'd given way to a sudden, irresistible temptation,
'can I come too?'
'Come where?'
'To East Sussex Assizes. To stay in the...'
'The Old Bear hotel?'
'Yes.'
'Why on earth would you want to do that?'
'Because it's a long time since I've seen you in action,
Rumpole.'
'What do you mean, Hilda?'
'I mean, it's a long time since I've seen you in Court.'
'Well, if you really want to. I'll be working most evenings. I
mean, I don't suppose it'll be much fun for you.'
'Oh, I think I might like it quite a lot.' And then, after
we had sat in silence for another five minutes, I said,
'Rumpole...'
'Yes, Hilda.'
'You know the poem you're always reciting: "'Tis not too
late to seek a newer world . .. / We are not now that strength
which in old days / Moved earth and heaven;"?'
Rumpole's brief was folded and in his lap with his hands
over it. He sat back in his chair, his eyes shut and recited:

'We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.'

'"And not to yield,"' I repeated. 'I'm not quite sure about
that.'

It was true, Dodo, I hadn't seen Rumpole in Court for a long
time, and I had to admit, reluctantly, that as soon as he took
his seat in the second row (the front one is reserved for the

xo6

Hilda' s Story

Queer Customers), he was a man in his element. Mr Justice
Graves looked just like Rumpole's description - a man on his
deathbed about to make a will, cutting out almost everyone he
could think of. Claude, opening the case, looked nervous and
not always in complete control of his voice, which trilled up
into a high note of indignation as he described the peculiar
horror of the crime. Liz Probert, sitting behind him, was
frowning as though she feared some terrible insult to women
was about to be offered in evidence, although I couldn't for the
life of me see how the case concerned women at all. Michael
Skelton, in the dock, was small, dark, pale and neat, looking
absurdly young, like a schoolboy at some important event such
as a prizegiving, and not like a murderer at all; although I
wondered if there was any particular way of recognizing a
murderer, and how many of those old clients Danny recognized
in the Crush Bar might have done someone in. Only Rumpole,
spreading out his papers, dropping them on the floor, pushing
back his wig to scratch his head, or pushing it forward as he
yawned heavily and closed his eyes, seemed likely to dominate
the courtroom. He looked, I thought, far more at home than he
ever does in Froxbury Mansions; and I was in no doubt he
would continue his real life in Court whether I was there or
not.

I sat with the solicitors, next to Danny. The Court was so
full that we had to sit close together and, from time to time,
when he moved to look for a statement or pass a note, his arm
brushed mine. I could feel the roughness of his sleeve and
smell his discreet eau de cologne. On Danny's other side sat
Mr Turnbull, a squat, red-faced man with a bull neck who
called me madam and already seemed to regard me as attached
to his employer rather than to aumpole.

Well, Dodo, I don't know how much you remember of the
Skelton murder trial, and I'm certainly not going to bore you
by going through all the evidence that took up one of the
strangest and most unnerving weeks of my life. Of course I
remember every moment of it. But it's difficult for me to write
about it without cold shivers and flushes of embarrassment
but, as we used to say long ago, if you can live through Gertie's
French lessons, you can Jive through anything, so here goes.

IO7

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

First came the Bealeys who worked for Skelton and lived in
a cottage about fifty yards from the back door of Long Acre.
Mrs Beazley, a wobbling, panting woman, with a look of
perpetual discontent, was the cook-housekeeper, and Mr Beaz-ley,
a short, weaselly sort of person, who spoke as though he
was always apologizixqg for something - perhaps working for
the deceased plastic stxrgeon meant always having to say you're
sorry - was the driver and handyman.

'I'm afraid Mrs Beazley has quite a taste for old war films,
my Lord,' Beazley apologized from the witness stand. 'And we
had the one on again about the Yankees fighting over a Pacific
island...'

'Iwojima,' Claude was helping him, as Rumpole growled;
'Don't lead...'

'Iwojima. Thank you, sir. Well. The guns were firing and
the bombs dropping and my wife, sir, was thoroughly enjoying
herself, and that was it until the film finished. I doubt very

much if we'd've heard anything from the house before then.'
'And what time did the film end?' Claude asked.
'I think it was about eleven o'clock time.'
'And what happened after that?'

'Well, I heard someone calling from the house. It was a sort
of call for help.' Arid then Beazley described how he went
across to the house and found a scene of bloodstained confusion,
and saw Michael Skelton holding a golf club beside the battered
body of his father, who appeared to be already dead.

'Now then, Beasley.' Rumpole, it seemed, was prepared to
sail into the first prosecution witness with his guns blazing.
'You heard a cry for help and you crossed the yard and went
into the house. How long did it take you to get into the hallway
from the moment you heard the cry?'

'I might venture to suggest.., a matter of seconds, sir.'

'You might venture to suggest it, Beazley. And you might
well be correct. And when you first saw Mr Skelton Senior, he
appeared to you to be dead?'

'He appeared to me to be very dead, sir.'

'So if he was dead, then he's unlikely to have been able to
call out for help a few seconds before?'

'That would seem to follow, Mr Rumpole.' A weary and

108

Hilda' s Story sepulchral voice came from the Bench, apparently inviting
Rumpole to get on with it and not waste time. At which my
husband, with elaborate courtesy, said, 'Thank you, my Lord.
Thank you for that helpful interruption in favour of the Defence.
Now, Beazley, you say you and your wife were watching
a war film at ten forty-five?'
'He has already told us that, Mr Rumpole.' Graves was
making it clear that he hadn't joined the defence team.
'Any rumpus in the hallway which took place at that time
would have been drowned by the battle of Iwojima?'
'Yes, sir.'
'So you heard no voices from the house at that time?'
'No, sir.'
'But when you did hear a voice, we are agreed it could hardly
have been that of Mr Skelton Senior?'
'No, sir.'
'It might very well have been the voice of my client, young
Michael Skelton?'
'It might have been.'
'Calling for help for the man he's accused of murdering? Is that your evidence?'
And without waiting for a reply, Rumpole swathed himself
in his gown and sat down in triumph. This gesture had the
unfortunate effect of tempting Graves (Mr Injustice Gravestone,
I've heard Rumpole call him) to restore the balance by
asking the witness if it were also possible that the young man
was calling for help because he didn't realize how seriously he
had injured his father, a proposition with which the obedient
Beazley was delighted to agree.
'The Judge is against us,' Danny turned to whisper to
Rumpole.
'So much the better.' Rumpole was indestructibly cheerful.
'We'll make the Jury realize how highly prejudiced the old
Death's Head is. That might get us a sympathy verdict.'
But all looks of sympathy seemed to me to drain out of the
Jury's faces when Mrs Beazley struggled into the witness-box
and described what had happened when she served dinner on
that fatal evening. From the first course ('a nice roast beef done
with my own horseradish sauce and all the trimmings,' she

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

panted), she'd heard father and son arguing, and the son
getting more and more agitated,' as Mr Skelton stayed calm and
determined. Michael would have to finish his medical course
or he wouldn't get another penny, his father told him. And, if
he thought he could live on poetry, he was welcome to try it,
eked out with a bit of National Assistance, but he wasn't going
to live for nothing in his father's house. I thought it was
strange of Mr Skelton to tell his son all that with a heavily
breathing cook in the room, but perhaps he was one of those
people who think their workers are deaf and blind, and probably
have no real existence at all.
The evidence was at its worst when Mrs Beazley came back
with the treacle tart and cream. 'Mr Skelton always had a
sweet tooth, bless him, and I make treacle tart according to my
own recipe which, he said, couldn't be beaten.' She had no
doubt about what she heard. Michael was standing up and
shouting at his father, 'I've got a whole long life to lead and
you might die quite soon.' There was a sudden, awful silence
and then Mrs Beazley went on. 'They just looked at each other
and neither of them said anything. I set the plates for their
dessert and just got out as quick as I could.' When she came
back to clear away at about nine o'clock, the dining-room was
empty and she thought they had probably gone into the
drawing-room. (Mr Skelton always liked the coffee served with the pudding.) Then she settled down to watch her favourite
war film and knew no more until her husband told her that
he'd telephoned for the police and an ambulance was on its
way.
Rumpole always told me that if a witness was telling the
truth you should keep the cross-examination short. I don't
know why he told me that, Dodo. He could hardly have
thought that I'd ever be in a position to cross-examine anybody.
So he was clearly anxious to get Mrs Beazley out of the
witness-box as quickly as possible. He established the fact that
Michael might have left the house after dinner and not returned
until after eleven, and then he let her go. Danny turned his
head and whispered in my ear, 'He hasn't even challenged her
evidence about Michael saying his father might die quite soon.
The strongest evidence against us and Rumpole hasn't even

Hilda' s Story

contradicted it!' It seemed to me he spoke more in sorrow than
in anger.

I'll spare you all the gory details, Dodo. Rumpole particularly
enjoyed himself with the forensic evidence. He seems to regard
himself as the greatest living authority on bloodstains. There
was blood of his father's group on Michael's hands, his shirt
cuffs, on one of his sleeves and on the head of the golf club.
Rumpole seemed to be suggesting that the blood got on
Michael's clothes when he knelt down to examine his father's
wounds, and I thought that he had made a bit of headway with
this theory, in spite of the gloomy interventions of the learned
Judge. 'I thought your client didn't want to be a doctor, Mr
Rumpole,' was one of them. 'I don't know why he would have
been so anxious to examine the wounds.' Rumpole also got the
scene of the crime officer to agree that the grandfather clock in
the hall had fallen over and stopped at ten forty-five, which
probably would have been the time of the attack. He also
established that it was a Saturday, and that Skelton had been
playing golf and had left his bag of clubs in the hall, so his
assailant wouldn't have had far to look for a weapon.

At four o'clock Claude got to his feet and asked to raise a
matter. He told the Judge that the Defence had filed an alibi
notice stating that Michael Skelton was in the woods reading a
poem he had written to some New Age travellers. However,
Mr Rumpole had failed to give the Prosecution the names of
the witnesses they intended to call to support this so-called
alibi.

'Well, Mr Rumpole?' Graves asked in a voice as near to
doom as he could make it. 'Why has the Defence not supplied
the names of their alibi witnesses?'

'Simply because we haven't traced them yet, my Lord.'
Rumpole can, when hard pressed to it, manage a disarming
smile.

'And what steps have you taken?'

'We have advertised, my Lord, in several publications.'
'Aren't these travellers committing an offence under the new
Criminal Justice Act? I imagine they were camping without
permission in Mr Skelton's woodland.'

III

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

'Even those who commit offences read newspapers, my
Lord. We shall produce the advertisements we placed in Time
Out.'
'Time what, Mr Rumpole?' His Lordship was making a
note.
'Out, my Lord. The Big Issue and the East Sussex Gazette have you got them there?' Rumpole leant forward to whisper to
Danny who, in close consultation with Turnbull, was going
through the file.
'I'm afraid we didn't.'
'You didn't what?'
'I'm sorry, Mr Rumpole.' The red-faced clerk was looking
extremely flustered. 'Pressure of work. I'm afraid the advertising
got overlooked.'
'Overlooked! This is a charge of murder, you know, not an
unrenewed dog licence.' I saw Claude and Liz Probert smiling,
enjoying Rumpole's discomfiture, and Danny, as shocked as he
was, told Rumpole, 'I'm afraid there's no excuse for Turnbull.
Of course, I can't deal with every detail personally. I've told
him that.'
Well, Rumpole managed to wipe the anger off his face and
stood up and smiled again. He asked Graves to adjourn the
case so that the advertisements might be published. After
lengthy argument, his Lordship refused to grant an adjournment.
The case could take several more days and would be
fully reported in the press. When he left Court, Rumpole said,
'Thank God, he's given us a ground for appeal!' But I could
tell that he was still very angry indeed.

Rumpole was late getting back to the hotel that night, so
Danny and I decided to go in to dinner without him. It was
hardly cheerful in the dining-room, distinctly cold, hung with
sporting prints and heavy with the smell of furniture polish
and overcooked lamb. Whilst we were waiting for the soup,
Danny said, 'I'm seriously worried about your husband,
Hilda.'
'Why?' At that moment I wasn't worrying about Rumpole
particularly.
'He's started off badly, getting on the wrong side of the

II2

Hilda' s Story

Judge. And I'm not at all sure the Jury like the way he's
handling our case. Do you honestly tlaink he wants to win?'

'I honestly think Rumpole wants to win every case he does.

The only thing is...'

'What, Hilda?'

'I think he was cross because the advertisements hadn't gone
in the papers.'

'I tore Turnbull off a most terrific strip about that. Not that
I believe it was a particularly hopeful line of country. Can you
imagine any of these travellers turning up? Let's face it, Hilda,
those sort of free spirits spend their time keeping away from
the law.'

The soup came then, beige in colour and not particularly
hot. In spite of these drawbacks, I was enjoying my stay at the
Old Bear, particularly when Danny gave me one of his most

twinkling looks and said, in a confidential sort of way, 'Hilda?'
'Yes.'

'Will you do something for me?'

I don't know why it was, Dodo, that I felt suddenly breath-less
when he asked me that, but I tried to answer him as calmly
as possible. 'It depends what it is. But I'll try...'

'Keep an eye on Rumpole, will you? I know he's not pleased
with me, and he may not tell me what he's got in mind. So if

he's planning to take any sort of peculiar line...'

'What sort of peculiar line?'

'I don't know. But if he gets any really strange ideas you will
let me know, won't you?'

'I suppose so,' I found myself saying. 'Well, all right.'

'Thank you, Hilda dear. I knew I could trust you.' And then
he put his hand on mine.

I can see it now in my mind's eye, Dodo. My hand was on
the table and his, slightly suntanned, with the carefully tended
nails and heavy gold signet ring on the little finger was on top
of it, and then I looked up and there was Rumpole standing in
the doorway. I think he must have seen where Danny's hand
was but he never mentioned it; and as for me, well you may be
sure, Dodo, I never asked him whether he had seen it or not.

'I hope you don't mind. We've started without you.' Danny
gave my husband his most dazzling smile.

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

'Apparently.' Rumpole was far from friendly.

'You haven't been working?" I wanted to sound sympathetic.
'Someone has to. I've been down the cells with Michael.'
'I don't suppose you learnt anything new?'

'As a matter of fact I did. Something he hadn't the sense to
tell us before. He said he didn't, out of respect for his father's
memory. He's a strange lad. It's almost as though he wants to
get himself convicted. Anyway, he gave me the name of the
doctor.'

'Which doctor, Rumpole?'

'Fellow called Christie-Vickers. Minds a shop somewhere in
Harley Street. Michael isn't sure where. About two weeks
before the quarrel...'

'You mean the quarrel when Skelton got killed?' Danny
interrupted.

'No, I mean the quarrel Mrs Beazley heard at dinner... His
father told him that Christie-Vickers had diagnosed cancer of
the prostate. That's why he said the skin doctor might die
soon, and he couldn't expect Michael to live on doing a job he
hated.'

'He's only just thought of that?' Danny looked doubtful.

'He's only just decided to tell us. Perhaps he's beginning to
realize that even poets can't ignore the evidence against them.'

'It wasn't a particularly nice thing for the boy to say to his
father.' I was feeling as sceptical as Danny did about young
Skelton.

'He's not accused of not being particularly nice, Hilda.'
Rumpole was quite sharp with me, Dodo. 'He's on trial for
murder.'

'So you want me to get on to this Christie-Vickers?' Danny
got out a little pad in a leather case and made a note with a gold
pencil.

'Now would hardly be soon enough.' So Danny went off to
telephone and, when the waitress came to take his order,
Rumpole astonished me. 'Just a green salad if you can manage
it,' he said. 'And perhaps a hunk of cheese. A smallish hunk, I
suppose.'

'Rumpole' - I looked at him - 'are you sickening for
something?'

xx4

Hilda' s Story

'I don't think so,' he said. 'Are you?' We didn't say much
more until Danny came back and said he'd found Dr ChristieVickers
in the telephone book and tried his house number but
got no reply. He'd ring the Harley Street consulting room in
the morning.
That night I honestly thought I must tell Rumpole. Tell him
what, you may say after reading this far, which, as a story of
illicit love and infidelity, would be considered too uneventful
for your average parish magazine and would certainly not get a
line in the Daily Telegraph. But Danny had invited me, hadn't
he, not only to the opera but to share his life? What else was all
that stuff about it not being too late to seek a newer world and pushing off and smiting the sounding furrows? I was sitting up
in my twin bed in the Old Bear as these thoughts flickered
through my mind, looking at the yellowing walls and repeated
patterns of daisies on the curtains and bed covers, the elecric
kettle and assorted tea bags on a rather unsteady shelf, and
hearing the sound, like a whale rising up through the waves
and spouting, which was Rumpole cleaning his teeth in the en
suite bathroom. When he came back with his hair standing on
end, in his old camel-hair dressing-gown and striped pyjamas,
he looked, I thought, like a small boy to whom something
unexpectedly outrageous has suddenly happened. I really don't
know why it was, perhaps I wanted to put off telling him for as
long as possible, or did I want to justify myself by putting
Rumpole in the wrong? Quite honestly, Dodo, I can't be sure
why I did it, but I said, 'Danny's worried about the way you're
doing the case.'
'Danny? Why do you call him Danny?'
'You said everyone did.'
'Perhaps everyone hasn't got a special reason. Have you,
Hilda?'
'I told you. He's worried about the case.'
'I expect he has other worries on his mind also. What was
that wretched opera you saw? Don Giovanni? That bed-hopping
Spaniard had a few worries on his plate from what I remember.
And didn't he come to a sticky end?'
'Rumpole!' I didn't like the turn the conversation was taking.
'You're going to lose Skelton, aren't you?'

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

'Why? Am I in the habit of losing cases?'

'It has been known. Danny,..'

'Let's call him Mr Newcombe, shall we? Now that you've
really got to know him.'

'All right. Mr Newcombe says it's obvious Michael did it for
the money. Even if you lose and he goes away for ten years,

he'll come out and collect three million.'
'Did Newcombe tell you that?'
'He didn't say he couldn't.'

At this point, Rumpole sat down on the edge of my bed and
began to talk in a slow and patient sort of way, as though to a
child. 'A murderer can't profit as a result of his crime, Hilda.
If Michael's convicted of murder he won't be able to benefit
from his father's estate. Newcombe knows that as well as I
do.'

'Did Michael know?'

'He said he did, when I pointed it out to him.'

'Then he must be an extremely stupid young man.'

'Not at all. He got a scholarship to King's. And he writes
poetry, ora sort.'

'So he does the murder in a way which is almost certain to
be discovered, hangs about by the corpse and calls for help so
that a witness can see him with a bloodstained golf club in his
hand - all so that he won't get the money from his father's will.
Does that really sound likely?'

Rumpole, who had been looking at me with a mixture of
resentment and grief, now spoke with unusual respect. 'Hilda,'
he said, 'I don't know how you managed it but you seem to
have hit on a better argument than a little queasiness at the
sight of blood.'

'Thank you.' I was able to look dignified and aloof. 'You're
perfectly at liberty to use it, Rumpole.'

He couldn't quite decide how to reply to that and, instead of
raising the difficult subject of Danny Newcombe again, he took
off his dressing-gown, hung it up, as usual, on the floor and
climbed into his twin bed.

'Perhaps we should go to sleep now. You've got the police
interviews tomorrow, remember?' I switched off my light and
he switched off his.

Hilda' s Story

'I4ilda?' His voice came out of the darkness. 'Have you got
anything else to tell me?'

'No, Rumpole. Not now, anyway. Let's go to sleep.'

Btt I didn't. I lay awake for a long time. And I was surprised
to find that I was no longer thinking about pushing off and
smiting the sounding furrows. I was remembering the pale,
calm face of Michael Skelton and asking myself questions
which became more unnerving as I stared into the darkness
where familiar objects, such as Rumpole's fallen dressing-gown
and the electric kettle, seemed to take on new and surprising
shapes.

The next morning, I have to confess, Dodo, was boring. I was
sitting in Court, turning over the photographs bound together
in a slim volume and marked Prosecution I (you see how used
I'm getting to courtroom expressions). Before the Judge sat,
Mr Turnbull told us that he'd rung Christie-Vickers's sec-retary,
and the doctor was driving through France with his
wife but they'd do their best to find him. Rumpole had received
the news fairly calmly, for him, and when the police were
reading accounts of their interviews with Michael from their
notebooks, he closed his eyes and acted the part of someone
enjoying a light doze, in order to show the Jury how unimpor-tant
the evidence was. Turnbull had gone off on some errand
and I was alone in the front row with Danny, who was also
finding it hard to keep his eyes open.

I'm not as squeamish as young Michael, Dodo. You know
how we used to open up a frog in biology lessons? And I had
no qualms about cutting up a rabbit when we used to eat them
after the war. But, I must confess, I flicked over the photos
taken on the mortuary slab and the colour close-ups of the
head wounds. I enjoyed the exterior views of Long Acre and
thought that such a spread would be a step up from Froxbury
Mansions. And then I got to the most recent photograph of the
beauty doctor when he was alive - the picture the police used
for the purposes of identification. He was as handsome as his
son, with the same high arched nose, full lips and large, dark
eyes and black hair. Only, the surgeon's good looks were more
arrogant, more supercilious, and his hair was just starting to

II7

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

turn grey over the ears. I thought it odd that the victim looked
more dangerous and even brutal�than his killer.

I yawned a little, bit my tongue to keep myself awake, and
then looked up to the ceiling of the old courtroom. The public
gallery was quite full but there, standing in a doorway at the
back of it, I saw Skelton, the murdered man.

I swear to you, Dodo, I saw him clearly. There were no head
wounds, of course. In fact he looked remarkably well and
suntanned as though, since his death, he'd found time for a
Caribbean holiday. Indeed, he looked as though he were still
on holiday. His white shirt was open at the neck, he wore a
blazer and, I think, fawn-coloured trousers. He seemed to be
reasonably interested in the proceedings caused by his death,
although I couldn't help noticing, as the police evidence droned
on, that he covered his mouth with the back of his hand,
politely concealing a small yawn.

I must have given a small gasp, an intake of breath, hardly a
cry and certainly not loud enough to stir Rumpole from his
simulated sleep. But Danny looked towards where I was staring
and it seemed to me that he aged quite suddenly. I had, at my
most besotted moments, given him late fifties and now he was
middle seventies, without a doubt, in front of my eyes. He got
to his feet and, in trying to go quietly, stumbled a little, bowed
to the Judge and left the Court.

I made sure that Michael, sitting in the dock, his hands
folded in his lap and his head down, couldn't see who was in
the gallery immediately above his head, and so he missed the
sight of his father returned from the grave and looking ex-tremely
well. I also saw that Rumpole wasn't looking. Then I
turned my eyes to heaven again and there, by the gallery
doorway, Danny Newcombe was whispering urgently to the
ghost - for if it wasn't Dimitri Skelton's spirit I had no idea, I
promise you, Dodo, what it was. But I was going to find out. I
got up, did my best possible bow to the Judge who, as usual,
also looked dead, and left the Court. As I left Rumpole opened
one speculative eye.

I came out of the courtroom door into the entrance hall and
I heard voices from the stairs which lead down from the public
gallery. You know what I took into my head to do, Dodo? I

Hilda' s Story

hid! You might think I'm not exactly the shape for it now, not
sylphlike as I was when we squeezed in behind the dormitory
door to jump out and scare that ghastly little show-off, Dorothy
Bliss, witless. But the hall was pretty dark and there were some
thick stone pillars and I tucked behind them somehow. I was
just in time to see Danny and the deceased cross to the main
entrance. Danny was talking quietly but his voice echoed across
the stone floor. I suppose he might have been speaking to a
ghost. 'I told you to keep away,' he was saying. 'I told you to
go back down under and never come near me again.' Then he
pulled open one of the big glass doors and they both stepped
out into the sunlight.

I tried to walk quietly across the hallway then. My footsteps
seemed to clatter and echo but there was no one there to notice
me. I stood by the doors and looked through to the sunlit car
park. I saw the figure that seemed to be Dimitri Skelton get
into a car and Danny slammed the door. The car was parked
very near the Law Court steps and I could see a sticker for
RUDYARD'S CARSLEWES on the back window. I was even able
to notice part of the number: ARB and I think it ended with
an S. You see, at that moment, I had stopped being a discon-tented
housewife with longings for a newer world. At that
moment, Dodo, I had become a lawyer - or at least a detective.

Oh, when the man with the suntan and the open-necked
shirt drove the car away, I made quite sure, Dodo, that he
wasn't dead. I've had very little experience of the after-life, but
I don't think dead people go driving around East Sussex in a
hired car.

I didn't go back to Court that afternoon; I had too much to
think about. What was that poem of Michael's? Something
about 'The dead around us all reply'? Well, the dead, or
someone very like the dead, had brought a message to me
which I knew was important although I didn't fully understand
it yet. There was a lot still to find out so I took a taxi to Long
Acre, about five miles out of the town, and asked the driver to
wait for me.

It had obviously been a lovely old farmhouse, Dodo, but
there was something rat,her flashy and obviously false about it,

II9

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

like a woman who has had too obvious a face-lift and wears a
lot of costume jewellery. Carriage lamps gleamed brassily on
each side of the front door. There were white plastic lounging-chairs
around the pool bar, a lot of chalky-white statues from a
garden centre - cherubs and frogs and things like that - and an
ostentatious burglar alarm. I walked round to the back of the
house and knocked at the Beazleys' door. There was some
noisy shuffling and gasping from inside and then Mrs Beazley
opened it. I introduced myself, said I was just passing and
there was something I wanted to ask her. When I told her that
my husband, one of the lawyers in the case, doted on treacle
tart, and I was never quite sure of the recipe, she invited me in.
She was alone and seemed in need of company.

'Spoonful of black treacle,' she told me, 'to go with the
golden syrup. Three teaspoonfuls of white breadcrumbs and
the grated rind of a lemon. I'll write it out for you if you'd
like.' At which, she sat down heavily at the kitchen table.
'Would you?' I said. 'That would be extremely kind.' While
she made off in the direction of a pencil and paper I carried on,
'Life must seem strange to you, without Mr Skelton?'

'I don't know what's going to happen to us,' Mrs Beazley
gasped. 'I don't know what he's done for us in the will. Mr

Newcombe's not told us about that.'

'Mr Newcombe?'

'The gentleman what's the family solicitor.' She waddled
back to the table and sat down with the pencil and paper which
she forgot about as we moved away from the subject of treacle
tart.

'Yes, of course.' I knew what Dimitri Skelton had done
about the Beazleys in his will - nothing. He didn't seem to
have been a man who cared much for the people who worked
for him but I didn't say that. I said, 'Mr Skelton must have
been very handsome. Such an attractive man, wasn't he?'

'To some people, I suppose.' She spoke as though she had a
considerable contempt for handsome men, this scarcely mobile
woman with a passion for war films. 'To that secretary of his, I
suppose he was attractive. That's why we were going to have to
leave anyway. Even if none of this had ever happened.' She
spoke of 'this' - a terrible murder, Dodo - as though it had

I20

Hilda' s Story

been an inconveniently leaking radiator. 'Raymond and I
couldn't have stayed after she took over.'
'You didn't like Miss - ?'
'Miss Ashton. Miss Elizabeth Ashton. Came into my kitchen
and said she'd show me how to cook. Trendy food, she said,
like they got in some place up in London. Pasta - that meant
spaghetti - but she oould call it pasta. Well, you don't need
much brain to boil spaghetti and I could do that, but she
wanted it with scallops and squids in it, and stuff like that. If
he wants fish, I told her, what about a nice fish pie? One night
she decided to cook for herself and made a terrible mess of my
kitchen. Clean out the saucepans? She wouldn't have considered
it!' '
'Wasn't she Australian?'
'That's no excuse though, is it? Yes, I think he said she'd
come from Australia. Mr Skelton had some relation over
there, cousin or something, and he'd said she might be suitable
for the job. Far too suitable Raymond and I thought he
found her. We couldn't have stayed. Not if she were
permanent.'
I have to say, Dodo, I felt quite triumphant, when she told
me that. You see, I was out on my own and far, far ahead of
Rumpole. I thought perhaps that Mrs Beazley had still more to
tell me, so I said, 'I did admire the way you gave your
evidence. It must have been terrifying standing up there in
front of all those people in wigs.'
'Oh, I didn't mind once I got started. And your husband was
very nice to me. Nice as pie he was, though they warned me he
could be a bit of a terrier with a witness. The trouble was...'
She hesitated.
'Yes, Mrs Beazley. What was the trouble?'
'Well, you can't tell them everything, can you? You're only
� meant to answer their questions.'
'Is there anything you didn't tell them?'
She panted a little and then said, 'Yes. About Raymond.'
'What about Raymond?'
'Well, he missed a bit of the film, a really good bit he missed,
when they was hand-fighting. He had to go to the toilet, if I
have to be honest. And he looked out of the window, upstairs.

I2I

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

And in the yard between us and the big house there was a car
parked.'
'A strange car?'
'Well, Ray'd never seen it before. He happened to notice the
number. I know the first three letters, if you like, because they
happen to be his initials.'
'What are your husband's names? Raymond Beazley?'
'Albert Raymond Beazley. We went to Mr Newcombe, you
know, and asked if we should say anything about it. But he said
it wasn't that important. I think it may have been, don't you?'
'Yes, Mrs Beazley, I think it may have been very important
indeed. Now, do you think there's any chance of a cup of
coffee while we write out that recipe?' It was a bit of cheek
saying that, I knew, in someone else's kitchen. But I felt I'd
earned it.

When I got back to the hotel I had some telephone calls to
make: one to Rudyard's Cars and another to the house of Dr
Christie-Vickers - who, I was not altogether surprised to find,
had got back from his holiday trip in France. Then I have to
confess, Dodo, that such was my mood that I went straight
into the bar and ordered myself a small sherry, and there was
the bull-necked Turnbull in conversation with a strange-looking
creature. I believe she was a woman, but her hair was
clipped and bristly, a sort of stubble all over her head. At first
sight, her face seemed beautiful and even young. But when you
looked more closely she had lines which, like you or I, Dodo,
she made no attempt to conceal. She wore patched jeans and a
sort of camouflage jacket over a T-shirt, and enormous earrings.
She was smoking what seemed to be a homemade cigarette and
talking very quietly, so I couldn't overhear what she was
saying. After a while she got up and' left. Turnbull finished
what looked like a dark and generous whisky and said, 'Good
evening, Mrs Rumpole,' on his way out.
'Was that a New Age traveller?' I asked him as though my
curiosity was perfectly idle.
'How did you know?'
'I thought that was what they looked like.'
'She'd read about the case in the local paper.'

I22

Hilda' s Story

'And you're going to call her?'
'Hardly. You know what she said?'
'I've no idea.'
'That she knew we needed one of the travellers to give
evidence and she'd say anything for a hundred pounds in the
hand. Terrible world, isn't it, Mrs Rumpole? They live like
pigs and then pervert the course of justice. Good evening to
you.'
'Good evening, Mr Turnbull.' I tried my best to look as
though I believed what he'd told me. Then, I'm very much
afraid, I ordered another sherry. I had hardly finished it when
Rumpole came into the Downlands Bar looking tired and not
particularly happy. I told him to order a large red wine - a
bottle of it, if that would cheer him up - and invited him to sit
beside me.
'Hilda, are you feeling well?' He looked, I have to admit,
apprehensive. 'Have you something to tell me?'
'A good many things. But first let me ask you something.
What do you call down under?'
'Down under?' The poor man looked entirely confused and,
when the first glass of wine was put in front of him, he took a
quick and consoling gulp. 'What do you mean?'
'I don't mean hell, Rumpole. I don't mean where Don
Giovanni ended up. Where else do you call down under?'
'Do you mean Australia?'
'Yes, Rumpole, I mean Australia.' And, of course, that was
what Danny meant.
'Hilda, I asked if you were feeling well. Has this trial been
too much for you?'
'Not at all. I was afraid it was too much for you. So I've
found you a defence.'
'I thought you went out shopping.' He gave a distinctly
mirthless laugh. 'Where did you get my new defence from,
Marks & Sparks? You were out shopping a long time. I was
surprised that Mr Daniel Newcombe had the courtesy to stay
with me. When he went out of Court this morning I saw you
troop after him soon enough.'
'Rumpole' - I hope I smiled tolerantly, as that would have
been the most effective way - 'you're never jealous, are you?'

123

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

'Jealous? Should I be?'

'No, I really don't think you should. Mr Newcombe and I
left the Court because we both saw Dimitri Skelton in the
public gallery.'

'Hilda! You're joking ...' Or delirious, I felt was what he
wanted to say.

'It wasn't exactly funny.'

'You mean you saw...'

'The man they all say was murdered.'

'I've tried that defence before.' Rumpole was back to his
usual patronizing self. 'Witnesses saying they saw the corpse
alive after the date of the murder. It has a sort of biblical
authority, I suppose, but it never worked particularly well
down the Old Bailey. Is that your defence, Hilda?'

'No, as a matter of fact it isn't. We didn't see Dimitri
Skelton.'

'Hilda, please... I'm tired and unusually depressed.'

'If you're tired, sit back in your chair and listen, Rumpole.
I'll tell you who we did see. And then you'd better scoot down
to the cells early tomorrow morning and ask your Michael

Skelton some pertinent questions.'

'Such as?'

'Such as, how much he knows about Miss Elizabeth Ashton
from down under?' He looked at me then and, entirely for his
own good, decided to listen quietly. We talked for a while, time
enough for Rumpole to get through a bottle of wine, and do
you know, Dodo, it was the most serious, even enjoyable,
conversation we'd had for a long time. It didn't take him long
to get the hang of what I was saying and when he did he knew
exactly what to do. When I had told him everything he said, 'I
suppose you realize what this means?'

'What it means for Michael Skelton?'
'No. For your friend Danny boy.'
'Yes,' I said, 'I do realize.'
'And you don't mind?'

'No,' I told him, 'I don't think I mind at all.'

Rumpole left very early in the morning to go to the ceils and
have a further conversation with the non-talkative Michael

I24

Hilda' s Story

Skelton. Dodo, I felt strangely calm. I realized that for the last
few months, ever since that dinner in the Sheridan with Danny
Newcombe, in fact, I'd been nervous, strung up and even, if I
have to say it myself, rather silly. Now I had killed what had
been going on in my mind for a long time. Rumpole always
says that the real murderers he had met - I mean the ones who
had actually done it - were always strangely calm, as though
something had been decided for ever.

Anyway, after Rumpole had gone I had a nice bath, making
full use of the complimentary sachet of Country Garden toilet-ries
in the little wickerwork basket on the glass shelf. I have to
confess that I pinched the verbena shampoo and hollyhock skin
freshener, together with a little packet of sewing stuff. I do find
that staying in hotels brings out everyone's criminal tendencies.
Then I put on the rather nice coat and skirt I had been wearing
in Court and went down to the Sussex-by-the-Sea coffee shop
for the full English breakfast. And there was Danny New-combe,
standing at a table by the door, throwing down his
Financial Times and offering me a seat at his table. I accepted
and sat down.

'So we're going to have the pleasure of your company in
Court again today, Hilda?'

'If you think it's a pleasure, yes.'

'You must have thought it rather strange when I suddenly
bolted out yesterday.'

'I didn't think it strange at all,' I lied.

'I thought I saw someone I knew in the public gallery. Did

you see me go up there?'

'No.' I went on lying.

'It was all a mistake. I mean, it wasn't anyone I knew.'
'Well, that's all right then.'

'Yes.' And then he said, very seriously now, 'I'm afraid
there's not much hope for us.'

I looked at him and said, 'You mean you're afraid there's not

much hope for Michael Skelton?'

'That's what I mean, yes.'

'I don't think you should be so sure of that. You never know
what Rumpole's going to pull out of the bag.'

'You mean you do know, Hilda?' He gave me his best

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

twinkling smile, complete with the wrinkles at the corners of
the eyes. 'And you promised to tell me if he had one of his
funny ideas, didn't you?' I thought for one dreadful moment
that he was going to add 'You naughty girl, Hilda'.

'If I promised that,' I told him, 'I'm afraid I'm not going to

keep my promise.'

'Whyever not?'

'Because I don't think Rumpole would like it. Oh, and I'll

tell you something else I'm not going to do.'

'What's that?'

'I'm not going to smite the sounding furrows. I have to tell
you this, Mr Newcombe. It's far too late to seek a newer
world.'

He looked at me then as though he didn't quite understand
what I was talking about. I noticed he had dropped a lump of
scrambled egg on what he told me was the Sheridan Club tie. I
have to tell you, Dodo, that I thought it looked quite
disgusting.

'Members of the Jury. Young Michael Skelton may seem guilty,
kneeling beside the body, his father's blood on his hands,
clutching that fatal golf club. But things, Members of the Jury,
are not always as they seem. Let us together, you and I, set out
to discover the truth behind that strange and terrible apparition.
Ladies and gentlemen, look back to the time when you were
but twenty years old and consider how you would have felt if
you'd had to go into the witness-box and defend yourself on
such a serious charge as this. It would be an ordeal for anyone.'
And here Rumpole's voice sank to a tone of deep insincerity
and he leaned forward and stared at the Jury. 'It must be
terrible for the innocent.' Then he straightened up and trum-peted
out the summons 'Call Michael Skelton'.

Michael's performance wasn't, of course, anything like as
good as Rumpole's. He remained strangely aloof, but he looked
pale, proud and vulnerable. He retold his story quite clearly
and when Claude came to cross-examine him he seemed sud-denly
bored, as though he thought it quite unnecessary to go
through the whole thing again, and was privately composing a
poem. Claude didn't really get anywhere, but when Michael

I26

Hilda' s Story

left the witness-box, the Jury probably still thought that he'd
killed his father. And then Rumpole surprised everyone, and
particularly Danny, by saying, 'My next witness will be my
instructing solicitor, Mr Daniel Newcombe.'
Sitting next to me, but as far away as possible now, as
though we were a married couple in bed after a quarrel, Danny
gave a little gasp of surprise and turned round to Rumpole.
'You don't mean you're calling me?'
'That's the general idea. Will you just step into the witness-box?'
Danny had no choice then, but I thought he walked as
grimly as a soldier crossing a minefield. When he reached the
exposed little platform, he raised the Bible with a great air of
confidence and, encouraged by a rare smile from the Gravestone,
promised to tell the whole truth and nothing but the
truth.
'Mr Newcombe' - Rumpole was quietly courteous - 'you are
familiar with the late Dimitri Skelton's will?'
'I should be. I drafted it.'
'He drafted it, Mr Rumpole.' His Lordship did his best to
raise a small laugh against Rumpole. Claude even obliged.
'I am aware of that, my Lord.' Rumpole gave a small bow
and then turned to Danny. 'Now, in the event of this Jury
finding Michael guilty, he won't be able to inherit under his
father's will, will he?'
'We all know that, Mr Rumpole, don't we? A murderer can't
profit from his crime.' The Judge did his best to patronize
Rumpole, who replied with elaborate courtesy, 'Exactly, my
Lord! I do so congratulate your Lordship. You have put your
finger upon the nub, the very heart, of this case. Now, who is
to benefit if my client is found guilty of murder?'
'Well, Elizabeth Ashton will still get her hundred thousand
pounds legacy.' Danny looked as though he now felt that the
witness-box wouldn't be so dangerous after all.
'Miss Elizabeth Ashton. Remind us. She is Dimitri Skelton's
secretary, is she not?'
'That is so, my Lord.' Danny chose to give his answer to the
Judge.
'And the residue of the estate?'

127

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

'That would all go to the deceased's cousin in Australia, Ivan
Skelton.' ' '

'About three million pounds, isn't it?'
'Something like that, yes.'
'Lucky old Ivan.'

The Jury giggled slightly and the Judge looked deeply
pained.

'Of course, if Michael Skelton is acquitted,' Danny added in
all fairness, 'Ivan doesn't get a penny.'

'So Ivan must be praying for a guilty verdict, mustn't he?
This jury comes back and says Guilty, my Lord and, Bingo,
the old darling's worth three million.'

'Mr Rumpole' - Graves was deeply distressed - 'is this a
subject for joking?'

'Certainly not, my Lord. It is extremely serious. Mr New-combe,
Ivan Skelton is taking a considerable interest in the
outcome of this case, isn't he?'

'I imagine he is concerned about it, yes,' Danny had to
admit.

'You've met Ivan Skelton, haven't you?'

'Please don't lead.' It was Claude's turn to grumble.

'Very well. Mr Newcombe, have you ever met Ivan
Skelton?'

'I met him when he came to England, yes.'

'What does he look like?'

'Well, it's a little difficult to describe...'

'It is? Is it? Doesn't he look exactly like this?' At which
Rumpole held up the murdered Dimitri's photograph for all to
see, and Claude stood up to whinge.

'My Lord, Mr Rumpole is cross-examining this witness.'
'No, I'm not. I'm refreshing his memory. This is a picture of
the dead man, isn't it? Does his cousin look almost exactly like
him?'

'They are about the same age. Yes. There is a family
resemblance.'

'Thank you.' Rumpole began to rummage among his papers

and Danny looked only moderately worried.
'Is that all, Mr Rumpole?' Graves sighed.
'Not quite, my Lord.'

x28

Hilda' s Story

'I'm just wondering, Mr Rumpole, how far this line is taking
you in your defence?'
'It's taking me to the truth, my Lord. Never mind about the
Defence. Now, Mr Newcombe' - he turned to the witness-box,
looking far more pugnacious - 'you're the trusted old family
solicitor?'
'I'm the family solicitor. And I suppose I'm old...'
'Indeed you are! This secretary, Miss Elizabeth Ashton, she
comes from Australia, doesn't she?'
'I rather think so.'
'And is she engaged to be married to Ivan Skelton? So he
recommended her to his cousin for the job? He's planning to
come over later this year and marry her, is he not?'
'I have heard that.'
'Engaged to be married and she spent weekends with his
cousin Dimitri and became his mistress?'
'Mr Rumpole' - Mr Justice Graves intruded like the dead
general who came to dinner with the Don - 'I wonder what
this has to do with the charge against your client?'
'Then wonder on, my Lord, till truth makes all things plain.'
I suppose Rumpole was quoting poetry of some sort, as he
went on quickly, 'When did you last see Ivan Skelton, Mr
Newcombe?'
'I forget...'
'Oh, come now. Your memory's not quite as short as that.
There are others in Court' - he looked down at me, and I
suddenly became others - 'who can tell us, if you don't want
to. When did you last see him?' Danny looked at me, I thought
sadly, as though I had betrayed him.
'Yesterday.'
'Where?'
'In Court.'
'In this Court?' The Judge raised his eyebrows.
'Yes, my Lord. In the public gallery.'
'No doubt anxious to see if he was going to get his money.
And you spoke to him?'
Danny looked at me again, pleadingly. I stared back and he
had to answer yes.
'What did you say?'.

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

'Mr Rumpole, that's pure hearsay.' Graves was doing
Claude's job for him.

'Of course it is, my Lord. One can always trust your Lord-ship,
with his great experience, to be right on a point of law.
Mr Newcombe, I advised your firm to advertise for the New
Age travellers and you have not done so?'

'That is right. I'm afraid it got overlooked.'

'You declared that the deceased's doctor couldn't be found

and he has been found now, without your help?'

'I'm very glad to hear it.'

'Are you, Mr Newcombe? I shall be calling Mr Beazley to
say that a strange car was parked in the yard at Long Acre on
the night of the murder. Did you tell him that evidence was
irrelevant?'

'My Lord' - Claude was stung into activity at last - 'Mr
Rumpole is cross-examining his own witness!'

'Not at all! At the moment I'm making no attack on Mr
Newcombe. He may genuinely have thought that the presence
of a car hired by the murdered man's cousin was quite irrel-evant.
And I shall be calling Mr Beazley.'

'I may have said something ...' Danny was about to agree
but Graves did his best to save him. 'Mr Rumpole,' he said, 'I
agree that this question is an attack on your own witness. It is
quite improper.'

'Then let me ask you a quite proper question. Have you, Mr
Daniel Newcombe, been offered a share of Ivan Skelton's
winnings to make sure that this young man who stands before
us in the dock is convicted of murder?'

'Mr Rumpole.' The pale judge seemed, in his indignation, to
be rising in his seat, again, I thought, like some spectre arising
from the tomb. He glared at Rumpole 'with such terrible
disapproval that if you or I, Dodo, had been in his place I
honestly think we'd have simply collapsed, as we felt like doing
when Stalky Sullivan gave us one of her looks and said she'd
have to let our unfortunate parents know we were a disgrace to
the school. Rumpole just stood there, smiling in an unusually
polite way and, I have to say, I rather admired him as Graves
went on, 'This cross-examination is going from bad to worse.'

'Oh, I agree with every word that has fallen from your

x3o

Hilda' s Story

Lordship.' Rumpole was still smiling. 'We are dealing here
with something very bad indeed.'

'Mr Rumpole!' The old Gravestone unclenched his teeth in
a vain attempt to call my husband to order. 'Do I understand
that you are accusing your own solicitor of entering into a
criminal conspiracy to get this young man falsely convicted for
murder?'

'Ah, your Lordship puts the matter far more eloquently than
I ever could. It is that gift for words that brought your
Lordship such success at the Bar.'

In fact Graves hadn't been much of a success at the Bar. I
remember Rumpole telling me that he'd got 'his bottom on the
Bench thanks to his skill in winning a safe Conservative seat'. I
had to admire his Lordship's self-control. The temptation to
shout at Rumpole at that point is one which personally I would
have found irresistible. 'At least Mr Newcombe is entitled to
refuse to answer a question likely to incriminate him, is he
not?'

'Of course.' Rumpole got more polite as Graves became

more irate. 'As always your Lordship is perfectly right.'
'Then I fully intend to warn him.'

'Your Lordship can take no other course.'

So the Judge warned the witness that he needn't answer this
incriminating question. Danny suddenly looked very old - I
wondered why I had even put him in his sixties - and much
smaller. He was hardly audible when he said, 'My Lord, I
prefer not to answer.'

'You prefer not to? That is probably extremely wise.' And
Rumpole sat down in triumph, looking meaningfully at the
Jury. Danny Newcombe never returned to sit between me and
Mr Turnbull but, as soon as he left the witness-box, scuttled
out of Court and, to be honest with you, Dodo, I never saw
him again. But when I looked up to the public gallery I saw,
not Danny talking to Ivan Skelton this time, but a woman with
a stubbly head, who looked quite young from a distance, and
who had come to tell the truth in spite of Mr Turnbull.

The rest, of course, is history, and I'm sure you read about it
in the papers. I don't know whether they gave you Rumpole's

x3x

Rumpole and the Ang'el of Death

final speech or the bit which began so quietly that the Jury had
to strain their ears t:o hear it: 'A young man is walking in the
woods, making up poetry and reciting it to some modern-day
gypsies when one of Rudyard's Cars drives up to Long Acre.
Out of it gets the man who had hired it, Mr Ivan Skelton from
Sydney, Australia. Why has he come there? Because he has
heard of the love aff'ir between Dimitri Skelton and Elizabeth
Ashton whom Ivan was to marry, the girl who came over to
vorl for his cousin and wait for him to join her.
'Nobody heard the quarrel, Members of the Jury. The Beaz-leys
were too busy listening to ancient warfare and the house was empty. Overcome with rage and jealousy did Ivan lift this
fatal weapon' - by row Rumpole had the golf club high above
his head - 'and strike! And strike! And strike again in the
terrible and fatal fight that followed. No one saw Ivan after
that fight or gave evidence as to the bloodstains on him. But when young Michael came home and found his father dead,
and was stained by his father's blood as he knelt beside the
tody, was it not natural that he should be suspected?
'And how very convenient for Ivan that he was. Because if
Michael was convicted, Ivan would inherit a fortune. And
ernember, he was here with us the other day, Members of the
Jury, the man you might think is possibly, quite, quite possibly,
even probably, guilty. That man was in the public gallery
naking sure his inheritance was safe. And then, when he had
teen warned by my solicitor, did he not slink away, as he had
on the night of the murder, in one of Mr Rudyard's hired cars
to await the news of that young poet's wrongful conviction?
'If you think that's what may have happened, Members of
the Jury, let us deny Ivan Skelton his final satisfaction and his
tmdeserved wealth. Let us find young Michael Skelton not
guilty of the terrible crime of murdering his father. And,
emember, it is your decision' - here Rumpole glared at the
Judge who, sitting motionless, had closed his eyes as though in
lain- 'and not the decision of anyone else in the Court.'

And so the next day we were home again and sitting on either
side of the gas fire at Froxbury Mansions in the evening. I'm
glad to say there had been no further requests for salad.

Hilda' s Story

Rumpole had done tll justice to the shepherd's pie and cabbage
I had cooked for him, taken with a great deal of mustard
and tomato sauce. Now he said, 'Thank you, Hilda. Thank you
for the work you put in to R. v. Skelton. Some of your ideas
were surprisingly helpful.'
'Only some of them?' And, when he didn't answer, I said, 'I
have to say you didn't seem able to follow up some fairly
obvious clues. At least not until I got on the case.'
'I was distracted,' Rumpole had to admit. 'I was suffering
from certain anxieties.'
'What sort of anxieties, Rumpole?'
'Matters of a domestic nature.'
'You mean, you thought it was about time we had the
kitchen redecorated? I've been thinking that too.'
'No. I was concerned ... Well, damn it all, Hilda. I thought
you might have grown tired of life here.., with me.'
'Life with you in Froxbury Mansions? Good heavens, how
could anyone be tired of that?'
'You said... Well, anyway, you told me...' It was the first
time in my entire life I had seen Rumpole stumped for words.
'What was all that about Newcombe having taken a shine to
you?'
'No, I was wrong about that. He hadn't taken a shine to me.
He wanted to win me over so I could be his spy.'
'His what?' I had surprised Rumpole.
'So I could spy on you. Tell him if you were getting too near
the truth in R. v. Skelton. And there was something else I
didn't like him for.'
'What was that?'
'Well, he called me a girl, which I thought was very patronizing.
And I know why he gave you the brief.'
'Well, I do have a certain reputation... Ever since that little
problem at the Penge Bungalow.'
'He thought because you aren't a Q.C. you wouldn't do the
job properly.'
'That's ridiculous!'
'Of course it is.' There was silence for a while. Rumpole
Considered my extraordinary suggestion and rejected it. Then
he sai 'I shan't include R. v. Skelton in my memoirs.'

I33

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

'lThyever not? It was one of your greatest triumphs.'

'No, Hilda.' He picked up his brief in a little receiving job at
Acton. 'The triumph was yours.'

This is the story that Rumpole will never write. So I'm writing
it for you, Dodo, and for you only. It's the truth, the whole
truth and nothing but the truth.

Rumpole and the Little Boy Lost

'Whoever did that,' Dot Clapton said, 'deserves burning at the
stake!'

'I'm afraid they abolished that a few years ago.' I took the
Daily Trumpet Dot was offering me across her typewriter.
'Although, given the reforming zeal of the appalling Ken Fry'
- I winced as I invariably do when I mention the name of the
current Home Secretary - 'we might get it back in the next
Criminal Justice Act.'

What I saw was a big photograph, almost the whole tabloid
front page. A young woman, wearing a T-shirt and jeans, was
looking into the camera, trying to smile; a husband only a few
years older, puzzled and frowning, had his arm protectively
round her shoulder. Behind them was the blur of an ordinary
semi-detached and a small, ordinary car, but they were the
victims of an extraordinary crime. Their child had been
snatched away from them, hidden among strangers and perhaps
... It was the awful perhaps which made Steve Constant put
his arm round his wife and why her smile might turn so easily
into a scream. SHEENA CONSTANT TALKS EXCLUSIVELY TO
THE TRUMPET, the front page told the world. SEE CENTRE
STORY.

'If they catch the old witch who did it, you wouldn't speak
up for her in Court, would you? I mean you'd let her hang
herself out of her own mouth, wouldn't you, Mr Rumpole?'

I had turned over to the central spead, entirely devoted to
the little boy lost. There was an enlarged picture of little
Tommy in the strangely metallic washed-out colours in which
photographs appear in newspapers: an ordinary, carrot-haired
three-year-old with a wide grin, no doubt a singular miracle to
the Constants whose first and only child he was. There were

I35

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

snaps of the family at the seaside, by a swing in the garden of
the semi and a picture of'the huge South London hospital,
gaunt and unfriendly as a nuclear power station, from which
Tommy Constant had unaccountably disappeared. As I glanced
over these apparently harmless records of a tragedy, I was
trying to remind Dot of an Old Bailey hack's credo. 'I'm a
black taxi, Dot,' I told her, 'plying for hire. I'm bound to
accept anyone, however repulsive, who waves me down and
asks for a lift. I do my best to take them to their destination,
although the choice of route, of course, is entirely mine.'

'The destination of her who nicked that child' - Dot was
unshakeable in her demand for a conviction, she was not the
sort you'd want called up for jury duty - 'would be burning at
the stake. If you want my honest opinion.'

I have to confess that I wasn't giving Dot my full attention.
There wasn't a long story between the pictures, but what there
was had been written in the simple, energetic style of the Daily
Trumpet which, I thought, might be appreciated by a jury.

Twenty-four-year-old Sheena Constant spoke through her tears:
'After he was seen by the doctor, I put him on the kiddies' mechani-cal
donkey in the out-patients assembly. He's been on it before, so I
left him with Steve while I went to the toilet. Steve just crossed
over to buy a packet of Marlboro. He was in sight of Tommy and
only turned away for about a minute. It was during that minute our
little son was stolen off us. He sort of vanished clutching a little
yellow flop-eared rabbit which was his favourite toy!'

Police investigations continue. Who was the pale-faced woman in
a black beret and black plastic mac carrying a toddler away from
out-patients? Police Superintendent Greengross hadn't yet found
her. V(nere were the social workers? Drinking carrot juice and
knitting pullovers? Where were the hospital managers? Upstairs
with their noses in the trough? Where was hospital security? Out to
lunch? These are the questions the Trumpet will be asking during
the coming week.

Tomorrow: WHY MY DAUGHTER'S HEART IS BROKEN. Tommy's

gran talks exclusively to the Trumpet.

'We've got her!' Claude Erskine-Brown had entered the
clerk's room in a state of high excitement. 'Got her, at last.'

'The woman who stole little Tommy?' I was still absorbing

136

Rumpole and the Little Boy Lost

the Trumpet's simple story. I had supped full of horrors at
Equity Court, but there seemed to be something peculiarly
tragic about this young couple's loss.

'Of course not. She didn't steal anything. Can't you get your
mind off crime for a single moment? Does the wonderful world
of art mean nothing to you? We've got Katerina Regen to sing
to us in the Outer Temple Hall.'

'Have you, by God?' I folded the Daily Trumpet neatly and
put it back on Dot's typewriter. I thought I might have to
forget Steve and Sheena Constant and fill my mind with other
people's troubles. 'I doubt whether I shall be among those
present.'

'She will give us Schubert.'

'So far as I'm concerned, she can keep him.'

'And the Bar Musical Society, of which by a strange quirk of
fate I seem to have become president' - here I can only say that
Erskine-Brown gave a modest simper - 'will be hosting a small
champagne reception afterwards. The eighteenth of this month.
Put it in your diary, Horace."

For a moment my strong resolution wavered. Any invitation
to take me to your lieder is one which, as a general rule, I have
no difficulty in declining. But I have no such fears of a
champagne reception. However, the preliminary trills seemed a
highish price to pay for a glass or two of bubbles, so I sent an

apology. 'I'm sorry but Hilda and I will be entertaining.'
'Entertaining who?'

'Each other. To a couple of chops in Froxbury Mansions.
Awfully sorry, old darling, previous engagement.'

That night we were settled in front of the television in the
mansion flat when Hilda said, 'I hope you've got the eighteenth

marked down in your diary, Rumpole?'
'Yes, I have. I'm staying at home.'
'Oh no, you're not.'

Sometimes the dialogue of She Who Must Be Obeyed be-comes
strongly reminiscent of the pantomimes my old father
used to take me to in my extreme youth. Don't I remember
some such witty line having been used by the Widow
Twankey?

I37

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

'Hilda,' I reassured her, 'you don't want to spend a couple of
hours on a hard chair in the Outer Temple Hall listening to
some overweight diva trilling about departed love.'

'You know nothing, Rumpole,' she told me. (Had she forgot-ten
my encyclopaedic knowledge of bloodstains?) 'Katerina
Regen is not only Covent Garden's new Mimi but she's as
slender as a bluebell.,

'Who told you that?'

'Claude Erskine-Brown, when he rang up. I told him to put
us down for two tickets.'

'How much is he paying us to go?'

'Nothing, Rumpole. We are paying. It will be extremely

good for you. You have so little art in your life.'

'I have poetry.'

'Some poetry. And it's like your jokes, always the same.'
'How much?'

'How much the same? Exactly.'

'No, how much are the tickets, Hilda! Erskine-Brown didn't
con you out of a tenner?'

'The tickets were fifty pounds each and that includes two
glasses of a really good Mthode Champenoise, which I think's
a bargain considering how much you'd pay to listen to Regen
at the Garden.'

And considering the happy evenings I might have had at
Pommeroy's with the Mthode Fleet Streetoise for half that
enormous expenditure. I might have said that but thought
better of it. And then my attention was grabbed by the tele-vision
on which an astonishingly young superintendent was
holding a press conference. He sat between Sheena and Steve
Constant - he in an ornate pullover, she in what must have
been her best outfit, trying not to weep.

'I just want to say...' The superintendent had longish fair
hair and protruding eyes. He looked as though he'd be much
happier sharing jokes with his mates in the pub. However, he
managed to sound both serious and sincere. '... to whoever's
got Tommy, we can understand your problems. Maybe you're
longing for a little boy of your own and can't have one. Perhaps
you even lost a little boy in tragic circumstances. We under-stand
and we're all sympathetic. We think you may need help

138

Rumpole and the Little Boy Lost

and we'll see to it that you get it. So will you ring us at the
number we'll put up on the screen in a minute and tell us
where Tommy is? We're sure he's alive and well. (Here Sheena
looked down, a hand to her forehead, covering her eyes.) We're
sure you've been looking after him really well. But just tell us
where he is, that's all. Give Tommy what he really needs: his
mum and dad.'

As he talked I remembered some of the old poetry She Who
Must Be Obeyed was tired of.

'Father! father! where are you going?

'O do not walk so fast.

'Speak father, speak to your little boy,

'Or else I shall be lost.'

The light was dark, no father was there;

The child was wet with dew;

The mire was deep, & the child did weep ....

Sheena lowered her hand and shook her head bravely, like a
diver shaking the water out of her eyes as she emerges from
beneath the sea. Steve's teeth were clenched, his jaw set, his
face a mask of misery.

I didn't know why I felt so concerned about the Tommy
Constant case. Had I fallen a little, perhaps, in love with
Sheena's face and looked forward, when the good news came,
to seeing it light up with joy? I dreaded the pictures of the
police with dogs crossing parkland or rubber-suited figures
flopping into canals. I was even more afraid that they might
find something. Whatever the reason, I found myself taking
the Chambers' stairs like a two-year-old and arrived panting in
the clerk's room feeling every day of seventy-four. I could
hardly find enough breath to ask Dot for a quick loan of her
Daily Trumpet.

There was a notable absence of hard news. Mrs Bellew,
$heena's mum, was reminiscing. Sheena had been a model
child who did well at school and had a really lovely singing
voice and was so pretty that the family hoped she might end up
on television. She'd gone in for a few beauty competitions:

I39

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

'Just local ones. I wouldn't have let her near the Albert Hall.'
And a schoolfriend who knew the drummer in Stolen or Strayed
(musicians whom I have to confess I'd never heard of) thought
she might get her a job singing with the group, but nothing
came of it. Tommy, it seemed, had inherited his mother's
talents and, although only three, could perform 'Ooh! Aah!
Cantona' as a solo number without prompting. Anyway Sheena
gave up her chance of becoming famous when she met Steve at
a party - a young computer salesman who was going to do very
well for himself in the fullness of time. She started going out
with him. Tommy's gran had always thought they were an
ideal little family: 'Every night in my prayers I thanked God
for their luck, until this horrible thing had to happen.' The
double-spread was filled out with pictures of Granny Bellew
stirring a cup of tea and five-year-old Sheena stumbling across
the sands carrying a bigger beach-ball than she could cope
with. We also saw Sheena singing in a school production of
Jesus Christ Superstar, heavily jewelled and wearing an unex-pected
sari (no doubt to keep the school play ethnically neutral).
There was a picture of Stolen or Strayed - a quartet I wouldn't
care to have met on a dark night and whose music, I felt sure,
would have made an evening of Katerina Regen's trilling sound
like the song the sirens sang - and a photograph of the Constant
wedding.

Wednesday brought a hard-hitting article entitled NUTCUTLET
LAYABOUTS: THE SOCIAL WORKERS WHO HAVE DONE
B--ALL TO HELP FIND SHEENA'S BABY. Thursday was devoted
to Steve's family, including his aunt Brenda Constant, who had
never married but was gifted with psychic powers, practised as
a clairvoyant, and had asked for help and guidance, in finding
young Tommy, from the spirit world.

On Black Friday a man from the Daily Trumpet had been
out with the police and the chilling pictures of frogmen and
tracker dogs duly appeared. Young Superintendent Greengross
gave a gloomy interview: 'We still hope for the best,' he said,
'and we are pursuing every possible line of inquiry to establish
that young Tommy is still alive. But it's no use hiding the fact
that, the more the days pass by, the more reason we have to
fear the worst.'

x4o

Rumpole and the Little Boy Lost

On Saturday Chambers was shut and Dot's Trumpet was not
available. On my way to Safeway's with She Who Must Be
Obeyed for shopping duty, I read the posters and crossed the
road to buy the paper. I saw a young mother with her face lit
up and an apparently unharmed child in her arms. I thought
the huge headline surprisingly literary: LITTLE BOY FOLIND, it
said. I gave a great cry of joy.
'Rumpole!' the captain of my fate called briskly from the
other side of the road. 'What on earth are you doing?'
'I am whooping,' I told her, 'whooping with delight. Tommy
Constant has been found and all is more or less right with the
world?

I learnt how Tommy had been discovered by reading that
day's Daily Trumpet, and the following Sunday's papers. Next
week the story was retold, in considerable detail, in a long
interview with Sheena, which took up more pages of Dot's
favourite publication. Later, some time later, I was to learn
even more about the great kidnapping case.
It was a hot night in late summer, near midnight apparently,
when the Constants got the telephone call. It was too hot,
Sheena said, and anyway they were too worried to sleep. When
the phone rang, Steve looked at it, frozen, expecting the worst
news. Sheena took a deep breath and grabbed it. She said she
felt a moment of relief when she didn't hear the voice of
Superintendent Greengross. What she heard was much fainter,
a woman's voice, with an attempt at disguise, as though the
caller were speaking through a handkerchief. 'Nineteen
Swansdown Avenue,' was all it said. 'You'd better get there
quick.' Later, the call was traced to a phone box at the end of
nearby Swansdown Avenue. Later still, Sheena said that she
thought she recognized the mystery voice.
The street used to be quiet and well kept, the home of
middle managers and owners of small businesses who cleaned
their cars on Sunday mornings and decked out their back
gardens with oven-ready blooms from the local garden centre.
Many of the middle managers had been made redundant and
the small businesses gone broke. The houses had been repossessed
by the banks ,and the For Sale notices had grown

x4x

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

weather-stained as the houses decayed. At one end of the
avenue, a speculator was building flats - otherwise the street's
sleep was more or less undisturbed, except when there was an
improvised rave-up in number x9, which had been broken into
so many times that the bank, which had evicted the previous
owners, now hardly bothered to change the locks or mend the
windows.
The Constants drove at high speed to Swansdown Avenue,
less than a mile from their house. They didn't dare to hope,
but couldn't help but fear. The padlock on the front gate was
broken, the back door swung on its hinges. The electricity had
been cut off, but a street light enhanced the moonlight and left
hard shadows in the corners of the rooms. 'The place was a
tip,' Sheena said in her interview. 'There were piles of discarded
clothes, stained mattresses with their innards protruding,
piles of bottles, half-empty Coke cans all over the place
and cardboard plates of half-eaten takeaways, and needles scattered
everywhere.' The couple went from room to room,
Sheena said, fearing what they might see in the shadows, and
for a long while they avoided the garden, terrified of signs of
recent digging.
And then, sickened by the lingering smell of unwashed
bodies and rotting food, Sheena pushed open a bedroom
window and found herself looking down into the rank garden.
She saw more bottles and syringes glistening in the moonlight,
and then she heard a child cry. She had heard it often in her
imagination since Tommy vanished, but now she fancied it was
real and she hoped she was not mistaken. It seemed that he had
been playing quite happily in the dark garden until he stung
his hand on a clump of nettles. He was wearing the same red
anorak and blue jeans and red boots, together with the small Star Trek T-shirt, which Sheena had put on him to go to the
hospital. In that filthy house he was clean, well-dressed and
seemed in excellent health. He greeted his mother and father
without visible surprise.
A week later Superintendent Greengross told the Daily Trumpet that Thelma Ropner of 7 Swansdown Avenue was helping
him with his inquiries. We got little further information about
her, except that she was twenty-six and had recently given

I42

Rumpole and the Little Boy Lost

birth to a baby son, who died four weeks later. Later still, she
was charged and hurried into the local magistrates court with a
blanket over her head. Her defence was reserved and, after a
good deal of argument from Mr Bernard, her solicitor, she was
granted bail.

'For this song, I am a young peasant girl going to the well in
my village. My lover is a soldier who has deserted me and gone
away to the wars. I sing, "Oh dear, I wish I could draw my
lover back to me on a rope, as easily as I draw water from this
well." "Der Brunnen" is the name of this beautiful song.'

There was a polite smattering of applause from the audience
assembled in the Outer Temple Hall, among which Erskine-Brown's
fevered clapping sounded like a volley of rifle-fire
during a church service. The gratified, chanteuse flashed a
healthy set of white teeth in Claude's direction and then leaned
for a reviving moment against the grand piano, her hand
spread over her chest, her eyes closed, breathing in deeply.
During the pause for rest and inspiration, her perky little
accompanist suspended his fingers over the keys and sat with
his eyes bright and his head on one side like a hen waiting for
the egg to drop. Then Miss Regen fixed her smile and the first
note rang out among the oak panelling and portraits of dead
judges.

She was giving us the sad story once more, but this time
with plenty of trills and repetitions, and in German. She was
certainly not your standard fat opera singer, but rather beautiful
with blonde hair, a suntan and clear blue eyes. Everything was,
however, larger than life, not only her teeth but her hands, her
eyes and her mouth. She was as tall as most of the men in the
audience and, I thought, any lover who tried to escape from
her and join the army would have been hauled in rapidly with a
rope around his neck. And then, I have to say, my attention
wandered.

He kissed the child & by the hand led

And to his mother brought,

Who in sorrow pale, thro the lonely dale,

Her little b,oy weeping sought.

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Rumpole and the Angel of Death

I remembered the lines and the mysterious figure of a God
dressed in white who returned the child in Blake's poem. I
wondered who had made the telephone call to the Constants.
Was it a friend, or a contrite enemy? Then I fell into a light
doze.

I was woken by the final applause, sufficiently rested to join
in the scrum for the champagne-style refreshments. The clap-ping
was renewed when Miss Regen appeared, smiling with
immeasurable courage, in spite of her exhaustion, and was
immediately pounced on by Claude, who greeted her with such
effusive praise that she might have sung her way through the
role of Brfinnhilde while winning the long-distance Olympic
hurdles. Our sensitive Claude seemed to be quivering with
excitement, and I thought she undoubtedly had a rope round
his neck if ever she wanted to haul him in.

'All through that beautiful music, Rumpole' - Hilda was in a
confessional mood - 'I couldn't help thinking of something
else.'

'Couldn't you? I was pretty riveted by the girl at the well, as
it so happens.'

'I couldn't help thinking of that poor woman who lost her
baby.'

'She's got it back now, Hilda.'

'I know. But the person who did it, can you think of a worse
crime?'

'Scarcely.'

'Even you couldn't defend a woman like that, could you,
Rumpole?'

'Even I might find it difficult; but she hasn't been tried yet.'
'It doesn't matter. She's clearly guilty. It sticks out a mile.
And please don't start a long speech about the burden of proof.
You're so childish, sometimes, Rumpole. You imagine everyone
in the world's as innocent as little Tommy Constant.'

Before I could refresh the memory of She Who Must on the
presumption of innocence, our ears were shattered by a yell of,
'Thank you, Friiulein Regen, for bringing sunshine into this
dusty old hall. I'm so glad I persuaded my fellow benchers to
invite you.' It was Barrington McTear, Q.C. (known to me as
Cut Above, because he regards himself as a very superior

x44

Rumpole and the Little Boy Lost

person), who had approached the diva and, in a gesture which
I thought went out with old Scarlet Pimpernel films, kissed
her hand. She glowed back at him and these two immense
people seemed, for a moment, like the meeting of a male and
female giant in some unreadable Nordic saga. Then Cut Above
straightened up, patted the hand he had been kissing, and
responded to a call of 'Barrington!' from a sharp-featured
woman, no doubt his wife, who looked as though she found
life with Cut Above no picnic. 'Coming, Leonora.' The ex-rugby
football blue of a Q.C. turned reluctantly from the
singing star and went bellowing off into the distance. Claude,
who had looked somewhat miffed during this encounter,
moved to fill the gap left by his fellow Q.C. and started to
address the Fr/iulein in confidential tones. On our way out I
heard him mention the fatal word lunch. Whenever Claude
speaks of this meal to any female, the consequences are usually
dire.

But I had more to worry about than Claude's tentative and
no doubt embarrassing romances. That afternoon Bonny Ber-nard,
my trusty instructing solicitor with a thriving practice in
the Timson country south of Streatham, had booked a confer-ence
in R. v. Thelma Ropner. I was heavily pencilled in as
Counsel for the Defence, and the faggots round the stake were
no doubt ready for lighting.

'She's in your room, Mr Rumpole. And she's wearing the
black mac.'

That morning Dot Clapton's Botticelli face was set in anger
and contempt, a young angel determined to drive the sinners

out of the Garden of Eden with a flaming sword.

'It is raining, Dot, as usual.'

'So does she have to wear the same mac? Some sort of nerve
she must have, mustn't she? But I can't stay chatting, Mr
Rumpole. Some of us has got work to do.' And Dot attacked
her typewriter as though it were my client's throat.

Some of us did have work - hard, unpleasant work - and the
prospect, at some time in the not-too-distant future, of being
treated in Court as though we were personally responsible for
pinching defenceless infants from hospitals. I pushed open the

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Rumpole and the Angel of Death

door of my room and it seemed, in some curious and quite evil
way, to be dominated by Miss Thelma Ropner.

Thinking back, it seems absurd to have felt so instantly
chilled. Thelma was almost a caricature from a movie and I
might even, in other circumstances, have found her appearance
comic. She was very pale, with rust-coloured, lank hair, and
her features seemed curiously misplaced: her eyes too small,
her nose slightly crooked and her mouth turned downwards.
She looked both unpleasant and unhappy. And she wore, as
Dot had said, with what was either bravado or sheer stupidity,
the black beret set at what might have been intended as a
cheeky angle, and the unmistakable shiny, crackly, black plastic
mac which protected her like the armour of a crustacean. One
thing was absolutely certain. She could never have got out of a
hospital carrying a child unnoticed.

So vivid was the effect of Miss Ropner that the rest of my
room seemed to sink into shadow. Somewhere, dear old Ber-nard
was sorting through the file on his lap and chewing
peppermints. Even I, taking my place on the swing chair, felt
colourless - an Old Bailey hack quite outshone by the lurid
vision of evil in front of him.

'It's all a complete waste of time, Mr Rumpole. I never ever
took Sheena's child.' Thelma Ropner spoke in a curiously
girlish, high-pitched little voice, as though the possible child-stealer
were herself a child, and added, 'I wouldn't want to.'

'You call Mrs Constant Sheena, I couldn't help noticing. Do
you know her?'

'Know her. Of course I know her. We were at Cripps
together.'

'Cripps?'

'Cripping Comprehensive. I'm sure it was nothing like the
academy for the sons of gentlemen you attended.'

'And probably a great deal more comfortable than my
draughty boarding-school. Better lunches, too, I should
imagine.' She didn't smile. I never saw her smile. What I got
was a mood of petulance or a sarcastic sigh. I was in for a
difficult trial with a difficult client and wondered if Hilda or
Dot Clapton would ever forgive me if I won.

'You mean you were close friends?' Bernard sucked his

146

Rumpole and the Little Boy Lost

peppermint and looked in the statement he had taken for any
reference to their friendship, and didn't find it.

'We got on all right. Sheena was quite good fun until she
met Steve and lost her femininity.'

'I'm not entirely sure what you mean ...' I have kept my
patience under more trying circumstances. 'She got married
and had a baby. Was that losing her femininity?'

'Of course it was.' Thelma sighed again at my question. 'She
got the one kid and the boring young man in computers, the
semi and the Daf- and she was well stuck in a male-dominated
rut, wasn't she?'

'Do you think Sheena felt in a rut?' I wondered.

'Of course she did. She was awfully envious of Tina Santos
when she got her name in all the papers for bonking some
dreadful little government minister. Sheena always wanted to
be famous like a telly star or something. Well, I suppose she is
now, in a way. Famous.'

'Not in the way she'd like, I'm sure.'

'Probably not.' Miss Ropner turned away from me and
looked out of the window, as though she had lost interest in me
and Mr Bernard, and the tedious workings of the criminal law.

I renewed my attack, to gain at least a little of her attention.
'You think everyone who has a baby gets stuck in a male-dominated
rut?'

She looked at me then and said, 'You mean I had one?'

'So you say in your statement.'

'And they're going to use it against me?'

'What do you mean?'

'They're going to use it against me that Damon died. They'll
say it's because my little boy died that I wanted to steal

Sheena's. That's what they're going to say, aren't they?'

'I suppose it might provide a motive.'

'Well, let me tell you, Mr Legal-Eagle, that if I'd wanted to
nick a child I certainly wouldn't have chosen Sheena's. I'd'ye
found one with a far more interesting father.'

It's not often that I am to be found sitting in a stunned
silence, but this was such an occasion. Bernard was also immo-bile.
He had his tube of peppermints open, but didn't lift one
to his mouth.

147

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

Then I recovered sufficiently to tell the client, 'I have
known witnesses sink themselves with one unwise answer,
probably more times than you've had hot dinners. But if you
say anything like that in Court we might as well plead guilty
and start your sentence as soon as possible.'
'I'm so sorry, Mr Lawyer.' Thelma gave a bizarre impression
of a little girl's pout. 'So sorry I can't give you all the answers
you'd like.'
'Don't bother about what I'd like. It's the jury who've got to
like you. And they're fairly ordinary men and women stuck in
various kinds of a rut.'
'Well, I'm sorry for them, that's all I've got to say. Now, is
there anything you want to ask me?'
'Just a few things. You live at seventeen Swansdown
Avenue?'
'That's what it says there, doesn't it?'
'If the uneven numbers are all down one side of the street,
nineteen is next door.'
'I can see it from my window.'
'On that moonlit night, did you see Tommy Constant down
there among the nettles?'
'Hardly. On that moonlit night I was fast asleep. Or as fast
as you can get in the Edmunds's house with Classic FM always
on the go and that woman getting up at all hours to feed her
unattractive baby on demand.'
'Brian Edmunds is your landlord? A professor?'
'Professor! He teaches Communication Studies at some
rotten poly that now calls itself the University of SouthWest
London.'
'The Edmundses.' I picked up another statement. 'Both say
that they didn't see you in their house at all during the week
Tommy Constant went missing.'
'I was there every night! I've got my own key, you know. I
am a grown-up, free and independent spirit, Mr Rumpole. I
don't have to report to Mr Brian Edmunds every time I go out
or come back. As a matter of fact I avoid them both as much as
possible. I don't particularly enjoy conversation with the brain
dead.'
'They say they couldn't tell if you slept in your bed during

I48

Rumpole and the Little Boy Lost

that week.' I thought the Edmundses must be cursing the day
they took in Thelma as a lodger. 'Because your bed is hardly
ever made, anyway.'

'I've told them not to look into my room.' Thelma clearly
felt that her civil rights had been outraged. 'In fact I've ex-pressly
forbidden it!'

'What were you doing during that week?'

'I do work, Mr Rumpole. I have to work to live. We can't all
sit around in nice comfortable rooms in the Outer Temple
waiting for someone to get into trouble.'

Thelma Ropner's resentment was like a high-pitched ring-ing,
a perpetual noise in the ear like the disease of tinnitus. I
ignored it with an effort. 'Where do you work, Miss
Ropner?'

'Anywhere that's interesting, and worthwhile, and exciting. I

help out a lot at groups.'

'Such as?'

'The Stick-Up Theatre Company. They're based in Croy-don.
Friends of the Earth. Animal Rights. Outings - that's an
organization for gay and lesbian groups of retired people. I
organize events for them. Some of us, Mr Lawyer, think that
work should have a social context.'

'Mr Rumpole's work' - my defence came, unexpectedly,
from Bonny Bernard, who had sat, up till then, quietly sucking
peppermints - 'is done in the interests of justice. I'm sure you
understand that, Miss Ropner.'

'It's also done in the interests of meeting this quarter's gas
bill and financing Saturday's trip to Safeway's.' I hastened to
reassure my client that my interest in her case was not based on
any abstract conception. A too fervent attachment to the inter-ests
of justice, I began to suspect, might not help me to keep
the disagreeable Thelma out of chokey.

'During each night that little Tommy was missing' - I
wanted to get her story entirely clear - 'you tell me you were
sleeping at the Edmunds's house?'

'Entirely alone, Mr Lawyer. Without even a three-year-old
in bed with me.'

'Very well.' I shuffled through the bundle of statements
again. 'On the night young Tommy was found in the garden of

149

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

number nineteen, Mrs Edmunds says she was up with her
baby...' ��

'Surprise, surprise.' Thelma Ropner gave a small, mirthless
laugh.

'She was looking out of the first-floor bedroom window. "I
saw someone under the street lamp in front of number nine-teen,"'
I read aloud. '"It looked like a woman in a black
plastic mac and a beret. I thought it was Thelma, but she was
pushing something, a pram or a pushchair, I couldn't be sure.
Then my baby started crying again, and when I looked back
the woman had gone."'

'Why didn't she call the police? Everyone was on the lookout
for someone in a mac like mine, who'd pinched Sheena's
precious little Tommy. If Polly Edmunds thought she'd seen
me, why didn't she rush down, or at least call the police?' To
my surprise, my client now sounded quite calm and sensible.

'That's a very good point for cross-examination. Thank
you.' I was polite enough to let her think I hadn't thought of it.

'That's all right. I'm sure you need a bit of help. Anyway,
why didn't she knock on my door if she thought it was me?
She'd'ye found me tucked up with myself, wouldn't she?'

I thought I knew the answer. With a lodger like Thelma
Ropner, the Edmundses must have blessed the hours when she
was either out or asleep. They wouldn't have gone looking for
her. I sorted through a number of police officer's statements
and found the description of number nineteen's unlovely
garden patch: '"The police found wheel-marks on the wet
ground which might have been made by a pushchair. There
were plenty of footprints..."'

'And body prints too.' Thelma's smile was so chilling that I
thought, for a moment, she was talking about death and not the
pleasures of sexual conquests in an urban tip. 'You know they
came and took my shoes away? Haven't we got any civil rights
left? Haven't we?'

'Only a few. And that's because I keep on shouting about
them down the Old Bailey.' My strength to be polite to Thelma
seemed likely to run out before her resentment. '... Prints that
fitted a pair of your shoes were found in the garden of number
nineteen.'

x5o

Rumpole and the Little Boy Lost

'Of course they were. I was there the night before. It was
pretty muddy then.'

'You went into the garden?'
'Lots of people did.'
'Why?'

'Number nineteen's the only place you meet interesting
people. It was the house for free spirits.'

So was that why the three-year-old little boy lost had been
dumped there, I wondered. To meet interesting people?

After a session with Thelma Ropner, there was only one place
to go and I stumbled towards it as a wounded, thirsty lion
might crawl to the water-hole. The first two glasses of liquid
hardly banished her chilly memory, but by the third I felt
some inner warmth returning. Jack Pommeroy's new and un-tried
barmaid, who seemed a nice girl, gave me a smile of
apparently genuine concern and asked unnecessarily if I would
care for another. And then a strange voice said, 'Got you, Mr
Rumpole. Trapped you in your lair, sir.' At the same time a
card was slapped on the bar in front of me bearing the legend:
JONATHAN ARGENT, Daily Trumpet.

I looked up, expecting to be staring at the craggy features
and moist eyes of a tabloid journalist marinated in whisky, a
sweat-stained trilby and a dirty mac. I saw what seemed to be
an impertinent sixth former who had just, more by luck than
hard work, done rather well in his A-levels - the sort of youth
who would be in constant minor trouble, but usually forgiven.
He had a small, upturned nose, a bang of dark hair that strayed
across his forehead, and lips that were fuller and redder than
might have been expected. He wore a suit with a rather long
jacket and a double-breasted waistcoat, and across a stomach
which hardly deserved the name a gold watchchain dangled.
Young Mr Argent seemed to see himself as an Edwardian
dandy. 'So, this is Fleet Street.' He looked around at the
assembled legal hacks, their solicitors, whom they were flirting
with energetically, and their secretaries whom they probably
intended to flirt with later. 'I wasn't quite sure I'd be able to
find it.'

'There was a time,' I told him, 'when your newspaper and

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

practically every other rag was in this street. That was before
you all pushed off to some nightmare electronic city on the Isle
of Dogs where you could stay safely away from the news.'
'I thought you'd talk like that,' the infant Argent said.
'Like what, exactly?'
'Like starting every sentence "There was a time".'
'Time was,' I said, rather grandly, I thought - the Chateau
Fleet Street was loosening the throat and somewhat inflating
the prose - 'is by now far the longest and most important part
of my life.'
'There's an old chap at the Trumpet who remembers when it
was in Fleet Street. They put him on to the Saturday para
Down the Garden Path, but now he's been made redundant.'
Time to come, I thought, is not something I wish to sit here
thinking about, taking a quick glance towards the end. Then
Argent said, 'Why not ditch that ghastly-looking cough mixture
and join me in a bottle of the Dom?'
'Of the what?'
'Dom Perignon? He was an old monk who had a cunning
sort of a way with champagne. I don't know if you ever met
him round Fleet Street?'
'Why on earth' - I was puzzled by this curious encounter 'should
you want to buy me expensive champagne?'
'Oh, it's not me, sir.' He used the word sir as though he was
speaking to a schoolmaster for whom he'd long lost respect.
'The Trumpet wants to stand us both a drink. After that
peculiar plonk you might be in the mood for a bit of blotting
paper, so I'm sure the scandal sheet would run to a couple of
cheese sandwiches to go with the bubbles.'
I am, I hope, a fair-minded man and I thought I should
consider his offer without prejudice, and come to a fair conclusion.
'I must admit that your paper gave the Tommy Constant
case very thorough coverage,' I told him.
'Oh, we want it to be much more serious than that, sir. I
think there's an empty table in the corner. Shall I take your
arm to steady you?'
'Certainly not' - I was quite brusque with the lad - 'I am
perfectly steady, thank you very much indeed.'
Young Argent said when we landed safely at the table, 'I'm

Rumpole and the Little Boy Lost

glad you thought we told Sheena's story well, sir. Now we

want to do the same for Thelma.'
'Do what?'
'Tell her story.'

'It'll be told in Court.'

'We'd like the Trumpet to be on the inside track with
Thelma. You've got to admit she's got an even bigger circula-tion
potential than Sheena. Thelma's story has got an added
dimension.'

'Oh? What dimension's that?'

'Well, quite honestly, sir, her baby died.' He gave me his
candid, boyish look, half amused, as though he had to confess
that he planned to raid the tuck shop.

I did my best to suppress rage. 'Do you call that a plus?
There should have been a Daily Trumpet around in the days of
Herod the King. You might have broken all circulation
records.'

'We want to do Thelma's story' - Jonathan Argent looked
very serious and sincere, his eyes wide and his voice particularly
quiet - 'in a way which will be a hundred per cent fair and
sympathetic. We all know how women get after childbirth.
We've got stuff from a psychiatrist. It's jolly understandable,
really.'

Thirty-five years after childbirth, I thought, She Who Must
Be Obeyed could still spring some surprises; but I didn't
encourage the upper-crust young Jonno by telling him that. 'If
Miss Ropner wants to tell you her story when the trial's over,
that's entirely up to her.'

'I don't think Miss Ropner's going to be in much of a
position to speak to anyone when the trial is over.' Jonathan
Argent was smiling.

'Why? Do you assume she's going to be convicted?'

'Surprise me, then. You've got some brilliant defence tucked
away under that old hat of yours? Have you, quite honestly,
sir?'

How many more people would have to remind me of the
burden of proof? I took a generous gulp of the old monk's
recipe and said, 'Thelma Ropner is innocent and will be until
the Jury down the Bailey comes back with a verdict.'

x53

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

'You're expecting the thumbs up?'
'We shall see,' I said - champagne after plonk is no recipe
for epigrams - 'what we shall see.'
'Quite honestly, Mr Rumpole, it's not so much Thelma
we're after.'
'Who are you after, then? You seemed to have squeezed the
best out of the Constant family.'
'We're after you.'
He was very young, probably quite silly and looked harmless
enough. I don't know why but when he said this I felt, in some
curious way, trapped; he spoke modestly, but as though he had
an immense power behind him.
'I'm an old taxi' - I embarked on the much-loved speech 'plying
for hire. If the Trumpet wants to brief me in some
lucrative action, provided it doesn't conflict with the interests
of my client, well and good. I make it a rule to represent all
riff-raft, underdogs and social outcasts.'
'We don't want to employ you, sir. We want to tell your
story.'
'You mean the "Have you anything to say why sentence of
death should not be passed against you?" And the chap in the
dock says, "Bugger all, my Lord." And the Judge says to his
counsel, "What did your client say, Mr Smith?"' My stories,
by now, have achieved a pretty wide circulation.
'Not exactly that, sir.' Argent shook his wise young head
sadly, unable to understand the wilful old. 'Your story in
Tom's case: WHY I'M DEFENDING THELMA ROPNER THE
MOST HATED WOMAN IN ENGLAND. Your taxi bit can come in there: I PUT MY TALENT AT THE DISPOSAL OF THE RIFFRAFF
AND THE UNDERDOG. And then: THE LIGHT AT THE END OF
THE TUNNEL. HOW I FOUND A DEFENCE IN A HOPELESS
CASE.'
'What are you suggesting I do? Spill all the beans? I can't do
it.'
'Whyever not? I'd write it for you.'
'It would be against all the best traditions of the Bar.'
'You might find it extremely profitable.'
'How profitable? I only ask out of idle curiosity.'
The young hack looked around conspiratorially, made sure

154

Rumpole and the Little Boy Lost

no one was listening and then offered me a sum of money,
expressed in Ks, which I took to be thousands. I saw myself
retiring, moving from icy Froxbury Mansions to a place with a
small pool and a microwave on the Malaga coast, sitti,ng in the
bar with a group of accountants who had taken voluntary
redundancy, drinking sangria. I stifled a huge yawn.

'No thanks,' I told him politely, 'it's too late for all that sort
of thing.'

'That isn't the end of the story, sir. With syndication it
might be much more.'

I drained my glass. 'In the circumstances I think it best if I
pay for the Dom Perignon.'

'There's absolutely no need, sir, for that sort of gesture. It's
been a pleasure and a privilege to talk to you.'

I saw the man's point. 'Then I'll be getting back to work.' I
rose from the table. He smiled at me as though I had agreed to
all his ridiculous propositions. As I was walking towards the
door I heard him call after me, 'And we'll keep in very close
touch indeed.'

I discovered later, a good deal later, that when I was being
given the expensive sauce, and offered all the kingdoms of
Southern Spain, by the schoolboy journalist, my learned but
incautious friend Claude Erskine-Brown, Q.C., was engaged in
his first romantic encounter with the statuesque Regen. The
place chosen for this tryst was hardly discreet, no small spa-ghetti
house in the purlieus of Victoria station but the glittering
glass and brass z93os Galaxy Hotel in the middle of Mayfair,
where the nomadic diva was pigging it during her Covent
Garden visit. By a chance which turned out to be less than
happy, she arrived back from shopping just as Claude's taxi
drew up and then enjoyed a notable encounter on the marble
steps in front of the Galaxy's top-hatted commissionaire and
revolving door.

Of course, I wasn't a spectator at this event which assumed
an importance rather like Solomon's greeting to the Queen of
Sheba, or King David's 'Hallo, there' to Bathsheba. I imagine
that Claude was effusive and pathetically grateful that his
suggestion of lunch, n3ade at the Outer Temple concert, had

x55

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

been accepted and that the singing star was a little confused
and perhaps unable to remember who her visitor was. Claude,
however, announced himself in clear and ringing tones and
swooped at her with two kisses on both cheeks, which, he
imagined, would be acceptable to a jet-setting soprano. I believe
Katerina Regen made a brisk movement, whether of
greeting or avoidance I'm not altogether sure, and Claude
stumbled on a shallow, marble step, with the result that their
mouths collided in a manner which looked a great deal friendlier
than it was. This mischance didn't embarrass the singer,
who didn't embarrass easily. She gave a resonant laugh down
the scale of C, put her arm in Claude's and dragged him in
through the revolving door as though she was hauling him
up from a well. And there, for a moment, and for the purpose
of this narrative, we must leave the happy couple.

I decided to visit the scene, or rather the scenes, of the crime a
stretch of South London which took the place of the lonely
fen in which the little boy was lost in William Blake's strange
poem. We went in Bonny Bernard's unwashed Fiesta which
seems to contain, in a state of unexpected chaos, all the elements
of his life. Files, bulging envelopes, cardboard boxes, were
piled on the back seat, together with a squash racket and a
zipped-up bag of some sort of sportswear which I had never
seen moved.
Our first call was the Springtide General Hospital. At my
direction Bernard parked his motor in a space clearly marked
RESERVED FOR HOSPITAL HEAD OF HUMAN RESOURCES and
joined the throng pouring in at the main entrance, a huge space
which resembled a town centre during late-night shopping
when all the traffic lights are out of order and the local constabulary
have gone on holiday.
Visitors sat on benches eating takeaway meals, and patients,
long ago forgotten, were slumped in wheelchairs. Hospital
trolleys rattled past, some heavy with sheeted figures. Other
trolleys stood parked with old persons, belly upwards, staring
hopelessly at the ceiling. A doctor or two, a little posse of
clattering nurses, hugging their cardigans about them, were
somewhere glimpsed. Otherwise, the crowd was notably civilI56

Rumpole and the Little Boy Lost

ian. The predominant smell was of rubber, disinfectant and
popcorn.
We passed a row of shops selling plastic toys, girlie magazines
and best-selling paperbacks. In the concourse in front of the
out-patients, there was a children's corner: a broken playpen, a
huge pink teddy bear and the mechanical donkey on which a
small child might enjoy a stationary trip for fifty pence. At that
moment, a shaven-headed, earringed nineteen-year-old was
sitting astride it, swigging mineral water from a kingsize bottle.
As I took in the locus in quo, the wonder was not how a child
could be stolen there but how a small and adventurous boy
could ever be kept safe.
'God protect me' - I shared my prayers with my instructing
solicitor - 'from having to die in a place like this.'
'Is there anything you want me to do here?' Bernard was as
anxious as I was to get out of this house of healing.
'Find out what was wrong with little Tommy. I mean, why
did they take him to the out-patients that morning?' I looked
towards the newspaper and tobacconist shop where Steve had
turned his back on his son to buy fags, and where great piles of
the Daily Trumpet were on sale. 'It wasn't an accident. We
knew that. Sudden sickness. Sheena says that in her statement.
What sort of sickness exactly? Find that out, Bonny Bernard,
in the fullness of time.'
'Where to next, Mr Rumpole?'
'Up to Redwood Road, I think. Just for a glance at the
matrimonial home.'
In the car park the Head of Human Resources was standing
beside his unparked B.M.W. and swearing at us. I smiled
sweetly and told him that we were official inspectors sent by
Mrs Lavinia Lyndon, the glamorous and lethal Minister of
Health, to report on his hospital's efficiency, and that shut him
up effectively.
I had seen the semi-detached in Redwood Road before,
faintly in that first picture in the Trumpet. Now it seemed
bigger and brighter than I had expected. The front garden
looked as though it had been recently trimmed and rhododendrons
and bright azaleas, already in flower, had been brought
in from a garden centre. Parked in front of the garage was a

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Rumpole and the Angel of Death

low-lined, bright-red and sporty model with a number Mr
Bernard knew to be recent. If the Constants had come into a
bit of money, I saw no reason, after their week of misery, why
they shouldn't enjoy it. We didn't see little Tommy, or either
of his parents, although we waited for about ten minutes on the
other side of the road. Then a middle-aged women in a bright
yellow dress came out of the house and started to snip a bunch
of early, straight-stalked and military tulips in the front garden.
She had reddish hair, a pale face and a sharp nose. I thought
she condemned the flowers to death in the house without
mercy or regret.

On the way to Swansdown Avenue, threading our way along
streets of identical pink-and-white houses (they looked, I
thought, like carefully packed and identical packets of streaky
bacon), round crescents and across wider roads, we stopped at
traffic lights beside a row of small shops that no doubt were
struggling for existence against the mass attack of the super-markets
and the shopping malls. As I looked idly out of the
window, I saw a shoe mender's, a dry cleaner's with a window
display of wire coathangers and paper flowers, and a shop
called Snappy Print: COPIES MADE AND FAXES SENT. In the
window I saw a poster offering a course in computer and
business studies: ONE WEEK IN g COUNTRY HOUSE NEAR
TUNBRIDGE WELLS CAN PUT YOU ON THE TOP EXECUTIVE
LADDER OF SUCCESS. SALESMANSHIP AND COMPETITIVE MAR-KETING
THOROUGHLY TAUGHT. After the printer's came a
peeling hut with blackened windows and a sign advertising
THERAPEUTIC MASSAGE AND SAUNA. The door was padlocked.
The next shop, so narrow it seemed to have been squashed in
after the rest of the row was finished, had a surprising and
half-broken neon sign. PSYCHIC it must have once said when
all the letters were fully operational. ASTROLOGICAL SIGNS
CHARTED AND CONSIDERED. CLAIRVOYANT ADVICE GIVEN.
The shop window was empty except for a white vase which
contained three wilting tulips and a photograph. It was a
glimpse of that photograph that made me ask Bernard to park,
and I got out and stood examining it and the window display.
In the shadows of the small room behind it I was sure I saw
something of importance to our case. I tried the door but it was

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Rumpole and the Little Boy Lost

locked and, when I got back to the car, Bernard said, 'What
did you want, Mr Rumpole? To know our future in R. v.
Thelma Ropner?'

'I'm afraid,' I told him, 'that we don't need a chart to tell us
that the omens are against us. The star sign of the Constants,
however, is definitely in the ascendant.' As we drove off to-wards
Thelma's pad, another sporty car turned from under a
sparse clump of trees. The driver seemed a very young man
and I made sure he was following us.

Swansdown Avenue produced no surprises. The tip in which
young Tommy had been discovered lived up to its sordid
reputation, and the front garden of number seventeen next
door was not much tidier. The grass was uncut, the paths
weedy, and there was a pram blocking the front door. The
garage doors were open and I imagined that the head of
communication studies had taken the car off to the University
of South-West London. There was the thin, insistent cry of a
baby and I saw an upstairs window from which Mrs Edmunds
would have had a clear view of the front gate of number
nineteen, which was opposite a street lamp. I imagined the
academic's house, and the perpetual smell of milk, vegetable
soup and soaking nappies. I decided that my legal team and I
couldn't go on much longer without a drink.

We found the Old Pickwick at a crossroads about half a mile
from Swansdown Avenue and Dickens's fat hero would have
thought it considerably less warm and welcoming than the
Fleet Prison. Bernard and I sat in a cavernous bar where banks
of electronic games squeaked and flashed and muttered angrily
around us. The barmaid, a ferocious girl with a spiky hairdo,
was heavily engaged on the telephone and avoided a glance in
our direction. At long last she finished her call, switched on
her favourite tape, and allowed me to yell a request for two
pints of Guinness to a musical accompaniment which sounded
like the outbreak of World War III. I had barely put my lips to
the froth when I heard a penetrating word in my ear.

'Sherlock Rumpole? Have you brought the magnifying glass
and the deerstalker?'
I turned to find young Argent of the Trumpet breathing

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Rumpole and the Angel of Death

down my neck. 'I'm here,' I told him rather grandly, 'to
consult with my instructing solicitor. Our conversation is, as
I'm sure you'll understand, entirely privileged.'

'Kill the karaoke, sweetheart.' The reporter's voice rose high
above the music, and to my amazement Miss Spiky smiled
sweetly at him and plunged us into silence. 'A word in your ear
if I might, a very private word.' Argent ignored Bernard and
ordered himself a brandy and soda.

'I have no secrets from my instructing solicitor.'

'Oh, but the lawyer we're going to talk about probably has.
And this hasn't got anything to do with little Tommy Constant.
Not for the moment, anyway.' Bernard, who could take a hint
almost before it was dropped, filtered off to telephone his
office and the man from the Trumpet opened a slim leather
briefcase and laid a glossy photograph on the bar. I didn't look
at it.

'Are you offering me money?' I asked him.

'I've already done that. We'd pay you awfully well for the
How I'm Defending Baby-snatcher story. Might even run to a
new hat, Mr Rumpole. No, what we're offering now is for
information.'

'What information?'

'Take a look.'

I glanced down. What I saw was the prize idiot and Queen's
Counsel, Claude Erskine-Brown, locked in the sturdy embrace
of Ms Katerina Regen, and apparently administering mouth-to-mouth
resuscitation to her on the front step of the Galaxy
Hotel.

'Top lawyer and judge's husband in afternoon bonk with
German nightingale. Not a bad little story for us.'

'They are simply friends,' I hastened to assure him. 'I know
he admires her voice.'

'Admires her silver tongue so much that they went up to
Room 307 together and didn't emerge from the Galaxy until
five-thirty in the afternoon.'

'He probably had nothing on in Court. It often happens.'
'He might try to have something on in Court if we tell him
we're publishing this. You wouldn't want us to do that, would
you?'

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Rumpole and the Little Boy Los

I couldn't believe that after so many disastrously fumblecl
and frustrated attempts, Claude had actually succeeded ira
consummating an extramarital romance. 'I don't see why �
should care,' I told Argent. 'You're not suggesting I was
bonking anyone, I sincerely hope?'
'The honour of your Chambers is at stake, sir. Its reputatiorl
for high morals and respectability. And think of the effect ora
her Ladyship, the learned Judge. Just about blow her wig off,
wouldn't you say?'
He was right, of course. Phillida Erskine-Brown would be
deeply distressed at seeing her husband splashed across the Trumpet as a post-prandial bonker. I will never lose a long and
lingering affection for the Portia of our Chambers, now a High
Court Judge, and I wanted to spare her pain.
'I can't see that this' - I pushed the photograph back towards
Argent - 'is of the slightest interest to your readers.'
'You don't know our readers, sir. They love reading about
the great and good bonking. Saves them all the trouble of
doing it for themselves.'
'But you won't publish it?'
'That depends.'
'Depends on what?'
'On whether you're going to give us another story: How �
Defended Thelma.'
There was a long silence. Miss Spiky was baring her lips to a
mirror, seriously examining her teeth. I said, 'When would you
want it?'
'Run the first instalment the day before the trial. No desperate
hurry.'
'Can I have that picture?' I asked him. 'Of course, you've
got the negative.'
'Of course.' He pushed Claude and the diva towards me. I
stored them away in an inside pocket before Bernard came back.
'One thing you might do for us,' Argent said, 'if we keep
your learned friend off the front page...'
'What's that?'
'Couldn't you just give me a little taster? Just a hint, you
understand, of your approach to the defence of the wicked
witch?'

x6r

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

'Perhaps I'd say that if I were a wicked witch I think I'd be
careful not to dress as one. But'you can't print that yet.'
'Understood! We'll save it for your first instalment. Anything
else?'
'Just that I wonder where Thelma Ropner is meant to have
kept Tommy locked up, fed, cleaned and watered for a week.'
'Have you any ideas?'
'Not yet,' I said.
'Let me know when you have. We'll be in constant touch.'
Argent drained his brandy and left, leaving me, in spite of all the Trumpet's promises to make my fortune, to pay for it.

'My name coupled with that of Katerina Regen?' Claude
Erskine-Brown said, and I detected an unmistakable note of
pride in his voice.
'Not only are your names coupled,' I assured him, 'everything
about you is said to have been coupled also.'
The chump picked up the photograph and examined it
closely. 'Doesn't she look beautiful?' he purred at it. 'And
don't you think I'm looking rather young?'
'Positively childlike,' I told him. 'I'm sure Phillida will tell
you what a spring chicken you look when she sees the front
page of the Trumpet.'
'That would not be a good thing.' Claude put the photograph
back on my desk and I saw that his hand was now trembling.
'Please put it away, Rumpole. In a sealed envelope, in case the
clerk sees it. They won't really publish it, will they? Not in a tabloid?.'
'If I let them.'
'You have some influence over the Trumpet, Rumpole?'
Claude's voice was full of hope.
'Perhaps a little.'
'You would act for me in this matter?'
'You obviously need help.'
'On the whole,' he said, after having given the matter deep
thought, 'I think it's better that the very beautiful thing Katerina
and I have for each other should remain a secret. It
would be better for Chambers.'
'And considerably better for you.'

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Rumpole and the Little Boy Lost

'I'm not in the least ashamed of loving Katerina.'
'But Mrs Justice Phillida Erskine-Brown would condemn
you to a long stretch of withering contempt if she got to hear
about it.'
'I suppose you're right. Perhaps you'll let me look at this
from time to time, though? Just to remember.'
'To remember what?'
'The day I had lunch with Katerina.'
'At the Trumpet they don't think that's all that you had.'
'Don't they?' Claude was smiling complacently. He seemed,
poor chump, to be deeply flattered. 'It was a wonderful
experience.'
'How wonderful exactly?'
'Well, we went into the restaurant.'
'You would do if you were having lunch.'
'And sat down.'
'You amaze me.'
'And talked about Schubert.'
'Please, Erskine-Brown, spare me the embarrassing details.'
'And then... Well, I touched her hand and I was about to
tell her how much I really fancied her and I hadn't felt so,
well, uplifted by any other woman. And then we were interrupted,
rather rudely I thought.'
'By her husband?'
'Of course not. She hasn't got one. No. By the waiter who
told us about that day's specials.'
'Talkative bloke, was he?'
'Honestly, Rumpole, he went on for what seemed like hours,
all about sea bass grilled with aubergines and served with a
light pesto and tomato coulis - and that sort of thing.'
'He broke the spell?'
'Exactly. And when I got back in my stride and said I felt
my whole life in love and music was simply a prelude to that
golden moment, that bloody waiter came back.'
'And interrupted?'
'He said, "Who's having the fish?"'
'Put you off your stroke again.'
'I'm afraid so. But we got very close after that. She asked me
up to her room.'

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Rumpole and the Angel of Death

'So you did...'
'Well, not exactly. I mean, ghe asked me up to give me her
new CD. Strauss's last songs.' There was a lengthy pause.
'Is that the end of the story?'
'Until the next time.'
'Next time?'
'She said we must have lunch again. I knew exactly what she
meant. She said, "I'll have longer for you next time." I think
she had another appointment that particular afternoon.'
'The Trumpet thinks you strayed till five-thirty when you
came out again and kissed.'
'Does it think that?' Erskine-Brown gave me another chance
to study his self-satisfied smirk. 'Then it understands exactly
how close we are to each other.' He made for the door and, on
the way out, had another attack of anxiety. 'I say, Rumpole.
About that lovely photograph ... Of course, it would be a
great deal better if Philly didn't see it in the paper.'
'I'm bound to agree with you.'
'So will you act for me in this rather delicate matter,
Rumpole?'
'I suppose I'd better. I must say you seem quite incapable of
acting for yourself. What time did you leave the Galaxy Hotel?'
'About two-thirty, I think. I went out of the back entrance.'
As soon as the door had closed on him, I forgot Claude and
his troubles. I had other things to think of. I thought of them
for .a long time and then I rang Bonny Bernard and asked him
to send round copies of every piece the Trumpet had published
about Sheena Constant and the Little Boy Lost. There was
something in one of them, I felt sure, which was of great
importance for me to remember. And then, to complete the
story, I told him to get all they had written about Tina
Santos.

'Now, when I think about it again, I am sure that the voice I
heard on the telephone the night we found Tommy, the voice
that told us to go to nineteen Swansdown Avenue, was Thelma
Ropner's. I was at school for many years with Thelma and we
used to be close friends. I am prepared to give this evidence on
oath in Court.' The Prosecution had served Sheena's additional

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Rumpole and the Little Boy Lost

statement on us and, with considerable reluctance, I had told
Bernard to get Thelma in for another conference.

'Is that what Sheena says?' Miss Ropner laughed, an eerie

and not very comfortable sound. 'Then Sheena is lying.'
'Why would she lie?'

'Because she doesn't like me. She's never liked me since I
told her what a boring little company creep her precious Steve

was.'

' Another of Miss Ropner's insults had come home to roost,
but there was no point in going on about it. Instead I said, 'I
just hope you've told me the truth. If you haven't, it's going to
make life very difficult for me.'

'Poor old you!' She was still laughing. 'Can't you cope with
difficult cases? Anyway, it's true. I didn't take Tommy.'

'Did you tell us the truth about what you were doing during
the week he went missing?'

'I told you I was sleeping at the Edmundses and working
during the day.'

'Working at what exactly? Will you give Mr Bernard a list,
with dates?'

'Oh, you can't expect me to remember dates.'

'I think you'd better try. And I don't suppose you'll have

any difficulty in telling us where you're working now.'
'Now?' The question seemed to shock her.
'Yes. Where?' I lifted a pencil.

'I told you!' She was making an exaggerated effort to control
her irritation. 'The Stick-Up Theatre Company. We've got a
tour of Welsh community centres at the planning stage.'

'What do you do with a client who won't stop lying to you?'
I asked Bonny Bernard when Miss Ropner had gone off with
no goodbye, only a look of undying resentment. Bernard smiled
sadly, as though the truth was rare and unhoped-for among his
clientele. Then I told him to engage the services of a seasoned,
not to say elderly, private eye to discover exactly what Thelma
had been up to during the week of Tommy's captivity. Ferdi-nand
Isaac Gerald Newton (known to his many grateful
customers as Fig Newton) was well known and respected by
Bernard, who doubted if the legal aid authorities would pay
him and dared we ask Thelma to dig into her handbag because

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Rumpole and the Angel of Death

we seriously doubted her word? 'Try my friends on the Trum-pet,'
I told him. 'If they can 'afford Dom Perignon, they can
afford Fig. I think it's the least they can do for us.'

'I sent for you, Rumpole, as a senior member of Chambers,
because I have had some most unhappy news.'

'Then I'll be going. I've got quite enough worries at the
moment.'

'Claude Erskine-Brown,' Soapy Sam Ballard rabbited on,
'has dishonoured his silk! He is likely to bring Equity Court
into scandal and disrespect.' Pacing the room in a disturbed
fashion, he had now blocked my passage to the door.

'He's never pinched the nailbrush from the downstairs 1oo?'
'These are serious matters, Rumpole. He has broken the
Seventh Commandment. He has committed adultery - in the
afternoon.'

'Is that so much worse than adultery in the morning?'

'He has been flagrantly unfaithful - to a High Court Judge.'
'That's not his fault.'
'Of course it's his fault.'

'Not his fault that his wife's a High Court Judge.'

'I suppose you'll say it's not his fault he's committed adul-tery!
I suppose you'll put forward some ridiculous defence.'

'Claude's no more capable of adultery than he is of winning
a difficult case. His extramarital coitus is perpetually and incur-ably
interruptus. I ask for - no, I demand - a verdict of not
guilty.'

'Rumpole! I have it from his own mouth.'

'Then he's an unreliable witness.'

'He has told me that this scandalous liaison is about to be

exposed in the national press.'

'In the Trumpet?'

'I think that's what he said.'

'Why do you suppose he told you that?'

'I imagine because he sincerely regretted his sin and wanted
to throw himself on my mercy.'

'Nonsense! He was boasting.'

'Boasting?' Soapy Sam looked entirely confused.

'Showing off. Bragging, wanting us all to think that he's a

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Rumpole and the Little Boy Lost

gay young dog, when in truth he's an entirely domesticated
animal that's almost never off the lead.'

'Are you saying that people would boast of breaking the
Seventh Commandment?'

'They do it on practically every page of the Trumpet.'

Ballard sat down then, as though his legs had become weak
with amazement. He gasped for breath. 'I have told Erskine-Brown
that if this scandal becomes public knowledge, there
will be no room for him in Chambers.'

'I thought he'd thrown himself on your mercy.'

'He did.'

'And your mercy wasn't there?'

'God may forgive Erskine-Brown. After repentance.'

'But you won't.'

'I have Chambers to consider.'

'I suggest you leave Chambers alone and get on with your
practice, what there is of it.' I rose and made for the door
whilst the path to it was unimpeded. 'Oh, and don't worry

your pretty little head, Sam. There isn't going to be a scandal.'
'How can you be sure of that?'

'Because if Claude's Don Giovanni, I'm Tarzan of the Apes.
No need for you to envy the poor blighter, Bollard. He didn't
get around to bonking anybody.'

And I left before he could argue.

The Psychic Shop was open at three the next afternoon when I
pushed open the door. What on earth did I think I was doing?
When young Argent called me Sherlock Rumpole, had the title
completely unhinged me? Was I trying to outdo the incompar-able
Fig Newton, or was this a mission of such delicacy that I
didn't feel I could leave it to him? I had nothing in Court and
for the day I was no longer a barrister; in fact I had put on the
old tweed jacket, grey flannel bags and comforting Hush Pup-pies
to prove it. I was an anonymous old man after information.
If I was rumbled, I had my cover-story pat. I had just dropped
in for a clairvoyant reading because I was seriously interested
in the future.

A bell pinged faintly as I opened the door, but the shop was
empty. I stood for a moment breathing in a smell which

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Rumpole and the Angel of Death

seemed to be a mixture of incense, Dettol and drains. There
were some printed astrological charts pinned on the walls,
otherwise the shop was dim and sparsely furnished. There was
no sign of what I had noticed on the day when I had asked
Bernard to park his car and stood looking in at the window.
There was a bead curtain at the back of the shop. It rattled
and a woman entered like a burst of sunlight. She had reddish
hair, a bright yellow dress and the fixed, somewhat desperate
smile of someone who is constantly in touch with those who
have passed over and who has learnt to make the best of it.
She was the woman I had seen in the Constants' front garden,
snipping tulips, the woman whose photograph was in the
window of the Psychic Shop. She was Steve's Aunt Brenda,
who'd been in touch with the spirit world for news of the
Little Boy Lost.

'Welcome, stranger,' she said. 'Have you come for a
reading?'

'If you have time.'

'Perhaps you have an anxiety about your future.'

'Always. An extreme anxiety.'

'And you want your birth chart analysed?'
'That would be extremely helpful.'
'You have an interest in clairvoyancy?'
'A lifetime's interest.'

'Then, if you'll follow me, I'll see if I can fit you in.'

She led me into a sudden blaze of colour. The inner room
had huge vivid green leaves on its wallpaper, and bright red,
blue and yellow astrological charts. The table was covered with
pink formica on which a glass ball on a bright blue stand
presumably provided an entrance to a Technicolor spirit world
for those with sufficient imagination to switch on to its channel.
Death, I thought, in this small and lurid world was an endless
soap opera in primary colours. I said, 'You are Miss Brenda
Constant, aren't you?'

She was not at all surprised. 'I suppose I've got to get used
to the fact that I've become famous.' She was middle-aged, but
she giggled like a young girl. 'I can't complain. It's brought me
a lot of customers.'

'Because of little Tommy?'

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Rumpole and the Little Boy Lost

'Because the spirit people were able to tell us who'd got the
baby.'
'And who had?'
'Thelma Ropner, of course. She was always jealous of
Sheena. Now then, do please sit down and tell me your name.'
'Samuel Ballard.' I couldn't help it. It just occurred to me as
I sat on a hard and shiny plastic chair and rested my elbows on
the pink formica.
'Samuel. That's a very nice name.' She unrolled some sort of
chart of the heavens and sat opposite me, ready to voyage into
the unknown. 'There are plenty of Samuels in the spirit
world.'
I told her that didn't surprise me in the least. I was looking
past her at a narrow window which seemed to overlook a small,
paved strip and a high wooden fence.
'Birth sign?' She was about to fill in a form.
'Cancer, the crab.' I thought that might be appropriate for
Bollard.
'Birth date?'
'The twenty-ninth of June x94o. It was a stormy night and
there was a partial eclipse of the moon. Apparently a dead
owl fell out of the sky and into my parents' garden in
Waltham Cross.' From then on I was inventing and Auntie
Brenda was taking copious notes. I didn't have to go on too
long before the shop door pinged again. She put down her
scarlet Biro, sighed heavily and said, 'Everyone wants a reading
since the story came out in the Trumpet,' and exited
through the bead curtain. I got up and crossed to the window.
It was then I saw, on the strip of crazy paving, what I thought
I had once seen in the shop, a child's pushchair with something
on the seat which, I was sure, could be described as a
yellow flop-eared rabbit, much clutched and frequently
caressed.
I could hear Auntie Brenda's grand and busy greeting to a
prospective customer in the shop. There was a long cupboard
built against one wall of the astrological consulting room. I slid
back the door as quietly as possible and was surprised, as I
often am, by the casual way in which many people preserve

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Rumpole and the Angel of Death

evidence. Hanging uncertainly on a wire coat-hanger, I saw a
shiny, black plastic mackintosh and, on the shelf above it, a
dark beret.

I got the door shut as Auntie-Brenda came back to peer into
Samuel Ballard's future.

'One last question, Mrs Sheena Constant. Looking back on
that telephone call in which you were told to go and look in
nineteen Swansdown Avenue, can you now say who you think
called you?'

'Don't let's have what she thought, my Lord.' I was up on
my hind legs in no time. 'Don't let's have pure speculation.'

'The witness is fully entitled to say who she thinks tel-ephoned
her, Mr Rumpole. There is no need to delay this trial
with unnecessary objections.' His Honour Judge Pick bore, in
my opinion, a singular resemblance to a parakeet. He had a
high colour, a small and beaky nose, a bright and malignant
eye, and his usual reaction to my contributions to the proceed-ings
was a flurried and resentful squawk.

'I'm quite sure who it was now.' Sheena smiled from the

witness-box. 'It was someone I'd known from school.'
'What was her name?'
'Thelma Ropner.'

'The defendant Ropner whom we now see in the dock?' The
bird on the Bench rubbed it in quite unnecessarily. My learned
friend, Leonard Fanner (known to us down the Bailey as
Lenny the Lion because of his extreme nervousness in Court
and general lack of roaring power), appearing for the Prosecu-tion,
said, 'Thank you very much, Mrs Constant,' and sat
down gratefully.

I rose to cross-examine Mrs Constant. 'You say you were at

school with my client, Thelma Ropner?'

'Yes. '

'And were you also at school with a girl called Tina Santos?'
'Tina? Yes, I knew her.'

'And did she become the secretary of a local MP called
David Bangor, Parliamentary Secretary to the Minister for
Enterprise?'

'She worked for a politician. I think that's what Tina did.'

x7o

Rumpole and the Little Boy Lost

'You know what Tina did, don't you? She had a well-publicized
love affair with the Honourable Member.'
'Mr Rumpole!'
I ignored the squawk from the Bench and continued, 'And
then told the whole story to the Trumpet because he wouldn't
leave his wife and marry her.'
Sheena frowned a little and said, 'I think I did read something
about it, yes.'
'The whole nation read something about it.' I picked up a
cutting: '"I shared a shower with Minister in Commons' bathroom.
Skinny-dipping during the debate on Post Office
privatization." '
'Mr Farmer, are you not obiecting to this cross-examination?'
The Judge turned to my learned friend for help.
'I'm not entirely sure where it's leading, my Lord.' Lenny
the Lion stood up, magnificent in his indecision.
'Exactly where is it leading, Mr Rumpole? Perhaps you'd be
good enough to explain.' The Judge was pecking away at me,
but I rose above it.
'It's leading, my Lord, to a vital issue in this case.' I turned
to give my full attention to the mother for whom I had felt
such sympathy. 'Do you know how much Tina Santos got paid
for that story?'
'Mr Rumpole!'
'I think it was quite a lot. A ridiculous lot of money, it was.'
'Exactly. For that parliamentary shower bath, Tina Santos
earned thousands of pounds. Wasn't that common knowledge
among the old girls of Cripping Comprehensive?'
'She told us she got a lot of money, yes.'
'Easy money, wasn't it?'
'Much too easy, I'd say, for Tina.'
'Mrs Constant, how much did the Trumpet pay you for the
exclusive rights to the story of your Little Boy Lost?'
Up to then the witness had been quiet, composed, a young
woman reliving a painful event with commendable courage.
For a moment, I saw another Sheena, hard and angry. 'That's
no business of yours, that isn't! I don't have to tell him that, do
I?' She turned, for escape, to the Judge, who offered it to her
eagerly.

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Rumpole and the Angel of Death

'Certainly not. The question was entirely irrelevant. Mem-bers
of the Jury, you will ignore Mr Rumpole's last question.
I'm looking at the clock, Mr Fanner.'

'Yes, my Lord.' Lenny the Lion confirmed that that was
exactly what the old bird was doing.

'I shall adjourn now. Mr Rumpole, by tomorrow morning,
perhaps you will have thought of some relevant questions to
ask this witness.'

'Tomorrow morning, my Lord., I shall hope to demonstrate
that the question I just asked was entirely relevant.'

'I have ruled on that, Mr Rumpole. I trust that the Jury will
put it completely out of their minds.'

But I knew the Jury wouldn't.

I emerged from that bout in Court panting slightly, bruised a
little, but undaunted, mopping the brow and removing the wig
to give the top of my head an airing. The researches of the
admirable Fig Newton had allowed me to serve an alibi notice
on the Prosecution, and I asked Lenny the Lionhearted if the
forces of law and order had been able to check the story it
contained.

'I'm not sure, Rumpole. I'll have to speak to the officer in
charge of the case.'

'Screw up your courage, old darling, to the sticking point,' I
encouraged him. 'And do just that.'

Then, as Lenny went off on his daring mission, I heard a
voice at my elbow. 'Well, sir. You seem to know a lot about the
Trumpet's money. Are you going to let us pay you a slice of it?'

'I'll meet you in Pommeroy's.' I took young Argent's arm
and walked him away from the assembled lawyers. 'Six o'clock
convenient?'

'You'll let us in on your defence?'

'It's possible. Oh, you know that picture of Katerina Regen,

the Nightingale, arriving at the Galaxy Hotel?'

'For her afternoon bonk?'

'Did your man get a snap of her leaving by any chance?'
'I'm sure he did. I told you, we've got that story sewn up.'

'Probably. But bring a copy of the leaving picture, will you?
I'm curious to see it.'

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Rumpole and the Little Boy Lost

'Right you are, sir.' The boy journalist seemed to be suppressing
laughter, his usual problem. 'And you'll tell me what you've got up your sleeve?'
'My sleeve,' I promised him, 'will be entirely open to you.'
So I went back to Chambers and had a brief consultation
with Bonny Bernard about the events of the day, skimmed
through a forthcoming matter of warehouse-breaking by a
particularly inefficient member of the Timson clan, and put
on my hat for Pommeroy's. On my way out of Chambers, I
passed a despondent Claude, who whispered a furtive question
about his exposure in the public prints. 'I'm going to meet
the journalist in question now. I have high hopes that you will emerge without a stain on your character.' As I left
him I couldn't honestly tell if the fellow looked relieved or
disappointed.
'You needn't invest in Dom Perignon,' I told Jonathan
Argent, when we were established in a discreet table in Pommeroy's,
the one under the staircase, and the furthest from the
gents, 'until you're quite sure you like what I'm going to tell
you.'
'You mean you still haven't thought of a defence in the case
of the Little Boy Lost?'
'Not exactly. In fact, my defence is a perfectly simple one.
The little boy was never lost at all.'
'You're joking!' But that was one moment when I noticed
that young Argent wasn't tempted to suppress a laugh.
'Not really. Tell me how much did the Trumpet pay Sheena
Constant?'
He mentioned a generous number of Ks.
'Not bad money for sending young Tommy to stay at his
Great-aunt Brenda's?
'What on earth are you talking about?'
'What on earth? Dear old Brenda doesn't want to be on earth
very much, does she? She wants to be up in the stars, in the
spirit world, or on the other side of the wall of death. But she is
of the earth, earthy. I wonder what her cut was for a week's
babyminding.'
'Do you mind telling me what you're talking about?' Young
Jonathan looked, for once, out of his depth.

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Rumpole and the Angel of Death

'I don't mind in the least. I'm talking about fraud, rather an
ingenious one to fool sentimental old folks like me and con
your hardboiled tabloid out of a considerable amount of cash.
Poor old darling, what a soft touch you brilliant journalists
are!'
'You mean...?'
'I mean Aunt Brenda was hired to put on a black mac with a
dashing beret and remove the little boy from the mechanical
donkey. Did you ever wonder why he went so quietly? Why he
didn't cry or yell out? Because he knew he was safe with his
dad's old auntie. She looked after him for a week, sometimes at
her house, at least once or twice at her fortune shop. Then she
dumped him in the squatters' garden as planned and made the
call from a phone box in Swansdown Avenue.'
'But Sheena recognized your client's voice.'
'No, she didn't. That was all part of the plot to frame
Thelma. Someone who is far easier to frame than a reproduction
of "The Stag at Bay".'
'Why Thelma?'
'Sheena hates her. She'd been rude about Steve, called him a
boring little company man and a dreary middle manager. That's
why they chose Brenda, because she's got rust-coloured hair
like Thelma's. And that's why they tricked Brenda out in
Thelma's customary suit of solemn black.'
There was a pause while Jonathan Argent digested the information.
Then he asked me if I could prove it.
'We'll see after I've finished cross-examining Sheena. What
I can prove is that Thelma's innocent.'
'How?'
'She spent that week at a residential business course at a
country house near Tunbridge Wells. She had lessons in salesmanship
and competitive marketing. She went to school with a
lot of ambitious reps and wore her name on a plastic label.'
'Did she tell you that?'
'Of course not. But we found it out, and we've got witnesses
to prove it. Thelma's going to be furious when she hears the
evidence.'
'Why?'
'Because it'll prove one thing. That she wants to become a

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Rumpole and the Little Boy Lost

boring little middle manager just like Steve Constant. She's
terribly ashamed of that. She'd rather be suspected of kidnapping
than admit it. She even took the course under an assumed
name. Luckily, one of the tutors recognized her photograph.'
'What did she call herself?.'
'Tina Jones. Not Santos. Just the Christian name. It's odd
that they all seem to have been jealous of Tina.'
The talkative journalist broke all records for a long and
thoughtful silence. At last he said, 'If you tell that story in
Court, it's going to make the Trumpet look rather foolish.'
'You can't make an omelette without breaking eggs.'
'And you can't expect us to pay you for holding us up to
general ridicule.'
'That's why I advised you to save on the Dom Perignon. By
the way, did you bring me the diva's leaving photograph?'
He said he had, but it seemed as though Claude's troubles no
longer interested him greatly. Suddenly he was a very anxious
young journalist.
'Of course,' I said, 'I could go and beard Lenny the Lion in
his den and see if he'll drop the case.'
'Could you?' He couldn't help sounding eager.
'I could try.'
He thought it over and then said, 'Why do you call him
Lenny the Lion?'
'Because he's such a fearsome prosecutor. Carnivorous, I'd
call him. Still, I'm prepared to ask if he'll go quietly, and keep
your name out of the papers. I imagine the Sun would rather
make mincemeat of you.'
'Yes ...' The thought clearly gave him no pleasure. 'Will
you try to settle it?'
'On one condition.'
'You want money?'
'Strangely enough, I don't. But I want you to drop the story
about Claude Erskine-Brown.'
'I think we can do that.'
'Anyway, it seems you've got the wrong chap.' I looked
down at the photograph. It showed Katerina leaving the Galaxy
with her appointment for the afternoon, the man she had no
doubt embraced after her lunch with Claude. It was none other

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Rumpole and the Angel of Death

than the huge, booming barrister who had organized her con-cert
in the Outer Temple, Barrington McTear, Q.C., known to
me only as Cut Above.

'We've checked your client's alibi, Rumpole. I had a word with
the officer in charge of the case.'

'That was extremely brave of you. And...?'

'It appears to stand up.'

'That's right. It's not a baby any more. It's a big, strong
grown-up alibi.'

We were having coffee in the Old Bailey canteen before Mr
Justice Pick started work for the day. Around us, solicitors and
learned friends, plain-clothes officers of the law and accused
persons trying to look optimistic, were preparing to meet the
challenge of a day in Court. Lenny lowered his voice almost to
a whisper. 'I don't suppose the Trumpet wants to look foolish
in public.'

'No, Lenny. I don't believe it does.'

'The paper wouldn't welcome a prolonged investigation.'
'You might get rather a bad press if you go on.'

'Do you know, Rumpole, I've been thinking I might ask to
see the Judge.'

'You always were a brave prosecutor.'

'Tell him that, all things considered, the Prosecution aren't
offering any further evidence against your client.'

'I've always said you were a complete carnivore.'

'No need to subject the Constants and the paper to universal
derision.'

'No need at all.'

'It would serve no useful purpose.'

'None.'

'So I'll tell Pick I'm throwing in my hand.'
'It takes courage to do that.'
'Will that suit you, Rumpole?'
'It will suit me very well indeed.'
'So that's sorted then.'
'Yes.'

'Sorry we couldn't have had a fight.'

'So am I. In a way.'

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Rumpole and the Little Boy Lost

'Never mind, Rumpole. There'll be other occasions.' He
looked at me, I thought, quite gloomily.
'Yes, Lenny. I'm sure there will.'
That didn't seem to cheer him up at all.

It was all over. Thelma sniffed when she was discharged and
told me that the whole thing had been a complete waste of her
time. I got a little parcel from Jonathan Argent and took it to
Claude Erskine-Brown in his room.
'Here's your picture back. And the negative.'
'They're not going to use it in the paper?'
'Don't worry. There'll be no scandal. And Soapy Sam Bollard
won't throw you out of Chambers.'
'I might keep this photograph.' Claude took the record of his
encounter out of its envelope and looked at it lovingly.
'I strongly advise you not to.'
'In my drawer? Here in Chambers?'
'Wherever you keep it, our Portia's going to find it some
time.'
'Perhaps you're right.' He sighed heavily. 'But a memento of
what might have been...'
'It's all in your mind, Claude. Keep it there.'
'I might have been famous as Katerina Regen's lover.' His
voice was full of regret.
'You want me to take that picture round to the Sun?' 'Perhaps not. Let it go.' He handed me the package. 'Dispose
of it how you will. But I shall think of her, Rumpole. I shall
think of her quite often. When I'm alone.'
I took the package from him and looked at Claude with pity.
Poor fool! He'd really wanted to get his name in the papers.

Rumpole and the Rights of Man

'A toast to Mr Rumpole, our fellow European.' The faces
around me were pink and smiling encouragingly. Glasses of a
colourless fluid were raised, which rushed down the throat like
a hot wind, took your breath away and left you gasping and
more than a little confused. Was I European? I supposed so,
although I had never thought of it before.

If I think about it at all, I suppose I'm Efiglish. Not British.
The Scots, the Irish and in particular the Welsh, although full
of charm and excellent qualities, are undoubtedly foreign. I
never'talk about the U.K., an expression much favoured by
politicians and management consultants who have retired to
live on the Costa del Crime. Had I been mistaken all this time,
I wondered, as the cold beer joined the eau de vie? Was I not
just an Englishman abroad but a European who had stayed at
home? I looked down at the huge plate of sour cabbage and
boiled sausage (in England, I had been tempted to say, we
don't boil sausages). The restaurant was in a street of huge,
medieval, half-timbered houses, now sheltering boutiques and
souvenir shops. We were in France but near that part of
Germany where, so my hosts told me, the Rhine maidens and
the dwarf and the giants lived through those endless operas
Claude Erskine-Brown was so keen on, characters I found so
much lezs interesting than the clients down the Old Bailey, or
even my latest quarry, his Honour Judge Billy Bloxham, a new
and unwelcome addition to the Judges entitled to try cases of
alleged murder.

'And also to you, Mr Rumpole!' The toastmaster, a somewhat
rimless man with rimless glasses perched on a long, narrow
nose, who spoke with the pursed lips and squeezed vowels of a
Nord, raised his glass to me: 'The defender of human rights'.

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Rumpole and the Rights of Man

'Well,' I had to tell them, 'I'm not exactly that. I mean, I
spend most of my time defending people.'

'Defending their rights.' Peter Fishlock, my instructing solici-tor,
who had travelled with me from England, was a great one
for rights and for the Society for a Written Constitution, of
which he was, as he kept telling me, 'chair'. During our long
hours together, in English courts and on the bumpy ride across
the sky to Strasburg, I realized how much I missed Bonny
Bernard, who was less interested in human rights than in
trying to find a decent bit of alibi evidence.

'I'm not so sure about that either.' We had gone through a
good many toasts that evening, to the Community of Nations
and the Irrelevance of Gender, Freedom from Torture com-bined
with a Common Currency, and so much eau de vie had
slipped down the red lane that my courage had become ex-tremely
Dutch. 'I'm defending their wrongs quite often. Their
errors and foolish ways. I suppose I look on the law as a sort of
disease, and I'm the doctor who tries to cure his patient of it as
quickly as possible.'

'That is only your English modesty speaking there, Mr
Rumpole.' A reassuring female voice sounded somewhere above
my head. Betsi Hoprecht, tall and blonde, with a face as
smooth and delicately brown as a new-laid egg, a young
German lawyer with an encyclopaedic knowledge of the ways
of the European Court, had appointed herself my helper, guard-ian,
nurse and general protector for the purposes of the present
proceedings. 'We all know how you English wish to conceal
your finer feelings under all those layers of clothing you wear.
But I think we know where Mr Rumpole's heart is, and I think
it's in the right place.' Betsi's speech was in perfect English,
although no one English would have made it.

'I propose a toast then.' Govan Welamson, the rimless Swede
and Professor of International Law, had his slender glass re-filled.
'To Mr Rumpole's heart.'

'Please,' I begged, 'couldn't we drink to something a little
less embarrassing. Like the Common Agricultural Policy?'

'Come on, Rumpole. We all know you spend your time
defending the underdog.' This came from Jeremy Jameson,
Member of the European Parliament, who had a surprisingly

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Rumpole and the Angel of Death

young face stuck on the body of a sedentary and spreading
politician. He had come with ahalf-smiling and mostly silent
woman with a thin nose and a short upper lip. With her tight
curls she had the appearance of an intelligent and attractive
sheep. She wore a neat black suit with a few gold ornaments
and smelled of the most expensive perfume in the duty free.
The Euro M.P. had introduced her simply as Poppy.
Jameson stood, I seemed to remember, in the Liberal interest
and had a huge constituency in the West of England, where no
one was able to remember his name. He spoke, even when he
was at his most polite, with a kind of contemptuous amusement:
'Defending the underdog brought you to Strasburg,' he said.
'To all these perfectly marvellous restaurants, with a side salad
of human rights?'
'The great thing about underdogs,' I reminded him, 'is that
they're usually on legal aid.'
'But you defend them,' Betsi told me firmly, 'for the sake of
your principles.'
'I defend them,' I corrected her, 'for the sake of the rent of
the mansion flat and my wife's effort to boost consumer spending
every Saturday at Safeway's.'
'Don't know why we wanted to go into Europe anyway,' a
deep-voiced woman, her grey hair tousled, her cheeks flushed,
who had been chain-smoking over the choucroute, boomed at
us. 'All a lot of bloody nonsense. They want us to grow square
strawberries! They must be potty.' She had been introduced as
Lady Mary Parsloe, the wife of Eddie Parsloe, the neat, pretty-faced
man from the consular service who wore, whenever his
wife was speaking, a smile of agonized patience. 'Mary,' he told
us, 'is more of a gardener than a diplomat.'
'If you'd lost five great-uncles at Passchendaele and a father
shot a week before V.E. Day, I don't think you'd be diplomatic,
would you, Mr Rumpole?'
'And Mary's direct ancestor lost his leg at Waterloo, didn't
he, dear?'
'That was a mere trifle.' She brushed her husband off as
though he were a cloud of gnats bothering her weeding. 'Come
on, Mr Rumpole, speak up. Don't you think it's potty?'
'I hadn't heard about the square strawberries.'

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Rumpole and the Rights of Man

'Well, you've bloody well heard about them now. You can't
be too happy about it.'
'Mr Rumpole is contented because he can enjoy a good
dinner and also serve the cause of justice.' Betsi had also
appointed herself my official spokesman. 'But there's someone
over there who's not so happy, I'm just thinking.'
Our company turned to glance at the man sitting under an
elaborate mural depicting an unfortunate and bloodstained
moment during the Thirty Years War. I didn't turn. I had
seen his Honour Billy Bloxham when he came in; he had stared
past me as though he hoped I didn't exist.
'The Judge,' Peter Fishlock said with scarcely suppressed
excitement, 'is looking as though he's waiting to be sentenced.
'
At which point a waiter, who looked as though his day job
was Euro Minister in charge of Strawberry Shapes, came up to
point out that tofumer was absolument dfendu.
'Eddie' - Lady Mary made what I felt was a rare appeal to
her husband - 'can you tell me the French for piss off?.'

It all started at the Bank Underground. It should seem a long
time ago, for I have reached the age when every day must be
savoured and cherished. In fact, the years flash by like stations
at which the train doesn't stop, and the year which it took
Amin Hashimi's case to reach the dizzy eminence of the European
Court of Human Rights seemed to take up no time at all. I don't know how slowly it went for Mr Hashimi, but then he
was in prison for life.
George Freeling was forty-three years old, with a wife and
two children in Buckhurst Hill. He worked as a middle manager
at Netherbank, a huge glass and concrete tower which dwarfed
a Wren church not far from the Mansion House. Each night at
approximately five forty-five Mr Freeling joined the population
explosion which surged away from their computer screens and,
leaving the world's markets to enrich or ruin their clients,
struggled down the tube. On the evening in question the
platform for the eastbound Central Line resembled the Black
Hole of Calcutta. Most of the sufferers at least had a safe
journey home but George Freeling, standing on the edge of the

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

platform, fell in front of the train as it rattled out of the
darkness on its way from St Patil's. He was found to have been
shot in the back: a revolver with a silencer and a single blue
glove made of polyester and wool were lying between the lines
and beside his dead body.

This method of public assassination had, I later discovered,
been copied from a detective story where it attracted less
attention. Sandra Atherton, a secretary at Citibank, saw a
young man of Middle-Eastern appearance apparently push
Freeling in the back before he fell. She lost sight of him in the
crowd, but then she saw him again, running towards the exit.
She called to the guard, who gave chase, followed by some
other passengers who also thought they'd seen Freeling pushed
- among them Vernon Wynstanley, a young stockbroker, and
Emily Brotherton, a tea-lady. For a very short time these
witnesses lost sight of the supposed assassin in the tiled and
echoing underground passages, but the guard managed to com-municate
with ground level. Amin Hashimi was stopped as he
was leaving the station and the City police were sent for. The
three named witnesses made a positive identification. Later,
when Hashimi was examined forensically, fibres similar to
those in the blue glove were found, in a microscopic quantity,
under the fingernails of his right hand. Peter Fishlock got the
case, thanks to a friend in the Magistrates Court, and, as I had
just won a rather tricky affray and criminal damage for him, he
was wise enough to instruct Horace Rumpole for the Defence.
During the complicated course of the proceedings he got the
idea of Rumpole as the champion of the underdog, or at least
of a student of Middle-Eastern extraction, which led us to the
choucroute and the eau de vie - and to my international
acclaim in Strasburg.

The case came on before his Honour Judge Bloxham, a
person who, I think, deliberately cultivated his likeness to a
pallid bulldog. His skin was curiously white and his forehead
was perpetually furrowed, as were his jowls. With these similar
lines above and below, and his eyebrows matching his mous-tache,
he had one of those faces which could make sense either
way up, like the comical drawings that once appeared in chil-dren's
books.

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Rumpole and the Rights of Man

I can't say I had embarked on the Defence of Mr Hashimi
with any high hopes of success. I could only do my poor best,
although I have to say, in all modesty, that my poor best is
considerably better than the poorer best of such learned friends
as Claude Erskine-Brown and Soapy Sam Ballard, Q.C. The
most I could do, I thought, was to unsettle the identification
evidence, have a bit of harmless fun on the subject of wool and
polyester fibres, and point to the great weakness of the Prosecution
case: the complete absence of any sort of motive for the
alleged assassination of George Freeling.

'You had never met this man Freeling?'
'Never. Never had I spoken to him.'
'Or seen him?'
'Perhaps. Travelling on that Underground line you see many
faces. Perhaps his was among them.'
'You use that line every day?'
'Back and forwards. To my college in Holborn, where I take
business studies and office management. I am reading during
the journey; I don't notice many people.'
'Did you know anything about Netherbank where Freeling
worked?'
'I have heard of it, of course. Not much more.' We were
sitting in the interview room in Brixton and I thought that Mr
Hashimi might appeal to the women on the Jury. He looked
young enough to be mothered and his large brown eyes gave
him an expression of injured innocence. He had long, pale
fingers and, even in the disinfected atmosphere of Brixton, he
seemed to give off a faint smell of sandalwood and spices. I
told him that I would do my best for him.
'We are in the hands of Allah the Compassionate and Merciful.
He ordains life and death and has power over all things.'
'You pray to Allah?'
'Of course.'
'Well, ask him to be particularly compassionate and merciful
down the Old Bailey next week, why don't you?'
As the gates of the prison house closed behind us and we
squeezed into Peter Fishlock's small Japanese motor, I said,
'We have one bright spot in a rather gloomy prospect.'

x83

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

'The absence of motive?'
'No. The presence of his Hon0ur Judge Bloxham.'
'I thought Billy Bloxham disapproved of foreign students
using the Health Service.'
'Better than that. He's allergic to any sort of alien. Visitors
from what was once our far-flung empire bring him out in a nervous rash.'
'How's that going to help Amin?'
'Because if we can get Billy to show his hand, if we can
needle the old darling into a quaint little display of racial
prejudice, then we can present a bigoted Bloxham to the Jury
and they might decline to obey orders. In fact, there's an
outside chance, I say no more than that, my fine Fishlock, that
we might just scrape home to victory!'
'Of course, their evidence on the fibres is very unconvincing.'
'The fibres are one thing. But Bloxham's prejudices are
something else entirely. He never stops talking about being
British and living in the U.K. He's a fellow who sings "Rule
Britannia" in his bath and wants the Kingdom to be reserved
strictly for Bloxham look-alikes, their lady wives and white
children. If Allah the Compassionate wants a way for Amin
Hashimi to walk, then Billy's going to lead him to it.'

'Miss Atherton. You say you saw a young man of Middle-Eastern
appearance push the victim's back as the train was
about to stop.'
'I saw the man in the dock do that.'
'That's what I'm trying to test, Miss Atherton. Just bear
with me, will you? I suggest the first time you got a good look,
face to face, at my client Mr Hashimi was when he was stopped
on his way out of the station. You came up then and identified
him?'
'I did, yes.'
'Are you quite sure that was the same Middle-Eastern gentleman
you saw push the man on the platform?'
'Yes. I'm sure.'
'You had lost sight of him during the chase?'
'For a short while, yes.'

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Rumpole and the Rights of Man

'And might not you and the others have ended up pursuing

another Middle-Eastern young man?'

'I don't think so.'

'Come now, Miss Atherton. Don't all Middle-Eastern young
men look rather similar to you? Are you sure you could have
told the two of them apart?'

'Mr Rumpole.' I smiled towards the Bench, waiting for Billy
to let his prejudices show. To my dismay he did nothing of the
sort. 'Mr Rumpole,' he said, surprisingly gently, 'this Court is
colour-blind! Where in the world this young man came from is
a matter of no significance. He's fully entitled to the fair trial
which I'm sure this jury is going to give him. I'm also sure that
this very intelligent young lady can identify an assailant without
going into racist characteristics. Isn't that so, Miss Atherton?'

'Of course I can.' $andra Atherton was delighted to agree
with the not so learned Judge.

'Very well, then. Let us continue, Mr Rumpole. And let us
do so without reference to creed or colour.'

My heart sank. I could see the Jury, a mixed bag from the
Hoxton area, looking at the pallid Bloxham and rather liking
what they saw. He had decided, I now realized, to play a
particularly mean trick on the Defence. He was going to give
us a fair trial.

Vernon Wynstanley, the stockbroker, and Emily Brotherton
were hardly less sure of their identification. Mrs Brotherton,
the image of the jolly tea-lady about to be replaced by a
mechanical dispenser, was particularly popular with the Jury. I
let them both go as soon as possible, but spent a good deal of
time cross-examining the fibre expert on the amount of wool
and polyester mixture available in London, and the vast number
of garments which might have left innocent traces under my
client's fingernails. I stopped when I noticed that number
three in the jury-box had dropped off to sleep.

In my final speech, given, I had to say, with even more than
my usual eloquence, I dwelt on the uncertainty of identification
evidence at the best of times, and particularly when the incident
took place in an Underground station during the rush hour and
must have been a horrific shock to all concerned. I gave the
Jury at least twenty minutes on the absence of motive. What

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Rumpole and the Angel of Death

was my client, Amin Hashimi, meant to be? A criminal lunatic
who killed at random just for kicks? Nothing in his history, his
success at his studies and his hitherto unimpeachable behaviour
could support such a theory. After I had imitated the Scales
Justice, and put in the ounce of reasonable doubt which would
weigh them down on the side of the Defence, I sank into my
seat, tired and sweating. I had done my best and I could only
hope that Billy Bloxham would put his foot in it.
He didn't. He told the Jury that, although the Prosecution
didn't have to supply a motive, they should take full account of
all Mr Rumpole had said about the apparent purposelessness
of the crime. He told them that identification evidence was
often unreliable and they should approach it with great care,
but whether they believed the secretary, the stockbroker and
the tea-lady was a matter entirely for them. He said they
should think about whether the fibres helped prove the case
and that they mustn't convict unless they were quite sure. In
fact, it was an appallingly fair summing-up.
I said goodbye to my client after Allah the Compassionate,
the Merciful, had failed to come up trumps. Amin Hashimi, as
calm as ever, thanked me politely and said, 'The hypocrites
will not be forgiven. He does not guide the evildoers. And he
has knowledge of all our actions. I have nothing to regret, Mr
Rumpole, so please give my best wishes to your lady wife.' I
had no doubt that, three or four weeks later, he would wake up
to the reality of life imprisonment and his soft, brown eyes
would fill with tears.
A few weeks later, however, the Compassionate one arranged
something that might possibly provide an escape route for my
imprisoned client. His Honour Judge Bloxham was invited to a
rugby club dinner somewhere near his home in the Midlands,
and he was asked to sing for his supper.

END
IMMIGRATION TO END CRIME. JUDGE THANKFUL TO
HAVE GOT ONE MORE ARAB STm)mqT BEHINd) BARS. So
screamed the headline in Hilda's Daily Telegraph which I saw
as we sat at breakfast in the mansion flat 'Your Judge
Bloxham,' she said, crunching toast, 'seems to have been rather
a Silly Billy.'

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Rumpole and the Rights of Man
'He seems to have said it all a bit too late.' I borrowed
Hilda's paper. 'Anyway, he's not my Juttge. I want no part of
him.'
I suppose it was bad luck in a way. lilly Bloxham had no
doubt expected the speech to be a private affair, and in this
simple faith he must have let himself go with the pink gin, the
claret, the brandy and the port. He stood up to address those
used to scrumming down and tackling each other perilously
low, and let the real Billy Bloxham bubble to the surface. He
wasn't to know that some eager young rtgby-playing reporter,
fresh from the local Echo and anxious to make a name for
himself in the world of journalism, was writing shorthand on
the back of a menu and would communicate the highlights to
the Press Association. The report in the Daily Telegraph of
what Bloxham had said was fairly full:

A great many of these towel-headed gentry come here as so-called
students to escape the tough laws of their Ovn countries. No doubt
they find a short stretch of community service greatly preferable to
losing a hand if they're caught with their fingers in the till. No
doubt they prefer our free Health Service to the attentions of the
Medicine Man in the Medina. I don't know how much studying
they do, but they certainly have time for Plenty of extracurricular
activities. They take special courses in drug,dealing and the theft of
quality cars.
Coming from a part of the world where scraps were always
breaking out, they are easily.drawn into violence. This is not so bad
when they do it to each other, but not, repeat not, when a law-abiding subject of Her Majesty gets shot in the Underground. I
have to tell you, gentlemen, that when my Jury brought in a guilty
verdict on the murderer Hashimi, I had a song in my heart. I
retired to my room and invited my dear old usher, ex-Sergeant
Major Wrigglesworth of the Blues and the Royals, to join me in a
glass of sherry. 'Well done, sir,' Wrigglesworth said. 'You managed
to pot the bastard.' 'One down,' I replied, 'ard thousands left to go.'

When I got into Chambers Fishlock, the human rights solicitor,
was already there, cradling a bundle of morning papers as
though it were a long-lost child. 'Biased Judge,' he almost
whooped for joy. 'Flagrantly biased! No doubt at all about
that. So what do we do now?'

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

'We get whoever was the mole in the rugby club to swear an
affidavit and troop off to the Co,irt of Appeal.'
'To tell them the Judge was biased?'
'And has, with any luck, delivered himself into our hands.'
I am not an habitufi of the Court of Appeal. It has none of
the amenities I'm used to - such as witnesses to cross-examine
and juries to persuade. One Judge is bad enough, but the
Appeal Court comes equipped with three who bother you with
unnecessary and impertinent questions which are not always
easy to answer.
Lord Justice Percival Ponting, who presided over the
Hashimi appeal, had hooded eyes and the distasteful look of a
person who goes through life with a bad smell under his nose.
He had never recovered from having achieved a double first at
Cambridge and regarded Old Bailey hacks in general, and
Horace Rumpole in particular, as ill-educated dimwits who
couldn't read the Institutes of Justinian in Latin.
'Mr Rumpole' - the Lord of Appeal in Ordinary pronounced
my name as though he regretted having stepped in it 'will
you be so good as to refer us to any passage in the transcript
of the trial in which the learned Judge made any sort
of biased remark to the Jury concerning your client, Mr Harashimi?'
'Hashimi, my Lord, as it so happens.'
'Oh, I'm so sorry. I do beg his pardon. Hashimi then. Well,
Mr. Rumpole, will you now refer us to the passages in the
transcript.'
'In the transcript of the speech at the rugby club? The Judge
couldn't have made his views more absolutely clear...'
'Do remind us, Mr Rumpole. The Jury wasn't empanelled
to sit in judgement at the rugby club dinner, was it?'
'No, my Lord, but...'
'And by the time that event took place, the Jury had reached
a verdict, after an unbiased summing-up, had they not?'
'His after-dinner diatribe, his post-prandial peroration, my
Lord, shows exactly what the Judge had in mind.'
'Mr Rumpole. We all may have things on our minds. We
may have views about the merits of this Appeal which it might
be kinder not to express in public. You may have in mind a

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proper realization of the shallowness of your argument. It's
what's said in Court that matters!'
'We don't live our entire lives in courtrooms. What's my
client to think now? What's any reasonable man to think? That
he was tried unfairly by a biased judge.'
'Is that your best point?'
'Indeed, it is!' I turned up the volume to show I was running
out of patience with Ponting, alarming the ushers and causing
the little Lord Justice on the left to open his eyes.
'No need to raise your voice, Mr Rumpole. You are perfectly
audible. Your first point is that your client was tried by a
Judge who successfully concealed his true feelings?'
'And secondly, that he did so deliberately to secure a
conviction.'
'You were right, Mr Rumpole.' Percy Ponting smiled down
at me from a great height and in a wintry fashion. 'Your first
point was the best one.'
'"A great many of these towel-headed gentry came here as
so-called students to escape the tough laws of their own countries
... when my jury brought in a guilty verdict on the
murderer Hashimi I had a song in my heart." How can you
possibly say that's not biased?'
'Words which he didn't utter at the trial?'
'Words which show exactly how he felt at the trial.'
'Mr Rumpole, I think we are now seized of your argument.'
'I don't think you are. I think you are about to ignore my
argument.'
'If you have nothing more to add...'
'Oh, yes, I have. A great deal more to add.' I added it for
another three-quarters of an hour, while Percy Ponting joined
the little fellow on his left in carefully simulated sleep. It came
as no surprise when we lost, and leave to appeal to the House
of Lords was refused. Two days later that august and elevated
body also refused leave.
'I'm afraid,' I had to tell Fishlock, 'it looks like the end of
the line.'
'Not exactly.' He looked like a man possessed of a well-kept
secret. 'What about Article Six of the European Convention on
Human Rights?'

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Rumpole and the Angel of Death

'A document,' I hastened to tell him, 'which is my constant
bedtime reading.'

'Everyone is entitled to a fair hearing by an independent and
impartial tribunal!'

'That is what I had in mind. So we're off to The Hague, are
we?'

' You may be, Mr Rumpole. But the Court of Human Rights
sits in Strasburg.'

'Of course! That's the one I meant. So you're going to brief
me in Strasburg, are you? It'll make a change from the Ux-bridge
Magistrates Court,'

It was then that Peter Fishlock began to talk about Rumpole
and human rights being as inseparable as Marks & Spencer,
and I speculated on the possible generosity of Euro legal aid.

'I hear you're off to Europe, Rumpole.' Soapy Sam Ballard
looked at me with incredulity and distaste, as though I had just
won the National Lottery.

'Rather a bore, really.' I lit a small cigar in an offhand
manner. The man had entered my room eagerly enough, but
now covered his mouth with his fist and coughed as though I
had set out to asphyxiate him. 'But you've got to be prepared
to travel when you've got an international practice like mine.'

'I understand. And I'm perfectly prepared to travel,
Rumpole.'

'Going far? Vde'll have to do our best to get along without
you. '

Tm coming with you, of course. In a case of this importance,
you'll be in need of a leader. Preferably one from Chambers.'

'Oh, I don't think so, old darling. My instructing solicitor is
prepared to leave it to me. The Rights of Man, you know, are
rather my spcialit de la maison. I'm sure you've got enough
landlord and tenant stuff to keep you fully occupied.' At
which, I blew out smoke and the would-be leader, looking
extremely miffed, simulated terminal bronchitis and withdrew
from my presence.

So the long journey started which ended up over the
choucroute and the water of life in the Grimms' fairytale
Kammerzell House in Strasburg. There I was applauded for

x9o

Rumpole and the Rights of Man

my devotion to justice by a fan club of Europeans and his
Honour Judge Bloxham, looking extremely green about the
gills, sat glowering at me with ill-concealed hostility from the
corner of the room.

As Jeremy Jameson collected the bill to put in with his Euro
expenses, I plodded off towards the facilities. As I stood in
front of the porcelain, lit by a sudden and blinding white light,
I was conscious of a shrunken figure at the far end of the row
of stalls. Judge Bloxham turned to face me, zipping up his
trousers; and, looking paler than ever, his eyes dead with
despair, he uttered one word, pronounced like a curse from a
dry throat, 'Rumpole', and shuffled away across the marble
floor.
I gave him time to get away and then returned to the dining-room,
only to discover that, as rare things will, all my newfound
friends had vanished. Betsi Hoprecht and the rimless Professor
of International Law (both of whom had met me at the airport),
the Euro M.P., Poppy, the elegant sheep, and even my instructing
solicitor had gone off into the night and the table was being
cleared under the instruction of the Minister for Strawberries.
At that moment I felt I was in Europe, a stranger and alone.

Walking back to the hotel in the moonlight, I looked at my
watch. Almost eleven on a Saturday night. It seemed a long
time since I and Peter Fishlock had been met at the airport by
Betsi Hoprecht, who had stood tall and fair-haired above the
smaller, darker inhabitants of Alsace-Lorraine waiting for their
loved ones. She had taken us in charge, kept us going on a tour
round the monuments, and arranged the dinner at the Kammerzell
House at which we were to meet the gallant band who
sat shoulder to shoulder, consuming choucroute and fighting
for the Rights of Man. I had felt safe in Betsi's hands, relieved
of the painful process of decision. Now I was on my own,
crossing the cathedral square, and I decided to see the astronomical
clock put on its hourly performance.
The shadowy cathedral was empty, the windows which Betsi
had shown us glowing with coloured sunlight were now blind
black. Only a few candles, lit for the dead and the dying,

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

flickered in the cloisters by the side-chapels. In the empty
pews only a few heads, the anxious, the insomniac or old, were
bowed in prayer and contemplation. I put in a coin and the
clock towered above me in golden light with its minarets and
huge dials, the signs of the Zodiac, the round sun in a bright
blue sky dotted with stars, the columns of gold and black
marble, and the figures of Christ and Death waiting for their
hourly moment of confrontation.

As I looked up at these wonders, I was conscious of a tallish
tourist standing beside me. I thought how badly his clothes
went with the wonders of sixteenth-century science and architec-ture:
a red plastic anorak with LES DROITS DE L'HOMME
written on it, trousers that looked as though they'd been made
in a computer, and a baseball cap which bore the insignia of
the Common Market. Then eleven struck. The heavens began
to whirr and move at the command of the master clockmaker,
the Ages of Man passed in their chariots, the heavenly globe
was lit up in front of the perpetual calendar with its statues of
Diana and Apollo, and Christ, his hand held up in benediction,
chased the skeleton Death. As the slow strokes died away, and
all the devices on the clock shuddered to a standstill, a voice
with which I was unfortunately familiar said, 'The continentals
are clever fellows, aren't they?'

'Bollard! What on earth are you doing here?'

'What on earth? That's rather a good question, Rumpole.
What are any of us doing on earth? Our duty, let us hope. To
God and our country. And preparing ourselves for a better life
not on earth. That's the hope we live with.'

'I have to tell you, Bollard, that if the hope you live with is
infiltrating yourself into Monday's case as leading Counsel for
Amin Hashimi, forget it. Your journey has been entirely
unnecessary.'

'I shall be in the case on Monday, as you would know,
Rumpole, if you were in the habit of reading your papers
before going into Court. But I shall be appearing for a slightly

more reputable client than your Mr Hashimi.'
'Oh, really. Who's that?'
'H.M.G., Rumpole.'

'Who's he, when he's at home?'

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R'umpole and the Rights of Man
'Her Majesty's Government. I'rzn here to support Lord Justice
Ponting's opinion in the Court of Appeal.'
'You mean you're for the H.M.G. of the U.K.?'
'Exactly so!' Of course Ballard failed to detect the note of
sarcasm in my flight to the acronyrr.
'But you didn't do the case at the Bailey or in the Court of
Appeal. Tubby Arthurian did it.'
'Quite right. But with the intternational importance this
matter has now achieved, with the entire reputation of the
U.K. judiciary at stake, it was thought by H.M.G '
'What
was thought?'
'Well' - the man seemed embar:rassed, as it turned out he
had good cause to be - 'that Counsel should be chosen who
would be likely to have some inflluence over you. To check
what H.M.G. described, in a confidential memo to myself, as
your worst excesses, Rumpole.'
'Why on earth would you have an y influence over me?'
'Well, H.M.G. thought that as I am undoubtedly your Head
of Chambers and therefore plaed in some position of
authority...'
'H.M.G. thought that might curb my excesses?'

'Naturally.'
'Then H.M.G. must be singulhrly ignorant of the inner
working of our great legal system. H.M.G. should know by
now that the sight of you, Bollard, auses my worst excesses to
break out like the measles.'
'I had hoped' - Soapy Sam had the good sense not to sound
particularly optimistic - 'that we might be able to reach some
sort of common approach. We dor,t want to cause poor old
Bloxham public embarrassment, do We?'
'Don't we? I've been looking forwhrd to it for months.'

'Perhaps we could talk over a drinh:.,
'You can buy me a drink at any time,' I was kind enough to
tell him.
'Thank you, Rumpole.' Ballard as now looking anxiously
round the cathedral, and a note of fear had come into his voice,
'Hilda's not with you, is she?'
'Mrs Rumpole,' I told him, with ome dignity, 'has gone to
stay with her friend Dodo Mackintosh in Cornwall.'

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Rurnpole and the Angel of Death

'I wouldn't want Marguerite, to hear that wives were allowed.
I told her this was strictly no spouses.'
Marguerite, I remembered, was the ex-Matron of the Old
Bailey, the person once in charge of aspirins and Elastoplast,
whom the fearless Ballard had decided to marry. 'How did she
take that?'
'l'4ot too well, I'm afraid. But I told her that when you're
appearing for H.M.G. confidential matters may arise.'
'Baloney!'
'Well, I have to confess, Rumpole, that the idea of being
fancy-free on this agreeable little trip to the Continent did
rather appeal to me. I thought I might stay on for a couple of
days. I took the opportunity of buying some holiday gear this
afternoon.' He looked down at his trousers with incomprehensible
pride.
'You mean that rig-out? You look as though you were going
in for a bicycle race.'
'You should learn to get with it, Rumpole. An old tweed
jacket with leather patches' - the man had the ice-cold nerve to
look critically at my attire - 'and grey flannel bags simply don't
say European.'
'Unlike your plastic anorak? It doesn't seem to be able to
stop talking about it.'
'Perhaps you should mix a little more with young people,
Rumpole. Perhaps you should learn to approach the millennium.
I've got to know some young people. Since I got here,
I've got to know what you might call the international set.'
'You must be a quick worker.'
'What?'
'I said you must be a quick worker. Didn't you arrive today?'
'Oh, no. I've been here a few days. Getting used to the
atmosphere. I must say, it's all been quite stimulating.'
'A few days?' I raised my eyebrows at a complacently smiling
Ballard. 'I'm surprised that Marguerite let you off the leash for
so long.'
'I have to confess' - Soapy Sam didn't look at all ashamed 'I
wasn't entirely candid about the date of our cause clbre.'
'You mean you told her that Hashimi started last
Wednesday?'

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Rumpole and the Rights of Man

'Something like that, yes.'
'I bet they've got that written down, in the great charge-sheet
in the sky.'
'The God I believe in,' he had the nerve to tell me, 'is deeply
understanding of human frailty. You only flew over this morning,
did you? That must be exhausting for you, at your age. I
expect you're longing for your bed. Well, mustn't keep you.'
'So what are you going to do? Hang around until the clock
strikes another hour?'
'Never you mind, Rumpole. There are better things to do in
Strasburg than to wait for the clock to strike, I'm bound to tell
you. '
As I left the cathedral, I saw, in the shadows of an empty
pew, a fair head bent in prayer. To my surprise, Betsi Hoprecht
was kneeling, no doubt interdenominationally calling on the
God of the clock to ally Himself with the Merciful, the Compassionate,
for the protection of Amin Hashimi.
It was a short walk to the Hotel D'Ange Rouge, and from
my bedroom I could still hear the odd calls of love from the
backpackers who loitered round the cathedral or staggered
home singing. I lay in bed reading the written brief to the
Court of Human Rights, a somewhat long document prepared
by Fishlock with an analysis of all the British cases on bias.
The Judges were welcome to it. What I profoundly hoped
would stir them out of their international coma would be the
Rumpole address, the rallying cry against injustice, the devastating
destruction of Billy Bloxham with which I expected to win
the day. I heard the cathedral clock strike one and then I
turned out my light.
It was a warm spring night and the window on to the little
balcony that overlooked the square was open and the curtain
flapping. The window of the next room must have been open
also, and I heard the sound of a strong woman, who sounded
very much like Betsi Hoprecht, laughing. The full and disturbing
significance of this was not revealed to me until the next
morning, however, when, setting out eagerly for breakfast, I
saw none other than Soapy Sam Ballard emerge from the next-door
room in question. He was shaved, bathed and, I had a
shrewd suspicion, slightly perfumed. He was wearing his Droits

I95

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

de l'Homme anorak and looked like the cat that had got at the
cream.

It was Sunday, a day of rest and respite before battle was
joined between myself, a freelance, and the Government of Her
Britannic Majesty, in the person of its improbable champion,
Soapy Sam Ballard, Q.C. Breakfast was held in a small, hot
room which I found to be crowded. Ballard was at a table in
the corner with some unremarkable person I thought to be
connected with H.M.G. The only seat I could find was at a
table set for three at which the curly-headed Poppy was already
installed, smiling vaguely and peeling an orange. I asked if I
could sit down.

'Why not? Jeremy won't be here for hours. He's sleeping off
the choucroute.'

I put in a request for ham and eggs and looked thoughtfully
back towards my Head of Chambers. I tried to see him in a
new light: Casanova Ballard, Soapy Don Juan, Lord Byron
Ballard, bedroom Ballard, high in the list of the world's great
lovers, and then the mind, I have to confess it, boggled. It also
failed to come to terms with the idea of that slimmed-down
Betsi Hoprecht on her way to Ballard's bed, even though she
was kneeling, as though hoping for a miracle, in prayer as a

necessary preliminary.

'Bloody Europe!'

I looked around for the source of this condemnation and
decided it could only have come from the smiling Poppy,
whose orange, by now, was neatly peeled and quartered.

'So you're a Euro-sceptic?' I thought she was, on the
whole, preferable to that grumpy group of M.P.s who had
appointed themselves the Prosecutors of the Common
Market.

'Sceptic's not the word for it! Other people get taken to the

Seychelles, or the Caribbean, or even Acapulco.'

'Other people?'

'Other people's girlfriends, I mean. When my daughter starts
looking for a lover, I'll say I don't give a toss what he is doing,
just so long as he's not a Euro M.P. I wouldn't even mind
Jeremy being an M.P. if he took me out in England, but at

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Rumpole and the Rights of Man

home he's always at terrible black-tie dinners where we mustn't
be seen together. He has to go on holiday with his wife and
dear little Sebastian, who has to get postcards from every-where
and last-minute presents at the airport. All I see of the
world is Brussels and Luxemburg and Strasburg, where
there's nothing to do except eat until the brass buttons on
your Chanel suit shoot off like bullets. You've left your wife
at home?'

I had to admit it.

'I thought so! Everyone leaves their wives at home when
they go to Strasburg. Jeremy's wife has taken little Sebastian to
Brighton. God, how I envy them.'

'Aren't we going on a trip round the wine towns?'
'You haven't done that before?'
'No.'

'Jeremy and I've done it almost more times than we've had
sex. Those little half-timbered buildings you wander round as
though you were Hansel and bloody Gretel. And you know
what the aim and object of the whole exercise is? Yes, you're
right. A socking great lunch!'

At which point Betsi Hoprecht strode into the breakfast
room, clapped her hands three times and announced that the
bus would leave from the front entrance in exactly twenty-five
minutes and would we make sure that we were on it. At her
entrance, Ballard smiled in as sickly and ingratiating a manner
as Malvolio in the play. Betsi returned this greeting with what
I thought was an admirably contrived glare of non-recognition.

The Tokay d'Alsace tasted of grapes, a gentle flavour far
removed from the chemical impact of Pommeroy's Reasonable
White. The sun shone on the restaurant terrace, it glittered on
the glasses and ice-bucket, and was warm on our faces. Around
us the tops of the pinkish, plastered houses bulged like huge
bosoms, kept in place by the ribbons of dark oak. Their steep
tiled roofs were pierced with the eyes of numberless dormer
windows. Flowers clambered round a well in the centre of the
square and, on the slender, sand-coloured church steeple, the
clock stood at half past one. We had filled the minibus and now

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Rumpole and the Angel of Death

occupied another long restaurant table. The rimless professor
was there, as was the manin the consular service and his
gardener wife. Jeremy Jameson was there, smiling with a mix-ture
of defiance and guilt. He had come downstairs late, button-ing
his shirt, which was not satisfactorily tucked into his
crumpled linen trousers. Poppy was smiling, sipping Tokay,
and reading the Mail on Sunday, hot from the morning plane
and greeted by her like a missing child.

'Our whole team is here.' I was sitting next to Betsi and she
was giving me her full and flattering attention. 'All of us are
behind you, Mr Rumpole. Cheering you on!'

'Not that little chap from the consular service, surely? Isn't
he on the side of H.M. Government?'

'Well, he should be, of course. That is where his duty lies.
But his heart is with us, Mr Rumpole. He has read all of your
memoirs, he tells me. Some of them twice over.'

'Is that really so?' I looked down the table at Eddie Parsloe
with a new respect.

'"We must be free or die." He says the spirit of your poet
Wordsworth breathes through you.'

'Well, that's remarkably civil of him.'

'And Lady Mary, she's what you would call a hoot, isn't
she?'

'And do you know your Common Market's only going to
allow us three varieties of bloody begonia?' Lady Mary Parsloe
was hooting at the unfortunate Nordic professor. 'It's a dis-grace.
They'll be at our fioribunda roses next.'

'What about Samuel Bollard, Q.C.? You didn't think of
inviting him?'

'Mr Ballard, I have to correct you. Ballard is his name.'

'I know that perfectly well.'

'So why do you call him by the wrong name then?'

'I suppose in the hope of irritating him.'

'But he is a very nice man.' To my distress, a faraway look
came into her pale blue eyes. She was wearing a crisp white
dress, which showed off her brown arms to advantage. She
smelt of clean linen and rustled like a hospital nurse. 'Also, he
is your boss, I think.'

'You think wrong,' I had to tell her.

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Rumpole and the Rights of Man

'He is Head of your Chambers?'
'Bollard has made himself responsible for the coffee machine
and the paper clips. But I am a free spirit and a freelance
advocate.'
'You are not afraid of him?'
'Of course not.' I felt full of courage, though I must confess
that we had got through a number of bottles of Tokay with
considerable help from me. 'An advocate can't afford to be
afraid.'
'So' - Betsi gave me a display of blindingly white teeth 'you
are afraid of nothing or nobody?'
'Except sometimes,' I had to confess, 'She Who Must Be
Obeyed.'
'Who is this she?'
'As a matter of fact, my wife, Hilda.'
'And you have to obey?'
'Well. No. Of course not.'
'So why do you call her that? Is it to irritate her?'
'It seems to describe her.'
'I feel it describes certain aspects of your character more.
You are very English, Mr Rumpole. That's your characteristic,
I think.'
I wanted to ask her if she found Soapy Sam Ballard was a
good lover but my courage failed me. In any event we were
interrupted by an even louder hoot from Lady Mary.
'That shower running Europe couldn't organize a village f&te
in Gloucestershire, I have to tell you.'
'You've got to admit, Lady Mary' - Peter Fishlock came
galloping to the defence of Europe - 'The Common Market
has kept peace in Europe.'
'Oh, yes? Didn't I read somewhere they're blowing each
other up in Bosnia - or whatever you call it. Shooting children
in playgrounds. Ethnic cleansing. But I suppose Yugoslavia's
not in Europe. Where is it? China or somewhere?'
'Worse than that.' Poppy was reading a bit out of her Mail
on Sunday. 'Saddam Hussein's buying stolen Russian nuclear
weapons. We're all going to get blown up.'
There was a sudden, strangely uncomfortable silence, as
though we had all been brought face to face with the ending of

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the world. And then Betsi leaned across the table and took the
paper out of Poppy's hand. Poppy looked disappointed, as
though deprived of a favourite toy, but said nothing.

'Neither Russia nor Iraq,' my instructing solicitor reminded
us, 'is in the European Common Market.'

Poppy said, 'Lucky old them.' And Betsi, turning the pages
of the paper, said, 'Here's some really important news. Your
Princess Fergie is short of cash? They all relaxed. The world
crisis was clearly over, forgotten in the important news.

'You must have got to know Bollard before I arrived?' I said
to Betsi.

'He is a very charming man.'

'Do you really think so? Charming in what sort of way
exactly?'

'Perhaps' - Betsi was thoughtful - 'like all Englishmen, the
charm lies in the innocence.'

'And you say you only got to know him a little?' I remem-bered
the laughter from the bedroom with a certain pang.

'Quite enough to know that he will take a civilized attitude

tomorrow. I think you will find him very reasonable.'
'He asked me to be reasonable too.'
'What did you say?'

'I said I had no intention of being reasonable. I intend to
fight him with every weapon at my command.'

'You know' - Betsi looked at me thoughtfully - 'I asked Mr
Fishlock why he didn't employ a more important barrister than
you, a barrister of the same rank as Mr Ballard.'

'Oh, really?' I did my best to appear cool and hoped that I
didn't sound envious of Soapy Sam. 'And what did Fishlock
say?'

'He said he had every faith in you as a defender of human
rights.'

It was at that point that the bill arrived and was grabbed by
Jeremy Jameson, M.E.P., with a cry of 'I need this for my
expenses.' He slapped his pocket and discovered that he'd left
his credit cards in his other jacket and announced that he was
writing out a cheque and could he borrow a pen from someone.
I lent him mine and happened to see a cheque book of an
unusual mauve variety. I also saw that our lunch was to be paid

2OO

Rumpole and the Rights of Man

for by funds lodged in Netherbank of Queen Victoria Street,
London.

Fresh air, Tokay and dislike of myself for feeling jealous of
Soapy Sam Ballard ended in exhaustion as I sat in my room
and tried to compose a rousing speech about the human rights
of Amin Hashimi. I had decided to call it a day, sink into bed
and rely in Court on the inspiration of the moment (such
moments have rarely let me down), when the telephone rang
and what sounded much like a voice from the tomb said, 'Is
that you, Horace? This is Billy speaking. I say, could you spare
me five minutes, old fellow? I'm in a bar quite near your hotel.'

It was this sudden use of Christian names that startled me
about the beleaguered Judge. I didn't want to talk to him. I
certainly didn't want to see him. Any contact between us at
that moment could only lead to embarrassment. And yet I had
to go and meet the old idiot. It was no longer a visit to a Judge;
it was almost like the daily duty of a trip down the cells to
cheer up an unsuccessful villain facing trial for a serious of-fence.
I put my jacket on, stuffed my back pocket with a
handful of francs, and went off to the tryst. I hadn't far to go, a
small dark bar in the rue des Juifs close to the cathedral.

'It was good of you to come, Horace. I'd do the same for
you, of course.'

'I hope you'll never have to.'

Billy was sitting in the company of a small espresso and a
quartet of adolescents who were drinking rum and Coke and
playing the fruit machine. Behind the bar a sleepy woman sat
longing for us to go home. While Soapy Sam had gone desper-ately
continental, Billy looked like the caricature of an English
tourist, wearing a blazer with gold buttons, a Sheridan Club tie
and hating being abroad.

'I was entrapped, Horace. You do realize that, don't you?
I've complained to the Press Council. I didn't know that little
runt of a journalist had sneaked into the rugger club. So far as
I know journalists don't play rugger. It was pure bad luck.
Could have happened to anybody.'

'Anybody wasn't a Judge who'd just sentenced a foreign
student to life imprisonment.'

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'I was giving voice to my private opinions. As I'm entitled to
do. I didn't say any of that in Court, did I?'

'No, that's what I've really got against you.'

Billy Bloxham looked puzzled. Indeed, during our brief pre-trial
meeting he was either angry or puzzled, more often both
at the same time.

'You think that might have helped you? If I'd said what I
thought about foreigners?'

'I'm damn sure it would.'

'Horace, the very next time you're before me I'll do my best
to help you. I'll say exactly what I think.' And then his voice
began to break and his hand, lifting the dregs in the tiny coffee
cup to his pallid lips, trembled. 'You think there may not be a

next time?' he dared to ask.

'It's possible.'

'You mean they may sack me? The Lord Chancellor could

do that, couldn't he? I'm not a High Court Judge.'

'I suppose it's on the cards.'

'HOrace, you've got a wonderful reputation, down the Bailey,

for being on the side of the underdog.'

'And you've become one?'

'In this particular instance, yes.'

'I don't know where everyone got the idea I only act for
underdogs.'

Billy was sitting hunched, staring up at me with watery
eyes. He looked as though he was prepared to do anything,
even bark in a servile fashion and lick my hand. 'Horace, you
won't put the case too strongly against me, will you, old
boy?'

'I'll do my best,' I said, leaving him in doubt as to whether I
was going to do my best to draw it strong or mild.

'You see' - Billy was putting every ounce of emotion into his
final speech - 'I have to go on being a Judge. I'm really unfit
for anything else.'

'I'm sure there are other things you could do.' I could not,
however, imagine what they were.

'No. I know you're only trying to be kind. You see, I
couldn't go back to what you chaps do. Arguing with each
other. Catching out witnesses. Trying hard to win. I mean,

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Rumpole and the Rights of Man

would people give me any work, even if I was allowed back?
Would they honestly?'

'I suppose they might.' It was an answer I wouldn't have
given under oath.

'I don't believe it. Besides which, I've got used to a certain
amount of respect. I like it when you fellows stand up and
bow to me. I find that quite delightful. And when I go into
the bank, the assistant manager sometimes pops over and
says, "How can we help you, Judge?" And they ask me to say
a few words at the Rotary and the rugby club dinners. Do
you imagine they'd ask a sacked judge to speak at the rugger
club?'

'Don't despair.' The sight of the man was beginning to pain

me.

'You mean you'll go easy on me?' Billy cheered up a fraction.
'I mean, I may not win.'

'Why? Who's on the other side?'

'Samuel Ballard, Q.C.'

'He doesn't often win.' The Judge was back in the Slough of
Despond.

'It's got to happen some time. Anyway, the Euro Judges may
not want to upset the British Government.'

'But the British Government's always upsetting them. Do
you happen to know who the Judges are?'

'I believe they come from a variety of countries.'
'Foreigners?'

'Bound to be. One's Irish.'

'All foreigners, then.'

'Oh, and one English. Because it's an English case.'
'Who've they got?'

'I think it's Thompson. Used to practise in the Chancery
Division.'

'Tradders Thompson?' Billy looked seriously worried now.
'Didn't he marry an Indian?'

'I know nothing,' I assured him, 'about his domestic
arrangements.'

'I feel sure I spotted him at an Inner Temple garden party' -Billy
was now up to his neck in the Slough - 'with someone in
a sari.'

zo3

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

'I've got to get to bed.' I yawned realistically and drained my
cognac.

'Written your speech, have you? Couldn't you just water it
down a bit, Horace? We Brits should stick together.'

'I haven't written anything.' As I said this, some faint hope
returned to the desolate Judge. 'We drank rather a lot of wine
at lunch and my eyes won't stay open.'

'Please,' he begged me, 'please have another drink.'

'Not possible.' I stood up then. I was fighting to keep awake.
'Goodnight, Billy. Remember, the trial isn't decided until it's
over.' It was the poor crumb of comfort I always kept for my
most hopeless of cases.

'I shall wear my Sheridan Club tie.' Billy was down to his
last hope. 'Perhaps some of the Judges are members.'

'Oh, I expect so. Get a lot of Slovenes and chaps from
Liechtenstein in there, do you?'

So I left him, conscious that my visit to the cells hadn't done
much to cheer up the man who might go down in legal history
as Lord Bloxham of Bias. I staggered out into the street and
started on my way back to the hotel like a sleepwalker.

I hadn't gone far along the rue des Juifs when two things
startled me into full wakefulness. First of all I saw an all too
familiar red anorak and blue baseball cap moving, not altogether
steadily, in the road in front of me. Then I heard the sudden
acceleration of an engine behind me and I moved further from
the edge of the pavement. An anonymous, dark-blue car thun-dered
past and appeared to be aiming, like a heavy artillery
shell, for Ballard's back. Just before it reached him, he skipped
with hare-like agility on to the pavement, which the driver
mounted. Luckily for Sam, there was a deeply recessed doorway
into which he dived and the car, which had braked suddenly,
couldn't follow him although he was lit, for a vivid moment, by
its headlights, cowering as though from a fatal and expected
blow. The car then reversed with a snort of the engine and
vanished down the street. I emerged from the shadows as a
second shock to my shaken Head of Chambers. 'My God,
Rumpole!' he said. 'These continentals are the most terrible
drivers!'

2o4

Rumpole and the Rights of Man

'I'm not sure about bad drivers, Bollard. It looked to me as if it
might have been a deliberate mistake.'
I was ministering to the man, who was still in a state of
shock, and I had shown my medical skill by activating the
night porter to shuffle off in search of a bottle of eau de vie. I
administered a dose of this to Ballard who was still complaining
about Alsatian driving skills. 'I shall have to be careful,' he complained,
'now I'll be coming to Strasburg on a regular basis.'
'A regular basis?'
'I've been talking to Betsi.'
'So I understand.'
'And there's a need for Senior Counsel who understand the
importance of human rights. She has told me that there will be
a great deal of work for a skilled international lawyer who is
prepared to stick up for liberty and so on.'
'And that's what you're going to stick up for? Liberty and so
on?'
'That's what the work is. According to Betsi.'
'And does Betsi know about your long record as a persecutor?
I mean, you're here to protect a biased Judge.'
'I think she knows as well as anyone, Rumpole, that I am an
extremely fair man. With liberal opinions.'
'You made that clear to Betsi?'
'I think she knows that about me.'
'I expect she does. And on your future visits to Strasburg,
will you be bringing your wife with you?'
'Marguerite is heavily engaged with her first aid classes to
the Housewives' League in Waltham Cross.'
'That's all right then.' I poured out a further medicinal
glass. 'Bollard, does it occur to you that what happened in the
street wasn't an accident?'
'The car was out of control.'
'It seemed very much in control to me.'
'What do you mean?'
'Someone may not like you.'
'Who?' The possibility didn't seem to have occurred to the
man.
'A jealous husband, perhaps. Or a boyfriend. Someone who
took exception to your amorous adventures.'

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'Rumpole! I have no idea what you're talking about.'
'Wasn't Betsi in your roomrather late last night?'
'Of course she was.'
'Well, then.'
'We were discussing human rights.'
'I suppose that's another way of describing it.' I looked at
the man without pleasure and emptied my glass.

It was Monday morning, the day dedicated to the rights of
Amin Hashimi who had brought me to Europe and who,
except for that moment when I had seen a cheque drawn on
Netherbank, I had almost forgotten in a series of expensive and
eventful meals.
I wasn't, I have to confess, feeling at my best on the day of
the hearing. I have never tasted the bottom of a budgerigar's
cage but I imagine it to be as dry as I felt that morning; added
to which my head was stuffed with cotton wool penetrated,
from time to time, with stabs of pain. Anxious supporters,
interested speculators and the representatives of Her Majesty's
Government, gathered in the sunshine outside the hotel and a
fleet of taxis set off for the Cour Europ&nne des Droits de
L'Homme.
I sat next to Betsi in the back of one taxi and told her that I
hoped our driver was more reliable than the madman who
nearly ran Ballard over the night before. 'There are some idiots
in this town,' she said. 'I heard about that. It was absolutely
unnecessary.'
'Unnecessary?'
'To drive so fast. Through the streets of the old town. The
idiot was French, I have no doubt. They drive like madmen.'
The Court was a long, grey concrete erection beside a river,
with two circular towers like gasworks sawn off crookedly.
Inside, we had wandered, uncertain of the way, in what looked
like the vast boiler-room of a ship, painted in nursery colours.
We went up and down steel and wire staircases, and travelled
in lifts whose glass sides let you see more of the journey than
made you entirely comfortable. And then I was standing up at
a desk in a huge courtroom. Across an expanse of blue carpet,
so far away that I could hardly distinguish their features, sat

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the Judges in black gowns under a white ceiling perforated like
a giant kitchen colander. Human rights, it seemed, like the
scientific romances of H. G. Wells, had been set in the future
and now the future had arrived with a rush and overtaken me
before I was quite sure how to address it.

'Mr Rumpole' - the voice of the presiding Judge, a Dutch-man,
boomed electronically over the vasty hall of death - 'we
have read the submission filed on behalf of your client. Would
you now speak to your paper?'

'Speak to my paper?' It didn't sound much of an audience. I
had been used to speaking to my Jury, so close that I could
lower my voice, at dramatic moments, almost to a whisper.
Now I was in contact only by microphone with the remote,
international platoon of seven Judges: the Austrian, the Finn,
the Slovene, the Hungarian, the British, the Irish and the
Portuguese. In some glass case halfway between us, lit up like
tropical fish, the translators were noiselessly mouthing my
words in various languages which some of the Judges put on
headphones to catch, and others, either superb linguists or
premature adjudicators, didn't bother to fit over their ears.

'I haven't much to say to the paper, my Lords. But I have a
point of the greatest importance to make to your Lordships.' I
waited in silence for the maximum effect, and because I felt
suddenly in need of a rest I leant on the desk in front of me for
support. At long last the Irishman was good enough to say,
'And what is your point, Mr Rumpole?'

'My point is' - another stab of pain penetrated the cotton
wool - 'that the learned Judge in this case was not only biased
but bluffing. Not only prejudiced but perfidious. In fact, he
might stand, if your Lordships will allow the phrase, as the
personification of Perfidious Albion.'

For some reason I was rather pleased with this opening
paragraph. I looked around and there, in an otherwise empty
row at the back of the Court, I saw his Honour Judge Bloxham
looking at me with ill-concealed hatred.

'Perfidious what, Mr Rumpole?' Some sort of panic had
clearly affected the translator in the fish tank and the presiding
Dutch Lordship asked for clarification.

'Albion, my Lord. An expression once popular on the

2o7

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

continent of Europe, in which you now sit. It described the
hypocrisy and slyness of a certain class of Englishman.'

'You are using this expression to describe the learned Judge
in this case?' The Finn's English was almost too perfect but he
looked extremely interested.

'Indeed I am. We all know the Judge was prejudiced. He
was as biased as a crooked roulette wheel. He'd picked up his
so-called opinions in the back of a taxi. He hated all foreign
students and he made that perfectly clear in his speech to the
rugger buggers.' At this, I saw expressions of genuine despair
in the fish tank and the presiding Hollander clearly couldn't

believe his headphones.

'To the what?'

'To the rugby football players' annual dinner. You see, this
is the point I wish to impress on your Lordships. We all have
prejudices. You may have prejudices. So do I. I have always
found, that is until I came here and sampled your excellent
Tokay d'Alsace, that all discussions about the European
Common Market were about ten points less interesting than
watching paint dry. That was my prejudice and I freely and
frankly admit it to your Lordships.' Here I looked down and
saw the note Betsi Hoprecht had pushed on to my desk: CALL
THEM THE COURT. WE DON'T HAVE LORDSHIPS IN EUROPE.
'But did the perfidious Judge admit his prejudices?' I boomed
on. 'Did he come into Court and kick off with: "Members of
the Jury, I personally cannot stick foreign students. The idea
of a foreigner, particularly of the slightly tinted Middle-Eastern
variety, makes my gorge rise to a dangerous level. I want that
clearly understood. Now let's get on with it, shall we?"'

'And if he had said that?' Far, far away I heard the caressing
voice of the Irish.

'If he had, we'd have all known where we were. The Jury
could have marked its disapproval of such views by a not guilty
verdict. I could have made considerable use of them in my
final speech. Justice would not only have been done, but would
clearly have been seen to have been done! But what did Judge
Bloxham do?' I leant forward and whispered secretly to the
Court through the microphone, in tones calculated to make its
collective flesh creep. 'He decided to dissemble! He made up

2o8

Rumpole and the Rights of Man

his mind to deceive. He set about to defraud. He very deliberately
acted the part of a totally unbiased Judge, something
which hardly exists in this imperfect world. And so, when he
belatedly showed himself in his true colours, what was the
unfortunate Mr Hashimi to think? What could he think? Except
that his trial had been an elaborate charade performed by a
Judge with the clear intention of deceiving the Jury, which was
bad, and Counsel for the Defence which was, in my humble
submission, unpardonable.'
My head had cleared and, as I spoke, I felt healthier, saner even
elated. I gave them my views on the perfidy of the Court
of Appeal, only anxious to protect the reputation of a judge at
the expense of justice. Peter Fishlock's r6sum6 of the leading
cases on bias came back to me and I took them through it. I
even touched on the subject of human rights about which I had
heard so much since I went into Europe. By the end of it, I
thought that I had won over the Irish, although the Portuguese
looked doubtful, and the Slovene had laid down his earphones
and seemed to have fallen into a light doze. I turned up the
volume of my peroration. 'Let us go on,' I told the seven, 'to a
community of tolerance, a community which has shut the door
on prejudice. To quote a great poet, who, like so many great
poets, happened to write in English:

Forward, forward let us range,
Let the great world spin for ever down the ringing grooves of
change.

Thro' the shadow of the globe we sweep into the younger day:
Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay!

Then I sat down and applied the red-and-white spotted handkerchief
to the slightly less fevered brow. Fishlock whispered,
'Well done!' Jameson gave me an admiring look and Betsi's
eyes were glowing. And then Soapy Sam Ballard completely
ruined my triumph by more or less throwing in the towel.
'Having heard Mr Rumpole,' the faint-heart representing
Her Majesty's Government began, 'we cannot argue that the
words spoken by the learned Judge at the rugby club dinner
wouldn't be considered prejudiced by any reasonable man or

209

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

woman. This must be borne in mind by the Court when
considering if Amin Hashimi'received a fair hearing by an
impartial tribunal, within the terms of Article Six of the Conven-tion
for the protection of human rights...'

So there it was. I had taken a battering ram to the door of a
castle which had been unlocked by its so-called defenders. It
couldn't be called a famous victory. As we stood to bow and
the Judges filed out, Betsi said we should get the result in
three to six months and there was little doubt what it would
be. On the other side of the Court the man from the consular
service and Lady Mary were grouped round Billy Bloxham, as
though he was the victim of a serious road accident. Sam
Ballard, who had been looking gravely downcast, raised his
eyes to smile across to Betsi. I noticed that she didn't smile
back.

'So, Mr Rumpole. You have fought the good fight!'

'Too easy. Sam Ballard chucked in his hand.'

'He is very conscious of the importance we all attach to
human rights. I told him that we need lawyers with such a fine
record as you have, Mr Rumpole.'

'And did you tell him that a lot of European cases might
come his way if he showed himself a good libertarian?'

Betsi Hoprecht and I were standing by a table in the airport
bar. Jeremy Jameson was waiting in line to pay for the last
round of European Court drinks, and Poppy had gone off
shopping. Now Betsi gave me a smile which I can only describe
as conspiratorial and put a brown hand on my arm, a touch so
light I hardly felt it. 'He might have thought that. I don't know
what went through his mind.'

'You had a good many little chats with Soapy Sam, didn't
you?'

'It's always best' - Betsi was still smiling - 'to get to know
the opposition.'

'You were in his room at night, weren't you? Painting a rosy
picture of his future as an international lawyer.'

'We drank beer out of his refrigerator, certainly.'

'And Article Six of the Convention was your pillow talk?'
'Pillow talk? I think I don't know that phrase. Pillow talk?'

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Rumpole and the Rights of Man

'Were you and Sam' - I put the question direct - 'in bed
together?'
The and Mr Ballard? In bed together? What a ridiculous
idea! You must be making a very big joke, Mr Rumpole.' Betsi
wasn't just smiling then; she threw back her blonde hair and
laughed loudly and clearly enough to scare the dwarf and
startle the maidens on the other side of the Rhine. Jeremy
Jameson was coming towards us with his hand round three
eaux de vie and I felt an immediate need to slip off to the
gents.
When I came back the bar was even fuller. I pushed my way
towards the table in the corner and saw Betsi and Jameson with
their heads together. My hearing isn't altogether what it was,
and I can't be sure of this, but I think I heard the M.E.P. say,
'He won't talk now. He'll soon be on his way home.' Then they
clinked their glasses together, drank and Betsi turned and saw
me. I had the distinct feeling that I wasn't, at that moment, a
welcome sight.
'Who won't talk now?' I asked her.
'Oh, no one you know, I think. We were discussing another
case altogether.' And then she fell back, as she had with the
unfortunate Ballard, on promises. 'But perhaps you will be
asked to argue it for us. When the time comes.' Then the
crackling, amplified voice of Europe announced that the flight
to London Heathrow was boarding immediately from gate
number three. I was, I must confess, quite relieved to hear it.

A bright spring turned into a long, wet summer and then, in
September, pale sunshine returned. During those months Bal-lard
complained that none of the promised briefs in international
cases arrived on his desk, but I had almost forgotten
the weekend in Europe until Peter Fishlock rang to say that we
had won an almighty success in Strasburg, and Betsi and
Jeremy and all our friends sent greetings and congratulations. I
sat at breakfast that Saturday morning and felt curiously little
elation. Was that because it all seemed so long ago and
had none of the immediate excitement of a jury verdict on the
last day of the trial? My joie de vivre was at a low level
that weekend anyway as Hilda's old schoolfriend, Dodo

2II

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

Mackintosh, was inhabiting the mansion flat in return for the
hospitality she had shown to She Who Must in Cornwall
during the Hashimi appeal. . .
'Dodo has suggested a trip to Kingslake, Rumpole. She says
the garden has been thrown open to the public.'
'Sounds exciting. I'm sure you'll both have a rattling good
time.' I saw a fine prospect of a solo lunch in the pub, and a
snooze by the gas fire, opening before me.
'Of course you're coming too, Rumpole. It's about time you
got a little fresh air into your lungs. And the herbaceous border
at Kingslake will come as a nice change from all those squalid
little criminals you spend your time with.'
'I don't suppose Rumpole can tell a mahonia from an azalea,
can he, Hilda?' Dodo Mackintosh, with what I took to be an
evil glint in her eye, piled on the agony.
'Dodo's going to drive us to Sussex, Rumpole. It's very good
of her. So you'd better gulp down that coffee. We're going to
make an early start.' I saw it was no time for argument. She
has to be obeyed.
Always distrust people who have nicknames for their motor
cars and, when my wife and her old schoolfriend were strapped
into the front, and I had poured myself into the back, where I
found precious little leg-room, Dodo switched on the engine
which coughed, spluttered and started, my heart sank when she
chirped, 'Buzzfuzz is in a good mood this morning.' It remained
at a low level during the journey by reason of Dodo's habit of
driving very slowly along clear and straight roads, and then
accelerating wildly at intersections or dangerous corners.
When, after what seemed a lifetime of alternating bursts of
boredom and terror, we got to Kingslake, it proved to be a
greenish-grey Regency house in a poor state of repair - and full
of draughts, I should imagine - with gumboots in the hallways.
Dodo and Hilda had been gossiping about various mistresses
and ex-pupils from their old school, and this less than fascinating
conversation continued as we paid our duty call to the
dahlias and chrysanthemums in the wide herbaceous border. It
was around midday and the alcohol content in the Rumpole
blood had fallen to a dangerous point. Muttering something
about a search for the gents, I stole away through the rose

212

Rurnpole and the Rights of Man

garden and down the gravel paths between the greenhouses
which looked in dire need of a lick of paint.

Round a corner I came to what I took to be am back door of
the house. It was open andI had a view of a stone passageway,
the regulation number of umboots and pegs fO:r tweed caps,
battered panamas and some disintegrating macs.. I also saw a
wooden table with a tray-lie top holding a welc,oming collec-tion
of bottles, some glasses and a corkscrew. A Clesperate plan
crossed my mind; I would pour myself a large snort, leave a
more than adequate supply of money and retreeat to a quiet
refuge behind the cucumber frames. I had put rnhy hand in my

pocket and was advancing on the drinks table when a door
opened further down the allway and a voice I%oomed' 'The

house is not, repeat not, open to the public!' It Was Lady Mary
Parsloe, looking windbloW and armed with wht I took to be
an extra large gin-and-toniC. She narrowed her %yes, looked at
me as though I were a seriOUS blight on the rose and said, 'By
God, it's you!'

'I'm sorry. Is this your house?'

'Eddie's house. His family house, as it so hal:bpens. He's in

London, trying to assess the damage you've donex,

'Damage?'

'Peddling human rightS. What human rights. The right to

get us all blown up. I suppose that's your idea of reedom?'
'You're talking about the Hashimi case?'

'And I'm talking about your friends Friulein Hoprecht and
that dreadful fat Member of the European Par liament. I bet
they're celebrating! Why aren't you with them, X,�ith your nose
in the trough?'

'I thought they were your friends, too. You anc your husband
were at dinner...'

'Eddie was there to see what they were up to. He knew
perfectly well, of course. Not that we'll ever lrove anything
now that your Mr Hashinai has walked away fr%m us. With a
life sentence in front of him, Eddie thinks e'd've talked

eventually. Oh, you knovvhat I'm talking about.,

'I'm afraid I don't.'

'The bloody great meSS you've got us in!' She made an
expansive gesture with her hand holding the lass, slopping

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Rumpole and the Angel of Death

some of the drink which settled the dust on the stairs of the
hallway.
'Can I ask you a question?'
'I suppose so. I don't promise I'll answer it.'
'Can I have a drink?'
She stood looking at me, an old, untidy woman, swaying
slightly like an unpruned shrub in a high wind. 'I'll pay for it,'
I told her.
'Pay for it? You think that makes it all right, don't you? You
think everything's all right if you pay. Or someone pays you.
How much did they pay you? The gunrunners?'
'I got legal aid from the Court in Strasburg. Who were the
gun-runners exactly?'
'Not guns, was it? Something much more than guns. You
honestly don't know?'
'Honestly.'
'Then you should. You should know what you've done to
the world.' She moved unsteadily to the table. 'What is it you
want?'
'A brandy-and-soda,' I suggested, 'would be very welcome.'
If I was going to be operated on, I needed an anaesthetic. I saw
her pick up a bottle and wave it vaguely in the air. 'I'll pour it
out,' I told her.
'You pour it out,' she said, 'and come into the kitchen. Don't
let it go any further. Eddie would kill me, but I think you
bloody well ought to know.'

A quarter of an hour later I walked across the garden alone.
Should I have guessed? Were there moments that should have
told me the truth? Betsi grabbing a newspaper? A car threatening
Ballard - an incident Betsi Hoprecht said was 'unnecessary'?
A few words overheard in the bar at Strasburg airport? Should
these things have told me the truth, and was I getting too old
to take the hint?
The sky had darkened as if in warning of a storm but the
earth, the grass and the dahlias, golden chrysanthemums and
blue Michaelmas daisies were still bright and stood out vividly
against the gun-metal grey of the sky. Hilda and Dodo were
walking towards me.

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Rumpole and the Rights of Man

'Rumpole! Where on earth have you been?'
'Here and there. I had a look inside the house.'
'You've been drinking.'
'I've been listening.'
'Who to?'

'A woman who owns this garden. I met her when I was
doing a case.'

'Oh, was it one you lost?'

'No, I won it. Unfortunately.'

'Dodo knows a place where we can have lunch in Haywards
Heath.'

'They do homemade soups.' Dodo opened an unexciting
prospect.

Whose fault was it that the truth never emerged and that
deadly Russian weapons were still being traded to Iraq? Was it
my fault, or Ballard's fault when he was tempted to show his
libertarian principles in the hope of future briefs? Was it all
because Billy Bloxham let his prejudices show at a rugby club
dinner, or because a cub reporter heard what he said? Or
because a new Court had been invented to take care of the
Rights of Man? Who should I blame - or was I to blame
myself?.

These questions would never have occurred to me but for an
encounter with a half-drunk woman who had thrown her
garden open to the public. What she had told me were official
secrets, and included the fact that the arms trade was being
financed through Netherbank in London, and that George
Freeling was an investigator reporting back to some modestly
retiring Department of State. So my young Iraqi client, a
servant of the arms dealers, among whom Betsi and Jameson
were numbered, was chosen to silence him for ever. My job
had been to get him out of prison before he decided to talk in
exchange for parole. These important facts, like Billy
Bloxham's racist opinions, never saw the light in the Old
Bailey.

I put down my spoon in the restaurant, which was without a
licence and served iced tea with the carrot soup and vegetarian
quiche. 'It's Billy Bloxham's fault,' I said. 'He should never
have developed a taste for rugby football.'

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

'Do stop thinking about your work, Rumpole,' Hilda rebuked
me. 'Can't you enjoy a day out'in the country?'

Quite honestly I couldn't. I was looking forward to Monday
and a receiving of stolen fish at Acton. It had nothing to do
with human rights at all.

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

I have, from time to time in these memoirs, had some harsh
things to say about judges, utterances of mine which may, I'm
afraid, have caused a degree of resentment among their assem-bled
Lordships who like nothing less than being judged. To
say that their profession makes them an easy prey to the
terrible disease of judgeitis, a mysterious virus causing an often
fatal degree of intolerance, pomposity and self-regard, is merely
to state the obvious. Being continually bowed to and asked 'If
your Lordship pleases?' is likely to unhinge the best-balanced
legal brain; and I have never thought that those who were
entirely sane would undertake the thankless task of judging
their fellow human beings anyway. However, the exception to
the above rule was old Chippy Chippenham, who managed to
hold down the job of a senior circuit Judge, entitled to try
murder cases somewhere in the wilds of Kent, and remain,
whenever I had the luck to appear before him, not only sensible
but quite remarkably polite.

Chippy had been a soldier before he was called to the Bar.
He had a pink, outdoors sort of face, a small scourer of a grey
moustache and bright eyes which made him look younger than
he must have been. When I appeared before him I would
invariably get a note from him saying, 'Horace, how about a jar
when all this nonsense is over?' I would call round to his room
and he would open a bottle of average claret (considerably
better, that is, than my usual Ch;teau Thames Embankment),
and we would discuss old times, which usually meant recalling
the fatuous speeches of some more than usually tedious
prosecutor.

In Court Chippy sat quietly. He summed up shortly and
perfectly fairly (that I did object to - a fair summing-up is most

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Rumpole and the Angel of Death

likely to get the customer convicted). His sentences erred, if at
all, on the side of clemency and were never accompanied by
any sort of sermon or homily on the repulsive nature of the
accused. I once defended a perfectly likeable old countryman, a
gamekeeper turned poacher from somewhere south of Seven-oaks,
who, on hearing that his wife was dying from a painful
and inoperable cancer, took down his gun and shot her through
the head. 'Deciding who will live and who will die,' Chippy
told him, having more or less ordered the Jury to find man-slaughter,
'is a task Almighty God approaches only with cau-tion,'
and he gave my rustic client a conditional discharge,
presumably on the condition that he didn't shoot any more
wives.

The last time I appeared before Chippy he had changed. He
found it difficult to remember the name of the fraudster in the
dock and whether he'd dealt in spurious loft conversions or
non-existent caravans. He shouted at the usher for not supply-ing
him with pencils when a box was on his desk, and quite
forgot to invite me round for a jar. Later, I heard he had
retired and gone to live with some relatives in London. Later
still, such are the revenges brought in by the whirligig of time,
he appeared in the curious case of R. v. Dr Elizabeth Ireton, as
the victim of an alleged murder.

The Angel of Death no doubt appears in many guises. She may
not always be palely beautiful and shrouded in black. In the
particularly tricky case which called on my considerable skills
and had a somewhat surprising result, the fell spirit appeared
as a dumpy, grey-haired, bespectacled lady who wore sensible
shoes, a shapeless tweed skirt, a dun-coloured cardigan and a
cheerful smile. This last was hard to explain considering her
position of peril in Number One Court at the Bailey. She was a
Dr Elizabeth Ireton, known to her many patients and admirers
as Dr Betty, and she carried on her practice from a chaotic
surgery in Notting Hill Gate.

I'll admit I was rather distracted that breakfast time in the
kitchen of our so-called mansion flat in the Gloucester Road. I
was trying to gain as much strength as possible from a couple
of eggs on a fried slice, pick up a smattering of the events of the

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Rumpole and the Angel of Death

day from the wireless and make notes in the case of Dr Ireton,
with whom I had a conference booked for five o'clock. My
usual calm detachment about that case was unsettled by the
discovery that the corpse in question was that of Judge Chippy
with whom I had shared so many a friendly jar. There was
little time to spare before I had to set off for a banal matter of
receiving a huge consignment of frozen oven-ready Thai
dinners in Snaresbrook.

Accordingly, I stuffed the papers in my battered briefcase,
placed my pen in the top pocket and submerged my dirty plate
and cutlery in the washing-up bowl, in accordance with the law
formulated by She Who Must Be Obeyed.

'Rumpole!' The voice of authority was particularly sharp
that morning. 'Have you the remotest idea what you have
done?'

'A remote idea, Hilda. I have prepared for work. I am going
out into the harsh, unsympathetic world of a Crown Court
for the sole purpose of keeping this leaky old mansion flat
afloat and well-stocked with Fairy Liquid and suchlike
luxuries...'

'Is this the way you usually prepare for work?'

'By consuming a light cooked breakfast and doing a bit of
last-minute homework? How else?'

'And I suppose you intend to appear in Court with the
butter knife sticking out of your top pocket, having thrown
your fountain-pen into the sink.'

A glance at my top pocket told me that She Who Must Be
Obeyed, forever eagle-eyed, had sized up the situation pretty
accurately. 'A moment of confusion,' I agreed. 'My mind was
on more serious subjects. Particularly it was on a Dr Ireton, up
on a charge of wilful murder.'

'Dr Betty?' As usual Hilda was about four steps ahead of me.
'She's the most wonderful person. Truly wonderful?

'You're not thinking of her as Quack By Appointment to the
Rumpole household?' I asked with some apprehension. 'She's
accused of doing in his Honour Charles Chippy Chippenham,

a circuit Judge for whom I had an unusual affection.'

'She didn't do it, Rumpole!'

'My dear old thing, I'm sure you know best.'

2x9

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

'I was at school with her. She was a house monitor and we
all simply adored her. I promised you'd get her off.'

'Hilda, I know you have enormous respect for me as a
courtroom genius, but your good Dr Betty was apparently a
leading light in Lethe, a society to promote the joys of
euthanasia...'

'It's not a question of your being a genius, Rumpole. It's just
that I told Betty Ireton that you'd have me to answer to if you
didn't win her case. I know quite well she believes passionately'
- and here I saw Hilda watching me closely as I dried the
fountain-pen - 'that life shouldn't be needlessly prolonged.
Not, at any rate, after old people have completely lost their
senses.'

The case of the frozen Thai dinners wound remorselessly on
and was finally adjourned to the next day. When I got back to
Chambers I found my room inhabited by a tallish, thinnish
man in a blue suit with hair just over his ears and the sort of
moustache once worn by South American revolutionaries and
now sported by those who travel the Home Counties trying to
flog double-glazing to the natives. He had soft, brown eyes, a
wristwatch with a heavy metallic strap which gleamed in imita-tion
of gold, and all around him hung a deafening odour of
aftershave. This intruder appeared to be measuring my room,
and the top of my desk, with a long, wavering, metal tape.

'At long last,' I said, as I unloaded the antique briefcase.
'Bollard's got the decorators in.'

'It's Horace Rumpole, isn't it? I'm Vince.'

'Vince?'

'Vince Blewitt.'

'Glad to know you, Mr Blewitt, but you can't start rubbing
down now. I'm about to have a conference.' I was a little
puzzled; we'd had the decorators in more than once in the last
half-century and none of them had introduced themselves so
eagerly.

'Rubbing down?' The man seemed mystified.

'Preparing to paint.'

'Oh, that!' Vince was laughing, showing off a line of teeth
which would have graced a television advertisement. 'No, I'm

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Rumpole and the Angel of Death

not here regarding the paint. I'm just measuring your work-space
so I can see if it makes sense in terms of your personal
through-put in the organization's overall workload. That's what
I'm regarding. And I have to tell you, Horace, I'm going to
have a job justifying your area in terms of your contribution to
overall Chambers' market profitability.'

'I have no idea what you're talking about.' I sat down
wearily in the workspace area and lit a small cigar. 'And I'm
not sure I want to. But I assume you're only passing through?'

'Hasn't Sam Ballard told you? My appointment was con-firmed
at the last Chambers' meeting.'

'I've given up Chambers' meetings,' I told him. 'I regard
them as a serious health hazard.'

'I'm really going to enjoy this opportunity. That Dot Clap-ton.
Am I going to enjoy working with her! Isn't she something
else?'

'What else do you mean? She's our general typist and tel-ephone
answerer.'

'And much more. That girl's got. a big future in front of her!'
Here, the man laughed in a curiously humourless way. 'Oh,

and there's another thought I'd like to share with you.'
'Please. Don't share anything else with me.'

'Looking at your own workload, Horace, what strikes me is
this: you fight all your cases. They go on far too long. Of
course you get daily refreshers, don't you?'

'Whenever I can.' All I could think of at that moment was
how refreshing it would be to get this bugger Blewitt out of my
room.

'But the brief fee for the first day has far more profitability?'

'If you're trying to say it's worth more money, the answer is
yes. '

'So why not accept the brief and bargain for a plea, what-ever
you do? Then you'd be free to take another one the next
day. And so on. Do I need to spell it out? That way you
could increase market share on your personal achievement
record.'

'And a lot of innocent people might end up in chokey. You
say you've joined our Chambers? Are you a lawyer?'

'Good heavens, no!' Blewitt seemed to find the suggestion

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Rumpole and the Angel of Death

mildly amusing. 'My experience was in business. Sam Ballard
head-hunted me from catering.'
'Catering, eh?' I looked at him closely. He had, I thought: a
distinctly fishy appearance. 'Frozen Thai dinners come into it
at all, did they?'
'From time to time. Do you have an interest in oriental
cuisine, Horace?'
'None at all. But I do have an interest in my conference in a
murder case which is just about to arrive.'
'Likely to be a plea?' Blewitt appeared hopeful.
'Over my dead body.'
'Well, make sure it's a maximum contributor to Chambers'
cashfiow.'
'That's quite impossible,' I told him. 'If I don't do this case
free, gratis and for nothing, I shall get into serious trouble with
She Who Must Be Obeyed.'
'Whoever's that?'
'Be so good as to leave me, Blewitt. I see you have a great
deal to learn about life in Equity Court. Things you'd never
pick up in catering.'
He left me then, and I thought I wasn't only landed with the
Defence of Dr Betty Ireton but the Defence of our Chambers
against the death-dealing ministrations of Vincent Blewitt.

After our new legal administrator had left my presence, I
refreshed my memory, from the papers in front of me, on the
circumstances of old Chippy's death.
It seemed that he had a considerable private fortune passed
down from some eighteenth-century Chippenham who had
ransacked the Far East whilst working for the East India
Company. He had lived with his wife Connie in a large Victorian
house near Holland Park until she died of cancer. Chippy
was heartbroken and began to show the early symptoms of the
disease which led to his retirement from the Bench - Alzheimer's.
This is a condition in which the mind atrophies, the
patient becomes apparently infantile, incomprehensible and
incontinent. Early symptoms are a certain vagueness and loss
of memory (such as washing up your fountain-pen? Perish the
thought!). After the complaint has taken hold, the victim re222

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

mains physically healthy and may live on for many years to the
distress, no doubt, of the relatives. Whether, although unable
to express themselves in words, those with Alzheimer's may
still enjoy moments of happiness must remain a mystery.

As he became increasingly helpless, Chippy's nephew Dickie
and Dickie's wife, Ursula, moved in to look after him. They
kept their ten-year-old son, Andrew, reasonably quiet and they
devoted themselves to the old man. He was also cared for by a
Nurse Pargeter, who came when the young Chippenhams went
out in the evenings, and by Dr Betty, who, according to the
witnesses' statements, got on like a house on fire with the old
man.

In fact they were such good friends that Dr Betty used to
call at least one or two times a week and sit with Chippy. They
would drink a small whisky together and the old man had, in
the doctor's presence, occasional moments of lucidity, when he
would laugh at an old legal joke or weep like a child when
remembering his wife. When she left, Dr Betty would, on her
own admission, leave her patient a sleeping tablet, or even two,
to see him through the night. So far, Dr Betty's behaviour
couldn't be criticized, except for the fact that she thought it
right to prescribe barbiturates. But, to be fair to her, she was
told that these were the soporifics Chippy relied on in the days
when he still had all his marbles.

One night the Chippenhams went out to dinner. Nurse
Pargeter had been engaged with another patient and Dr Betty
volunteered to sit with Chippy. (I couldn't help wondering if
her kindness on that occasion included a release from this vale
of tears.) When the Chippenhams arrived home Dr Betty told
them that her patient was asleep and she left then. The old
man died that night with a suddenness that the nurse, who
found him in the morning, thought suspicious. In an autopsy
his stomach was found to contain the residue of a massive
overdose of the sleeping tablets Dr Betty had prescribed and
also a considerable quantity of alcohol. Dr Betty was well
known as a passionate supporter of euthanasia and she was
charged with murder. She was given bail and her trial was due
to start in three weeks' time.

'Of course I remember Hilda. She was such a quiet, shy girl

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at school.' I looked at Dr Betty, sitting in my client's chair in
Chambers, and came to the conclusion that here was a quite
unreliable witness. The suggestion of a quiet and shy Hilda
was not, on the face of it, one that would satisfy the burden of
proof.
'She told me that you don't think life should be needlessly
prolonged in certain circumstances. Is that right?'
'Oh, yes.' The doctor, I judged, was in her late sixties but
her smile was that of an innocent; her eyes behind her spectacles
were shining with as girlish an enthusiasm as when she led her
mustard-keen team out on to the hockey field. 'Death is such a
lovely thing when you're feeling really poorly,' she said. 'I
don't know why we don't all give it a hearty welcome.'
'"The grave's a fine and private place,"' I reminded her,
' "But none, I think, do there embrace."'
'How do we know, Mr Rumpole? How can we possibly
know? Are you really sure there won't be any cuddles beyond
the grave?'
'Cuddles? I hardly think so.'
'We're so prejudiced against the dead!' Dr Betty was almost
giggling and her glasses were glinting. 'Rather like there used
to be prejudice against women when I went in for medicine.
There must be so many really nice dead people!'
'You believe in the afterlife?'
'Oh, I think so. But whatever sort of life goes on after death,
I'd.be out of a job there, wouldn't I? No one would need a
doctor.'
'Or a barrister?' Or might there be some celestial tribunal at
which a crafty advocate could get a sinner off hell? Plenty of
briefs, of course, but my heart sank at the thought of eternal
work before a jury of prejudiced saints. I decided to return to
the business in hand. 'Do you think that sufferers from Alzheimer's
disease are appropriate candidates for the Elysian
Fields?'
'Of course they are! I'd fully decided to send old Chippy off
there as soon as I judged the time was ripe.'
My heart sank further. The danger of having a conference
with customers accused of murder is that they may tell you
they did the deed and then, of course, the fight is over and you

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have no alternative but to stagger into Court with your hands
up. That's why, during such conferences, it's much wiser to
discuss the Maastricht Treaty or Whither the Deutschmark?
than to refer directly to the crude facts of the charge. It was my
error to have done so and now I had to tell Dr Betty that she
had as good as pleaded guilty.
'No, I haven't,' she told me, still, it seemed, in a merry
mood. 'I'm not guilty of anything.'
'You're not?'
'Of course not! It's true I was prepared to release old Chippy
from this unsatisfactory world, when the time came.'
'And it had come the night he died?'
'No, it certainly had not! He was still having lucid intervals.
I would have done it eventually, but not then.' I meant to rob
the bank, Guy, but not on that particular occasion: it didn't
sound much of a defence, but I was determined to make the
most of it.
'So do you think' - I threw Dr Betty a lifeline - 'Chippy
might have got depressed during the night and committed
suicide?'
'Of course not!' I'd never had a client who was so cheerfully
anxious to sink herself. 'He was an old soldier. He always told
me that he regarded suicide as cowardice in the face of the
enemy. He'd have battled on against all odds, until I decided to
sound the retreat.'

It hadn't been an easy day and to go straight home to Froxbury
Mansions without a therapeutic visit to Pommeroy's Wine Bar
would have been like facing an operation without an anaesthetic.
So, because my alcohol content had sunk to a dangerous
low, I pushed open the glass door and made for the bar. I saw,
on top of a stool, a crumpled figure slumped in deepest gloom
and attacking what I thought was far from his first gin-andDubonnet.
Closer examination proved him to be our learned
clerk.
'Cheer up, Henry,' I said, when I had called upon Jack
Pommeroy to pour a large Chateau Fleet Street and mark it up
on the slate. 'It may never happen!'
'It has happened, Mr Rumpole. And I could manage another

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of the same if you're ordering. Our new legal administrator has
happened.' ' '

'You mean the blighter Blewitt?'

'Tell me honestly, Mr Rumpole, have you ever seriously
considered taking your own life?'

'No.' It was perfectly true. Even in' the darkest days, even
when I was put on trial for professional misconduct after a
run-in with a hostile judge and when She Who Must Be
Obeyed's disapproval of my way of life meant that there was
not only an east wind blowing in Froxbury Mansions but a
major hurricane, I could always find solace in a small cigar, a
glass of Pommeroy's plonk, a stroll down to the Old Bailey in
the autumn sunshine and the possibility of a new brief to test
my forensic skills. 'I have never felt the slightest temptation to
place my head in the gas oven.'

'Neither have I,' Henry told me and I congratulated him.
'We're all electric at home. But, I have to say, I'm tempted by
a handful of aspirins.'

'Messy,' I told him. 'And, in my experience, not entirely

dependable. But why this desperate remedy?'
'I have lost everything, Mr Rumpole.'
'Everything?'

'Everything I care about. Dot Clapton and I. Our relation-ship
is over.'*

'Really? I didn't think it ever began.'

'Too right, Mr Rumpole. Too very right!' Our clerk laughed
bitterly. 'And my job has gone. What's my future? Staying at
home...'

'In Bexleyheath?'

'Exactly. Helping out with a bit of shopping. Decorating the
bathroom. And my wife will lose all respect for me as a
breadwinner.'

'Your wife, the Alderperson?'

'Chairman of Social Services. It gives her a lot of status.'
'You'll have a good deal of time for your amateur dramatics.'

'I have been offered the lead in Laburnum Grove. I turned it
down.'

*See 'Rumpole on Trial' in Rumpole on Trial, Penguin Books, x993.

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Rumpole and the Angel of Death

'But why, Henry?'

'Because I'm losing my job, and I've got no heart left for
taking on a leading role!'

Further inquiry revealed what I should have known if I'd
had more of a taste for Chambers' meetings. The skinflint
Bollard had decided to get rid of a decent old-fashioned barris-ter's
clerk who got a percentage of our takings and to appoint a
legal administrator, at what I was to discover was a ludicrously
high salary. 'Vince takes over at the end of the month,' Henry
told me.

'Vince?'

'He asked me to call him Vince. He said that for us two to be
on first-name terms would "ease the process". And what makes
me so bitter, Mr Rumpole, is I think he's got his eye on our
Dot.' Mizz Clapton is so casually beautiful that I thought she
must have many eyes on her, but I didn't think it would cheer
up our soon to be ex-clerk to tell him that. Instead I gave him
my considered opinion on what I took to be the heart or nub of
the matter.

'This man, Blewitt,' I said, 'appears to be a considerable blot
on the landscape.'

'You're not joking, Mr Rumpole.'

'One that must be removed for the general health of
Chambers.'

'And of me in particular, Mr Rumpole, as your long-serving
and faithful clerk.'

'Then all I can tell you, Henry, is that a way must be found.'
'Agreed, Mr Rumpole, but who is to find it?'

It seemed to me a somewhat dimwitted question, and one
that Henry would never have asked had he been entirely sober.
'Who else?' I asked, purely rhetorically, 'but the learned Coun-sel
who found a defence in the Penge Bungalow affair, which
looked, at first sight, even blacker than the case of the blot

Blewitt - or even the predicament of Dr Betty Ireton.'

'Then I'll leave it to you, Mr Rumpole.'

'Many doubtful characters have said those very words,
Henry, and not been disappointed.'

'And I could do with another gin-and-Dubonnet, sir. Seeing
as you're in the chair.'.

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Rumpole and the Angel of Death

So Jack Pommeroy added to the figure on the slate and
Henry seemed to cheer up cohsiderably. 'I just heard a really
ripe one in here, Mr Rumpole, from old Jo Castor who clerks
Mr Digby Tappit in Crown Office Row. Do you know, sir, the
one about the sleeveless woman?'

'I do not know it, Henry. But I suppose I very soon shall.'
As a matter of fact I never did. My much-threatened clerk
began to tell me this ripe anecdote which had an extremely
lengthy build-up. Long before the delayed climax I shut off,
being lost in my own thoughts. Did old Chippy Chippenham
die in the course of nature or was he pushed? If he had been,
would he have felt as merciful to Dr Betty as he had to my
rustic client who shot his sick wife?

Had one long, confused afternoon arrived when Chippy
muttered to himself, 'I have been half in love with easeful
Death'? The sound of the words gave me a lift only otherwise
to be had from Pommeroy's plonk and I intoned privately and
without interrupting Henry's flow:

'Now more than ever seems it rich to die,

To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy!'

Then Henry laughed loudly; his story had apparently reached
its triumphant and no doubt obscene conclusion. I joined in for
the sake of manners, but now I was thinking that I had to win
the case of Blewitt as well as that of Dr Betty, and I had no
idea how I was to emerge triumphant from either.

'We don't call this a memorial service. We call it a joyful
thanksgiving for the life of his Honour Judge Chippenham.' So
said the Reverend Edgedale, the Temple's resident cleric. Sit-ting
at the back of the congregation, I thought that old Chippy
wasn't in a position to mind much what we called it, and
wondered if some of the villains he'd felt it necessary to send
away to chokey would call it a joyful thanksgiving for his
death. Chippy was dead, a word we all shy away from nowadays
when almost anything else goes. What would Mizz Liz Probert
have said? Old Chippy had become a non-living person. And

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then I thought how glowingly Dr Betty had talked about
Chippy's present position, happily unaware of the length of the
sermon - 'Chippy was the name he rejoiced in since his first
term at Charterhouse, but you and I can hardly think of
anyone with less of a chip on his shoulder' - and the increasing
hardness of the pews. I looked around at the assembled mourn-ers,
Mr Injustice Graves, and various circuit judges and practis-ing
hacks who were no doubt wondering how soon they might
expect a joyful thanksgiving for their own lives. I peered up at
the stained-glass windows in the old round church built for the
Knights Templar, who had gone off to die in the Crusades
without the benefit of a memorial service, and then I fell into a
light doze.

I was woken up by a peal on the organ and old persons
stumbling across my knees, anxious to get out of the place
which gave rise to uncomfortable thoughts of mortality. And,
when we joined in the general rush for the light of day, I heard
a gentle voice, 'Mr Rumpole, how delighted Uncle Chippy
would have been that you could join us.'

I focused on a pleasant-looking, youngish woman, pushing
back loose hair which strayed across her forehead. Beside her
stood an equally pleasant, tall man in his forties. Both of them
smiled as though their natural cheerfulness could survive even
this sad occasion.

'Dick and Ursula Chippenham,' the tall man bent down
considerately to inform me. 'Uncle Chippy was always talking
about you. Said you could be a devilish tricky customer in
Court but he always enjoyed having you in for a jar when the
battle was over.'

'Chippy was so fond of his jar. What he wanted was to ask all
his real friends back to toast his memory,' Ursula told me. 'Do
say you'll come!'

'I honestly don't think ...' What I meant to say was that I
already felt a little guilty for slipping in to the memorial service
of a man when I was defending his possible murderer. Could
I, in all conscience, accept even one jar from his bereaved
family?

'It's thirty-one Dettingen Road, Holland Park.' Dick Chip-penham
smiled down on me from a great height. 'Chippy

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would have been so delighted if you were there to say
goodbye.' ' '

As I say, I felt guilty but I also had a strong desire to see
what we old-fashioned hacks call the locus in quo - the scene of
the crime.

It was an English spring, that is to say, dark clouds pressed
down on London and produced a doleful weeping of rain. I
splurged out on a taxi from the Temple to Dettingen Road and
spent some time in it while the approach to number thirty-one
was blocked by a huge, masticating rubbish lorry which gave
out strangled cries such as 'This vehicle is reversing!' as it tried
to extricate itself from a jam of parked cars. Whistling dustmen
were collecting bins from the front entrance of sedate, white-stuccoed
houses, pouring their contents into the jaws of the
curiously articulate lorry and then returning the empty bins,
together with a small pile of black plastic bags, given, by
courtesy of the council, to their owners. I paid the immobile
taxi off and took a brisk walk in the sifting rain towards
number thirty-one. As I did so, I saw a solemn boy come down
the steps of the house and, in a sudden, furtive motion, collect
the black plastic bags from the top of the dustbin, stuff them
under his school blazer and disappear into a side entrance of
the house. I climbed up the front steps, rang the bell and was
admitted by a butler-like person who I thought must have been
specially hired for Chippy's send-off. Sounds of the usual high
cocktail-party chatter with no particular note of grief in it were
emerging from the sitting-room. The wake seemed to be a
great deal more cheerful than the weather.

Ursula Chippenham bore down on me with a welcome glass
of champagne. 'We're so glad you came.' She moved me into a
corner and spoke confidentially, much more in sorrow than in
anger. 'Dr Betty got on so terribly well with Chippy. We never

thought for a moment that she'd do anything like that.'
'Perhaps she didn't.'

'Of course, Dick and I don't want anything terrible to
happen to her.'

'Neither do I.'

'We know you'll do your very best for her. Chippy always

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said you were quite brilliant with a jury on a good day, when
you didn't go over the top and start spouting bits of poetry at
them. '
'That was very civil of him.'
'And, of course, Dr Betty and Chippy became best friends.
Towards the end, that was.'
'I suppose you know that she was against... Well, prolonging
life?' Or in favour of killing people, I suppose I would have
said, if I were appearing for the Prosecution.
'Of course. But I never dreamt she'd do anything ... Well,
without discussing it with the family. She seemed so utterly
trustworthy! Of course we hadn't known her all that long. She
only came to us when Chippy took against poor Dr Eames.'
'When was that exactly?'
'There are certain rules, Mr Rumpole. Certain traditions of
the Bar which you might find it convenient to remember.'
Chippy had said that to me in Court when I asked a witness
who happened to work in advertising if that didn't mean he'd
taken up lying as a career. In his room afterwards he'd said,
'Horace, sometimes I wish you'd stop being such an original barrister.' 'Is trying to squeeze information out of a prosecution
witness while consuming her champagne at a family wake in
the best traditions of the Bar?' he would have asked. 'Probably
not, my Lord,' I would have told Chippy, 'but aren't you
curious to know exactly how you met your death?'
'Only about six months ago.' Ursula answered my question
willingly. 'Eames is a bit politically correct, as a matter of fact.
He kept telling Chippy that at least his illness meant that his
place on the Bench was available to a member of an ethnic
minority.'
'Not much of a bedside manner, this quack Eames?'
'Oh, I don't think Chippy minded that so much. It was
when Eames said, "No more claret and no more whisky to help
you to go to sleep, for the rest of your life", that the poor chap
had to go.'
'Understandable.'
'Dick thought so too.'
'And how did you happen to hear of Dr Betty Ireton?'
'Some friends of mine in Cambridge Terrace said she was an

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absolute angel. Oh, there you are, Pargey! This is Nurse
Pargeter, Mr Rumpole. Pargey was an angel to Chippy too.'
The nurse who was wandering by had reddish hair, a long
equine face and suddenly startled eyes. She wasn't in uniform,
but was solemnly dressed in a plain black frock and white
collar. I had already seen her, standing alone, taking care not to
look at the other guests in case they turned and noticed her
loneliness.
Ursula Chippenham drifted off to greet some late arrivals.
'Are you family?' the nurse asked in a surprisingly deep and
unyielding voice, with a trace of a Scottish accent.
'No, I'm a barrister. An old friend of Chippy's.. '
'Mr Rumpole? I think I've heard him mention you.'
'I'm glad. And then, of course, I have the unenviable task of
defending Dr Betty Ireton. Mrs Chippenham says she got on
rather well with the old boy.'
'Defend her?' Nurse Pargeter suddenly looked as relentless
as John Knox about to denounce the monstrous regiment of
women. 'She cannot be defended. I warned the Chippenhams
against her. They can't say I didn't warn them. I told them all
about that dreadful Lethe.'
'Everyone can be defended,' I corrected her as gently as
possible. 'Of course whether the Defence is successful is entirely
another matter.'
'I prefer to remember the Ten Commandments on the subject.
' Pargey was clearly of a religious persuasion.
Those nicknames, I thought - Pargey and Chippy - you
might as Well be in a school dormitory or at a gathering of very
old actors.
'Oh, the Ten Commandments.' I tried not to sound dismissive
of this ancient code of desert law. 'Not too closely observed
nowadays, are they? I mean adultery's about the only subject
that seems to interest the newspapers, and coveting other
people's oxen and asses is called leaving everything to market
forces. And, as for worshipping graven images, think of the
prices some of them fetch at Sotheby's. As for Thou shalt not
kill - well, some people think that the terminally ill should be
helped out of their misery.'
'And some people happen to believe in the sanctity of life.

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And now, if you'll excuse me, Mr Rumpole, I have an impor-tant
meeting to go to.'

As I watched her leave, I thought that I hadn't been a
conspicuous success with Nurse Pargeter. Then a small boy
piped up at my elbow, 'Would you like one of these, sir? I
don't know what they are actually.' It was young Andrew
Chippenham, with a plate of small brown envelope arrange-ments
made of brittle pastry. I took one, bit into it and found,
hardly to my delight, goat's cheese and some green, seaweed-like
substance.

'You must be Andrew,' I said. The only genuine schoolboy
around wasn't called Andy or Drew, or even Chippy, but
kept his whole name, uncorrupted. 'And you go to Boling-broke
House?' I recognized the purple blazer with brass but-tons.
Bolingbroke was an expensive prep school in Kensing-ton,
which I thought must be so over-subscribed that the
classrooms were used in a rota system and the unaccommo-dated
pupils were sent out for walks in a crocodile formation,
under the care of some bothered and junior teacher, round
the streets of London. I had seen regiments of purple blazers
marching dolefully as far as Gloucester Road; the exit from
Bolingbroke House had a distinct look of the retreat from
Moscow.

'How do you like being a waiter?' I asked Andrew, thinking
it must be better than the daily urban trudge.

'Not much. I'd like to get back to my painting.'

'You're an artist?'

'Of course not.' He looked extremely serious. 'I mean paint-ing
my model aeroplanes.'

'How fascinating.' And then I lied as manfully as any unreli-able
witness. 'I was absolutely crazy about model aeroplanes
when I was your age. Of course, that was a bit before
Concorde.'

'Did you ever go in a Spitfire?' Andrew looked at me as
though I had taken part in the Charge of the Light Brigade or
was some old warrior from the dawn of time.

'Spitfires? I know all about Spitfires from my time in the
R.A.F.' I forgot to tell him I was ground staff only. And then I
said, 'I say, Andrew, I'd love to see your collection.' So he put

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down his plate of goat's cheese envelopes and we escaped from
the party.

Andrew's room was on the third floor, at the back of the
house. In the front, a door was open and I got a glimpse of a
big, airy room with a bed stripped and the windows open.
When I asked who slept there, he answered casually and
without any particular emotion, 'That was Great-uncle
Chippy's room. He's the one who died, you know.'

'I know. I suppose your parents' bedroom's on the floor
below?' It wasn't the subtlest way of getting information.

'Oh, yes. I'm all alone up here now.' Andrew opened the
door of his room which smelled strongly of glue and, I
thought for a moment, was full of brightly coloured birds
which, as I focused on them, became model aeroplanes swing-ing
in the breeze from an open window. From what seemed
to be every inch of the ceiling, a thread had been tied or
tacked to hold up a fighter or an old-fashioned seaplane in
full flight.

'That's the sort of Spitfire you piloted,' Andrew said, to my
silent embarrassment. 'And that's a Wellington bomber like
you had in the war.' I did remember the planes returning,
when they were lucky, with a rear-gunner dead or wounded
and the stink of blood and fear when the doors were opened. I
had been young then, unbearably young, and I banished the
memory for more immediate concerns.

'Are these all the models you've made?' I asked Andrew. 'Or
have you got lots more packed away in black bin bags?'

'Bin bags?' He was fiddling with a half-painted Concorde on
his desk. 'Why do you say that?'

'You know, the plastic bags the dustmen leave after they've
taken away the rubbish. Don't you collect them? A lot of boys
do.'

'Collect plastic bags? What a funny thing to do.' Andrew had
his head down and was still fiddling with his model. 'That
wouldn't interest me, I'm afraid. I haven't got any plastic bags
at all.'

Back in Chambers that afternoon I found Dot Clapton alone in
front of her typewriter, frowning as she looked over a brightly

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coloured brochure, on the cover of which a bikinied blonde
was to be seen playing leapfrog with a younger, fitter version of
Vincent Blewitt on a stretch of golden sand.

'I'm afraid Henry's just slipped out, Mr Rumpole. I don't
know what it is. His heart doesn't seem to be in his work
nowadays.' She looked up at me in genuine distress and I saw
the perfectly oval face, sculptured eyelids and blonde curls that
might have been painted by some such artistic old darling as
Sandro Botticelli, and heard the accent which might have been
learnt from the Timson family somewhere south of Brixton. I
didn't tell her that not only Henry's heart, but our learned
clerk himself, might not be in his work very soon. Instead I
asked, 'Thinking of going on holiday, Dot?'

She handed me the brochure in silence. On the front of it
was emblazoned THE FIVE S HOLIDAYS: SEAr SUN SAND
SINGLES AND SEX ON THE COSTA DEL SOL. WHY NOT GO FOR
IT? 'Quite honestly, is that your idea of a holiday, Mr
Rumpole?'

'It sounds,' I had to tell her, 'like my idea of hell.'

'I've got to agree with you. I mean, if I want burger and

chips with a pint of lager, I might as well stay in Streatham.'
'Very sensible.'

'If I'm going to be on holiday, I want something a bit
romantic.'

'I understand. Sand and sex are as unappealing as sand in
the sandwiches?'

'My boyfriend's planning to take me to the castles down the

Rhine. Of course, I don't want to upset him.'
'Upset your boyfriend?'
'No. Upset Mr Blewitt.'

'Upsetting Mr Blewitt - I have to say this, Dot - is my idea
of a perfect summer holiday.'

'Oh, don't say that, Mr Rumpole.' Dot Clapton looked
nervously round the room as though the blot might be con-cealed
behind the arras. 'He is my boss now, isn't he?'

'Not my boss, Dot. No one's my boss, and particularly not
Blewitt.'

'He's mine then. And he told me these singles holidays are a
whole lot of fun.'

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'Did he now?' I felt that there was something in this fragment
of information which might be of great value.

'I don't know, though. Vince ... Well, he asked me to call
him Vince.'

'And you agreed?'

'I didn't have much choice. Does he honestly think I haven't
got a boyfriend?'

'If he thinks that, Dot, he can't be capable of organizing a
piss-up in a brewery, let alone a barristers' Chambers.'

'Piss-up in a brewery!' Dot covered her mouth with her
hand and giggled. 'How do you think of these things, Mr
Rumpole?'

I didn't tell her that they'd been thought of and forgotten
long before she was born, but took my leave of her, saying I
was on my way to see Mr Ballard.

'Oh, he's busy.' Dot emerged from behind her hand. 'He
said he wasn't to be disturbed.'

'Then it will be my pleasure and privilege to disturb him.'

'Have you "eaten on the insane root",' I asked the egregious
Ballard, with what I hoped sounded like genuine concern,

' "That takes the reason prisoner?"'

'What do you mean, Rumpole?'

'I mean no one who has retained one single marble would

dream of introducing the blight Blewitt into Equity Court.'
'I thought you'd come to me about that eventually.'
'Then you thought right.'

'If you had bothered to attend the Chambers' meeting you
might have been privy to the selection of Vincent Blewitt.'

'I have only a few years of active life left to me,' I told the
man with some dignity. 'And they are too precious to be
wasted on Chambers' meetings. If I'd been there, I'd certainly
have banned Blewitt.'

'Then you'd have been outvoted.'

'You mean those learned but idiotic friends decided to put
their affairs in the hands of this second-rate, second-hand car
salesman.'

'Catering.' Ballard smiled tolerantly.

'What?'

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'Vincent Blewitt was in catering, not cars.'

'Then I wouldn't buy a second-hand cake off him.'

'Horace' - Soapy Sam Ballard rose and placed a considerate
and totally unwelcome hand on my shoulder - 'we all know
that you're a great old warhorse and that you've had a long,
long career at the Bar. But you have to face it, my dear old
Horace, you don't understand the modern world.'

'I understand it well enough to be able to tell a decent,
honest, efficient, if rather over-amorous, clerk from the dubious
flogger of suspect and probably mouldy canteen dinners.' I
shrugged the unwelcome hand off my shoulder.

'The clerking system,' Ballard told me then, with a look of
intolerable condescension, 'is out of date, Horace. We are
moving towards the millennium.'

'You move towards it if you like. I prefer to stay where I

am.'

'Why should we pay Henry a percentage when we can get an

experienced businessman for a salary?'

'What sort of salary?'

'Vincent Blewitt was good enough to agree to a hundred, to
be reviewed at the end of one year. The contract will be signed
when the month's trial period is over.'

'A hundred pounds? Far too much!'

'A hundred thousand, Rumpole. It's far less than he would
expect to earn in the private sector of industry.'

'Let him go back to the private sector then. If you want to be
robbed, I could lend you one of the Timsons. They only deal
in petty theft.'

'Vincent Blewitt has been very good to join us. At some
personal financial sacrifice...'

'Did you check on what his screw was in the canteen?'

'I took his word for it.' Ballard looked only momentarily
embarrassed.

'Famous last words of the fraudster's victim.'

'Vincent Blewitt isn't a fraudster, Rumpole. He's a
businessman.'

'That's the polite word for it.'

'He says we must earn our keep by a rise in productivity.'
'How do you measure our productivity?'

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'By the turnover in trials.'

'In your case, by the amazing turnover in defeats.' It was
below the belt, I have to confess, but it didn't send Ballard
staggering to the ropes. He came back, pluckily, I suppose.
'Business, Rumpole,' he told me, 'makes the world go round.'
Later I discovered he'd got these words of wisdom from some
ludicrous television advertisement.

'Rubbish. Justice might make the world go round. Or poetry.
Or love. Or even God. You might think it's God, Bollard, as a
founder member of the Lawyers As Christians Society.'

'As a Christian, Rumpole, I remember the parable of the
talents. The Bible points out that you can't fight market
forces.'

'Didn't the Bible also say something like Blessed are the
poor? Or do you wish it hadn't said that?'

'I've got no time to trade texts with you, Rumpole.' Soapy
Sam looked nettled.

I was suddenly tired, half in love, perhaps for a moment,
with easeful death. 'Oh, let's stop arguing. Get rid of the blot,
confirm Henry in the job and we need say no more about it.'

'I'm sure you'll find Vincent Blewitt a great asset to Cham-bers,
Rumpole. He's a very human sort of person. He likes his
joke, I understand. I'm sure you'll have plenty of laughs
together.'

'If he stays...'

'He is staying...'

'Then I'll take a handful of pills, washed down with a glass
of whisky, and cease upon the midnight with no pain.'

'If you wish to do that, Rumpole' - our learned Head of
Chambers sat down at his desk and pretended to be busy with
a set of papers - 'that is entirely a matter for you.'

That evening, before the news, Ballard's favourite commer-cial
about business making the world go round came on. Later
there were some pictures of a Pro-Life demonstration outside
an abortion clinic in St John's Wood. Prominent among those
present was a serious, long-faced woman with reddish hair.
Nurse Pargey was waving a placard on which was written the

words THOU SHALT NOT KILL.

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Rumpole and the Angel of Death

'Alzheimer's isn't a killer in itself. Certainly the patient gets
weaker and more forgetful. Helpless, in fact. But it would need
something more to kill Chippy.'

'Like an overdose of sleeping pills, for instance?'

'Evidently that's what did it.' Dr Betty was one of those
awkward clients, it seemed, who felt impelled to tell the truth.
And what she went on to say wasn't particularly helpful. 'I
might have given Chippy an overdose of something when the
time came, but it hadn't come on the night he died. You must
believe that, Horace.'

'Whether I believe it or not isn't exactly the point. What

matters is whether the Jury believe it.'

'That's for them to decide, isn't it?'

'I'm afraid it is.' At which moment there was a rapid knock
on the door which immediately opened to.admit Blewitt's head.
He took a quick look at the assembled company and said,
'Sorry folks! Mustn't interrupt the workers' productivity.
Speak to you later, Horace.' At which, as rare things will, he
vanished.

'Who on earth was that extraordinary man?' For the first
time Dr Betty looked shaken.

'A temporary visitor,' I told her. 'Nothing for you to worry

about. Now tell me about the sleeping pills.'

'I gave him two.'

'And you saw him drink his whisky?'
'A small whisky-and-soda. Yes.'
'And then...?'

'Well, I settled him down for the night.'

'Did he go to sleep?'

'He seemed tired and dreamy. He'd been quite contented
that day, in fact. But incontinent, of course. Quite soon after
he'd settled down, I heard the Chippenhams come home from

their dinner-party, so I went downstairs to meet them.'

'What happened to the bottle of pills?'

'Well, that was kept in the house so that the Chippenhams or
Nurse Pargeter could give Chippy his pills when I wasn't
there.'

'Kept where in the house?'

'I put them back in the bathroom cupboard.'

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'Are there two bathrooms?'
'Yes. The one next to the Judge's bedroom. You know the
house?' Dr Betty looked surprised.
'I have a certain nodding acquaintance with it. And young
Andrew?'
'His mother had sent him up to bed before they went out.
But I'm afraid he hadn't gone to sleep.'
'How do you know that?'
'When I went to put the pills back in the bathroom, I saw
his light on and his bedroom door open. He was still reading or
playing with his model aeroplanes more likely.'
'Quite likely, yes. Oh, one other thing. Had you ever spoken
to Chippy about Lethe?'
'No, certainly not. I told you, Horace. The time had not
come.'
'And was anyone else Chippy knew a member of Lethe? Any
friends or his family?'
'Oh, no, I'm sure they weren't.'
'I think it might be just worth getting a statement from a Dr
Eames.' I turned to Bonny Bernard, my instructing solicitor.
'Oh, and a few inquiries about the firm of Marcellus & Chippen-ham,
house agents and surveyors.'
'David Eames?' Dr Betty looked doubtful.
'He treated Chippy before you came on the scene. He might
know if he'd ever talked of suicide.'
Dr Betty once again spurned a line of defence. 'As I told
you, I'm quite sure he never contemplated such a thing.'
'So if you didn't kill him, Dr Betty, who do you think did?'
She was looking at me, quite serious then, as she said, 'Well,
that's not for me to say, is it?'

'Sorry to have intruded on your conference. Although it may
be no bad thing for me to make spot checks on the human
resource in the workplace.'
I had hardly recovered from the gloomy prospect of defending
Dr Betty when the Blight was with me again. I sat, sunk in
thought.
'Cheer up, Horace.' Vince's laugh was like a bath running
out. 'It may never happen.' As he said that, I regretted having

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used the same fatuous words of encouragement to Henry, our
condemned clerk. Most of the worst things in life are absolutely
bound to happen, the trial of the cheerful doctor, for instance,
or death itself.

'I wanted a word or two with you about formalizing staff
holidays. You thinking of getting away to the sun yourself?.'

'Hardly,' I told him, 'having glanced at the brochure you
gave Dot Clapton.'

'Sea, sand and sex, Rumpole. You'd enjoy that. Very relax-ing,'
Vince gurgled.

'I'm hardly a single.'

'Well, send the wife on a tour of the Lake District or
something, and you head off to the Costa del Sol. That's my
advice. I mean, when you're invited to a gourmet dinner, why
take a ham sandwich?'

I looked at Vincent Blewitt with a wild surmise. Was there
no limit to the awfulness of the man? I could imagine no
matrimonial situation, however grim, in which I could tell
Hilda that she was a ham sandwich.

'I've rota'd Dot early July in the format,' Vince told me. 'I
don't think she can wait to join me and assorted singles.'

I thought of telling him that Dot didn't even like the Costa
del Sol. That she didn't think that sex and sand made a good
mix. That she had a romantic nature and she wanted to drift
past the castles on the Rhine listening to the Lorelei's mystic
note. Some glimmering hope, a faint idea of a plan, led me to
encourage the Blot. 'Considerable fun, these singles holidays,
are they, Vincent?'

'You're not joking!' He had now sunk into my client's arm-chair
and stuck out his legs in anticipation of delight. 'First day
you get there, as soon as you've got checked in, it's down to the

beach for games to break the ice.'

'Games?'

'I'll just tell you one. Whet your appetite.'

'Carry on.'

'The fellas get to blow up balloons inside the girls' bikini
bottoms. And then the girls do it vice versa in our shorts. By
the time we've played that, everyone's a swinger.'

I looked longingly .at the door, thinking how restful the

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Rumpole and the Angel of Death

forthcoming murder trial would be, compared with a quiet chat

with our legal administrator.

'It sounds very tasteful.'

'I think you've got the message. I'll rota you for a couple of
weeks then. After Dot and I have left the Costa, of course. I

never knew you were a swinger, Horace.'

'Oh, we all have our joys and desires.'

'Don't we just!' Vincent looked at me, I thought, with

unusual respect. 'Heard any good ones lately?'

'Ones?'

'You know. Jokes. You've got hidden talents, Horace. I bet
you know about rib-ticklers.'

'You mean' - I looked at him seriously - 'like the one about
the sleeveless woman?'

'Isn't that a great story?' Happily Vincent knew this anecdote
and he gurgled again. 'Laughed like a drain when I first heard
it. Whoever told you that one, Horace?'

I looked him straight in the eye and lied with complete
conviction, 'Oh, Sam told me that. It's just his type of
humour.'

'Sam?' Vincent was puzzled.

'You know, our learned Head of Chambers, Soapy Sam
Ballard.'

I have often noticed that before any big and important cause
or matter - and no one could doubt the size and importance of
R. v. Dr Betty - a kind of peace descends on my legal business.
In other words, I hit a slump. I had nothing in Court, not
even the smallest spot of indecency at Uxbridge. I had no
conferences booked and those scurrying about their business
in the Temple, or waiting in the corridors of the Old Bailey,
might well have come to the conclusion that old Rumpole had
ceased upon the midnight hour with no pain.' In fact I was
docked in Froxbury Mansions with my ham - no, I will not be
infected by Vince's vulgarity - with She Who Must Be
Obeyed.

Needless to say, I had no wish to spend twenty-four hours a
day closeted with Hilda, so I went on a number of errands to
the newsagent in search of small cigars, to the off-licence at the

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other end of Gloucester Road to purchase plonk, stretch my
legs and breathe in the petrol fumes.
I was walking, wrapped in thought, through Canning Place,
when I saw the familiar sight of purple blazers marching
towards me in strict battle formation, led by a sharp-faced
young female wearing a tweed skirt and an anorak, who uttered
words of command or turned to rebuke stragglers. I stood
politely in the gutter to let them pass, raising my umbrella in a
kind of salute when I saw, taking up the rearguard, Andrew
Chippenham.
'Andrew!' I called out in my matiest tones, 'how are you, old
boy? Marching up with your regiment to lay siege to the Albert
Hall, are you? Or on the hunt for bin bags?'
It was not at all, I'm sure you'll agree, an alarming sally. I
intended to be friendly and jocular, but when he heard my
voice young Andrew stopped, apparently frozen, his head
down. He raised it slowly and what I saw was a small, serious
boy frozen in terror. Before I could speak again, he had turned
and run off after his vanishing crocodile.
I was finding this enforced home leave so tedious that, a
few days later, I took a trip on the tube back to my Chambers
in the Temple, although I had no business engagements. I
was sunk in the swing chair with my feet on the desktop
workspace, trying to fathom out the depths of ingenuity to
which the setter of The Times crossword puzzle might have
sunk, when the Blot oozed through the door and defiled my
carpet.
'I thought it might be rather appropriate,' he said in the sort
of solemn voice people use when they're discussing funeral
arrangements, 'if we gave a great party in Chambers to mark
Henry's career change.'
'What's that called?' I asked him. 'Easing the passing?'
'At least give him a smashing sendoff.'
'I suppose he can live on that as his retirement pension.'
'I'm sure Henry has got a bit put by.'
'He hasn't got a job put by. I happen to know that.' And
then some sort of a plan began to take shape in my mind. 'Why
does it have to be a great party?'
'Because' - and then Vince looked at me in a horribly

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conspiratorial fashion as the penny dropped. 'Horace, you're
not suggesting?'
'A bit of a singles do, why not?'
'Leave the ham sandwiches at home, eh?'
'Exactly!' I forced myself to say it, although it stuck in my
throat.
'I mean, we'd ask Dot Clapton, wouldn't we?'
'Of course,' I reassured him.
'And some of the gorgeous bits that float around the
Temple.'
'As many of them as you can cram in. We'll make it a real
send-off for Henry.'
'Something he'll remember all his life.'
'Certainly.'
'Only one drawback, as far as I know.'
'What's that?'
'We'll have to ask permission from the Head of Chambers.'
Vincent looked doubtful and disappointed.
'The Head of Chambers would be furious if he weren't
included,' I assured him, and the gurgling laughter was turned
on again.
'Of course. I remember what you told me about Sam Ballard.
A bit of a swinger, didn't you indicate?'
'Bollard,' I said, remembering an old song of my middle age,
'"swings as the pendulum do". Put the whole proposition to
him, Vincent. Put it in detail, not forgetting the balloons blown
up in the trousers, and then watch his eyes light up.'
'We're in for a good time, then?'
'I think so. At very long last.'
After the Blot had left me, suitably encouraged, I went home
on the Underground. Emerging from Gloucester Road station, I saw the formation of purple blazers bearing down on me
remorselessly on what must have been the last route-march of
the day. I stood aside to let them pass, but the C.O. halted the
column and looked at me, through a pair of horn-rimmed
spectacles, with obvious distaste. 'Are you the person who
spoke to Chippenham the other day, down at the end of the
line?' she asked me. 'The boys told me he had spoken to
somebody strange.'

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'It just so happened' - I decided to overlook the description
- 'that I know the family.'
'Whether you do or you don't' - she frowned severely - 'he
was clearly upset by what you said to him. It's most unusual
for people to speak to my Bolingbrokers in the street. He was
obviously shocked, the other boys said so. Ever since he met
you, Chippenham's been away sick.'
'But I honestly didn't say anything,' I started to explain but,
before I could finish the sentence, the word of command had
been given and the column quick-marched away from me.
When I got back to the seclusion of the mansion flat (there
were times when I felt that our chilly matrimonial home was
more a mausoleum than a mansion), I found Hilda had gone to
her bridge club and left a message for me to ring my instructing
solicitor and 'make sure neither of you slip up on Dr Betty's
case'. When I got through to Bonny Bernard, he had news
which interested me greatly. The puritanical Dr Eames had, it
seemed, returned to care for the Chippenham family and, in
particular, he was looking after young Andrew, who was suffering
from some sort of nervous illness and was off school. As a
witness, Bernard told me, Dr Eames was of the talkative variety
and seemed to have something he was a strangely anxious to
tell me. I hoped he would become even more talkative in the
days before the trial.

I discovered that our case was to come before Mrs Justice
Erskine-Brown, for so long the Portia of our Chambers and its
acknowledged beauty (even now, when she is Dame Phillida
and swathed in the scarlet and ermine of a High Court Judge,
she is a figure that the unspeakable Vince might well have
wanted to lure into a singles holiday on the Costa del Sand and
Sex). I had known her since she had joined us as a tearful
pupil;* we had been together and against each other, and I had
taught her enough to turn her into a formidable opponent, in
more trials than I care to remember. She was brave, tenacious,
charming and provocative as compared with her husband

See 'Rumpole and the Married Lady' in Rumpole of the Bailey, Penguin Books,
I978.

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Claude who, upon his hind legs in any courtroom, could be
counted upon to appear nervous; hesitant and unconvincing. I
have a distinct fondness for Portia which I have reason to
believe, because of the way she behaved during the many crises
in Equity Court, is suitably returned. In short, we have a
mutual regard, and I hoped she might feel some sympathy for
a case which, in other hands, was likely to prove equally
difficult for Dr Betty Ireton and Horace Rumpole. There,
hopes were dashed quite early on in the proceedings.

'It may be argued on behalf of the Defence...' The Prosecu-tor
was the beefy Q.C., Barrington McTear. He had played
rugby football for Oxford and his courtroom tactics consisted
of pushing, shoving, tackling low and covering his opponents,
whenever possible, with mud. Although his name had a High-land
ring to it, he spoke in an arrogant and earblasting Etonian
accent and considered himself a cut above such middle-class,
possibly overweight, and certainly unsporty barristers as
myself. For this reason I had privately christened him Cut
Above McTear.

Cut Above had massive shoulders, a large, pink face and
small, gold half-glasses. They perched on him as inappropri-ately
as a thin, gold necklace on a ham. Now, in a voice that
could have been heard from one end of a football field to the
other, he repeated what he thought would be my defence for
the purpose of bringing it sprawling to the ground in a particu-larly
unpleasant tackle. 'Your Ladyship may well think that Mr
Rumpole's defence will be "This old gentleman was on his way
out anyway, so Dr Ireton committed an act of mercy and not
an act of murder"...'

'Such a defence will receive very little sympathy in this
Court, Mr McTear.' Portia was clearly not in a mood to fuss
about the quality of mercy. 'Murder is murder until Parliament
chooses to pass a 1.aw permitting euthanasia.'

'Oh, I do so entirely agree with your Ladyship,' Cut Above
informed the Bench and probably those assembled in the corri-dor
and nearby Courts, 'so it will be interesting to discover if
Mr Rumpole has a defence.'

'May I remind my learned friend' - I climbed to my feet and
spoke, I think with admirable courtesy - 'that a prosecutor's

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job is to prove the charge and not to speculate about the nature
of the Defence. If he wishes any further advice on how to
conduct his case, I shall be available during the adjournment.'

'I hardly need advice on prosecuting from Mr Rumpole,
who hasn't done any of it!' Cut Above bellowed.

'Gentlemen' - Portia's quiet call to order was always effective
- 'perhaps we should get on with the evidence. No doubt we
shall hear from Mr Rumpole in the fullness of time.'

So Cut Above turned to tell the Jury that they would find
the evidence he was about to call entirely persuasive and
leading to the inevitable verdict of guilty on Dr Ireton. A
glance at Hilda, who had come to support her friend and make
sure that I secured her deliverance from the dock, was enough
to tell me that She Who Must Be Obeyed didn't think much of
my performance so far.

Dick Chippenham was the sort of witness that Cut Above
could understand and respect. They probably went to the same
tailor and played the same games at the same sort of schools
and universities. Dick even spoke in Cut Above's sort of voice,
although with the volume turned down considerably. When he
had finished his examination Cut Above said, 'I'm afraid I'll
have to trouble you to wait there for a few minutes more,' as
though there was an unfortunate deputation from the peasantry
to trouble him, but it needn't detain him long.

'Mr Chippenham, I'm sure all of us at the Bar wish to
sympathize with you in your bereavement.'

'Thank you.' I glanced at the Jury. They clearly liked my
opening gambit, one that Cut Above hadn't troubled himself to
think of.

'I have only a few questions. Up to six months before he

died, your uncle was attended by Dr Eames?'

'That is so.'

'But, rightly or wrongly, your uncle took against Dr Eames?'
'I'm afraid so.'

'That doctor not being convinced of the therapeutic effects
of whisky and claret?'

I got a ripple of laughter from the Jury and a smile of
assurance from the witness. 'I believe that was the reason.'

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'So you then engaged Dr Ireton. Why did you choose
her?'

'She was a local doctor who had treated one of my wife's
friends.'

'At the time when you transferred to Dr Ireton, did you
know that she was a member of Lethe, a pro-euthanasia
society?'

'Mr Rumpole admits that she was a member of Lethe.' Cut
Above sprang to attention. 'I hope the Jury have noticed this
admission by the Defence,' he bellowed.

'I'm sure you can't have helped noticing that,' I told the
Jury. 'And I'm sure that, during any further speeches from my
learned friend, earplugs will be provided for those not already
hard of hearing.'

'Mr Rumpole!' Portia rebuked me from the Bench. 'This is a
serious case and I wish to see it is tried seriously.'

'An admirable ambition, my Lady,' I told her. 'And tried
quietly too, I hope.' And then I turned to the witness before
Cut Above could trumpet any sort of protest.

'When you and your wife got back from the dinner party, it

was about eleven o'clock?'

'Yes.'

'And apart from your uncle, the only people in the house
were Dr Betty Ireton and your son?'

'That's right. Dr Betty met us in the hall and she said she'd
given Chippy his pills and a drink of whisky.'

'At that time, would your uncle have remembered whether
he'd taken his pills or not?'

'He probably would have remembered. Dr Betty said she'd
given him his pills as usual.'

'When you got upstairs, you went in to see your uncle?'
'We did.'

'Was he asleep?'

'Yes.'

'Was he still breathing?'

'I'm sure he was. Otherwise we'd have called for help
immediately.'

'You noticed the bottle of whisky. Was it empty?'

'It must have been, but I can't say I noticed it then.'

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'So perhaps it wasn't empty?'

'I can't say for sure, but I suppose it must have been.'

'You can't say for sure. And the bottle of pills had been put
away in the bathroom?'

'Yes, I believe it had... My wife will tell you.'

'So you can't be sure how many pills were left when you last
saw your uncle alive?'

'In the morning I saw the bottle of pills empty.'
'And in the morning your uncle was dead?'
'Yes, he was.'

'Thank you very much, Mr Chippenham.' I sat down with
what I hoped was a good deal more show of satisfaction than I
felt.

'Dr Betty said she thinks you and that deafening McTear
person are behaving like a couple of small boys in the school
playground.'

I thought it was perhaps unfortunate that Dr Betty was
allowed bail if she was going to abuse her freedom by criticizing
my forensic skills. 'She only sees what happens on the surface.
Tactics, Hilda. She's no idea of the plans that are forming at
the back of my mind.'

'Have you any idea of them either, Rumpole? Be honest. Or
have you forgotten that, in the way you forgot to turn out the
bathroom light when you'd finished shaving?'

It was breakfast time once again in Froxbury Mansions. I
felt a longing to get away from the sharp cut-and-thrust of
domestic argument and be off to the gentler world of the Old
Bailey. Hilda pressed home her advantage. 'I hope you realize
that I am personally committed to your winning this case,
Rumpole. I have given my word to Dr Betty.'

Then you'd better ask for it back again, was what I might
have said, but lacked the bottle. Instead I told Hilda that Dr
Eames was going to give us a full statement which I thought
might be helpful. At which, I gathered up my traps, ready to
hotfoot it down to the Old Bailey canteen where I had a date
with the industrious Bernard.

'You certainly need help from somewhere, Rumpole. And, I
don't know if you noticed, you've left me your briefcase and

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taken my Daily Telegraph.' As I made the changeover, he said,
'We've learnt a lot lately, haven't we, about the onset of
Alzheimer's disease?'

Dr David Eames was a rare bird, a doctor who liked talking to
lawyers. He was tall, bony, with large, capable hands and a
lock of fair hair that fell over his eyes, and a serious, enthusiastic
way of speaking as though he hadn't yet lost his boyish faith in
human nature, the National Health Service and the practice of
medicine. I don't usually have much feeling for those who seek
to deprive their fellow beings of their claret, but I felt a strange
liking for this youthful quack who seemed only anxious to
discover the truth about the fatal events which had taken place
that night in Dettingen Road.
As we sat with Bernard in the old Bailey canteen, with
coffee from a machine, and went through the medical evidence,
I noticed he was strangely excited, as though he had something
to communicate but was not sure when, or if indeed ever, to
communicate it.
'I'm right in thinking Alzheimer's is not a killer in itself,
although those who contract it usually lie within ten years?'
'That's right,' Eames agreed. 'They contract bronchitis or
have a stroke, or perhaps they just lose their wish to live.'
'There's no evidence of bronchitis or' a stroke here?'
'Apparently not.'
'So it seems likely that death was hucried on in some way?'
There was a silence, then Dr Eame said, 'I think that must
follow.'
'My old friend and opponent, Dr Ackerman of the morgue,
the Home Office pathologist, estimates death as between ten
p.m. and one a.m.'
'I read that.'
'At any rate, he was dead by seven-thirty a.m. when Nurse
Pargeter came to look after him. Die Chippenham says that
Chippy was alive and sleeping well at around eleven the night
before. If Dr Betty had just given him an overdose...'
'The pills might not have taken their effect until some time
later.'
'I was afraid you'd say that.' I took a gulp from the machine's

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coffee, which is pretty indistinguishable from the machine's
tea, or the machine's soup if it comes to that. 'When you

stopped being the Chippenhams' doctor...'

'When I was sacked, you mean?'

'If you like. Had you had a row with Chippy? I mean, did he
sack you?'

'Not really. As far as I remember, it was Mr Chippenham
who told me his uncle wanted me to go.'

'There was no question of you having had a row with
Chippy about drinking whisky?'

'No. I can't remember anything like that.' The doctor looked

puzzled and I felt curiously encouraged and lit a small cigar.
'Tell me, Doctor, did you know Nurse Pargeter?'
'Only too well.'

'And did you like her?'

'Pro-Life nurses can be a menace. They seem to think of
themselves as avenging angels.'

'And she didn't care for Dr Betty?'

'She hated her! I think she thought of her as a potential
murderess.'

I wondered if that might be helpful. Then I said, 'One more
thing, Dr Eames, now that I've got you here...'

'What are you up to now, Rumpole? Talking to potential
witnesses? Is that in the best tradition of the Bar?' Wasn't
Stentor some old Greek military man whose voice, on the
battlefield, was louder than fifty men together? No doubt his
direct descendant was the stentorian Cut Above, who now
stood with his wig in his hand, his thick hair interrupted by a
little tonsure of baldness so that he looked like a muscular
monk.

'I am consulting with an expert witness. A doctor of medi-cine,'
I told Cut Above. 'And for Counsel to see expert wit-nesses
is certainly in the best tradition of the Bar.'

'I'm warning you. Just watch it, Rumpole. Watch it ex-tremely
carefully. I don't want to have to report you to her
lovely Ladyship for unprofessional conduct.' My opponent
gave a bellow of laughter which rattled the coffee cups and
passed on with his myrmidons, a junior barrister and a wiry
little scrum-half from the D.P.P.'s office.

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

taken my Daily Telegraph.' As I made the changeover, he said,
'We've learnt a lot lately, haven't we, about the onset of
Alzheimer's disease?'

Dr David Eames was a rare bird, a doctor who liked talking to
lawyers. He was tall, bony, with large, capable hands and a
lock of fair hair that fell over his eyes, and a serious, enthusiastic
way of speaking as though he hadn't yet lost his boyish faith in
human nature, the National Health Service and the practice of
medicine. I don't usually have much feeling for those who seek
to deprive their fellow beings of their claret, but I felt a strange
liking for this youthful quack who seemed only anxious to
discover the truth about the fatal events which had taken place
that night in Dettingen Road.
As we sat with Bernard in the Old Bailey canteen, with
coffee from a machine, and went through the medical evidence,
I noticed he was strangely excited, as though he had something
to communicate but was not sure when, or if indeed ever, to
communicate it.
'I'm right in thinking Alzheimer's is not a killer in itself,
although those who contract it usually die within ten years?'
'That's right,' Eames agreed. 'They contract bronchitis or
have a stroke, or perhaps they just lose their wish to live.'
'There's no evidence of bronchitis or a stroke here?'
'Apparently not.'
'So it seems likely that death was hurried on in some way?'
There was a silence, then Dr Eames said, 'I think that must
follow.'
'My old friend and opponent, Dr Ackerman of the morgue,
the Home Office pathologist, estimates death as between ten
p.m. and one a.m.'
'I read that.'
'At any rate, he was dead by seven-thirty a.m. when Nurse
Pargeter came to look after him. Dick Chippenham says that
Chippy was alive and sleeping well at around eleven the night
before. If Dr Betty had just given him an overdose...'
'The pills might not have taken their effect until some time
later.'
'I was afraid you'd say that.' I took a gulp from the machine's

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coffee, which is pretty indistinguishable from the machine's
tea, or the machine's soup if it comes to that. 'When you

stopped being the Chippenhams' doctor...'

'When I was sacked, you mean?'

'If you like. Had you had a row with Chippy? I mean, did he
sack you?'

'Not really. As far as I remember, it was Mr Chippenham
who told me his uncle wanted me to go.'

'There was no question of you having had a row with
Chippy about drinking whisky?'

'No. I can't remember anything like that.' The doctor looked

puzzled and I felt curiously encouraged and lit a small cigar.
'Tell me, Doctor, did you know Nurse Pargeter?'
'Only too well.'

'And did you like her?'

'Pro-Life nurses can be a menace. They seem to think of
themselves as avenging angels.'

'And she didn't care for Dr Betty?'

'She hated her! I think she thought of her as a potential
murderess.'

I wondered if that might be helpful. Then I said, 'One more
thing, Dr Eames, now that I've got you here...'

'I am consulting with an expert witness. A doctor of medi-cine,'
I told Cut Above. 'And for Counsel to see expert wit-nesses
is certainly in the best tradition of the Bar.'

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

'Who's that appalling bully?' Dr Eames appeared shocked.
'Cut Above, Q.C., Counsel for. the Prosecution.'

'I've known surgeons like that. Full of themselves and care
nothing for the patient. Doesn't he want me to talk to you?' I
think it was Cut Above's appearance and interruption which
persuaded Dr Eames to tell me all he eventually did.

'Probably not. I want to talk to you, though. Aren't you
treating young Andrew? He seemed a charming boy!'

'I'm not sure what's the matter with him. Some sort of
nervous trouble. Something's worrying him terribly.' Dr Eames
also looked worried.

'I spoke to him in the street, and a schoolmistress ticked me
off for it. But that couldn't have had anything to do with his
illness, could it?'

'I'm afraid you reminded him of something.' I felt a prickle
of excitement. Dr Eames was about to reveal some evidence of
great importance.

'What exactly?'

'I think I know. It was something you'd said before, when
you came to the house. It reminded him of his dream.'

At a nearby table Cut Above was yelling orders to his junior.
If Dr Eames hadn't taken such an instant dislike to my oppo-nent
he might never have told me about young Andrew's
dream.

Without doubt, the Jury took strongly to Ursula Chippenham
and I have to say that I also liked her. Standing in the box with
her honey-coloured hair a little untidy, a scarf floating about
her neck, her gentle voice sounding touchingly brave, yet
clearly audible, she was the perfect prosecution witness. She
showed no hatred of Dr Betty; she spoke glowingly of her care
and friendship for the old Judge; and she was only saddened by
what the doctor's principles had led her to do. 'I'm quite sure
that Dr Betty was only doing what she thought was right and
merciful,' she said. Having got this perfect, and unhappily
convincing, answer, even Cut Above had the good sense to
shut up and sit down.

If I'd wanted to lose Dr Betty's case I'd'ye gone in to the
attack on Ursula with my guns blazing. Of course I didn't. I

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started by roaring as gently as any sucking dove, showing the
Jury how much more polite and considerate I could be than
Cut Above at his most gentlemanly.
'Mrs Chippenham, I hope it won't offend you if I call the
deceased Judge, Chippy?'
'Not at all, Mr Rumpole.' Ursula's smile could win all
hearts. 'We both knew and loved him, I know. I'm sure he
would have liked us to call him that.'
'And that's how he was affectionately known at the Bar,'
Portia added to the warmth of the occasion.
'And Chippy was extremely ill?'
'Yes, he was.'
'And, entirely to your credit, you and your husband looked
after him? With medical help?'
'We did our best. Yes.'
'He was unlikely to recover?'
'He wasn't going to recover. I don't think there's a cure for Alzheimer's .'
'Can we come to the time when Dr Betty started to treat
Chippy? Was Nurse Pargetcr coming in then?'
'Yes, she was.'
'And Nurse Pargeter strongly disapproved of Dr Betty's
support for legalizing euthanasia?'
'She warned us about Dr Betty, yes.'
'And you discussed the matter with your husband?'
'Oh, yes. We thought about it very carefully. And then I had
a talk about it with Dr Betty.'
'Did you?' I looked mildly, ever so mildly, surprised. 'Was
your husband present?'
'No, I didn't want it to be too formal. We just chatted over
coffee, and Dr Betty promised me she wouldn't give Chippy ... Well, give him anything to stop keeping him alive, without
discussing it with the family.'
I looked around at the dock where Dr Betty was shaking her
head decisively. So I was put in the embarrassing position of
having to call the witness a liar.
'Mrs Chippenham, I have to remind you that you said
nothing about this conversation with Dr Betty in your original
statement to the police..'

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'Didn't I? I'm afraid I was upset and rather flustered at that
time.' Ursula turned to the Judge, 'I do hope you can
understand?'

'Of course,' Portia understood, 'but can I just ask you this,
Mrs Chippenham? If Dr Ireton had come to you and recom-mended
ending Chippy's life what would you have said?'

'Neither Dick nor I would have agreed to it. Not in any
circumstances. We may not go to church very much, but we do
believe that life is sacred.'

'"We do believe that life is sacred.",' Portia repeated as she
wrote the words down, and we all waited in respectful silence.
'Yes, Mr Rumpole?'

'We've heard that it was Nurse Pargeter who found Chippy
dead.'

'Yes, she called for me and I joined her.'

'And it was Nurse Pargeter who reported the circumstances

of Chippy's death to the police?'
'She insisted on doing so.'
'And you agreed?'

'I think I was too upset to agree or disagree.'

'I see. Now, that morning, when the nurse found Chippy
dead, the whisky bottle was almost empty and the bottle of
sleeping pills empty. You don't know how that came about?'

'I assumed that Dr Betty gave Chippy the overdose and the
whisky.'

'You assumed that because she's a well-known supporter of
euthanasia?'

'Well, yes, I suppose so.' Ursula frowned a little then and
looked puzzled, but as attractive as ever.

'Because she believes in euthanasia, she's the most likely
suspect?'

'Isn't that obvious, Mr Rumpole?' Portia answered the ques-tion
for the witness.

'And because she was the most likely suspect, is that why
you decided to ask her to look after Chippy?' I asked Ursula
the first hostile question with my usual charm.

'I'm not sure I understand what you mean?' Ursula smiled
in a puzzled sort of way at the Jury, and they looked entirely
sympathetic.

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Rumpole and the Angel of Death

'I'm not sure I understand either.' Portia sounded distinctly
unfriendly to Counsel for the Defence.

'I'll come back to it later, if I may. Mrs Chippenham, we've
got a copy of Chippy's will. Nurse Pargeter does quite well out
of it, doesn't she? She gets a substantial legacy.'

'Twenty thousand pounds. She did a great deal for Chippy.'

'And let me ask you this. Your husband's in business as an
estate agent, is he not?'

'Marcellus & Chippenham, yes.'

'It's going through a pretty difficult time, isn't it?'

'I think the housing market is having a lot of difficulty, yes.'
'As we all know, Mr Rumpole.' The Erskine-Browns were
trying to get rid of a house in Islington and move into central
London, so the learned Judge spoke from the heart.

'Let's say that the freehold of the house in Dettingen Road
and the residue of Chippy's estate might solve a good many of
your problems. Isn't that right?'

The Jury looked at me as though I had suggested that
Mother Theresa was only in it for the money and Ursula gave
exactly the right answer. 'We were both extremely grateful for
what Chippy decided to do for us.' Then she spoilt it a little by
adding, 'When he made that will, he understood it perfectly.'

'And I am sure he was conscious of all you and your husband
were doing for him?' Portia was firmly on Ursula's side.

'Thank you, my Lady.' Ursula didn't bob a curtsey, but it
seemed, for a moment, as if she was tempted to do so.

'Mrs Chippenham, you know the way the Lethe organization

recommends helping sufferers out of this wicked world?'

'I'm afraid I don't.'

'Are you sure? Didn't Nurse Pargeter give you a pamphlet
like this when she was trying to persuade you not to engage Dr
Betty?' I handed her the Lethe pamphlet which Bonny Bernard
had got me and it was made Defence Exhibit One. Then I
asked the witness to turn to page three where a recipe for
easeful death was set out. I read it aloud: '"The method
recommended is a large dose of sleeping pills which are readily
obtainable on prescription and a strong alcoholic drink such as
whisky or brandy. When the patient is asleep, a long plastic
bin-liner is placed over the head and pulled over the shoulders.

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Rumpole and the Angel of Death

Being deprived of air, the sleep is gentle, painless and perma-nent.''
Did you read that when Nurse Pargeter gave you the
pamphlet?'

There was a silence and the courtroom seemed to have
become suddenly chilly. Then Ursula answered, more quietly
than before, 'I may have glanced at it.'

'You may have glanced at it. But I suggest that someone in
your house remembered it quite clearly when old Chippy was
helped out of this troubled world.'

Of course there was an immediate hullabaloo. Cut Above
trumpeted that there was no basis at all for that perfectly
outrageous suggestion, and Portia, in more measured tones,
asked me to make it clear what my suggestion was. I said I was
perfectly prepared to do so.

'I suggest someone woke Chippy up, around midnight. He
hadn't remembered taking his pills, of course, so he was given
a liberal overdose, washed down with a large whisky. One of
the long black bin-liners that your dustmen provide so gener-ously
was then made use of.'

Ursula was silent, but Counsel for the Prosecution wasn't. 'I
hope, my Lady, that Mr Rumpole will be calling evidence to
support this extraordinary charge?'

I didn't answer him, but asked the witness, 'Your son
Andrew hasn't been well lately?'

'I'm afraid not.' Ursula recovered her voice, thinking I'd
passed to another subject.

'Mr Rumpole' - Portia was clearly displeased - 'the Court
would also like to know if you are going to call evidence to
support the charge you have made.'

'I'm happy to deal with that, my Lady, when I've asked a
few more questions.' I turned back to the witness. 'Is Dr
Eames treating young Andrew?'

'Yes, Dr Eames has come back to us.'

'Is Andrew's illness of a nervous nature? I mean, has he
become worried about something?'

'I don't know. He's had sick headaches and we've kept him
out of school. Dr Eames isn't sure what the trouble is exactly.'

'Is Andrew worried by something he might have seen the
night Chippy died? Remember, he sleeps with his door open

256

Rumpole and the Angel of l)ecth
a d Choppy s room s mmedately opposite. He saw somethi- that
night which has worried him ever since Perhatas t.-n,g
.

why he collects the plastic bags from the dustbins and ies
them away. Is it because he knows bin Dags can
accidents?'
qaUse
Ursula's voice slid upwards and became shrill as she alked'
'You say he saw... What did he see?'
'He thought it was a dream. But it wasn't a dream, was
'My Lady, are we really being asked to sit here whilr
Rumpole trots out the dreams of a ten-year-old child?' Ct
Above boomed, but I interrupted his cannonade.
Tm not discussing dreams! I'm discussing facts. Anq the
fact is' - I turned to Ursula - 'that you were coming oht
Chippy's room that night, perhaps to take the empty bottle of
pills back to the bathroom. It was then Andrew saw Chip
propped up on the pillows. Shrouded, Mrs Chippenham. Shfy
cated, Mrs Chippenham, with a black plastic bg pulled
over his head.'
n
The Cou was cold now,' and silent. Ursul looked a the
Judge who said nothing, and at the Ju we said nothiq- either.
Her beauty had gone as she became desperate, like
trapped animal. I saw Hilda watching and she appeared triu
phant. I saw Dr Betty lean forward as though concerned or
patient who had taken a turn for the worse. When Uesu.
,
, la
spoke, her voice was hoarse and hopeless. She sid, You r nt
going to bring Andrew here to say that about xhe plastic bag,
are you?'
I hated my job then. Chippy was dying ayway, so Why
should either Dr Betty, or this suffering woman, be curse fr
ever by hs' death? I felt tired and longed to hut up an s.t
down, but if I had to choose between Ursula nd Dr Beky
knew I had to protect my client. So I took in a eep breath '
said, That entirely depends, Mrs Chippea, on whthr
you're going to tell us the truth.'
To her credit she didn't hesitate. She was determine
spare her son, so she turned to Portia and said ouietly, 'I
he su red and he wou,d d PA
thought of doing it, I got Dr Ireton to treat Chippy s she
would be blamed. That's all I have got to say.' Ihen she St3oq,

:S7

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

stunned, like the victim of an accident, as though she didn't yet
understand the consequences of any of the things she'd done or
said.
When I came out of Court, I felt no elation. Cut Above,
almost, for him, pianissimo, had offered no further evidence
after Ursula's admission, and the case was over very quickly.
I had notched a win, but I felt no triumph. I saw the Inspector
in charge of the case talking to Dick and Ursula, and when I
thought of their future, and Andrew's, I hated what I had
done. The merciful tide of forgetfulness which engulfs disastrous
days in Court, sinking them in fresh briefs and newer
troubles, would be slow to come. Then I saw Hilda embrace
Dr Betty and give her one of She Who Must Be Obeyed's
rare kisses. My wife turned to me with a look of approval
which was also rare; it was as though I were some sort of
domestic appliance, a food blender perhaps, or an electric
blanket, she had lent to an old friend and which, for once,
worked satisfactorily. They asked me to join them for coffee
and went away as happy as they must have been when young
Betty Ireton led the school team to another victory. Bonny
Bernard went about his business and I stood alone, outside
the empty Court.
'Rumpole, a word with you, if you please, in a matter of
urgency.'
Soapy Sam Ballard had paused, wigged and gowned, in full
flight to another Court. He looked pale and agitated to such an
extent that I was about to greet him with a quotation I thought
might be appropriate: 'The devil damn thee black, thou cream-fac'd
loon! Where gott'st thou that goose look?' Before I could
speak, however, Soapy Sam started to burble. 'Bad news, I'm
afraid. Very bad news indeed. We shall not be entering into a
contract of service with Vincent Blewitt.'
I managed to restrain my tears. 'But Bollard,' I protested,
'didn't you think he was the very man for the job?'
'I did. Until he came to me with an idea for a Chambers'
party. Did you know anything about this, Rumpole?' The man
was suddenly suspicious.
'He told me he wanted to give Henry some kind of a sendoff.
I thought it was rather generous of him.'

258

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

'But did he tell you exactly what sort of send-off he had in
mind?'
'A Chambers' party, I think he said. I can't remember the
details.'
'He described it as a singles party. At first, I thought he was
suggesting tennis.'
'A natural assumption.'
'And then he asked me to leave my ham sandwich at home I
wondered what on earth the man was talking about. I mean,
it's never been my custom to bring any sort of sandwich to a
Chambers' party. Your wife's friend, Dodo Mackintosh, usually
provides the nibbles.'
'Have you any idea, Ballard' - I looked suitably mystified 'what
he meant?'
'I have now. He was talking about my wife Marguerite.'
'Marguerite, who once held the responsible position of
matron at the Old Bailey?'
'That is exactly whom he meant.'
'Who was known, even to the red judges, as Matey?'
'Marguerite got on very well with the Judiciary. She treated
many of them.'
'Can I believe my ears? Vincent Blewitt called your Marguerite
a ham sandwich?' I was incredulous.
'I can't imagine what she would have to say if she ever got
wind of it.'
'All hell would break loose?'
'Indeed it would!' Ballard nodded sadly and went on, 'He
said we'd all have more fun if I left her at home. And the same
applied to your Hilda.'
'Ballard, I can see why you're concerned.' I sounded most
reasonable. 'It was a serious error of judgement on Blewitt's
part, but if that was the only thing...'
'It was not the only thing, Rumpole.'
'You mean there's worse to come?'
'Considerably worse!' Ballard looked around nervously to
make sure he wasn't overheard. 'He suggested that the party
should start... I don't know how to tell you this, Rumpole.'
'Just take it slowly. I understand that it must be distressing.'
'It is, Rumpole. It certainly is. He thought the party should

259

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

start...' Soapy Sam paused and then the words came tumbling
out. '... By the male Members of Chambers and the girl
guests blowing up balloons inside each other's underclothes.
Rumpole, can you imagine what Marguerite would have said to
that?'

'I thought Marguerite was to be left at home.'

'There is that, of course. But he wanted Mrs Justice
Erskine-Brown to come. What would she have said if Blewitt
had approached her with a balloon?'

'She'd have jailed him for contempt.'
'Quite right too! And then to top it all...'
'He topped that?'

'He said he knew I liked a good story, and wasn't that a great
joke about the sleeveless woman?'

'What on earth was he talking about?' I looked suitably
mystified.

'I have no idea. Do you know any story about a sleeveless
woman?'

'Certainly not!' I replied with absolute truth.

'So then he told me about a legless nun. It was clearly

obscene but I'm afraid, Rumpole, the point escaped me."
'Probably just as well.'

'I'm afraid I shall have to tell Chambers. I'm informing you
first as a senior member. We shall not be employing Vincent
Blewitt or indeed any legal administrator in the foreseeable
future.'

'It will be a disappointment, perhaps. But I'm sure we'll all
understand.'

'Henry may have had his faults, Rumpole. But he calls me
Sir and not Sam. And I don't believe he knows any jokes at
all.'

'Of course not. No, indeed.'

The case of R. v. Ireton had not, so far as I was concerned,
ended happily. Rumpole v. Blewitt, on the other hand, was an
undoubted victory. Win a few, lose a few. That is all you can
say about life at the Bar.

Henry decided, in his considerable relief, that he should have a
Chambers' party to celebrate his not leaving. All the wives

260

Rumpole and the Angel of Death

came. Hilda's old schoolfriend Dodo Mackintosh provided the
cheesey bits and, perhaps because he had a vague idea of what
I had been able to do for him, our clerk laid on a couple of
dozen of the Ch.teau Thames Embankment of which I drank
fairly deep. The day after this jamboree, I was detained in bed
with a ferocious headache and a distinct unsteadiness in the leg
department.
In a brief period of troubled sleep about midday, I heard
voices from the living-room and then the door opened quietly
and the Angel of Death was at my bedside. 'Mr Rumpole,' she
smiled and her glasses twinkled, 'I hear you're not feeling very
well this morning.'
'Really?' I muttered with sudden alarm. 'Whatever gave you
that idea? I'm feeling on top of the world, in absolutely' - and
here I winced at a sudden stabbing pain across the temples 'tiptop
condition.'
'And Hilda tells me the dear old mind's not what it was?' Dr
Betty smiled understandingly. 'The butter knife in the top
pocket, is that what she told me? Dear Mr Rumpole, do
remember I'm here to help you. There's no need for you to
suffer. The way out is always open, and I can steer you gently
and quite painlessly towards it.'
'I'm afraid I must ask you to leave now,' I told the Angel of
Death. 'Got to get up. Late for work already. As I told you, I
never felt better. Full of beans, Dr Betty, and raring to go.'
God knows how I ever managed to climb into the striped
trousers, or button the collar, but when I was decently clad I
hotfooted it for the Temple. There, I sat in my room suffering,
my head in my hands, determined at all costs to keep myself
alive.