Rumpole and the Angel of Death (19 page)

‘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 cells and have a further conversation with the non-talkative Michael

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 toiletries 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 Newcombe, 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 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 trumpeted 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 suddenly 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 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?'

‘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 Newcombe, 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.'

‘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?'

‘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 Lordship, 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 irrelevant. 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

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.