Rumpole and the Primrose Path (8 page)

So, after everyone had had a share of the New Bullingham warm welcome, Archie Prosser, the latest arrival at our Chambers, rose and opened his case. The story of the Underground station was told again in detail. Mr Hornby, the company director, entered the witness box and identified his stolen wallet, which was wrapped in cellophane and labelled ‘Prosecution Exhibit A’, being handled carefully as it had been examined for fingerprints. With some reluctance and a great deal of delay, the prosecution had agreed to providing the fingerprint evidence which had given me, when I read it, a good deal of quiet satisfaction. We had started after lunch and by four o‘clock the New Bullingham beamed at us and said, ‘Would it suit the convenience of you two gentlemen if we stop now and we hear the chief prosecution witness in the morning?’ We beamed back and told him that would suit our convenience perfectly.

When I heard that the Bull was going to try the case at the Old Bailey, I thought it was because they wanted someone to crack down, in the most ruthless manner, on the fashionable crime of Underground wallet-pinching and that we were in for a blood-stained
corrida.
Having seen the New Bullingham, I ventured to ask his clerk, whom I saw, by chance, halfway through a pint of Guinness in Pommeroy’s whether the Old Judge was not in fact sickening for something?

‘My Judge is not sickening for anything,’ Bullingham’s clerk was an imperturbable Scot, ‘except the Lord Chancellor.’

‘What’s the Lord Chancellor got to do with it?’

‘There’ve been complaints to the Lord Chancellor about my Judge’s rudeness to witnesses and members of the Bar.’

‘He was quite even-handed in his rudeness,’ I agreed.

‘My Judge,’ the clerk was clearly loyal, ‘was quite fair in that way. But the Lord Chancellor told him he wanted to hear no more of such complaints. Or else.’

‘Or else what?’

‘According to my Judge, the Lord Chancellor simply said “or else”. So my Judge made a New Year’s resolution.’

‘To be polite to everybody?’ I suggested.

‘To be, Mr Rumpole,’ the Scottish clerk drained his glass, ‘absolutely charming to everyone, including yourself.’

 

‘Hello, Rumpole. How can I help you?’

‘I was thinking more in terms of helping you, Chair.’

‘Our Marketing and Administration Director calls me that.’

‘She calls you more than that, Ballard,’ I assured him. ‘And she really longs to call you “darling”.’

‘Rumpole!’ Soapy Sam looked shocked. ‘I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.’

‘I’m talking about the fact that Luci with an “i” finds you devastatingly attractive, and also the fact that there’s no accounting for tastes.’

After meeting the old Bull’s clerk in Pommeroy’s, I had called into Chambers to give some thought to the next day’s cross-examination in
R. v. Timson.
I noticed that Ballard’s light was on. Having a delicate task to perform on behalf of the love-lorn Luci, I told myself that there was no time like the present and pushed open his door. I discovered him seated in front of his computer, manipulating his mouse and looking, as people engaged in this process always seem to do, with puzzled irritation at his screen. I settled myself in his clients’ chair and the proceedings opened as set out above.

‘What do you mean, Rumpole?’

‘I mean that Luci with an “i” loves you, Ballard. She was extremely chuffed to get your e-mail. In fact, it’s no exaggeration to say that she was over the moon about it.’

‘I sent her an e-mail about contract cleaners for Chambers. She’s considering sourcing a new firm for the task.’

I noticed that Ballard had learned to speak in Luci’s language. This might be of some encouragement to her.

‘It doesn’t matter what she was “sourcing”. She was excited by the attachment.’

‘The attachment was a new firm’s estimate.’

‘Oh, come on, Ballard!’ I might, as an old-fashioned legal hack, have added ‘Don’t fence with me!’ ‘You know your message didn’t say that at all.’

‘Of course it did. Anyway, how would you know, Rumpole?’

‘Because she showed it to me.’

‘She showed you the cleaners’ estimate?’

‘Nothing about the cleaners.’

‘Well, what do you say it was then?’

‘It was mainly about custard.’

‘Custard?’
The man seemed, for a moment, totally mystified. ‘Why on earth should I be e-mailing our Marketing and Administration Director on the subject of custard?’

‘Suppose you tell me.’

‘I have absolutely no idea.’

‘Could it be because you want to pour the stuff over her naked body?’

At which our Head of Chambers gave an earth-shaking groan, sank his face into his hands, called several times on his God and began, with every sign of panic, to activate his mouse in an agitated fashion while exclaiming, ‘What an idiot I am! That’s what I did! That’s exactly what I did! What an idiot!’

I didn’t quarrel with the description, but had to ask the question, ‘What did you do, exactly?’

‘It was a note for my case. Part of the letter the stalker was going to send to Jenny. I was preparing my cross-examination. I must have pressed the wrong button! What an idiot!’

‘You mean you were going to cross-examine your stalker about the new office cleaners? That might have taken him by surprise.’

‘Worse than that. I’ve made that terrible suggestion to Luci Gribble.’

‘Don’t worry.’ Rumpole the conciliator moved in to settle the case. ‘I don’t think she found it so terrible. Curious. Perhaps unusual. She felt that it showed, at least, that you cared.’

‘Cared?’

‘I mean, that you were interested.’

‘Of course I’m interested in Luci Gribble. She’s a first-class business woman.’

‘I think she wants you to see her as rather more than that.’

‘I’ll ring her immediately and tell her I made a horrible mistake.’

‘Take my advice, Ballard. Don’t do that. Whatever you do, don’t tell her that it was all a horrible mistake.’

‘Good heavens, Rumpole, why ever not?’

‘Because she loves you, Ballard. She has tender feelings for you. She believes now that you have tender feelings for her.’

‘Does pouring custard show tender feelings?’

‘In certain circumstances it may. Yes. So what effect is it going to have on her if you tell her that your amorous message was just a horrible mistake?’

‘What effect are you suggesting, Rumpole?’

‘Devastation. Bitterness. Gloom. She’ll forget her flip charts and muddle up her target figures and Administration and Marketing will fall into complete chaos.’

‘So what shall I do?’

I was, I have to confess, touched. Ballard the Head of Chambers had become Ballard the client, anxious, indeed terrified, begging his brief to find a solution to an impossible case.

‘Tell her you love her. And you couldn’t resist telling her what you’d like to do with or without custard. But tell her that you’re married to Matey and any hint of scandal would seriously damage the Chambers image. So you’ll both just have to be extraordinarily brave about it. That way you won’t come out as an idiot who can’t manage his e-mail and she’ll still feel loved.’

‘Rumpole,’ Soapy Sam still seemed sunk in gloom, ‘I can’t possibly tell her that.’

‘Can’t you? Why ever not?’

‘Because it’s not true.’

‘Perhaps not, but at least it’s kind.’

‘All the same, I can’t see myself saying it. I’d get it all wrong. It wouldn’t be convincing.’

‘What you need,’ I had to tell him, ‘is a decent barrister to represent you.’

‘Oh, Rumpole.’ The Head of Chambers’ face lit up with gratitude. ‘Would you really take it on?’

 

The next morning the bullring was, once again, bathed in sunshine. The Judge beamed on all of us, but kept his warmest smiles for Marcia Endersley in the witness box. She stood there, her white lock adding, it seemed, a sort of elegance and distinction to the proceedings, and described her voluntary work for Urchins Anonymous and her practice of taking groups of deprived, perhaps homeless children to museums and cinemas, ‘to get them out of themselves and so they could forget their troubles’.

‘And you did all this wonderful work,’ the Bull marvelled, ‘for no sort of financial reward?’

‘My reward was seeing the children look happy, and interested, of course. It was a significant reward to see how a boy from a depressed and violent home could respond to the Elgin Marbles, my Lord.’

‘Then may I say, Madam, this country needs a great many more women of your stamp. Too many people nowadays,’ and here he looked, still smiling, at the assembled lawyers, ‘think about nothing but their fees, and matters of that sort.’

The wonderful Marcia Endersley went through the sad story of the scene in the lift. Yes, she recognized the young man in the dock. She had seen him standing very close to Mr Hornby and, after a quick movement, stow a wallet away in his backpack. No, she had no doubts about all this. The besotted Bull hung on her every word, made copious notes of all she said and, when she had finished in chief, congratulated her warmly.

‘We’re all grateful to you, Madam, for the clear way you have given your evidence. If only we had more witnesses like you. Now I expect Mr Rumpole has a few questions for you. I’m sure he won’t detain you for long. And then you can get back to the wonderful work you’re doing for those unfortunate children.’

‘Oh, I know Mr Rumpole.’ Marcia was smiling at me. ‘We met at a UA dinner. Mr Rumpole told some jokes.’

‘Then he’s indeed a fortunate man to have met you and I hope, on this occasion, he’ll spare us the jokes. Yes, Mr Rumpole.’

‘What sort of entertainments did you take the children to?’ I asked my first question with a certain amount of cold detachment, determined to break up the love-in between the Judge and the witness.

‘They enjoyed the Science Museum. And the London Eye, of course. I’d take parties to the cinema, if the film was suitable.’

‘And what sort of films did you consider suitable? Thrillers? Crime stories?’

‘I wouldn’t take them to see films about crime.’

‘I’m sure you took them to excellent films,’ the old Bull cooed.
‘The Sound of Music—
I remember that was a particularly charming one.’

‘Of course,’ Marcia Endersley rewarded the Judge with a sympathetic smile, ‘there aren’t too many films like that about nowadays.’

‘Pity you didn’t take them to something more exciting,’ I suggested. ‘Children like a bit of crime, don’t they?’

‘Mr Rumpole!’ There was a distinct trace of the old roaring Bull in the way the Judge now uttered my name. Was the New Year’s resolution being put under some strain? ‘It may be your time is spent dealing with the more sordid side of life ... but this good lady’ (another beaming smile at her) ‘was trying to show the children a better world.’

‘Oh, I don’t think you should knock crime, my Lord. After all, we both make our living out of it.’

There was a little stir of laughter from the Jury, which caused the Bull to lower his head and charge. The New Year was clearly a thing of the past, and his promises to the Lord Chancellor forgotten.

‘That was an outrageous remark, Mr Rumpole!’ he exploded. ‘Quite outrageous!’

‘I’m sorry. I was under the impression we were both being paid to take part in a criminal trial. With your Lordship’s permission, I’d like to continue my cross-examination.’ And without further apology, I turned to the witness. ‘Mrs Endersley, did you take different children out on each occasion, or was it the same group?’

‘It changed, of course. But there were some children I got to know really well.’

‘I’m sure there were. And, on the whole, did you find them easy to control? I mean, they did what you told them?’

‘I’m sure they found it very easy to obey
you,
Madam.’ The Judge looked as though he’d be delighted to do exactly what Marcia Endersley told him.

‘If we could come to the facts of this case.’ I was determined to put an end to this cross-Court flirtation. ‘When you say you saw my client take the wallet, were you wearing gloves?’

‘Mr Rumpole! What on earth’s the relevance of that question? Are you deliberately trying to waste the Court’s time?’ The Bull charged in again, all resolutions cast aside.

‘If your Lordship would allow the witness to answer, you might discover.’

‘Yes, of course I wore gloves.’ Marcia Endersley looked down on us from the height of the witness box and seemed determined to put an end to our bickering. ‘I always wear gloves on the Tube. It’s so terribly dirty.’

‘Of course it is,’ the Bull hurried to agree. ‘Look at the witness, Mr Rumpole. Is she not perfectly turned out? Does not her appearance speak of her fastidious nature? Why should she not wear gloves?’

‘Oh, I’ve no doubt they were very useful, weren’t they?’ I did my best to ignore the Bull and speak to the witness as though there were no Judge to support her. ‘For your particular journeys on the Underground. I take it that Trevor Timson, the young man in the dock, was not wearing gloves on this occasion?’

‘I hardly think so. I expect the only sort of gloves your client wears are boxing gloves, Mr Rumpole.’

Members of the Jury laughed obediently at the Judge’s apology for a joke. I could afford to be patient. I was holding the fingerprint report which I told the Judge had been agreed by Archie Prosser for the prosecution.

‘I can’t see what fingerprints have got to do with this case,’ the Bull rumbled, and I told him that if he listened very carefully he might find out. It was a relief, I somehow felt, to be back to the old days of the
corrida,
when the Bull had to be handled with courage by an experienced matador. Dealing with a charming Bull had been an unsettling and alarming experience.

‘Would it interest you to know that there are none of Trevor Timson’s fingerprints on the wallet,’ I asked Marcia. ‘And yet you say you saw him take it from Mr Hornby’s jacket?’