Rumpole Misbehaves

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

The life of an Old Bailey hack has more ups and downs in it than the roller-coaster on the end of Brighton Pier. At one moment you may be starring in a sensational murder in Court Number One at the Ludgate Circus Palais de Justice, and the next you're down the Snaresbrook Magistrates' on a trivial matter of purloining a postal order or the receiving of stolen fish.

I was smoking a small cigar in my room in Chambers, contemplating the uncertainties of the legal life, and comforting myself with the thought that when you're on a down the up can't be far away, when there entered Soapy Sam Ballard, QC (the letters in my book stood for Queer Customer), our so-called Head of Chambers in Equity Court.

‘You weren't at the Chambers meeting, Rumpole?' Soapy Sam uttered the words in the solemn tones of a judge in a case of multiple rape preparing to pass sentence.

‘No,' I told him. ‘I stayed away. When it comes to vital matters such as the amount of the coffee money or the regrettable condition in which some of our members leave the downstairs loo, I know I can trust you to deal with them with your usual panache.'

These words were kindly meant, but Soapy Sam continued to look displeased, even censorious. ‘You missed a very important occasion, Rumpole. We were discussing the most serious problem that faces us all today.'

‘You mean the fall in the crime rate, which has left me particularly short of briefs, or the elevation of the Mad Bull, now Mr Injustice Bullingham, to the High Court Bench?'

‘Nothing like that, Rumpole. Something far more serious.'

‘What could be more serious?'

‘Global warming.' Soapy Sam uttered the words with almost religious solemnity.

‘Really? On my way to Chambers this morning I noticed a distinct nip in the air.' It was a damp and windy March.

‘The North Pole is melting, Rumpole. The seas are rising all over the world. The Thames will probably overflow the Embankment and there is a real possibility of the ground-floor rooms in our chambers being submerged. And you occupy a downstairs room, Rumpole.' He added the final sentence with, I thought, a sort of morbid glee.

‘What am I expected to do about it?' I felt I had to ask. ‘Stand in the Temple car park and order the tide to turn back? My name's not Canute, you know.'

‘We know exactly what your name is, Rumpole.' Sam Ballard was giving me one of his least pleasant looks. ‘And we have identified you as a source of pollution.'

‘Well,' I said, adopting the reply sarcastic, ‘that's nice of you.'

‘You pollute the atmosphere, Rumpole, with those dreadful little brown things you smoke.'

‘Cigarillos,' I told him. ‘Available from the tobacconist just outside the Temple gate. Can I offer you one?'

‘No, Rumpole, you certainly cannot. And I would ask you to consider your position with regard to the environment very carefully. That is all I have to say. For the moment.'

With that, our Head of Chambers gave a final sniff to the atmosphere surrounding me and then withdrew, closing the door carefully behind him. In a moment of exaggerated concern, I wondered if he was chalking a fatal cross on the other side of my door to warn visitors and prospective clients of the source of plague and pollution to be found within.

Dismissing such thoughts, I lit another small cigar and wondered if, as I struck the match, I could hear the distant sound of an iceberg melting, or at least the Thames lapping at the door. All was quiet, however. But then the telephone rang with news that put the environment firmly back into second place among my immediate concerns.

‘There you are, Bonny Bernard, and it's good to hear from you,' I said, giving my favourite and most faithful solicitor a polite welcome. ‘What are you bringing me? A sensational murder?'

‘I'm afraid not, Mr Rumpole. Not this week.'

‘An armed robbery at the Bank of New South Wales?'

‘Not that either.'

‘Don't tell me.' I'm afraid my voice betrayed my disappointment. ‘Not another gross indecency in a picture palace?' Wartime epics were, I had found, the most likely to produce such regrettable behaviour in the auditorium.

‘No, Mr Rumpole. None of those, I'm afraid. It's just that one of the Timson family wishes to retain your services.'

This was encouraging. The Timsons, an extended south London family whose members were seldom out of trouble, could usually be relied upon to keep She Who Must Be Obeyed in such luxuries as Vim, Mansion Polish, saucepan scourers, potatoes and joints of beef, as well as ensuring that I was provided with the necessities of life, such as the odd case of Château Thames Embankment from Pommeroy's Wine Bar.

‘Which Timson are we talking about exactly?'

‘Bertie, he says his name is.'

‘Bertie Timson? I am trying to remember. Was it a case of carrying house-breaking, or even bank-breaking, implements? Did I get him off?'

‘You did,' Bernard assured me. ‘And he remembers you with gratitude. That's why he wants you to look after his boy, Peter.'

‘Has Peter murdered someone?'

‘Hardly. He's only twelve years old. Bertie remarried a bit late in life.'

‘Well, for God's sake, what was young Peter's crime?'

‘Football.'

‘Is football a crime nowadays?' In a way I was glad to think so, remembering miserable days on a wet playing field at school, half-heartedly pressuring a soggy ball through mud. ‘It is if you play it in the wrong sort of street. Peter's been served with an ASBO. He's due to come up before the magistrates. Bertie Timson's afraid his boy might go inside if he reoffends. That's why he wants to retain your services.'

‘Is there any ready money in this retainer?'

‘We can't expect that, not for defending a twelve-year-old.'

‘I thought as much.'

‘But you will consider yourself retained?'

‘I suppose so.'

It had come to that. The advocate whose sensational career started when he won the Penge Bungalow Murders, alone and without a leader, was reduced to a retainer in the case of an anti-social behaviour order on a child. Of course, I never guessed at that time what strange results young Peter's illicit football would lead to. If I had, I would have accepted his father's retainer with more enthusiasm.