"Mortimer, John - Rumpole A La Carte" - читать интересную книгу автора (Mortimer John)

'I'm afraid so.' 'You must have eaten on the insane root,' I told the chap, 'That takes the reason prisoner.' 'Well, this is the point, Rumpole.' Claude suddenly became voluble in his own defence. 'I knew Phillida wouldn't have taken well to the idea of Lizzie and me drinking champagne in the crush bar. Although absolutely nothing happened. I mean, Liz bolted off down the underground almost as soon as the curtain fell. She even left me with her programme, which is why I had two. But on our way from Chambers earlier, we'd met Uncle Tom and he said it was his birthday, so he was off to buy himself a chop at Simpson's in the Strand, and Lizzie said what a pity we didn't have a spare ticket, so we could take him to the Opera as a treat. Of course we hadn't. But when Phillida asked me for an explanation... Well, Uncle Tom sprang to mind.' I, 'Erskine-Brown', sometimes I despaired of the man ever , becoming a proper, grown-up barrister, 'have you learnt nothing from your long years at the Criminal Bar? If you're going to invent a defence at least make it credible.' 94'The point is', he looked desperate, 'I'm terrified Philly's go ing to ask him.' 'Ask who?' 'Uncle Tom!' 'To another opera?' I was, frankly, puzzled.

'No, of course not. Ask him if he went with me. And if she does that...' ;.

'You'll be in the soup. Up to the ears.' The situation was now crystal clear to me.

'Exactly. Unless he says he did.' 'You're not going to ask Uncle Tom to commit perjury?' 'I've got no influence over Uncle Tom,' Claude admitted, 'but you have, Rumpole. You've known the old boy forever.

You can put it to him, as a matter of life and death. He's got to help a fellow member of the Bar.' 'No, Erskine-Brown.' I was shocked by the suggestion.

'Absolutely and definitely no! I will not enter into conspiracy with an elderly and briefless barrister to pervert the course of justice.' 'Is that your last word on the subject?' Claude was deeply disappointed.

'Absolutely my last word,' I assured him.

'You expect me to plead guilty?' He seemed to have reached the end of the road.

'Throw yourself on the mercy of the Court,' I advised him in as friendly a manner as possible.

'Rumpole, I know you call her Portia, but my wife's forgotten all about the Quality of Mercy. I came to you for advice.' 'You came too late. The moment was when she asked you about those two programmes.' 'What should I have done?' 'Claimed the right not to answer any questions,' I told him.

'Everyone else is doing it!' At last the day arrived, awaited with a certain amount of grim foreboding, when Mr and Mrs Soapy Sam Ballard, on pleasure "ent, arrived to dine with the Rumpoles in the Gloucester Road. Marguerite Ballard, the former Old Bailey matron, is a 95 substantial woman who seems to move with a crackle of starch and a rattle of cuffs, and it's still hard to picture her without a watch pinned to her ample bosom. Her hair, done up in what I believe is known as a 'beehive' coiffure, looks as though it were made of something brittle, like candy-floss. So far as weight and stamina are concerned, she is one of the few ladies who might be expected to go ten rounds with She Who Must Be Obeyed. 'The wonderful thing about marriage, Hilda,' the exMatey said as we reached the pudding without any major disaster, 'I'm sure you'd agree, is telling each other everything. I bet when old Horace climbs into bed with you at night...' 'You don't care for baked jam roll, Mrs Ballard?' Hilda discouraged further inquiry into the secrets of the Rumpole marriage bed. 'Baked jam roll is on my naughty list, I'm afraid.' Matron pouted with disappointment. 'We've all got to watch our tummies, haven't we?' 'Marguerite is very keen on keeping fit,' Ballard explained.

'And I'm with her one hundred per cent. I've lost a good deal of weight, you know. You should see my trousers. They hang quite loose. Look!' At which point, he stood up and jerked his waistband in a distasteful demonstration.

'I was saying to Hilda, Sam,' Mrs Ballard banged on regardless, 'I bet when Horace climbs into bed with her, he tells her all the events of the day. And about all the little cases he gets as a junior barrister.' 'The little murders in provincial universities,' I agreed.

'I expect you'll be taking in a leader on the Gunster murder, won't you, Horace?' Ballard sounded hopeful.

'I expect not. The client seems to think I'm the world's greatest expert on the right to silence.' I looked at Soapy Sam.

'You're keen on that, aren't you? Silence?' 'When I was on duty down at the Old Bailey, ' Marguerite was off again, 'everyone used to confide in me. All the way from the Recorder of London to the lads down in the cells. I think they found me wonderfully easy to talk to. "Matey," the old Recorder said more times than I care to remember, "you're the only person I feel I can really take into my confidence on the subject of my feet." Everyone seems to be able to confide 96in me except my husband.' And she repeated, at increased volume to Ballard, the refrain, 'I said everyone seems able to confide in me except you, Sam.' 'So good of you to have us to dinner, Hilda.' Ballard was clearly anxious to change the subject. 'It's really a fun evening.

We'll have to fix up a time to return your hospitality.' 'Oh, please, don't put yourself out,' I begged him, but my voice was drowned in Marguerite's continued harangue.

'Sam's a new boy, of course. But we're old hands at marriage, aren't we, Hilda? When I was married to poor Henry Plumstead, who passed away, we told each other every little thing.

We just knew all there was to know about each other. I'm sure old Horace would agree with that.' 'Old Horace isn't so sure.' And I gave them an example of the blessings of silence. 'You remember George Frobisher?

Hopeless at cross-examination so they made him a circus judge. Before your time. Bollard. Anyway he wanted to marry this Mrs Tempest. Frightfully struck with her, George was. I happened to recognize her as an old client with a tendency to bum down hotels for the sake of the insurance money.'* 'The women he's known! Old Horace has been around, hasn't he?' Marguerite joked and was rewarded with a freezing look from Hilda.

'I took it on myself to let old George know about Mrs Tempest's past,' I told them. 'He never forgave me. I don't think I've ever forgiven myself. They'd probably have been quite happily married, provided he didn't leave the matches lying around. When it comes to a nearest and dearest, a profound ignorance is usually best.' I could tell by the way Hilda stood up and cleared away the plates that she wasn't best pleased by my conclusion. She then retired into the kitchen to wash up and Matey insisted on coming with her to dry. I was left with our Head of Chambers who, no doubt still hoping for a brief, re-opened the subject of Gunster. 'Funnily enough, I had an old uncle who lived there.' i' See 'Rumpole and the Man of God' in The Trials of Rumpole, enguin Books, 1979.

97 I didn't find the fact especially amusing, but he went on, 'Used to be an estate agent, but he had to give it up. He said you couldn't get anywhere in Gunster unless you were an Ostler. They practically run the show.' 'A what?' 'Ancient Order of Ostlers. Rather like the Freemasons, only more so. My uncle didn't hold with it, so they squeezed him out.' 'Did he say what they did, these Ostlers, or whatever they called themselves?' I felt a faint stirring of interest. 'Oh, all sorts of secret ceremonies, I believe,' Ballard told me.

'Mumbo-jumbo, Uncle Marcus said. And they had a peculiar handshake.' 'Like that?' I asked. I remembered something and extended my hand with two fingers stretched out and the others bent back.

'Yes, I rather think it was. Look, wouldn't you like my assistance as a leader in that case?' 'No, thanks,' I hastened to assure him. 'You've been a great help to me already. Ah, Hilda. Is that the coffee?' She Who Must Be Obeyed had come back with Marguerite and a tray. Her face was set grimly, with the look of a jury returning with a guilty verdict, as she ignored me totally and merely asked Marguerite if she took sugar.

'I'm going up to Gunster tomorrow,' I told my wife, and, when she still ignored me, I repeated the news. 'Gunster, dear.