"Mortimer, John - Rumpole and the Nanny Society" - читать интересную книгу автора (Mortimer John)

John Mortimer - Rumpole and the Nanny Society

"Rumpole! Put on that nice scarf I gave you for Christmas. There's a nasty wind about and we don't want you laid up. Or sneezing all over the place! Oh, and Rumpole! I hope you gargled this morning. You won't be much good in court with a sore throat, will you?" She Who Must Be Obeyed was in her most nanny-like mode, but I was halfway out the front door, so I called back, "Yes, I gargled, and I've got wellie boots on in case it rains, so thanks, Nurse." And I was down the stairs and off to work before she could remind me to trap the germs in my hanky and chew my food at least twenty times before swallowing.

It was the same on the Tube. Government Health Warnings! "Don't smoke." "Don't drink!" "Observe personal hygiene, wash fore and aft at least once a day." "Too many calories lead to heart disease!" When I arrived at Temple Station, I called in at the Tastee-Bite for a healthy breakfast (two eggs on a fried slice, bacon and sausage, with coffee and a couple of pieces of well-buttered toast), lit a small cigar, coughed happily, and struggled down to the Old Bailey to defend one of the Timson family of South London villains, who didn't remember that warehouse breaking is a serious danger to health, before a judge who took snuff and quite failed, during the ensuing sneeze, to trap his germs in his red and white spotted handkerchief. I was spending the day as far away as possible from the Nanny Society.

And speaking of the Nanny Society reminds me of a small mystery I was able to penetrate by the use of a logical mind and that common sense which is far more important in the life of an Old Bailey hack than any knowledge of the law (I have always found that knowing the law rather tends to cramp my style).

It started one summer. My wife, Hilda (known to me only as She Who Must Be Obeyed), was away on a visit to her friend Dodo Macintosh in Cornwall, a treat I had managed to avoid by pleading pressure of work. In fact, work wasn't very pressing that summer, even the Timsons seemed to have stopped burgling and gone off to the Costa del Crime. I was looking after myself in the Gloucester Road and spending the evenings in the old Crouchback Arms, which is handy for Froxbury Mansions. I was in there one evening when I found myself at a table near three youngish, good-looking girls, a blonde with a Swedish accent, a dark-haired girl with an Irish brogue, and a redheaded English girl. They were drinking respectively a pint of beer, a Guinness, and a repellant mixture of Avocat and lemonade which I learnt from Dot Clopton, our beautiful typist, is called a "Snowball". I thought at first they were discussing their lovers or even husbands.

"You should try living with Justin," said the English girl (pint of beer). "The bugger's got such a filthy temper! Throws his breakfast at you and then sulks."

"My Neville's quite good-looking," the Irish voice (Guinness) complained. "But he's thicker than two planks. Can't do up his shoelaces, let alone zip up his flies."

"I'm thinking of leaving my Max," the Swede (with the Snowball) said. "He swears horribly and collects pictures of Madonna. And he's always sick at parties."

Thinking how unhappy their love lives must be, I shot a smile in their direction. The English girl looked through me, so I turned my attention to my bangers and mash, tepid from the microwave. I listened hard to their subsequent conversation, but they made no mention of me. I did discover, however, that they were called Petronela, Siobhan, and Kirsti, that they were all three nannies, and what they had been discussing were not the character defects of their lovers, but their charges. Soon the conversation turned to the failings of their employers, from whose loins Max, Justin, and Neville had sprung.

"Mrs. Gregthorpe stays in bed drinking all morning. She gets up at lunchtime and complains she's feeling exhausted. I'm really sorry for poor Mr. Gregthorpe. He looks so sad sometimes." Kirsti was smiling quite cheerfully as she told them this.

"Mrs. Reel's carrying on with a Turkish estate agent." Siobhan said. "And whenever Mr. Reel sees me, he sings `When Irish Eyes are Shining' in a fake Dublin accent."

"The Spokes have a fluffy cover on their loo seat." Petronella spoke with disgust. "And Judge Spoke told me they have specially friendly parties once a month, so they send Justin to stay with his granny, and he'd like me to join in."

"A judge said that?" Siobhan was surprised. I wasn't.

"I think he's a rather common sort of judge," Petronella told them.

A few nights later they were in the Crouchback again, spreading even more malicious gossip. Kirsti said she had come home from shopping and was honestly surprised and delighted to see Petronela coming out of the Gregthorpes' home in Launceston Place. It seemed that Justin and Max went to the same nursery school, and Petronella had forgotten the date of Max's birthday party. "And Mr. Gregthorpe remembered it?" Kirsti was laughing at such improbability.

"He did. I was amazed. He seemed to have a terrible cold. I thought he was rather sad."

"And Mrs. Gregthrope was drunk in bed upstairs. Poor Mr. Gregthorpe is very sad, but not attractive."

"Oh no," Petronela agreed. "Not at all attractive."

Later, on my way to the Gents, I passed Petronella telephoning in the draughty passage. I overheard her saying something which I had good cause to remember in the months to come.

A week later, Petronella and Siobhan were having a drink together, but there was no sign of Kirsti. I listened hard and soon learned the reason. Mrs. Gregthorpe had missed a valuable emerald and diamond ring. For some reason she had suspected Kirsti and searched her room. It was not long before she found the precious jewellery hidden away among the Swedish girl's sweaters. Mrs. Gregthorpe had telephoned the police and her nanny was now under arrest and charged with theft. Before I left the pub that night, I wrote the name and number of Mr. Bernard, the Timsons' family solicitor, on a piece of paper and handed it to Siobhan, telling her the best legal team in the country was at the disposal of their friend. She smiled and thanked me, promising to hand over the glad tidings to the unfortunate Swede. "Tell her not to have a moment's fear," I told them. "Rumpole of the Bailey is galloping to the rescue."

It never looked an easy case and didn't start well when it came on before Judge Bullingham, the Mad Bull, in Number 4 Court at the Old Bailey. Kirsti had told the police she hadn't taken the ring, had no idea how it got among her sweaters. The prosecution opening suggested that there could only be one explanation. Mrs. Gregthorpe gave evidence. A diamond in the ring needed resetting and she had given it to her husband about four days previously, in its box, to take to the jeweller's. As was his habit, he had forgotten to do this and the box stayed in his study. (Gregthorpe was a bestselling writer of sex and spy stories), until the day after Max's birthday party, which was the twenty-second of June. Then she had asked about the ring and was told it was still in the study.

She opened the box, she said, "to make sure it was still there," and found to her horror "that the box was empty". They started to search the house and, Kristi being out fetching Max from nursery school, they went through her clothes and found the ring.

James Gregthorpe was called next. He agreed that his wife gave him the ring to take to the jeweller's on the nineteenth of June. So far as he knew, no one had taken it from his study, but when he and his wife looked in the box on the twenty-third it was gone. He was a tall, fairly handsome man with soft, spaniel's eyes and a certain weakness about the mouth. He seemed nervous while looking, I thought with genuine concern, at the girl in the dock. When he did, she smiled back bravely, and a hint of defence began to form in my mind. Gregthorpe and Kirsti, I thought, had more in common than the care of little Max. They were people who had been, or perhaps still were, in love.

"Mr. Gregthorpe," I asked, when I rose to cross-examine, "were you in love with your son Max's nanny?"

"Mr. Rumpole!" The Mad Bull, scarlet in the face, lowered his head and charged into the arena. "How can this be relevant?"