"Mortimer, John - Rumpole and the Younger Generation" - читать интересную книгу автора (Mortimer John)

' Crabtree actually invited a couple of girls from the village,' Nick continued his confession. 'But Bagnold never got to hear of that.' Bagnold was Nick's headmaster, the school equivalent of 'Persil' White. I cheered up a little at the last piece of information.

'Then there's no evidence of girls. As far as your case goes there's no reason to suppose the girls ever existed. As for the other charges, which are serious...' 'Yes, yes, I suppose they are rather."

' I imagine you were walking past the house on Sunday evening and, attracted by the noise... You went to investigate?' ' Dad. Bagnold came in and found us, playing poker.' Nick wasn't exactly being helpful. I tried another line.

' I know," My Lord. My client was only playing poker in order not to look too pious whilst he lectured his fellow sixth formers on the evils of gambling and Cherry Brandy ".' 'Dad. Be serious.' ' I am serious. Don't you want me to defend you?' 'No. Bagnold's not going to tell the police or anything like that.' I was amazed.' He isn't? What's he going to do?' 'Well... I'll miss next term's exeat. Do extra work. I thought I should tell you before you got a letter.' 'Thank you, Nick. Thank you. I'm glad you told me. So there's no question of... the police?' 'The police?' Nick was laughing. 'Of course not. Bagnold doesn't want any trouble. After all, we're still at school.' I watched Nick as he finished his fish and chips, and then turned my thoughts to Jim Timson, who had also been at school; but with no kindly Bagnold to protect him.

Back in Court I was cross-examining that notable grass, Peanuts Molloy, a skinnier, more furtive edition of Jim Timson. The cross-examination was being greatly enjoyed by the Timsons and Nick, but not much by Featherstone or Chief Detective Inspector 'PersiT White who sat at the table in front of me. I also thought that Mr Justice 'Florrie' Everglade was thinking that he would have been happier snoozing in the Athenaeum, or working on his grosse-point in Egerton Terrace, than listening to me bowling fast in-swingers at the juvenile chief witness for the prosecution.

'You don't speak. The Molloys and the Timsons are like the Montagues and the Capulets,' I put it to Peanuts.

'What did you say they were?' The judge had, of course, given me my opportunity. I smacked him through the slips for a crafty single.' Not ejusdem generis, my Lord,' I said. Nick joined in the laughter and even the ranks of Featherstone had to stifle a smile. The usher called' Silence'. We were back to the business in hand.

' Tell me, Peanuts... How would you describe yourself?' 'Is that a proper question?' Featherstone uncoiled himself gracefully. I ignored the interruption.

'I mean artistically. Are you a latter-day Impressionist? Do all your oils in little dots, do you? Abstract painter? White squares on a white background? Do you indulge in watches melting in the desert like dear old Salvador Dali?' 'I don't know what you're talking about.' Peanuts played a blocking shot and Featherstone tried a weary smile to the judge.

' My Lord, neither, I must confess, do I.' 'Sit quietly, Featherstone. I muttered to him. 'All will be revealed to you.' I turned my attention back to Peanuts. 'Are you a dedicated artist? The Rembrandt of the Remand Centre ?' 'I hadn't done no art before.' Peanuts confirmed my suspicions.

' So we are to understand that this occasion, when Jim poured out his heart to you, was the first painting lesson you'd ever been to?' Peanuts admitted it.

' You'd been at the Remand Centre how long?' 'Couple of months. I was done for a bit of an affray.' 'I didn't ask you that. And I'm sure the reason you were on remand was entirely creditable. What I want to know is, what inspired you with this sudden fascination for the arts?' ' Well, the chief screw. He suggested it.' Now we were beginning to get to the truth of the matter. Like his old grandfather in the Streatham Co-op days, Jim had been banged up with a notable grass.

'You were suddenly told to join the painting class, weren't you... and put yourself next to Jim?' ' Something like that, yeah.' 'What did he say?' Florrie frowned. It was all very strange to him and yet he was starting to get the hint of something that wasn't quite cricket.

'Something like that, my Lord,' I repeated slowly, giving the judge a chance to make a note. 'And you were sent there, not in the pursuit of art, Peanuts, but in the pursuit of evidence! You knew that and you supplied your masters with just what they wanted to hear, even though Jim Timson didn't say a word to you!' Everyone in Court, including Nick, looked impressed. D.I. White bit hard on a polo mint and Featherstone oozed to his feet in a rescue bid.

'That's great, Dad!' 'Thanks, Nick. Sorry it's not a murder.' ' I don't know quite what my learned friend is saying. Is he suggesting that the police ...' 'Oh, it's an old trick,' I said, staring hard at the Chief Inspector.' Bang the suspect up with a notable grass when you're really pushed for evidence. They do it with grown-ups often enough. Now they're trying it with children!' ' Mr Rumpole,' the judge sighed,' you are speaking a language which is totally foreign to me.' 'Let me try and make myself clear, my Lord. I was suggesting that Peanuts was put there as a deliberate trap.' By now, even the judge had the point. 'You are suggesting that Mr Molloy was not a genuine "amateur painter"?' 'No, my Lord. Merely an amateur witness.' 'Yes.' I actually got a faint smile. 'I see. Please go on, Mr Rumpole.' Another day or so of this, I felt, and I'd get invited to tea at the Athenaeum.

'What did you say first to Jim? As you drew your easel alongside?' 'Don't remember.' 'Don't you?' 'I think we was speaking about the Stones.' 'What "stones" are these?' The judge's ignorance of the life around him seemed to be causing him some sort of wild panic. Remember this was 1965, and I was in a similar state of confusion until Nick, whispering from behind me, gave me the clue.

'The Rolling Stones, my Lord.' The information meant nothing to him.

' I'm afraid a great deal of this case seems to be taking place in a foreign tongue, Mr Rumpole.' 'Jazz musicians, as I understand it, my Lord, of some notoriety.' By courtesy of Nick, I filled his Lordship in on 'the scene'.

'Well, the notoriety hasn't reached me!' said the judge, providing the obedient Featherstone with the laugh of the year, if not the century. When the learned prosecuting counsel had recovered his solemnity. Peanuts went rambling on.

'We was talking about the Stones concert at the Hammersmith Odeon. We'd both been to it, like. And, well... we talked about that. And then he said... Jim said... Well, he said as how he and the other blokes had done the butchers.' The conversation had now taken a nasty turn. I saw that the judge was writing industriously. 'Jim said ... that he and the other blokes ... had done the butchers.' Florrie was plying his pencil. Then he looked up at me,' Well, Mr Rumpole, is that a convenient moment to adjourn?' It was a very convenient moment for the prosecution, as the evidence against us would be the last thing the jury heard before sloping off to their homes and loved ones. It was also a convenient moment for Peanuts. He would have his second wind by the morning. So there was nothing for it but to take Nick for a cup of tea and a pile of crumpets in the ABC, and so home to She Who Must Be Obeyed.

So picture us three that evening, finishing dinner and a bottle of claret, celebrating the return of the Young Master at Hack Hall, Counsel's Castle, Rumpole Manor, or 256 Froxbury Court, Gloucester Road. Hilda had told Nick that his grandpa had sent his love and expected a letter, and also dropped me the encouraging news that old C.H. Wystan was retiring and quite appreciated that I was the senior man. Nick asked me if I was really going to be Head of Chambers, seeming to look at me with a new respect, and we drank a glass of claret to the future, whatever it might be. Then Nick asked me if I really thought Peanuts Molloy was lying.

' If he's not, he's giving a damn good imitation.' Then I told Hilda as she started to clear away, 'Nick enjoyed the case. Even though it was only a robbery. Oh, Nick ... I wish you'd been there to hear me cross-examine about the bloodstains in the "Penge Bungalow Murder".' 'Nick wasn't born, when you did the "Penge Bungalow Murder".' My wife is always something of a wet blanket. I commiserated with my son. 'Bad luck, old boy.' 'You were great with that judge!' I think Nick had really enjoyed himself.

'There was this extraordinary judge who was always talking Latin and Dad was teasing him.' 'You want to be careful,' Hilda was imposing her will on the pudding plates. 'How you tease judges. If you're to be Head of Chambers.' On which line she departed, leaving Nick and I to our claret and conversation. I began to discuss with Nick the horrifying adventure of The Speckled Band.

'You're still reading those tales, are you?' I asked Nick.

'Well... not lately.' 'But you remember. I used to read them to you, didn't I? After She had ordered you to bed.' 'When you weren't too busy. Noting up your murders.' 'And remember we were Holmes and Watson? When we went for walks in Hyde Park.' 'I remember one walk."