"Mortimer, John - Rumpole on Trial" - читать интересную книгу автора (Mortimer John)
'I think what so upset Marigold, Rumpole,' Hilda explained, 'was that Guthrie should have discussed it in the Sheridan Club.' 'Yes,' Marigold agreed. 'Why on earth should he do that?' 'Don't you know?' I asked them both. 'Because the poor chap was terribly unhappy.' Unhappy?' Marigold was incredulous. 'What on earth's Guthrie got to be unhappy about?' 'Well, he'd been pissed on from a great height.' 'Rumpole!' Hilda warned me. 'You are in my bridge club!'
'Sorry, Hilda. I mean, he's had a considerable amount of dirty water thrown over him by the Court of Appeal. And then the one woman he's ever really loved was far away and he was missing her dreadfully. So he tried to cheer himself up. Perhaps he danced a step out of time to the music. Nothing more.' 'But he confessed.' 'There's no evidence more unreliable than a confession.
Don't imagine people tell the truth about themselves. They'll say all sorts of things because they're afraid, or vain, or want to boast about things they never did and to impress a few chaps in the Club. Guthrie's confession would never have got past the Court of Appeal.' 'Really? Is that what you think, quite honestly?' 'Sure of it.' 'And who's this only woman he's ever really loved, in your opinion?' 'Someone not a million miles away from this table, Marigold.' Only one other thing. Marigold had been sleeping behind a locked door in the matrimonial bedroom while Guthrie passed unhappy nights in the spare room. After our afternoon's bridge, she later told Hilda, she at last opened the door to his Lordship's tentative knock. 'You may come in now, Guthrie,' his wife told him, 'but for heaven's sake, don't boast about it in the Sheridan Club.' My daily round doesn't often bring me into contact with the upper crust, those who figure in Debrett and fill the gossip columns. I don't imagine they are any more law-abiding than the rest of society, but their crimes, drug abuse for the young hopefuls and city frauds for the dads, seldom come Rumpole's way as they tend to hire the most expensive, and not necessarily the best, legal hacks available. In Froxbury Mansions the blue-blooded didn't appear, nor were they much discussed until She Who Must Be Obeyed began to take in Coronet magazine, a glossy publication given to chronicling the goings-on in stately homes.
We were seated at breakfast one morning and I was reading the papers in a committal I was doing in Thames Magistrates Court when Hilda suddenly said, 'How extraordinary! The french-Uffingtons are together again. His romance with Lady Fiona Armstead is apparently over.' As I could make nothing of this, I gave her even more startling news from my brief. 'Walter "The Wally" Wilkinson walked into Beddoes Road nick uninvited and confessed to the Southwark triple murder. Isn't that even more extraordinary?' Totally uninterested in this curious event, Hilda continued to read the news from her copy of Coronet. 'And here's Harry ffrench-Uffington enjoying a joke with his lovely wife, Myrtle, during the Save the Starving Ball at the Dorchester Hotel.' 'A sixty-year-old man of no fixed address. The Old Bill washed him down, thanked him very much and locked him up!' I interrupted her and then let her into the past life of The Wally. 'Form: drunk in charge, numerous; theft, numerous also, fraud on the social services. Pretty downmarket stuff for a triple murderer.' 'Lord Luxter's put on weight', was Hilda's news. 'Don't you remember him when he was so slim and handsome on the polo field?' 'Please, Hilda. Do you know any of these people?' 'You can read all about them in Debby's Diary in Coronet magazine.' ' You can read all about them. I've never heard of them.' 'Well, you should, Rumpole. Then you might learn about gracious living. You might get out of the habit of blowing on your tea to cool it down.' 'I'm in a hurry!' I explained. 'What do you expect me to do, fan it with my hat?' 'Ah. There it is!' Hilda turned a page and cried triumphantly, 'That's what I was looking for! Sackbut Castle.' 'What're you going to do with it, Hilda, now you've found it?' 'Seat of the Sackbut family since the fourteenth century,' She read out. 'Romantic setting near Welldyke on the Yorkshire Moors. The iyth Baron Sackbut occupies the private wing with his young second wife, Rosemary, nee Wystan. You see, Rumpole, it's not all about people you've never heard of.' 'You mean this Rosemary Sackbut, whatever?' 'Nee Vystan, Rumpole!' 'It doesn't ring a bell,' I had to confess.
'Oh, really. What's my name, Rumpole?' 'She Who Must, I mean Hilda,' I corrected myself hastily.
'Hilda what 'Hilda Rumpole, of course.' During the above exchange I was darting into the hall and back to the kitchen and collecting the hat and mac while polishing off the remnants of my breakfast.
'Oh, well done!' She congratulated me ironically. 'Now, then. Hilda Rumpole, nee whaty 'Oh, I see! Nee Wystan!' 'Uncle Freddie's son was Hungerford Wystan, who went into Assorted Chemicals, and Rosemary's his youngest. She's my first cousin once removed,' Hilda explained.
'Once removed to a castle?' 'So that's why I take in Coronet. I knew Rosemary'd turn up in it sooner or later.' 'Section 62 committal,' I muttered as I packed the brief away in my bag. 'We'll try and get The Wally's conviction chucked out in the Magistrates Court.' 'Oh, Rumpole!' Hilda was looking at me with disapproval.
'I bet you that no one at Sackbut Castle eats breakfast with his hat on. No wonder they didn't ask us to the wedding.' I duly arrived at Thames Magistrates Court, where I found that my opponent was Mizz Liz Probert, radical member of our Chambers, who was looking far from happy. 'You're not going to object to being sent for trial, are you?' she more or less snapped at me.
'Ask not what I am going to do, Mizz Liz. Watch me in Court. If I'm on my feet I'm probably being objectionable.' 'I shall be led by Sam Ballard at the trial,' she warned me.
'If he's prosecuting, there must be some hope for the defence.' 'Oh, please, don't try to be funny, Rumpole. Quite honestly, I just don't feel like it today.' So I left her and went to ask a police officer if my client had arrived. I was surprised to find that he was delighted to have The Wally Wilkinson on the premises. 'You mean our triple, Mr Rumpole? We're all feeling just that little bit chuffed about having his case. It's not every day you get a triple murderer walk in with his hands up. Your solicitor's there already. Know your way down, sir, do you?' I knew my way down and found my client and Mr Bernard ", in a police cell. The Wally Wilkinson was a small, chirpy man with wispy hair and an unreliable look in his eyes. Despite his age, he seemed wiry and energetic. The prison officer ushered me in, saying, 'Your brief's arrived, Walter. Got all you want, have you?' There was an unexpected note of obsequious respect in the official voice which The Wally, who was smoking a fag and holding a mug, seemed to think was no more than his due. 'This tea?' he said. 'I wouldn't call it tea. Pour it back in the horse.' 'We're just putting on another brew. Want a couple of biscuits with that, do you, Walter?' 'I wouldn't say no.' 'I see you're all right for smokes.' The prison officer seemed relieved.
'Mr Bernard obliged,' The Wally told him. 'Oh, by the way, Perce, anything in the paper about my case, is there?' 'Just general background. The house. Victims. All that.
Today's court'll be in the Standard.' 'Save us one, would you?' 'No probs.' 'You seem to be getting the four-star treatment,' I said when the turnkey had left us.
'Well, I'm on a triple, aren't I, Mr Rumpole?' The Wally looked modestly pleased. 'Something out of the ordinary, a very serious crime indeed. Naturally they respects you for it.' The very serious crime occurred on the night of 12 February in a done-up Victorian house near Southwark Cathedral.
It was shared by a merchant banker and his friend, who was also something in the City. The third, and younger, victim was a social worker named Gerald Vulmay, who was apparently a guest staying the night.
'That Gerald,' The Wally told us, 'he was the one who let me into the house.' 'You were on your way home', I consulted The Wally's proof of evidence, 'and you asked him for money and told him you couldn't find a place to sleep, all the hostel beds were taken because of the cold weather.' 'Even the warm spots over the hotel kitchens. Round the Savoy and the Regent Palace. They were all booked up. So he just looked at me and said, 'All right. There's a spare bed in here. I'm sure they'll let you stay.' 'Did you meet all three of them?' I asked.
'Oh yes. They give me a meal, after they'd run a hot bath for me. Kitted me out in a pair of pyjamas. Some sort of Greek stuff, they was eating. I had to pretend I liked it.' 'Then what happened? Can you remember?' 'That's the terrible thing, Mr Rumpole. It's like my mind went a total blank on the subject. They put words into my mouth, like, when I made the confession.' 'All right. Do you remember walking into the Beddoes Road nick?' 'Sort of.' 'What made you do that?' 'I dunno, Mr Rumpole.' The Wally looked vague.
'Did they say you could see a lawyer?' 'No, they never. And them two officers what interviewed me, they were very aggressive.' The prison officer returned with refreshments and said, 'There you are, Walter. Bit of a better brew. And a few ginger nuts. We'll save you that Evening Standard.' 'Thanks, Perce. I call that very kind.' And as he drank his tea. The Wally smiled at me. 'I tell you, Mr Rumpole. This beats sleeping in a cardboard box any day of the week.' I fought that committal for three days in the Magistrates Court and did my best to exclude the confession. I knew it was a hopeless case, and after The Wally, who didn't seem particularly disappointed, was sent for trial, I came out of court to find Liz Probert sitting on a bench in the entrance hall looking more disconsolate than ever. I tried to cheer her up by saying, 'You won the day. Next step the Old Bailey. I wonder if we can find twelve sleepers in cardboard boxes to sit on the Jury. By the way, have you seen young David Inchcape lately? We're co-defending in an affray.' 'No, I haven't seen "young Inchcape", as you call him.
You'd better find him for yourself.' 'Mizz Probert. Liz. What on earth's the matter?' 'Absolutely nothing's the matter!' 'You don't usually burst into tears when you win cases.' I could see, with embarrassment, distinct signs of the waterworks.
'I'm not bursting into tears at all. Why should you assume that I've burst into tears, just because I'm a woman?' she sniffed unhappily. 'It musrbe my contact lenses.' 'Someone in Chambers upset your contact lenses?' And then I hazarded a guess. 'Anything wrong between you and young Inchcape?' 'Isn't that you all over, Rumpole? It's just stereotypical male vanity! I'm a woman, so if I'm upset it must be about a man. Men are the only things women have got to be upset about, aren't they?' She searched in vain for a tissue in her handbag and I offered her a stereotypical male handkerchief.
'No, thanks. Oh, all right, it is about bloody Dave Inchcape.' 'I'm sorry. What's he done?' 'It's not what he's done. It's what he is} What he's been in secret all these years. And he's never had the guts to tell me about it.' 'Secretly married?' I wondered.
'I could cope with that. No. It's something... Well, it's really unmentionable. Ugh!' she shuddered. 'Awful. He's not worth worrying about.' Naturally I was eager to hear more, but an officer came up to tell me that my wife was on the phone and I could take it in the police room. When I heard her news, told in a voice of almost uncontainable excitement, I didn't know if I could take it. The distant cousin, Rosemary, it seemed had come through at last. We were invited for a weekend at the castle by Lord and Lady Sackbut. When I came out of the police room I saw my red and white spotted handkerchief on the bench and Liz gone. I left Thames Court and, out in the street, a press photographer snapped me just as I was blowing my nose.
Sackbut Castle, near the small town of Welldyke, was built to defend a large area of North Yorkshire. It had been besieged three times during the Wars of the Roses. Other great historical events had taken place there, but when Richard, the lyth Baron, brought home his young second wife, it was a peaceful enough place. And so it remained until shortly before the Rumpole visit when Jonathan Sackbut, thirteen years old and on holiday from Eton, was taking Monty the family Labrador for an early run by the lake. On approaching the water the dog barked and then stood on the edge, whining. When the Hon. Jonathan joined the Labrador he saw, indeed they must have both seen, the body of an elderly woman face-down in the water. She was wearing a drenched, rabbity fur-coat and the big, plastic shopping bag she still clutched was floating like water-wings. It became clear, when she was fished out, that she was some kind of a bag lady, a female tramp.
Photographs taken later showed a large, broad-cheeked face which might once have been pretty.
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