"Mortimer, John - Rumpole on Trial" - читать интересную книгу автора (Mortimer John)

It was a time when everyone seemed intent on investigating the alleged satanic cult. Mirabelle Jones continued to make films for showing before the Juvenile Court and this time she interviewed Tracy Timson in a room, also equipped with a camera and recording apparatus, in the Children's Home.

Rumpole and the Children of the Devil Mirabelle arrived, equipped with dolls, not glamorous pinup girls, but a somewhat drab and unsexy family consisting of a Mum and Dad, Grandpa and Grandma, who looked like solemn New England farm-workers. Tracy was ordered to play with this group, and when, without any real interest in the matter, she managed to get Grandpa lying on top of Mum, Miss Jones sucked in her breath and made a note which she underlined heavily.

Later, Tracy was shown a book in which there was a picture of a devil with a forked tail, who looked like an opera singer about to undertake Mephistopheles in Faust. The questioning, as recorded in the transcript, then went along these lines.

'You know who he is, don't you, Tracy?' Mirabelle was being particularly compassionate as she asked this.

'No.' 'He's the Devil. You know about devils, don't you?' And she added, still smiling, 'You put on a devil's mask at school, didn't you, Tracy?' 'I might have done.' Tracy made an admission.

'So what do you think of the Devil, then?' 'He looks funny.' Tracy was smiling, which I thought, in all the circumstances, was remarkably brave other.

'Funny?' 'He's got a tail. The tail's funny.' 'Who first told you about the Devil, Tracy?' 'I don't know,' the child answered, but the persistent inquisitor was not to be put off so easily.

'Oh, you must know. Did you hear about the Devil at home? Was that it? Did Dad tell you about the Devil?' Tracy shook her head. Mirabelle Jones sighed and tried again. 'Does that picture of the Devil remind you of anyone, Tracy?' Still getting no answer, Mirabelle resorted to a leading question, as was her way in these interviews. 'Do you think it looks like your dad at all?' In search of an answer to Miss Jones's unanswered question, I summoned Cary and Roz to my presence once again. When they arrived, escorted by the faithful Bernard, I put the matter as bluntly as I knew how. At the mention of evil, Tracy's mother merely looked puzzled. 'The Devil? Tracy don't know nothing about the Devil.' 'Of course not!' Gary's denial was immediate. 'It's not as if we went to church, Mr Rumpole.' 'You've never heard of such a suggestion before?' I looked hard at Tracy's father. 'The Devil. Satan. Beelzebub. Are you saying the Timson family knows nothing of such matters?' 'Nothing at all, Mr Rumpole.' 'When they came that morning...' 'When they came to get our Tracy?' Roz's eyes filled with tears as she relived the moment.

'Yes. When they came for that. What did you think was going on exactly?' I asked Cary the question.

'I thought they come about that shop that got done over, Wedges, down Gunston Avenue. They've had me down the nick time and time again about it.' 'And it wasn't you?' 'Straight up, Mr Rumpole. Would I deceive you?' 'It has been known, but I'll believe you. Do you know who did it?' I asked Cary.

'No, Mr Rumpole. No, I won't grass. That I won't do. I've had enough trouble being accused of grassing on Gareth Molloy when he was sent down for the Tobler Road supermarket job.' 'The Timsons and the Molloys are deadly enemies. How could you know what they were up to?' 'My mate Barry Peacock was driving for them on that occasion.

They thought I knew something and grassed to Chief Inspector Brush. Would I do a thing like that?' 'No, I don't suppose you would. So you thought the Old Bill were just there about ordinary, legitimate crime. You had no worries about Tracy?' 'She's a good girl, Mr Rumpole. Always has been,' Roz was quick to remind me.

'Always cheerful, isn't she, Roz?' Her husband added to the evidence of character. 'I enjoys her company.' 'So where the devil do these ideas come from? Sorry, perhaps I shouldn't've said that... You know Dominic Molloy told the social worker you taught a lot of children satanic rituals.' 'You ever believed a Molloy, have you, Mr Rumpole, in court or out of it?' Cary Timson had a good point there, but I rather doubted if I could convince the Juvenile Court of the wisdom learned at the Old Bailey.

When our conference was over I showed my visitors out and I thought I saw, peering from a slightly open doorway at the end of the corridor, the face of Erskine-Brown, as horrified and intent as a passer-by who suddenly notices that, on the other side of the street, a witches coven is holding its annual beano. The door shut as soon as I clocked him and Claude vanished within. Twenty minutes later I received a visit from Soapy Sam Ballard, Q.c., our so-called Head of Chambers. I don't believe that these events were unconnected.

As soon as he got in, Ballard sniffed the air as though detecting the scent of brimstone and said, 'You've had them in here, Rumpole?' 'Had who in here. Bollard?' 'Those who owe allegiance to the Evil One.' 'You mean the Mr Justice Graves fan club? No. They haven't been near the place.' y 'Rumpole! You know perfectly well who I mean.' 'Oh, yes. Of course.' I decided to humour the fellow. 'They were all here. Lucifer, Beelzebub, Belial. All present and correct.

High on a throne of royal state, which far Outshone the wealth of Ormus and of Ind, Or where the gorgeous East with richest hand Showers on her king's barbaric pearl and gold, Satan exalted sat, by merit raised To that bad eminence; and from despair Thus high uplifted beyond hope...

'Grow up. Bollard! I am representing an eight-year-old child who's been torn from the bosom of her family and banged up without trial. You see here Rumpole, the protector of the innocent.' 'The protector of devil-worshippers!' Ballard said.

'Those too. If necessary.' I sat down at the desk and picked up the papers in a somewhat tedious affray.

'Rumpole. Every decent Chambers has to draw the line somewhere.' 'Does it?' 'There are certain cases, certain clients, even, which are simply, well, not acceptable.' 'Oh, I do agree.' 'Do you?' 'Oh, yes. I agree entirely.' 'Well, then. I'm glad to hear it.' Soapy Sam looked as gratified as a cleric hearing a death-bed confession from a life-long heathen.

'Didn't I catch sight of you prosecuting an accountant for unpaid V.A.T.?' I asked the puzzled Q.C. 'Some cases are simply unacceptable. Far too dull to be touched by a decent barrister with a bargepole. Don't you agree, old darling?' 'Rumpole, there's something I meant to raise with you.' The saintly Sam was growing distinctly ratty.

'Then buck up and raise it, I'm busy.' I returned to the affray.

'Young Charlie Wisbeach wants to come into these Chambers. He'd bring us a great deal of high-class, commercial work from his father's firm. Unfortunately we have no room for him at the moment.' 'Has he thought of a cardboard box in Middle Temple Lane?' I thought this a helpful suggestion; Bollard didn't agree.

'This is neither the time nor the place for one of your jokes, Rumpole. You have a tenancy here and tenancies can be brought to an end. Especially if the tenant in question is carrying on a practice not in the best traditions of Equity Court. There is something in this room which makes me feel uneasy.' 'Oh, I do so agree. Perhaps you'll be leaving shortly.' 'I'm giving you fair warning, Rumpole. I expect you to think it over.' At which our leader made for the door and I called after him, 'Oh, before you go. Bollard, why don't you look up "exorcism" in the Yellow Pages'? I believe there's an unfrocked Bishop in Stepney who'll quote you a very reasonable price. And if you call again, don't forget the Holy Water!' But the man had gone and I was left alone to wonder exactly what devilment Cary Timson had been up to.

I have, or at a proper moment I will have, a confession to make. At this time I was presenting She Who Must Be Obeyed with a mystery which she no doubt found baffling, although I'm afraid a probable solution presented itself to her mind far too soon. I had reason to telephone a Miss Tatiana Fern and, not wishing to do so with Hilda's knowledge, and as the lady in question left her house early, I called when I thought She was still asleep. I now suspect Hilda was listening in on the bedroom extension, although she lay motionless and with her eyes closed when I came back to bed. Later I discovered that when Hilda went off to shop in Harrods she spotted me coming out of Knightsbridge tube station, a place far removed from the Temple and the Old Bailey, and sleuthed me to a house in Mowbray Crescent which she saw me enter when the front door was opened by the aforesaid Tatiana Fern. So it came about that She met Marigold, Mr Justice Peatherstone's outspoken wife, and together they formed the opinion that Rumpole was up to no good whatsoever. Of course, She didn't tackle me openly about this, but I could sense what was in the wind when she started up a (conversation about the male libido at breakfast one morning.

It followed from something she had read in her Daily Telegraph.