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

'And Den knowing where you kept your garage key...' Uncle Fred was doing his best to protect Uncle Dennis from charges of carelessness.

'Lucky the Bill never thought of looking there,' Gary pointed out.

'I meant to come back for the stuff some time. It was a bit of a trivial matter. It slipped my memory, quite honestly.' Uncle Dennis was notoriously forgetful, once having left his Fisherman's Diary containing his name and address at the scene of a crime.

'Well, it wasn't no trivial matter for our Tracy.' 'No, I knows, Roz. Sorry about that.' 'Look, Den,' Cary started, 'We're not asking you to put your hands up to Chief Inspector Brush...' 'Yes, we are, Cary.' Roz was in deadly earnest. 'That's just what we're asking. You got to do it for our Tracy.' 'Hang about a bit.' Uncle Dennis looked alarmed. 'Who says we got to?' And then Roz told him, 'Mr Rumpole.' So the next morning Dennis Timson gave evidence in the Juvenile Court. Although I had been careful to explain his criminal record he looked, in his comfortable tweed jacket and cavalry twill trousers, the sort of chap that might star on 'Gardeners' Question Time' and I could see that Madam Chair took quite a shine to him. After some preliminaries we got to the heart of the matter. 'I was after the money, really,' Dennis told the Bench. 'But I suppose I got a bit greedy, like. I just shoved a few of those boxes in the back of the vehicle. Then I didn't want to take them round to my place, so I left them in Gary's garage.' 'Why did you do that?' I asked.

'Well, young Cary didn't have anything to do with the Wedges job, so I thought they'd be safe enough there. Of course, I was under considerable pressure of work at that time, and it slipped my mind to tell Cary and Roz about it.' 'Did you see what was in any of those cases?' 'I had a little look-in. Seemed like a lot of carnival masks.

That sort of rubbish.' 'So young Tracy getting hold of the devil's masks was just the usual Timson cock-up, was it?' 'What did you say, Mr Rumpole?' The Chairwoman wasn't quite sure she could believe her ears.

'It was a stock-up, for Christmas, Madam Chair,' I explained. 'Oh, one more thing, Mr Dennis Timson. Do you know why young Dominic Molloy has accused Tracy and her father of fiendish rituals in a churchyard?' 'Course I do.' Uncle Den had no doubt. 'Peggy Molloy told Barry Peacock's wife and Barry's wife told my Doreen down the Needle Arms last Thursday.' 'We can't possibly have this evidence!' Liz Probert rose to object. Perhaps she'd caught the habit from me.

'Oh, really. Miss Probert?' I looked at her in amazement.

'And why ever not?' 'What Barry's wife told Mrs Timson is pure hearsay.' Mizz Probert was certain of it.

'Of course it is.' And I gave her back her own argument.

'And pure hearsay is totally acceptable in the Juvenile Court.

Where the interest of the child is at stake we are not bound by legal quibbles. I agree. Madam Chair, with every word which has fallen from your respected and highly learned clerk. Now then, Mr Timson, what did you hear exactly?' 'Gareth thought Cary had grassed on him over the Tobler Road supermarket job. So they got young Dominic to put the frame round Tracy and her dad.' 'So what you are telling us, Mr Timson, is that this little boy's evidence was a pure invention.' At last Madam Chair seemed to have got the message. Uncle Dennis gave her the most charming and friendliest of smiles as he said, 'Well, you can't trust the Molloys, can you, my Lady? Everyone knows they're a right family of villains.' There comes a time in many cases when the wind changes, the tide turns and you're either blown on to the rocks or make safe harbour. Uncle Dennis's evidence changed the weather, and after it I noticed that Madam Chair no longer returned Miss Mirabelle Jones's increasingly anxious smile, Mizz Probert's final address was listened to in stony silence and I was startled to hear a distinct 'thank you' from the Bench as I sat down. After a short period of retirement the powers that were to shape young Tracy Timson's future announced that they were dissatisfied by the evidence of any satanic rituals and she was, accordingly, to be released from custody forthwith. Before this judgment was over, the tears which Roz had fought to control since the dawn raid were released and, at her moment of joy, she cried helplessly.

I couldn't resist it. I got into Mr Bernard's car and followed the Timson Cortina to the Children's Home. We waited until we saw the mother and father emerge from that gaunt building, each holding one of their daughter's hands. As they came down the steps to the street they swung her in the air between them, and when they got into the car they were laughing.

Miss Mirabelle Jones, who had brought the order for release, stood in the doorway of The Lilacs and watched without expression, and then Tracy's legal team drove away to do other cases with less gratifying results.

When I got home, after a conference in an obtaining credit by fraud and a modest celebration at Pommeroy's Wine Bar, Hilda was not in the best of moods. When I told her that I brought glad tidings all She said was, 'You seem full of yourself, Rumpole. Been having a good time, have you?' 'A great time! Managed to extricate young Tracy Timson from the clutches of the caring society and she's back in the bosom of her family. And I'll be getting another brief defending Dennis Timson on a charge of stealing from Wedges Carnival Novelties. Well, I expect I'll think of something.' I poured myself a glass of wine to lighten the atmosphere and Hilda said, somewhat darkly, 'You never wanted to be a judge, did you, Rumpole?' 'Judging people? Condemning them? No, that's not my line, exactly. Anyway, judges are meant to keep quiet in court.' 'And they're much more restricted, aren't they?' It may have sounded an innocent question on a matter of general interest, but her voice was full of menace.

'Restricted?' I repeated, playing for time.

'Stuck in Court all day, in the public eye and on their best behaviour. They have far less scope than you to indulge in other activities...'Activities, Hilda?' 'Oh, yes. Perhaps it's about time we really talked for once, Rumpole. Is there something that you feel you ought to tell me?' 'Well. Yes, Hilda. Yes. As a matter of fact there is.' I had in fact done something which I found it strangely embarrassing to mention.

'I suppose you've had time to think up some ridiculous defence.' 'Oh, no. I plead guilty. There are no mitigating circumstances.' 'Rumpole! How could you?' The court was clearly not going to be moved by any plea for clemency.

'Temporary insanity. But I did it at enormous expense.' 'You had to pay!' It would scarcely be an exaggeration to say that Hilda snorted.

'Well. They don't give these things away for nothing.' 'I imagine not!' 'One hundred smackers. But it is your birthday next week.' 'Rumpole! I can't think what my birthday's got to do with it.' At least I had managed to puzzle her a little.

'Everything, Hilda. I've just bought us two tickets for the Scales of Justice Ball. Now, what was it you wanted us to talk about?' All I can say is that Hilda looked extremely confused. It was as though Mr Injustice Graves was just about to pass a stiff sentence of chokey and had received a message that, as it was the Queen's Birthday, there would be a general amnesty for all prisoners. 'Well,' she said, 'not at the moment. Perhaps some other time.' And she rescued the lamb chops from the oven with the air of a woman suddenly and unexpectedly deprived of a well-justified and satisfactory outburst of rage.

Matters were not altogether resolved when we found ourselves at a table by the dance floor in the Savoy Hotel in the company of Sam Ballard and his wife. Marguerite, who always, even in a ball gown, seemed to carry with her a slight odour of antiseptic and sensible soap. Also present were Marigold Featherstone, wife-of a judge whose foot was never far from his mouth, Claude Erskine-Brown and Liz Probert with her partner, co-mortgagee and fellow member of Equity Court, young Dave Inchcape.

'Too bad Guthrie's sitting at Newcastle!' Claude commiserated with Marigold Featherstone on the absence of her husband and told her, 'Philly's in Swansea. Prosecuting the Leisure Centre Murder.' 'Never mind, Claude.' And Marguerite Ballard added menacingly, 'I'll dance with you.' 'Oh, yes, Erskine-Brown', her husband was smiling 'you have my full permission to shake a foot with my wife.' 'Oh, well. Yes. Thank you very much. I say, I thought Charlie Wisbeach and his girlfriend were going to join us?' Claude seemed unreasonably disappointed.

'No, Erskine-Brown.' The Ballard lips were even more pursed than usual. 'Young Wisbeach won't be joining us. Not at the ball. And certainly not in Chambers.' 'Oh, really? I thought it was more or less fixed.' 'I think, Claude, it's become more or less unstuck,' I disillusioned him. In the ensuing chatter I could hear Marigold Featherstone indulging in some whispered dialogue with my wife which went something like this.

'Have you faced him with it yet, Hilda?' 'I was just going to do it when he told me we were coming here. He behaved well for once.' 'They do that, occasionally. Don't let it put you off.' Further whispers were drowned as Erskine-Brown said to Ballard in a loud and challenging tone, 'May I ask you why Charlie Wisbeach isn't joining us, after all?' 'Not on this otherwise happy occasion, Erskine-Brown. I can only say... Practices.' 'Well, of course, he practises. In the commercial court.' And Claude turned to me, full of suspicion. 'Do you know anything about this, Rumpole?' The? Know anything? Nothing whatever.' I certainly wasn't prepared to incriminate myself.