Rumpole and the Penge Bungalow Murders (10 page)

‘That's extremely generous of you, Mr Caraway.' The custodial one was wreathed in smiles as he addressed one of London Sessions' regulars. The smile died as he said, ‘Mr Rumpole, Mr Caraway has, in his generosity, decided not to object to your line of questioning. You may deal with it shortly. So far as I can see it has little relevance to this case.'

‘There is someone who does find it relevant to this case, though, isn't there, Mr Rochford?' I thought it better to engage with the witness rather than prolonging a somewhat fruitless argument with His Honour. ‘Isn't your landlord here in court, in the front row of the public gallery?'

‘I can't see him.' Mr Rochford was looking everywhere except in the direction of the Molloys.

‘Just look up at the public gallery. Do you not see Mr Terence, also known as “Nighty”, Molloy?'

‘Mr Molloy?'

‘Yes. He's here, isn't he?'

‘Maybe he is.'

‘If he owns the premises,' ‘Custodial Cookson' was anxious to help the witness, ‘quite naturally he's interested in the result of this trial. Have you any more
relevant
questions, Mr Rumpole?'

‘Just a few, Your Honour. Mr Rochford, you say you looked out of the window and saw my client, Cyril Timson, putting the television set into a white van.'

‘Yes, I saw him.'

‘It was two a.m. and presumably dark?'

‘He was stood under a street lamp.'

‘Oh, was he really? How very thoughtful of him! No doubt he was anxious to be recognized.'

I got a small laugh from the jury for this and a further reminder from His Honour that we were not in a theatre.

‘And are you telling this jury,' I was determined to go on, whether or not the judge thought I was taking part in a theatrical event, ‘you were able to pick out Cyril Timson at an identity parade after the brief glance at him from a window at two in the morning?'

‘It wasn't just that.' Mr Rochford sounded shocked at my suggestion. ‘I'd seen the photograph, hadn't I?'

‘What photograph was that?' I pricked up my ears. I decided to put the next question in a way that might appeal even to our judge. ‘Are you suggesting that Detective Inspector White, the very experienced officer in charge of the case, showed you a photograph of his suspect
before
you attended the identity parade?'

‘He might have done.'

‘He'll be giving evidence and I'll have to put it to him. I'm sure his answer will be it would have been grossly improper of the police to do any such thing.'

‘All right, then.' The witness saw danger ahead and started to retreat. ‘Someone showed me a photograph of Timson.'

‘Someone? Can't you remember who it was?'

‘I can't exactly remember.'

‘Then let me make a suggestion which might jog your memory. Was it perhaps Mr Terence “Nighty” Molloy?'

The manager of Sound Universe looked up at the public gallery then as though for help but, getting none, he was driven to mutter, ‘No, I don't
think
so.'

‘You don't
think
so?' I gave the jury the look of someone who has scored a direct hit, gathered my gown about me and sat down in a triumphant sort of way. The judge did his best to restore the fortunes of the prosecution and to wipe the smile off my face.

‘Mr Rochford, you don't think it was this Mr Molloy who showed you the photograph? Are you not sure of that?'

‘Oh, yes.' The witness looked considerably relieved. ‘I think I'm sure.' And although the judge wrote this answer down with apparent satisfaction, it seemed to leave us more or less where we were before.

 

The trial wound its slow way onwards. Among the last of the prosecution witnesses, Detective Inspector ‘Persil' White gave us the pleasure of his company. He seemed a perfectly reasonable police officer and I thought he might be willing to help us. I hadn't reckoned on the enthusiasm with which ‘Custodial Cookson' was prepared to help the prosecution out of the lazy and somewhat careless hands of the experienced Vincent Caraway.

‘Detective Inspector, do you from time to time frequent a local pub known as the Needle Arms?' I asked.

‘I take a drink there occasionally.'

‘And do you sometimes pick up helpful information about local crimes and who commits them?'

‘Let's say I learn more about crime in Britain at the Needle Arms than I would if I stopped at home reading the paper.'

‘And did you get the information about the Sound Universe break-in from someone in the Needle Arms?'

‘I might have done.' ‘Persil' was becoming cautious.

‘And was that someone a member of the Molloy family?'

‘Mr Rumpole,' the custodial expression had been screwed back on the judge's face, ‘are you intending to call this member of the Molloy family as a witness?'

The answer was that I thought any member of the Molloy family would be as likely to help the defence as Judge Cookson was to place Uncle Cyril, if found guilty, upon probation. So I told him, ‘No, Your Honour, I am not calling any member of the Molloy family.'

‘Then I suppose, Mr Caraway, the nature of your objection would be that any communication between the officer and this person from the Molloy family would be pure hearsay.'

He had managed to catch the attention of our prosecutor, otherwise engaged in reading his brief in another case. So the experienced, languid Caraway stood up, murmured, ‘Your Honour puts it so much better than I could,' and sank back into his seat.

‘So there you are, Mr Rumpole! May I say that I entirely agree with Mr Caraway's cogent argument. Let's have no mention of this officer's conversation with any Molloy.'

‘Very well, Your Honour. Then let me ask you this, Detective Inspector. Did my client, Cyril Timson, say to you that he bet the Molloys accused him of the Sound Universe job because he'd fingered Jimmy Molloy for the Meadowsweet break-in? And before there is any objection to that, may I make it clear that I will be calling my client, and so what he said certainly isn't hearsay.'

‘Are you objecting, Mr Caraway?' ‘Custodial Cookson' looked hopefully at the prosecution.

‘Not really, Your Honour. The jury will remember that this witness has already told them that Cyril Timson admitted his guilt, and this case first came on as a mere plea in mitigation.' After this comparatively long speech, Vincent Caraway sank back in his seat, exhausted. But His Honour was delighted.

‘Yes, of course he did. You will remember that, won't you, members of the jury? Mr Timson, in the dock over there, originally admitted this charge.'

And, in the end, they remembered it.

 

It's painful to contemplate your disasters, and as I sat alone that evening I was tempted to ask my landlady if there was any sort of opening for me in the rubber johnnie shop and give up the bar entirely.

It was no use telling myself I'd done my best, that I'd got DI White to agree that the Molloys hated the Timsons, that I had got most of Cyril's story into evidence in the face of a hail of small-arms fire from the bench, that I'd called Uncle Cyril to explain that he'd only felt safe in prison, which was why he had pleaded guilty to an offence he didn't commit. I had carefully prepared my final speech to the jury.

‘This case has only taken us a few days,' I told them. ‘Soon you will be back to your normal lives and you'll have forgotten all about the radio and television shop in Coldharbour Lane and the Needle Arms and the Molloys, who we say were prepared to arrange a break-in at their own premises in order to punish old Cyril Timson, who might have informed on them. All these things are only part of your lives, and a small part at that. But for Cyril Timson, the frightened, elderly man I represent, this is one of the most important moments of his life. Can you send him to prison on this evidence, in this strange and unusual case? Members of the jury, I leave the future life of Uncle Cyril Timson in your hands, for you and not His Honour are the sole judges of the facts in this case, and I am confident that your verdict will be “Not guilty”.'

This peroration was one I have since used, with a few essential adjustments, in hundreds of cases. I have always found it effective, but in
R
. v.
Timson
it failed to work the oracle.

Uncle Tom told me that, in the old days at London Sessions, the jury would merely be asked to turn to each other and, after a few whispered words, agree on a verdict. ‘Custodial Cookson' at least allowed them to retire; but after half an hour they were back to give Cyril what he had always said he wanted, two years safe inside.

‘I'm very sorry.' I felt I could hardly bring myself to face Harry Timson. I have to say I was surprised by his reaction to the result.

‘You did great, Mr Rumpole! We never had a brief who put a judge in his place the way you did. And that speech! It brought my wife, Brenda, near to tears. Let's just hope this case is the first of many you do for the Timson family.'

‘But you don't seem to understand. I lost!'

‘That's immaterial, that is. Old Uncle Cyril, he's happy with the result anyway. Lost you may have done, but it's the way you lost impressed us!'.

I didn't find these words of Harry Timson, kindly meant I'm sure, any particular comfort. Back in my lonely bedsit, I struck my boiled eggs hard and viciously with the spoon. Before falling asleep, I flicked though the
Oxford Book of English Verse
(the old Arthur Quiller-Couch edition) that has been my constant companion since my schooldays, and found one of my favourite bits of Wordsworth, the Old Sheep of the Lake District.

 

I closed my eyes. All was silent. Of old Triton blowing his wreathèd horn there was not a squeak.

 

The next day in chambers, I was still thinking about the two cases: the one I had lost and the other my leader, C. H. Wystan, was clearly prepared to lose. And then I had a telephone call from Bonny Bernard.

‘Just got an answer from the RAF, Mr Rumpole. You wanted to know about the third chap in the bomber. The navigator.'

‘Well, Jerry Jerold and “Tail-End” Charlie were so close, I just thought the third man in their plane might be able to tell us a bit more about them.'

‘His name was David Galloway.'

‘It might just be worthwhile getting a statement off him.'

‘Can't be done, I'm afraid, Mr Rumpole.'

‘Why ever not? The prosecution couldn't object.'

‘It's not that, they've got it in the records. Galloway went missing, believed dead.'

So that doorway of enquiry was closed. But now I had every confidence in Bonny Bernard's powers of research. ‘Listen carefully,' I said, as though I had masterminded a hundred murder trials. ‘I want you to find out all you can about the backgrounds and war records of all the officers who were at the party that night after the theatre. Can you do that?'

‘I'll do it for you, Mr Rumpole,' Bonny Bernard was quick enough to answer. ‘I'll certainly do it. But will
you
ever be able to use all that information?'

‘Who knows?' I did my best to encourage his labours. ‘In a trial like this, who knows what's going to happen?'

I said this, of course, because I still had no clear idea of what I was looking for.

11

‘What are you doing, Rumpole?'

‘Remembering.'

‘Well try and remember with your leg elevated. You know what Dr McClintock said.'

‘Dr McClintock never tried to write his memoirs with one leg cocked up on a joint stool.' I thought this a fair point to put to She Who Must Be Obeyed, although I accommodated her by raising my leg.

‘What are these memoirs you're talking about, Rumpole?'

‘The most important time of my life, when I did the Penge Bungalow Murders.'

‘
And
when we met?'

‘That too.'

‘Or had you forgotten?'

‘Of course not, Hilda,' I hastened to reassure her. ‘You changed my life, you and the Penge Bungalow case.'

‘It changed mine too, but whether it was for the better is a matter of opinion.'

‘Is it, Hilda?'

‘At any rate I had high hopes of you at that time. Extremely high hopes. So stick that in your memoirs, Rumpole.'

‘Well, of course you did,' I didn't want to boast, ‘when I got the Penge Bungalow job.'

‘Yes, but what about me? What did I get exactly?' She looked at me, I thought, with a kind of amused pity. ‘A husband who can't even keep his leg elevated.'

She left me then. I gently lowered my leg from the joint stool and put it on the ground in the regular writing position and did my best to describe the alarming weeks which led up to the trial of Simon Jerold on charges of double murder. As a tribute to the importance of the trial, and the great public interest in it, the Chief Justice, Lord Jessup, had consented to go slumming down the Old Bailey and try the case.

‘It doesn't matter a scrap what you do or have to say,' Teddy Singleton of our chambers told me. ‘Theobald Jessup will see your boy hangs as sure as next week will have a Thursday. There's a rumour he orders crumpets for tea at his club after he's passed a death sentence.'