Rumpole and the Penge Bungalow Murders (15 page)

‘Benson was the one who relieved you of the pistol?'

‘He did that, yes. You were right, though, I never loaded it.'

‘I know. How often did you see this man Benson?'

‘He lived somewhere in Sutton. He and Dad used to go out to the pub when they were on leave. Then they'd come back to the bungalow and Mum would do them scrambled eggs. Charlie was with them sometimes.'

‘So it was quite a happy war?' How could all this love and pride, evenings at the pub and scrambled eggs, end in a boy who murdered his father facing another kind of death?

‘At first it seemed happy. We were proud of Dad and he seemed proud of himself. Then he got worse.'

‘What do you mean, worse?'

‘Silent. Not speaking or flying out at me and Mum. He made her cry, often. Mum said he couldn't sleep. He got miserably drunk when he went to the pub instead of just cheerful.'

‘When he went to the pub with Benson?'

‘Yes, with him, and Charlie sometimes.'

‘And this was?'

‘When he was doing those raids over France. Almost every night, he told us, in the Bristol . . . It was as though he had a premonition or something.'

‘A premonition?'

‘Before they told us his plane had crashed over France, Mum often said it was as though he could see it coming. And he had changed his mind about the war.'

‘You mean, he didn't think he should be fighting it?'

‘Not that. I'm sure he was a loyal officer, obeyed orders and all that sort of thing. He got miserable because it was a war we couldn't win.'

‘He told you that?'

‘And Mum. He said the Germans had all the power, “. . . look at the way they got the whole of Europe”. So many of his friends had been killed on raids and he thought there was no longer any sense in it. Oh, he said Hitler didn't really want to conquer the British Empire. We should make peace and let him get on with “kicking those bloody Russian Communists up the arse”.'

‘But he went on flying raids over occupied France?'

‘I told you, he was a loyal officer. He wouldn't have done anything else.'

‘All the same, you weren't meant to talk like that in the war, were you?'

‘That's what worried Mum. She told me not to tell anyone at school. Of course, she never told her friends.'

There was a silence as I tried to digest this information and then I changed the subject. ‘Talking of friends, does the name David Galloway mean anything to you?'

‘He was Dad's navigator.'

‘And apparently the only one to die when the plane was shot down.'

‘I think he came to the bungalow a few times. He was a quiet sort of bloke. He didn't have much to say for himself. I think he was more Peter Benson's friend than Dad's. He was nice to me, though, brought me off-ration Mars Bars.'

‘A generous sort?'

‘With Mars Bars.'

‘And then you heard your father's plane had been brought down?'

‘Dad was missing, believed dead. It was then Mum began to tell me about the premonitions.'

‘He felt he was going to die?'

‘He got scared of going on raids. That's what she told me. Really scared. So scared that he couldn't sleep at night. In a way the news came as a sort of relief to her. It was all over. He wasn't going to suffer any more of that terrible fear.'

‘Then your mother . . .'

‘Shopping round Oxford Street, a stupid buzz bomb. A chance in a thousand. She'd done no harm to anyone. Do you wonder why I hate war, Mr Rumpole?'

‘No, I don't wonder.'

‘My Aunt Harriet came over from Chertsey to look after me. Then the news came. Dad and Charlie had been picked up by the allies in France. The war was over and he and Charlie came home.'

‘Were you glad to see him?'

‘Of course I was glad. You don't know my Aunt Harriet, Mr Rumpole.'

I looked at him, amazed. This boy, up till now paralysed, as his father had been, by the fear of death, had made what was almost a joke. ‘And how did he seem to you when he got back?'

‘He'd changed again.'

‘For the worse?'

‘He was just like he'd been at the start of the war, full of pride and enthusiasm. We didn't hear anything about making peace with Hitler.'

‘Did he tell you much about what had happened to him?'

‘He said the plane was damaged by anti-aircraft fire and he made a crash-landing. He and Charlie got out before it burst into flames.'

‘And the navigator didn't?'

‘That's right.'

‘And then what did he say happened?'

‘Well, it was always a bit vague. He said they tried to hide but they were eventually captured by the Germans. They were sent to a prison in Germany until . . . well, until the war was almost over. Then they managed to get out and they were picked up by the American 7th Army. Anyway, they were brought home.'

‘So he was a prisoner of war?'

‘I think they both were.'

‘You and your mother never got any notification of that. You never heard from the Red Cross, for instance?'

‘No.' Simon shook his head. ‘I suppose it all got a bit chaotic. In the last years of the war.'

‘What did he tell you about his time as a prisoner?'

‘Nothing really. I don't think he wanted to remember. Oh, he told us about the pistol he'd found on the body of a dead German officer. After they'd got out of whatever prison that was.'

The cursed weapon, I thought, the cause of so many deaths, brought back as a trophy of war. ‘The rest of the collection on the mantelpiece, did he bring that back as well?'

‘Oh, no. He decorated the mantelpiece as soon as he was a pilot, at the start of the war. When he was gone, we kept it there out of respect for him, I suppose. Then he put up the German pistol.'

‘One thing puzzles me.'

‘What's that?'

‘Your father went through a time, you said, when he hated war and was afraid of flying. But then he quarrelled with you at the party, saying you shouldn't have missed that war and you ought to enjoy training for the next one.'

‘That was what he was like when he came home. The war had just been a glorious victory and he'd lived dangerously. After that I think he found the job at the bank pretty dull. All his excitement was in the past.'

‘You got on well together?'

‘Not all the time. He was always saying the war would have made a man of me.'

‘What did you tell him?'

‘That I didn't want to crash planes or shoot German officers and I just hoped it didn't happen again. I wanted him to stop talking about it.'

‘And that made him angry?'

‘Very angry at times.'

I sat a while in thought. Then I found Simon looking at me, his moment of confidence gone, his eyes desperate for reassurance. ‘Have I given you what you wanted? Told you the right things, have I?'

‘I'm sure what you've told me will be very useful, yes.' This was a lie. I wasn't sure of any such thing. I just wanted him to have some small hope to cling on to during his trial.

16

‘Mr Wystan wanted to see you as soon as you got back from court.' Our clerk, Albert Handyside, uttered the words I'd been dreading, and he didn't make them any less unnerving by adding, ‘It's been nice knowing you, Mr Rumpole. I hope our paths may cross again some time in the future.'

So I knocked politely and entered our leader's room with the grimmest forebodings and was surprised by the apparent warmth of my welcome.

‘So there you are, Rumpole! Sit down. Can I offer you a glass of sherry wine?' C. H. Wystan produced a decanter, otherwise kept under lock and key in his cupboard, a glass of which was offered to special clients on special occasions. One far-off night at Keble College I had consumed, with a couple of dissolute theology students (one of whom has since become Bishop of Bath and Wells), a couple of bottles each of the college sherry, causing the room to sway and pitch like the
Titanic
on a bad night and much staggering to the lavatory. Since then I have had a particular horror of sherry, which seems to me as sickly as port, sticking faithfully to Pommeroy's Very Ordinary and the pints of Guinness favoured by Albert Handyside. This was a situation, however, where I had to thank our leader profusely, swallow some of the sweet and sickly fluid and hope the room would at least keep still. C. H. Wystan took a sip, smacked his lips and said, ‘Wonderful stuff, this Amontillado!'

‘Oh, yes,' I assured him, ‘wonderful stuff.'

‘Hard to get a decent glass of sherry these days.'

‘Indeed,' I was prepared to agree, ‘very hard.'

‘Stocks of this particular label are running low. I have to save it for special occasions.'

Was this a special occasion, the dismissal of a rebellious member of Equity Court? I did my best to look gratified.

‘One can understand,' C. H. Wystan was sitting back in his chair, thoughtfully running his finger round the rim of his glass, ‘I think I can understand the feelings of our client in
R
. v.
Jerold
.'

I didn't particularly like the reference to ‘our client', but I was in no position to argue. ‘I think I can understand him too,' I said.

‘After all it can't be pleasant to have to face the possibility of a death sentence.'

‘I don't think,' how could I disagree with him?, ‘that would be pleasant at all.'

‘So naturally his judgement was clouded. He couldn't understand the tactics we had decided to adopt.'

‘
We
had decided?' I couldn't help it, I had struck a disagreeable note. To compensate for this I took a large gulp of sherry.

‘Of course, I mean that, as your leader,
I
had decided. Tactics are always a matter for the leader. You are there to assist me with a full note.'

‘Just remind me,' I couldn't help asking, ‘what were our tactics exactly?'

‘Not to irritate the court and antagonize the jury by taking bad points or challenging evidence we agreed with. Then we hoped he would remember the incident more clearly.'

‘Yes, of course.' I'm afraid I said it as though I needed reminding. ‘You decided not to challenge any of the witnesses.'

‘One can understand the client's anxiety.' C. H. Wystan was clearly in a forgiving mood.

‘He seemed to be less anxious when I asked questions.' I couldn't help saying this, and as I said it I knew it was a mistake and a respectful silence would not have antagonized the court, in the person of our Head of Chambers, who was about to decide my fate. ‘When you were away and I got the evidence about the entry of the bullets, and the separate magazine, he seemed quite grateful.'

‘Can you be absolutely sure,' now C. H. Wystan was smiling in what I took to be a lofty and somewhat patronizing manner, ‘that either of those questions will make any significant difference to the result?'

‘No,' I had to admit, ‘I can't be sure.'

‘In that case,' Wystan was still smiling as he came to pronounce his verdict, ‘you probably did little but alienate the judge and irritate the jury.'

I had nothing to say to that and, for a dreadful moment, I thought he might quite possibly be right. ‘It's true, however,' Wystan fortified himself with sherry before making the admission, ‘that your asking those questions gave you considerable influence over our client, young Simon Jerold.'

‘I think it did.'

‘Of course, he has no knowledge of the law or the tactful conduct of trials.'

‘Thankfully not. He didn't seem to want to invent a story about his father attacking him later that night.'

‘So it's up to you, Rumpole, to use this influence you have obtained, in whatever doubtful way, to help our client.' Wystan ignored my tactless reference to the story he'd asked Simon to invent.

‘That's what I intend to do. Help our client.'

‘I'm glad to hear it. Very glad indeed.' At this Wystan put down his glass, sat up straight and fixed me with his pale eyes. ‘So now will you use that influence to benefit young Simon? On Monday morning before the judge sits, you will persuade him to see sense?'

‘Sense?'

‘Yes, Rumpole, common sense. Tell him to invite me back. To take over, Rumpole, the conduct of his defence.'

‘You want me to tell him that?'

‘And in spite of his outrageous behaviour, I'm prepared to forgive and forget. I have asked Albert to keep me free for the next couple of weeks.'

I looked into his eyes and was reminded, strangely enough, of the eyes of Simon. Both of them were calling desperately on my help. I was horribly aware that I could only help one or the other, and the choice was inevitable. I started by saying, ‘I mean to get him off.'

‘You, Rumpole? Alone and without a leader?'

‘Yes. If that's what Simon wants.'

‘What Simon wants!' Wystan's pained expression was turning to anger. ‘And you honestly believe he's innocent?'

‘What I believe is immaterial, you know that at least. It's not for me to make a judgement, it's up to the jury.' Here was I, an inexperienced white wig, telling my Head of Chambers the basic rules of a barrister's life. ‘It's my job to put his case as well as possible. He says he didn't kill his father or “Tail-End” Charlie. I've got to show that it's at least possible that he didn't murder anyone.'

‘Rumpole!' Wystan called me to order. ‘You say it's your job. I'm merely asking you to tell the client to agree that it's your leader's job. Will you do that on Monday morning? '