John Mortimer - Rumpole On Trial Read online

  When the joke was over and the man had withdrawn, Elizabeth pushed back her hair, looked down at the tablecloth and confessed, 'I've been so lonely lately.' 'I don't believe that. I mean, you're part of a trio.' 'We still play marvellously together', she agreed. 'But Tom can't seem to realize I am married to Desmond...' So she began to tell me about her life with the musicians.

  Desmond Casterini was the pianist and her husband. Tom Randall was the hefty athlete astride the cello. He, it seemed, was terribly jealous of Desmond, and Desmond was inexcusably suspicious of Tom. The men quarrelled over Elizabeth, and their jealousy, she told me, became a sort of unlovely bond between them. In this welter of masculine emotion she felt left out, unconsidered, no more than an object they were both fighting over. And Desmond made her nervous because he had this 'wild blood' in him.

  'What do you mean?' 'His father's half Italian, half Irish. Very passionate, apparently, when he was young.' And then she took me completely by surprise as she said, 'It's his father's gun.' 'His whatr 'An old revolver. Desmond keeps it as a sort of memento.

  Also he says he needs it for our protection. I suppose his father had enemies.' 49 'You mean it works?' I hated to think of her in such a household. 'He's got ammunition?' She nodded and I advised her to tell him to hand it in to the police. I thought it must be an unnerving thing to have about, especially for a vegetarian.

  'We're together so much, we three.' She sighed again and began to make little indented tramlines with her fork on the tablecloth. 'Sometimes I feel I want to get miles away from both of them. It would help so much if you and I could meet.

  Just occasionally. So I could have someone to talk to.' 'I don't see why that couldn't be arranged.' 'I get this feeling that something awful's going to happen,' she said very quietly. 'Don't ask me what exactly.' Then I looked down and saw a strange sight. Her hand was on mine. It felt cool and comforting and as if there was no weight to it at all. She kept it there for a little while, and then I turned to the vegetables, which were no substitute for this brief contact. We talked of other things, their strange rehearsal room in an old block of studios near Warren Street station, and my triumphs in various cases. When we parted in Maiden Lane she kissed my cheek swiftly and ran off to greet a dawdling taxi. I didn't see her again until after the events which seemed to confirm all her most terrible fears.

  I'm not sure how much truth there was around us legal hacks at that period, but there was certainly a good deal of beauty. I have already told you about Miss Dorothy, generally known as Dot, Clapton, who was now installed behind the typewriter in the clerk's room, getting on with her job while turning the head of Claude Erskine-Brown, a part of his body which, at the sight of any reasonably attractive young woman, spins round like a teetotum. Dot, it appeared to me, was very young, very pretty, extremely sensible and had her head screwed on firmly. Of one thing I am sure: the relationship between Claude Erskine-Brown and Dot never reached the sultry |,f temperature which he hoped for. She treated him politely and ignored all his attempts to impress her as an important barrister or to flirt with her as a dashing young opera buff.

  Now it appeared that on his way into the clerk's room one quiet afternoon, when most of the numbers of Chambers had better things to do, Claude heard, through the door which had been left open a crack, the voice of Henry, our clerk, addressing Dot in a manner most lascivious. I have since verified the words used and Henry undoubtedly referred to 'The deep pools of your eyes, the suggestion of soft breasts beneath that modest, white shirt, and the whisper your stockings make when you cross your legs'. To which Dot was heard to reply, 'You mustn't say those things. You know you mustn't, thus displaying her good taste in English prose as well as much sensible caution. At the end of it all. Henry suggested they get far away from 'the grey little people' they worked with to a place where he hoped that their bodies might mingle.

  Unable to contain himself any longer, Claude burst into the clerk's room, where he saw Henry on his knees and Dot looking becomingly modest. When he asked what had been going on. Henry rose in a dignified manner and said he and our typist had been sending out fee notes 'so you and the other ladies and gentlemen in Chambers all get your creature comforts. I'm also trying to fix your civil at Romford County Court. Now, is there any other information you was requiring, sir?' The first I heard of this remarkable scene was when I was walking back from the Old Bailey in the company of Soapy Sam Ballard, Q.c., the alleged Head of our Chambers. We had been co-defending and I had managed to get his client out as well as my own, so he was in a fairly sunny mood until Claude came panting up to him with the tale of dire deeds and desperate misconduct in the clerk's room at Equity Court.

  'Just the man I wanted!' Erskine-Brown addressed our Head, he didn't seem to want me particularly. 'We're in deep trouble, Ballard. I have every reason to believe there's a serious case of harassing in our midst.' 'What on earth's harassing?' Ballard was puzzled.

  'Well, harassing, then. But people call it harassing nowadays. Because Americans do.' 'I don't understand that, Erskine-Brown. You're not American,' I told him. 'Anyway, I'm always being harassed, by solicitors who want their papers the day before yesterday and by Henry, who wants me in two places at once, and by Mr Injustice Graves, who frequently interrupts my crossexamination.' 'This is sexual harassing.' Claude was clearly not interested in the less sensual variety. 'Someone is trying to force their amorous advances on a defenceless and innocent young woman.' 'Did you say sexual?' Ballard's nose quivered slightly.

  'I'm afraid so.' 'That makes a difference.' 'Indeed it does.' 'Who's the guilty party?' Ballard asked, but Claude didn't want to hand over the leading role in such a dramatic inquiry just yet. 'Someone of importance to us all', he merely dropped a hint, 'someone we've known for a long time.' 'It can't be Rumpole?' Soapy Sam looked at me with deep suspicion.

  'No, of course it can't,' Erskine-Brown reassured him.

  'Look, I just thought I'd warn you of what's in the wind. I'll report further when I've got a full statement from the complainant.' 'The who?' Ballard, as usual, found events travelling a little too fast for him.

  'The girl in question.' Erskine-Brown was prepared to handle her, whoever she might be. 'In my view we must get her cooperation before we move an inch further. It's the most delicate situation.' 'Oh, yes. Of course.' Ballard was persuaded. 'Clearly.

  Harassing indeed! We can't possibly have that at 3 Equity Court.' My lunch at Rules with Elizabeth Casterini had a strange effect on me. I couldn't forget it and, at odd and inappropriate moments during the day, waiting outside Court for instance, or listening to the speeches of learned friends, I would remember the look in her eyes, the faint, somehow apologetic smile, as she laid her hand on mine. I felt that there was something a little gross about my existence compared to the purity of hers. It was this thought that led me to surprise She Who Must Be Obeyed, as we sat down to dinner in the kitchen ofFroxbury Mansions, by saying, 'No chops, Hilda.' 'What did you say, Rumpole?' She looked startled.

  'I said, "No chops," thank you. As a matter of fact, I'm giving up meat.' 'You're what?' 'People who eat meat start to look like chartered accountants.' 'Well, you've eaten enough of it. You ought to be much better at sums by now. Are you feeling quite well, Rumpole?' 'I feel wonderfully well, thank you, Hilda. I'll just take a selection of vegetables.' 'Boiled potatoes and cabbage. That's the only selection we've got. Will that be quite all right for you? Rumpole!

  What on earth are you putting into that glass?' I was, as it so happened, filling the usual repository of Pommeroy's plonk at the tap.

  'Water, Hilda. Anything wrong?' 'No, nothing wrong, I suppose. Nothing wrong with water.

  So far as it goes. It's just that it's, well, so unlike you, Rumpole.' 'People should be sufficiently intoxicated with each other.

  Why should we need artificial stimulants?' It was no doubt an indulgence to repeat Elizabeth's words, but Hilda was delighted by them.

  'Why, indeed? It's very nice of you to say that, Rumpo
le.' And then, as she sat beside me and helped herself to chops, she gave a doubtful sniff. 'Do you notice a rather peculiar smell, Rumpole?' 'Not particularly.' 'Perhaps it's the new washing-up liquid. The Tropical Fruits detergent. I really don't know why I bought it.' 'No, Hilda, it's not the washing-up liquid. It is Machismo for Men. I acquired a bottle from Alfredo's in Fetter Lane when I popped in for a haircut.' 'A haircut? And there seems to be less of your moustache.' 'I have also got a new hat. The old one was getting a bit frayed round the edges.' And then, I must say, she surprised me by saying, 'Rumpole! You did all this for me?' 'What did you say, Hilda?' 'Just as you learned to dance, especially for me. And came to the concert to get a bit more civilized. And gave yourself a new and powerful fragrance.' It was, I must say, an unusual evening in the mansion flat, for as we sat opposite each other at the kitchen table I felt Hilda's hand upon mine; and she was looking into my eyes with quite unusual affection.

  I should, perhaps, if I'm to make clear to you how the matter of the Chambers harassment developed, explain to you the geography of our clerk's room. It is a nondescript, fairly illorganized and often overcrowded office space, where Henry and Dot Clapton carry on their business and where members search hopefully for briefs and consult Henry's diary in order to get their marching orders. A smaller room leads off it which houses the coffee machine and a set of All England Law Reports, which I occasionally feel called upon to consult.

  I was pursuing a bit of elusive law, which was relevant to a case of receiving stolen fish, when I heard Erskine-Brown accost our typist, who I knew to be reading Hello magazine and eating her lunchtime sandwiches. I'm not ashamed to say that I earwigged the conversation and this is roughly what I heard, starting with Erskine-Brown saying how glad he was to find Miss Clapton alone.

  'Are you, Mr Erskine-Brown?' Dot sounded less than astonished.

  'Would you like to', and here Erskine-Brown gave a cautious cough, 'come into my room?' 'Well, not really, sir. You see, I'm on telephone duty. It's Henry's lunch-hour.' Then there was a silence, broken by Erskine-Brown's, 'Dot, is there anything you'd like to tell me?' 'What would you like to know? I could tell you the time,' Dot suggested brightly. 'It's 1.25 precisely.' 'You're young. Dot', Erskine-Brown clearly wanted to talk of more serious matters, 'and I'm sure this is very embarrassing for you. But nowadays, well, girls of your age are much more open... About sex and all that.' 'Do you mind if I go on with my sandwiches?' was Dot's rather discouraging reply.

  'Not if it makes this easier for you. I'm sure you realize that men do get these, well, these urges that come over them, from time to time.' 'I'll take your word for it, Mr Erskine-Brown.' 'And you are, of course, desperately fanciable. I mean to say, you're an extraordinarily attractive young lady.' 'I do my best.' 'I'm sure you do. I'm absolutely sure you do. The thing is that no man is entitled to show his feelings in the workplace.' 'I agree with that, quite honestly.' Dot's answer sounded as though it came through a fair-sized bite of sandwich. 'We get a short enough lunch-hour anyway.' 'Dot', Erskine-Brown adopted the gentle, reassuring tones of the father confessor, 'I'd like you to feel that we don't have any secrets from each other. You can trust me and I want you to succeed in Equity Court, perhaps rising from typist to junior clerk, and then, who knows? But, for your own sake, tell me what you're really feeling. I mean, if you don't cooperate, we can't do anything about it.' There was an interruption then as I heard young Dave Inchcape come in and ask Dot to type out an urgent Statement of Claim. She agreed to do so with a vivacity and enthusiasm altogether absent from her voice when dealing with the concerned Claude. As soon as they were alone once more I heard him say, 'We really can't talk here.' 'You seem to be managing.' I heard Dot put paper into her typewriter in a business-like manner.

  'I mean, we can't talk properly. Why don't you just come into my room for a moment?' 'And look at your etchings?' Now Miss Clapton was sounding distinctly sharp.

  'No, of course not!' Claude laughed uneasily. 'Anyway, I don't have etchings. English watercolours, actually. Shall we go?' 'I don't think so, Mr Erskine-Brown, quite honestly. I must get on with Mr Inchcape's Statement of Claim. He seemed quite desperate for it, didn't he? Poor man!' And then her typewriter started to clatter energetically and Claude must have retreated. When I emerged with the relevant volume of the All England Law Reports under my arm. Dot was alone and looking as though something had happened which she had not expected in a respectable barristers' Chambers.

  While these events were unfolding in our Chambers at Equity Court a more serious and terrible drama was involving Elizabeth Casterini, whom I had come to look on as my newfound friend. The best thing I can do is to give you the facts as they emerged in the case in which I appeared.

  The Casterini Trio's rehearsal room was in Butterworth Buildings, which was, as Elizabeth had said, a rundown, poorly decorated and underheated block near Warren Street station. On each floor, reached by an antique lift which the passengers had to start by pulling on a rope, there were a number of rooms from which the sound of music was constantly emerging. These could be rented by the hour, but the Casterinis had a permanent lien on theirs, which was on the fifth floor. On the floor below, a room was often rented by Peter Matheson, a horn player who had been at college with Elizabeth and was to be an important witness at the trial.

  At about a quarter past six on the evening in question, Matheson was unlocking his room when Desmond Casterini came down from the floor above, using the stairs as the lift was out of order. He seemed extremely agitated and said that something had happened to Tom Randall, the cello player. At that stage Matheson noticed blood on Desmond Casterini's cuff. They went upstairs together and into the Casterini's rehearsal room. There Matheson saw Randall lying on the floor, his clothes blood-stained and his face drained of all colour. He had been shot through the heart. Matheson used the phone on the wall to make a 999 call and the police arrived on the scene at twenty-five minutes to seven. The body was removed to the mortuary and the room was searched, photographed and dusted for fingerprints. These proceedings were in the control of Detective Inspector Baker and Detective Sergeant Straw. It was D.S. Straw who found, in a space between the wall and the piano, an old Colt revolver, from which one shot had recently been fired and with two bullets left in the chamber.

  So the trio was reduced to a duet. Elizabeth Casterini and her husband were playing a Brahms Sonata at the Purcell Room when the police officers appeared in the audience. During the interval D.I. Baker arrested Desmond Casterini and told him that he would be charged with the murder of Thomas Paul Randall and that anything he said would be taken down in writing and might be used in evidence at his trial.

  After I had read of Casterini's arrest in The Times I tried to speak to Elizabeth, but there was the sound of ringing in what I imagined to be an empty room and no reply. Three weeks went by and then she rang me at Chambers, She wanted to see me urgently. She was due at a recording session in Soho, and before that she had to call at the Festival Hall. Could we meet, but not, please, in an office? Somewhere by the river, in the fresh air? She didn't want to feel she was meeting a lawyer, but seeing a friend. She needed a friend now of all times, when what she had feared for so long seemed, at last, to have happened. I had been wondering when I would see her again and I was ashamed to find myself grateful to a murder for bringing us together. I did as I was told and took a taxi across Waterloo Bridge to the Festival Hall.

  I was waiting by the river, looking, on a misty morning, towards St Paul's when I heard a hoot and Elizabeth emerged from a bright-red sports car, which she left by a sign marked No Parking. She was wearing jeans and a big white sweater, hadn't slept but otherwise calm looking pale as though sher ups, and asked She took my arm, brushy if I'd been waiting long. is morning.' 'Hardly at all. But I an- e g Randall's death and her And then she told me, admirable lucidity and courhusband's arrest briefly a g g e ended, 'and all absolute age. 'It's such a nightie Desmond. You will look after him, nonsense, of course, aboV g out y and the
marvellous won't you? I've told him way you did Billy's case.' im?' 'You mean, he wants n4 'We both want you to. gg f invaluable Mr Bernard to I told her that I'd arra g e'd instruct me.

  visit her husband in pns(1 ygy Never mind about the legal 'I wanted to see you, ' > business. I've felt so alon"

  'I'm sure.' ave you on our side. Now I know 'And it's wonderful tt. right.' Desmond's going to be a1 'I'll do my best.' yoked at her watch, 'but I suppose 'It's ridiculous', she g music session for a corn, life has to go on. I'm f, always springtime", that's mercial. "Under your y what I'm playing for.' 'Not Schubert?' God they haven't ruined Schubert 'Mendelssohn. Thanl-j ed down at the river and said for me.' And then she ways calling. They keep asking miserably, 'The police ? me for statements.' nyp' 'Have you given them g anything that won't help 'Don't worry. I "a rse. Shall I see you soon?' Desmond. And you, of g She had made a statement I felt a wave of disapt witnesses. 'Better not.