"Mortimer, John Clifford - Rumpole 01c - Rumpole and the Honourable Member" - читать интересную книгу автора (Mortimer John)

'It's our head clerk,' Erskine-Brown went on mysteriously.

'Albert? You want to go and bother him?' Erskine-Brown could restrain himself no longer. 'He's a criminal! Our head clerk is a criminal, Rumpole.' I looked at the man with considerable disapproval. 'As an ornament of the civil side, don't you find that sort of word a little distasteful?' 'I have proof.' And Erskine-Brown fished a pound note out of his pocket. I examined it curiously.

'Looks like a fairly conventional portrait of Her Majesty.' 'There's a red cross in the corner,' he announced proudly. 'I put it there. I marked the money in the petty cash!' I looked at my fellow barrister in astonishment.

'I've suspected Albert for a long time. Well, I saw him in Pommeroy's Wine Bar and I got the note he'd paid with off one of the girls. Perhaps it's difficult for you to believe.' 'Extremely!' I stood up and fixed him with an unfriendly gaze. 'A private eye. Taking up the Bar as a profession!' 'What do you mean, Rumpole?' 'I mean, in my day they used to be nasty little men in macs, sniffing round the registers in cheap hotels. They used to spy into bedrooms with field-glasses, in the ever-present hope of seeing male and female clothing scattered around. It's the first time I ever heard of a private Dick being called to the Bar, and becoming an expert on the law of contract.' I handed the marked pound back to Erskine-Brown, the well-known Dick. He looked displeased.

' It's obvious that I will have to go straight to the Head of Chambers.' As he made for the door I stopped him.

'Why not?' I said. 'Oh just one thing that may have escaped your attention, my dear Watson.' 'What's that?' 'Yesterday afternoon, I borrowed five pound notes from petty cash, no doubt notes decorated by you. And I paid for all of Albert's drinks in Pommeroys.' 'Rumpole. Are you sure?' I could see he felt his case crumbling.

' I would really advise you, Erskine-Brown, as a learned friend, not to go round Chambers making these sort of wild allegations against our clerk. A man who's been here, old darling, since you were in nappies!' 'Very well, Rumpole. I'm sorry I interrupted your rape.' Erskine-Brown had the door open, he was about to slink away.

'Say no more, old sweetheart. Not one word more. Oh, convey my condolences to the unfortunate Henry. The position of second clerk must be continually frustrating.' When I was alone I was well pleased. Albert and I had been together now for forty years and I was anxious not to cross my old Dutch. And the evidence little Myersy had uncovered put me in mind of Lewis Caroll.

'Oh, hast thou slain the Jabberwock? Come to my arms! Thou beamish boy ...' 'Not yet father', I said to myself. 'But I will. Oh yes. I certainly will ...' 'Tomatoes doing well, Mr Myers, are they?' ' I apply a great deal of artificial, you see, Mr Rumpole. And they're just coming up to the fourth truss.' 'Fourth truss, are they? Lively little blighters, then!' We were waiting outside Court. Mr and Mrs Aspen were sitting on a bench, he looking curiously relaxed, she glaring across at Miss Bridget Evans who was looking young and demure on a bench some distance away. Meanwhile I was going through the old legal gambit of chatting up the instructing solicitor. I showed concern for his tomatoes, he asked after my son whom he remembered as a visitor to the Courts of Law.

'Nick? Oh, he's the brains of the family. Sociology. They've offered him a lectureship at Warwick University! And he's engaged to be married. Met her in America and now he's bringing the lady to live in England.' 'I never had a family,' Mr Myers told me, and added, 'I do find having young kids about plays merry hell with your tomatoes.' At which point Mrs Anna Aspen drew me aside for a conference. The first thing she said surprised me a little.

' I just hope you're not going to let me down.' 'Let you down, Mrs Aspen? So far as I can see you're in no danger of the Nick.' 'I'm in danger of losing everything I ever worked for.' 'I understand.' 'No. You don't understand, Mr Rumpole. It's been hard work, but I made Ken fight. I made him go for the nomination. I made him fight for the Seat. When he got in he wanted ... I don't know, to relax on the back benches. He said he'd throw in ideas. But I told him to fight for the PJP.S.'s job and he's got it!' She looked across to where her husband was actually trying the ghost of a smile in Bridget's direction. 'He can't see it's either him or her now. Ken can't see that! You're right about him looking for compromises. Sometimes it makes me so angry!' 'Angrier than the idea of your husband and Miss Bridget Evans. On the floor of the office?' 'Oh that! Why should I worry about that?' Before I could answer her question, an usher came out to invite the Honourable Member to step into the dock, and we were away.

When you go into Court in a rape case it's like stepping into a refrigerator with the light off. All the men on the jury are thinking of their daughters, and all the women are sitting with their knees jammed together. I found a sympathetic-looking, moderately tarty, middle-aged lady juror, the sort that might have smiled at the Honourable Member and thought, 'Why didn't you ring me, dearie. I'd have saved you all this trouble.' But her lips snapped shut during the opening by Mr Twenty-man, Q.c. for the prosecution, and I despaired of her.

Even the judge, old Sam Parkin, an amiable old darling, perfectly capable of giving a conditional discharge for manslaughter or putting an old lag on probation, even old Sam looked, when the case opened, as if he'd just heard the clerk say, 'Put up Jack the Ripper.' Now he seemed to be wanning to Miss Bridget Evans who was telling her hair-raising story with effective modesty. As I tottered to my feet old Sam gave me an icy look. When you start to cross-examine in a rape case you open the flap of the tent, and you're out in the blizzard.

'Miss Bridget Evans. This ... this incident involving Mr Aspen occurred at 11.30 on Wednesday night?' ' I don't know. I wasn't watching the clock.' The door of the Court opened, to admit the Rumpole fan club, my son Nick and Erica his intended. She was wearing an ethnic skirt and gave me a warm smile, as though to encourage my efforts on behalf of the underprivileged and the oppressed.

'After all the witnesses had conveniently departed. When there was no one there, to establish my client's innocence. After it was all over, what did you do?' ' I went home.' 'A serious and terrible crime had been committed and you went home, tucked yourself up in bed and went to sleep! And you said not one word to the police about it until 6.30 the following day?' Albert, also of the fan club, was sitting in front of me next to Mr Myers. I heard his penetrating whisper, 'He's doing the old Alhambra cinema technique.' It was nice to feel that dear old Albert was proud of me.

'When you went to bed. Did you go alone?' 'I don't see what that's got to do with it.' Her answer had a hint of sharpness and, for the first time, there was a centimetre up in some of the juror's eyebrows.

'Did you go alone?' 'I told you. I went to bed.' 'Miss Evans. I shall ask my question again and I shall go on asking it all night if it's necessary in the interests of my client. Did you go to bed alone?' 'Do I have to answer that sort of question, my Lord?' 'Yes you do. And my Lord will so direct.' I got in before Sam could draw breath.

'Perhaps if you answer Mr Rumpole's questions shortly you will be out of the box quite quickly, and your painful experience will be over.' Sam Parkin meant well, but I intended to keep her there a little while longer.

'Yes. I went to bed alone.' 'How long had that been going on?' 'How long had what been going on, Mr Rumpole?' Sam asked.

'That the witness had taken to sleeping alone, my Lord. You were no longer friendly with Mr Etherington?' 'Paul and I? We split about two years ago. If you're interested in the truth.' I began to hear what a barrister longs for when he's cross-examining, the note of anger.

'Yes, Miss Evans. I am interested in the truth, and I expect the ladies and gentlemen of the jury are also.' The tarty lady nodded perceptibly. She and I were beginning to reach an understanding.

'Mr Rumpole. Is it going to help us to know about this young lady and Paul..." Sam was doing his best.

'Paul Etherington, my Lord. He was the Parliamentary agent.' 'I'm anxious not to keep this witness longer than is necessary.' 'I understand, my Lord. It must be most unpleasant.' Almost as unpleasant I thought, as five years in the Nick, which was what the Honourable Member might expect if I didn't demolish Miss Evans. 'But I have my duty to do.' 'And a couple of refreshers to earn,' Mr Twentyman, Q.C., whispered, a thought bitchily, to his junior.

'You had been living with Paul Etherington for two years before you parted?' 'Yes.' So you were eighteen when you started living together.* 'Just... nearly eighteen.' 'And before that?' 'I was at school.' 'You had lovers before Paul?' 'Yes.' 'How many?' 'One or two.' ' Or three or four? How many? or didn't they stay long enough to be counted?"

My dear friend the lady juror gave a little disapproving sigh. I had misjudged her. The old darling was less a fille dejoie than a member of the festival of light, but I saw Erica whisper to Nick, and he held her hand, shushing her.