Rumpole and the Learned Friends.
by John Mortimer.

From "Rumpole of the Bailey".

'Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain.' 'Doctor Hanson told you, Rumpole. You're not dying. You've got flu.' I was lying on my back, in a pair of flannel pyjamas, my brow with anguish moist and fever dew, and Hilda, most efficiently playing the part of Matey, or Ward Sister, was pouring out the linctus into a spoon and keeping my mind from wandering. Whatever Doctor Hanson, who in my humble opinion would be quite unable to recognize a case of death when he saw it, might say, I felt a curious and trance-like sense of detachment, not at all unpleasant, and seriously wondered if Rumpole were not about to drop off the twig.

'Fade far away, dissolve and quite forget What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever and the fret.' As I recited to her Hilda took advantage of the open mouth to slide in the spoonful of linctus. I didn't relish the taste of artificially sweetened hair oil. All the same little Johnny Keats, Lord Byron's piss-a-bed poet, had put the matter rather well. Then more than ever, seemed it rich to get away from it all. No more judges. No more bowing and saying 'If your Lordship pleases.' No more hopelessly challenging the verbals. No more listening to endless turgid speeches from my learned friends for the prosecution. 'To cease upon the midnight. With no pain.' From my position between two worlds I heard the telephone beside the bed ringing distantly. Hilda picked it up and told whoever it was that they couldn't speak to Mr Rumpole.

'Who? Who can't speak to me?' 'Well, he's busy at the moment." Hilda lied to the telephone. In fact I had done absolutely nothing for the last three days.

'Busy? I'm not busy.' 'Busy dying.' Hilda laughed, I thought a trifle flippantly. 'That's what he says anyway. No, Henry. Well, not this week, certainly..."

'It's my clerk. My clerk Henry!' I returned to earth and grabbed the telephone from She.

'I'm sorry to hear you're dying, sir.' Henry, as alwaysj sounded perfectly serious, and not tremendously interested.

'Dying, Henry? Well, that's a bit of an exaggeration.' 'There was a con for you, sir. At Brixton Prison. 2.30. The "Dartford Post Office Robbery". Mr Bernard's got the safe blower ...' A safe blowing in Dartford! I felt my head clear and swung my legs out of bed and feet to the floor. There's nothing like the prospect of the Old Bailey for curing all other diseases.

'I'll tell Mr Bernard you can't be there.' 'Tell him nothing of the sort, Henry. I'll be there. No trouble at all. I'll just fling on a few togs.' As I made for the wardrobe Hilda looked at me as if my recent flirtation with the Unknown had been some sort of a charade.

' I thought you were dying,' she said.

Dying, as I explained to her, would have to be postponed. Safe blowing came first.

When I was dressed, wrapped in a muffler and buttoned into an overcoat by Matey, I set out for Chambers. And there I made two unpleasant discoveries, the first being that there were those who would not have regretted Rumpole's continued absence from Chambers by reason of death. At that time we were suffering from a good deal of overcrowding and Erskine-Brown's small room, which opened into the entrance hall had to accommodate not only Erskine-Brown himself, but his ex-pupil Miss Phyllida Trant, and his two new pupils who sometimes dived into my room to borrow books and then shot out again like frightened rabbits. Also my old friend George Frobisher took refuge there whenever his old friend Hoskins, with whom George shared a room, was having an intimate conference with a divorcee.

As I passed Erskine-Brown's open door I could see his room was bursting at the seams, and, as I hung up my hat and coat in the hallway, I heard the voice of the Erskine-Brown say he supposed they'd have to hang on in that Black Hole of Calcutta a little longer. 'But! he added, 'At least he can't be with us forever.' 'Who can't be with us forever?' It was Miss Trant's voice.

'Rumpole, of course. I mean, he's bound to retire sometime. He's a good age and Henry's been telling me he's not all that well.' I chose that moment to stick my nose into the Black Hole.

'Morning, Erskine-Brown. Nose to the grindstone. Miss Trant?' Miss Trant looked up from the brief she was reading and gave me a smile. She really has decidedly pretty teeth; ever since I deceived her so heartlessly I have become almost fond of Miss Trant.

' Oh, hello, Rumpole. I thought you were off sick.' Erskine-Brown was trying to move George's particulars of nuisance off his statement of claim.

'Recovered now.' I sneezed loudly. 'Rumpole Resurrected. Sorry to disappoint you.' 'That's a nasty cold you've got. Oughtn't you to be in bed?' Miss Trant was solicitous. I looked at her brief, neatly underlined in red and green, points for and against.

'Women are such industrious creatures! Who's your client?' 'Oh, just a thief. He'll have to plead guilty. He's said such ridiculous things to the police.' 'You twist his arm, Philly. Judges don't like you wasting the Court's time with hopeless cases.' Erskine-Brown was one of nature's pleaders. I decided that the stage of her career had come when Miss Trant might benefit from some proper advice.

'Never plead guilty!' I told her. 'That should be written up in letters a foot high. In every room in Chambers.' 'A foot high! We haven't got the room for it.' Erskine-Brown was still sulking, and George looked up from the corner of the desk he was occupying as though he'd just noticed me.

'Hello, Rumpole. Haven't seen you about lately.' 'I've been dying.' 'I say, don't do that. I should miss your help with the crossword.' Thinking uneasily that the sole justification of my existence seemed to be helping George Frobisher with the crossword, I went into the clerk's room and Henry presented me with the brief in the 'Dartford Post Office Robbery'.

'You've got plenty of time, Air Rumpole. They don't want the two of you down there till three o'clock now.' 'The two of us?' I was puzzled.

'The defendant Wheeler's got a certificate for two counsel.' 'Excellent! Giving me a junior, are they? Someone to take a note?' 'Well, not exactly, Mr Rumpole.' Henry had the grace to look embarrassed. 'You're being led. They're briefing a silk. You can take it easy for once.' I was being led! I was a junior barrister, in the 67th year of my life.

'Easy! I don't want to take it easy!' I'm afraid I exploded at Henry. 'Haven't they heard? I'm out of rompers! I'm off the bloody leading rein. I managed the "Penge Bungalow Murder" alone and without a leader.' I came out of the clerk's room clutching my junior brief and was met with a whiff of after-shave as the tall, elegant figure of Guthrie Featherstone, Q.C., appeared through the front door in his gent's natty velvet-collared overcoat and bowler hat, slumming down in Chambers after a triumph in the House.

'Hullo, Rumpole.' He greeted me affably. 'I'm afraid you're going to see a lot of my back this week.' 'Your back? What do you mean, your back")' 'I'm leading you. In the "Dartford Post Office Robbery ".'He smiled in a damnably friendly fashion and went into the clerk's room.

' You're leading me, Featherstone?' I called after him, but he affected not to hear. I went on towards my room but, as I passed her open door, I looked in once more on that tireless worker Miss Phyllida Trant.

'You were perfectly right, Miss Trant. I ought to have stayed in bed.' I don't expect you've noticed Brixton Prison as you've driven down to Brighton on a sunny Sunday morning. The prison gates are down a long, extremely dreary street off the main road; you pass little knots of visitors, girl friends, black mums with their babies, and large screws going or coming from their time off. Being a screw has become something of a growth industry; I met one who gave up school teaching for wardering, the pay's so much better and you get free golf. No matter what the weather is like in other parts of London, a fine rain always seems to be falling on the long walk down to Brixton. That day Featherstone had parked his well-manicured Rover up in the main road and leader and junior walked together up to the gates of the prison house.

Our client was a well-known minor South London villain named Charlie Wheeler, a professional safe blower with a string of convictions going back to his childhood days, when Charlie forced the Dr Barnardo's box in the local church, and which included many notable exploits with safes. The evidence against him wasn't much, just Charlie's fingerprints found on a fragment of gelignite left beside the blown safe in the post office. It wasn't much; but it was quite satisfactory evidence provided you were appearing for the prosecution. If you were for the defence, well, you'd have to improvise. I explained this to Featherstone, but he looked gloomy and said, ' If you ask me this case is as dead as a doornail.' 'So are we all, eventually." I tried to cheer him up.

'Two men in stocking masks hold up the post office, one has a shotgun and our friend Wheeler's fingerprints are on a lump of explosive!' 'I know. I know.' We'd reached the prison doors and I rang the visitors' bell. Featherstone smiled faintly.

'I wonder why he didn't leave his visiting card?' 'I'll tell you, old sweetheart.' I was serious. 'Old cons like Charlie Wheeler don't have visiting cards.' The small hole in the huge wooden doors rattled open. I waved Featherstone in.

'After you, my learned friend. Leaders always go into prison first.' As soon as I get into a prison I become moody and depressed and have a strong desire to scream and fight my way out. If this is how a visitor feels, treated with respect, even deference, by the screws, I don't know how I could stand a five-year sentence, and yet I've had clients who greet five years rather like a pound from the poor box. I have also been entirely convinced, since my seventh year, that I would land up in the Nick sooner or later, for some trivial reason or other, and fear it constantly. That wet afternoon in the inner courtyard at Brixton, with the killer Airedales sniffing around at the end of their leads, and the trusty boys planting out crysanths in the sooty flower beds, the feeling came over me more strongly than ever, stronger than the fear of death. When they put me inside, I said to myself, I'll volunteer to be one of those trusties that plant out the crysanths, at least I'll get to learn about horticulture. But before I could plan further we were in the neat, glass-panelled interview room. You could see through the walls to where, in a succession of similar rooms, cons were having meetings with their briefs. In the centre of the complex the screws sat by a table on which cacti grew in pots, among stones, providing half a dozen elegant and miniature Japanese gardens. I can tell you, it's really very cosy in Brixton.

So we all sat round, Charlie Wheeler's advisors, Featherstone the Q.C.J Rumpole the junior, Bernard the solicitor and Joyce, his secretary, a jolly, fair-haired girl in jeans and a mac, dressed more for a wet weekend in Haslemere than the Nick, who clutched the file and was inclined to giggle disconcertingly during serious passages of the evidence. I once had her in Court in a murder, and she laughed so audibly at the pathologist's report that she had to be led out. Well, we were both younger then; now she seemed moderately composed as Charlie Wheeler held out his hand to me, as though we were alone in the room.

'I'm glad to see you, Mr Rumpole. It'd amaze you. The reputation you got in E Wing."

I felt a dry cough coming on, and my head still swam a little. 'They can inscribe that on my tombstone. "He had an amazing reputation round E Wing".' 'You're not going to die, are you, Mr Rumpole?' Charlie seemed genuinely concerned.

' I was considering the possibility.' ' I'm that glad you're doing my case.' 'I'm not exactly doing your case, Charlie.' I hated to disappoint him. 'Your case is being conducted by Mr Guthrie Featherstone, Q.c., M.P. His name is constantly mentioned, Charlie, in the corridors of power!' 'I haven't heard much of you," Charlie looked doubtfully at the Q.C., M.P. ' Not from the blokes in E Wing.' 'Rumpole. If I may ...' Featherstone was apparently about to gather up the reins.

' Of course, of course, my learned leader. You want to conduct this conference? Well, it's your right.' 'Now then, Wheeler.' 'He means you, Charlie,' I translated.

' Rumpole... please!' ' I shall make a note of all your words of wisdom from now on.' I got out a note book and pen. Featherstone went on with admirable calm.

' What I wanted to say, Wheeler, was...' 'Not too fast, if you don't mind.' I was putting him down at dictation speed.

'We're here to fight this case. We're going to leave no stone unturned to fight it. To the best of my poor ability!' 'My poor ability.' I repeated what seemed to me to be a key phrase as I wrote.

'But Mr Bernard's no doubt told you who our judge is,' Featherstone went on, ignoring the interruption.

'I know.' Charlie sounded deeply depressed. 'Judge Bullingham.' 'So any sort of attack on the honesty of the police ...' Featherstone went on, and Bernard raised a voice in warning: 'I told you, Charlie!' 'Would act like a red rag to a Bullingham. I suppose you told him that?' I supplied the thought for Charlie to chew over.

'Look, Mr Bernard's explained it to me. I don't want to lay into "Dirty" Dickerson.' 'Who's that?" Featherstone looked puzzled and I enlightened him from my memory of the brief.

' I imagine that is a reference to Detective Inspector Dickerson, the officer in charge of the case.' ' I mean, there ain't a whole lot of point...' Charlie seemed resigned, for which Featherstone was extremely grateful.

'Well, exactly! The evidence against you is undisputable. So what's the point of annoying the judge with a whole lot of questions?' ' I told you, Charlie.' Bernard nodded wisely.

'I mean, if I don't say nothing against Dickerson. If I keep quiet, like. Well... How much, Mr Rumpole? I were hoping for... an eight.' 'Hope springs eternal in the human breast!' I could tell him no more.

' In my experience...' 'Listen. To the wise words of the learned leader!' When they came the leader's words were by no means filled with original thought. 'Any sort of attack on the police, in a case like this, will add considerably to your sentence. So let's be sensible. I must warn you, Wheeler, the time may very well come when I have to throw in my hand.' 'You mean Charlie's hand, don't you?' I said and Featherstone looked at me as if he wished he'd been lumbered with any other junior counsel in the Temple, however old and near to death.

As we walked back to the main road and the parked Rover, Featherstone put his problem in a nutshell.

' I can't make bricks without straw, Rumpole.' 'Down the Bailey you have to make bricks without bricks. You never get the luxury of straw...' 'Of course I'll mitigate,' Featherstone said sportingly.

I tried to point out the hopelessness of this course. 'What could you say in mitigation? "My client only called in for a yp stamp, my Lord, but as he was kept waiting behind ten old ladies with pension books, and a lunatic arguing over a dog licence, he lost his patience and blew the safe " ?' 'Well, Rumpole. Hardly.' We were standing on each side of the Rover, eyeing each other in an unfriendly fashion across the polished roof, as Feather-stone unlocked the driver's door.

'Forget mitigation for a moment!' I told him. 'What's the use of spending your life in an attitude of perpetual apology? Do you think Charlie Wheeler's going to blow a safe without gloves, even in a sub post office in Dartford? Do you think he's going to leave a bit of spare gelignite around, with his trade mark on it ? Is that the mark of a professional ?' Featherstone slid into the driver's seat and opened the passenger door.

'Think about it, Featherstone.' I bundled myself into the car beside him. 'It would be like you standing up in Court and mitigating in your pyjamas!' I decided that evening to drown all uneasy thoughts as to the conduct of Wheeler's defence in three or four glasses of Chateau Fleet Street in Pommeroy's Wine Bar. I went there with my old friend George Frobisher and saw that the watering hole was well filled, barristers at one end of the bar, including Erskine-Brown, Miss Trant and Guthrie Featherstone going walkabout among his loyal subjects, journalists at the other, and myself and George at one of the crowded tables in the snug.

'They say Uncle Tom's not too well,' George told me about our oldest, no longer practising, member of Chambers.

' Who is nowadays ?' 'They say old T. C. Rowley is distinctly seedy. Well, he's a good age. He's over 80.' ' What's good about being over 80 ?' I really would have liked an answer to this question. Does the pain of hopeless frustration in which we all live become, at such an age, a dull and bearable ache of resignation? Is the loss of hearing and eyesight compensated for by a palate more than ever sensible to the thin warmth of Chateau Fleet Street? Before I could press George further on the subject, however, a young man in a tweed suit with horn-rimmed glasses and a falling lock of fair hair, detached himself from the journalists' group and approached our table.

'Mr. Rumpole?' I admitted it.

' Philbeam. I write the " In Depth " column, in the Sunday ..."

George stood. I don't believe he trusts journalists. 'Forgive me, Rumpole. I thought I'd call in on old Tom, on my way back to the hotel. Any messages ?' ' Give him my love. Oh, and tell him we'll all be joining him eventually.' 'Really Rumpole!' George sounded shocked and he went, whereupon Philbeam sat opposite me and fixed me with his glittering horn-rims.

I made him welcome and ordered further clarets. 'A gentleman of the press! I'll always be grateful for the space you gave me, during the " Penge Bungalow Murder "!' ' I think that was before my time."

' I rather think it was. Probably reported by your grandfather.' Philbeam, I could see by looking at him, had a point.

' I was in Court when you defended Ken Aspen. The rape case with the Member of Parliament.' ' Hardly one of my major triumphs.' 'Admired the way you cross-examined that girl.' I was just wondering where all this chat with the smooth-talking Philbeam was getting us, when he leaned forward and said, 'What I wanted to ask you, Mr Rumpole, was..."

'Yes?' 'Have you ever run up against a Detective Inspector Dickerson round Dartford somewhere?' "'Dirty " Dickerson?' I was interested.

' Have you heard that too ?' Philbeam smiled.' You know how he got his name?' 'No,'I said,' I've no idea.' So he started to tell me. Up by the bar I heard Featherstone say 'Sante' as he raised his glass to Erskine-Brown. I discovered later that Erskine-Brown had been picked to make one of his comparatively rare apppearances at the Bailey in the role of prosecuting counsel in the Dartford post office case, and that Featherstone was drinking to what promised to be a most civilized occasion, with both sides being of the greatest possible assistance to each other, and prosecution and defence collaborating in seeing Charlie Wheeler put gently away for a very long time indeed. Whilst this was going on Philbeam was telling me of an investigation his paper was carrying out on Dickerson. There were the usual sort of allegations, villains verballed unless they paid up, money taken for not opposing bail and such like police procedure.

' I once did an interview with a man called Harris,' Philbeam told me. 'Minor sort of South London villain. Loads of convictions ..."

' Sounds like my kind of criminal.' 'Never printed it, of course. But Harry Harris told me D. I. Dickerson once handed him a stolen cigarette case. Got his finger-prints all over it. Then he made Harris pay him 300 quid not to be prosecuted for the theft.' 'Glory Hallelujah!' I had my first hint then of how dangerously Charlie Wheeler might be defended. 'You are a blessing Philbeam, in an excellent disguise. I trust this is not an isolated incident?' 'I've got a whole file on Dickerson. Of course, I can't use it. Yet. The Leading Lady likes to win his libel actions.' 'Leading Lady?' ' That's what we call our editor.' , I let that pass. I had an urgent mission for Philbeam. 'Can you find us Harris ?' ' I know the pubs he goes to. Shouldn't be difficult.' 'Oh, please, I beg you, Philbeam. Find him! Leave no pub unturned! He sounds like a small straw, we might just make a brick or two with him.' Until Harris was found I had really nothing to go on, nothing that I could make Featherstone use as ammunition in a fight. Even if I had Harris and a pile of similar cannon-balls I was beginning to doubt if I could ever get Guthrie to fire a shot. I looked across to my learned leader at the bar, and saw him get out a large silk handkerchief and sneeze. It was not, I feared, a signal to change, rather a trumpet call to retreat.

Lacking Harris, or any other tangible defence, I had to fall back on the flu as ammunition for my learned leader. Accordingly I brought to Court a throat spray, a pile of clean handkerchiefs, and a packet of cough drops which could be opened and noisily consumed during vital parts of the prosecution evidence. I ranged these weapons out in front of me on the first, remarkably uneventful, day in Court.

It was so uneventful, in fact, and so little was said on behalf of the defence, that his Honour Judge Bullingham became positively benign. One of the unsolved mysteries of the universe, and a matter I find it hard to speculate upon that such relatively straightforward problems as Free Will or Life after Death, is why on earth Ronnie Bullingham was ever made an Old Bailey judge. It's not his fault that he has a thick, heavily veined neck and the complexion of a beetroot past its first youth; his personal habits such as picking his teeth and searching in his ear with his little finger while on the bench I can forgive, and his unreasoning prejudice against all black persons, defence lawyers and probation officers I can mercifully attribute to some deep psychological cause. Perhaps the Bull's mother, if such a person can be imagined, was assaulted by a black probation officer who was on his way to give evidence for the defence. What I cannot forgive is his Honour's appalling treatment of the English language. His summing-ups have to be translated by the Court of Appeal like pages of Urdu, and all the jury get is a vague impression of a man so shaken with rage that some dreadful crime must have caused it. The only kind of sentence in which Bullingham never falters is one of seven years and up.

So there we were before this appalling tribunal, Charlie Wheeler resigned, Bernard tremendously anxious, his nice secretary blushing as the judge stared with undisguised hostility at her trousers, and Erskine-Brown taking Mr Fingleton, the fingerprint expert, through his predictably damaging evidence. It was a rare occasion, peace and tranquillity in Bullingham's Court.

'Mr Fingleton,' said Erskine-Brown. 'Do you produce enlarged photographs of the first, second and third fingers of the defendant, Wheeler?' 'Yes.' I carefully unfolded the first of my pile of hankies and loudly blew the Rurnpole nose, diverting the attention of some of the jury.

'Does the defence admit them?' The Bull glared towards us. Featherstone rose and bowed as if he'd been addressing the House of Lords.

' Those are admitted, my Lord.' 'Well, thank you," said the judge in an unprecedented burst of good manners. 'I'm very much obliged to you, Mr Feather-stone.' 'I bet you are, old darling!' I muttered as Featherstone sank gracefully back into his seat.

'And do you also produce enlarged photographs of the fingerprints on the small piece of gelignite taken by Detective Inspector Dickerson from the scene of the crime ?' 'Yes.' I could see it was time to use the throat spray. I lifted it to the open mouth.

'Now what do you say about those two sets of fingerprints?"

I puffed the throat spray, regrettably I couldn't drown the answer.

' I have found 32 distinct points of similarity.' 'And by points of similarity you mean ...?' The Bull wanted it spelt out for the jury.

'The break in the first whorl on the index finger, for instance, my Lord, is exactly the same in both cases.' The photographs were handed round twelve good jury-persons, who were flattered into becoming experts.

' Yes, I think the members of the jury can see that quite clearly. You can, can't you?' Bullingham's manner to the jury was a nice mixture of a creep and a crow.

'And so, Mr Fingleton, what is your conclusion? Just tell the jury.' Erskine-Brown's approach was more subtle, he simply wanted the witness to tell us his views, provided, of course, they were the views of the prosecution.

'My conclusion is ...' Fingleton was an experienced witness. He turned politely to the jury. But Rumpole was an experienced defender. He worked at the throat spray producing a cloud of medicated mist and created a genuine diversion. Even Fingleton paused and turned to look.

'This is not a hospital!" The judge's remark seemed painfully obvious. 'I would stress that. For the benefit of junior counsel for the defence. Yes, Mr Fingleton?' In the enforced silence that followed Fingleton struck. 'The fingerprints are identical, my Lord.' 'Thank you very much, Mr Fingleton.' Erskine-Brown sat down with great pleasure. I don't know what I expected of the rustling silk in front of me. An attack on the whole theory of the fingerprint as first promulgated by Professor Purkinje of the University of Breslau? The classification into whorls, loops, arches and composites pioneered by Sir E. R. Henry of the Bengal Police? Something, anything, to puzzle the jury and infuriate the Bull. As it was the Q.C. rose in all his glory to deliver himself of his single ban mot: 'No questions, my Lord." 'I can't do anything with this evidence,' Featherstone whispered to me as he sat down.

'No. You can't,' I told him. I gave out a final fusillade of coughs, the only effect of which was to drown the judge as he thanked my leader, with every appearance of delight, for his brilliant contribution to the trial.

That evening I was re-reading my brief in the living-room at Froxbury Court with a still slightly feverish eye. I came again to something in Charlie Wheeler's proof of evidence that had always puzzled me, a conversation he had had with D. I. Dickerson at about two in the morning in a police cell. Charlie's recollection of the event hadn't been particularly clear but it seemed there had been an offer of bail in exchange for a confession and it had ended in some sort of temporary agreement, because the officer had shaken Charlie's hand before leaving him for the rest of the night. I read the short, unilluminating paragraph through several times before something which could hardly be called an idea, more a vague hint of the possibility of some future thought, floated into my mind. I lit a small cigar, which considerably improved the quality of my cough, and gazed at the rising smoke.

Then the telephone rang, a most unexpected caller, none other than Mrs Marigold Featherstone speaking directly from the sick bed. She was heart-broken to tell me, but poor Guthrie had a temperature of 102. It had come at the worst possible time, what with the Foreign Office dinner next week and his speech on Devolution. She really couldn't let Guthrie risk all that by coming down to the Old Bailey...

'Of course not! Don't dream of it! You keep the old darling tucked up in bed.' Rumpole was extremely solicitous. 'And keep the hot-water-bottles going, and beef tea constantly simmering on the hob. The Old Bailey's a nasty draughty place.' Marigold sounded grateful and passed the phone to her husband who croaked an apology and said did I mind holding the fort, and he was sure I agreed there was nothing to do but to mitigate in view of the evidence we had heard.

'Quite right, Guthrie,' I assured him. 'Of course we'll have to plead. No, I won't attack the officer in charge of the case. I'll adopt your technique. I admired it so much. "No questions, my Lord." That really endeared you to the old Bull. You had the old sweetheart purring. Now you stay in bed, Guthrie. Twenty-four hours at least. Don't you dream of moving.' I was putting down the phone with a grin of pure pleasure when Hilda came in, flushed from the washing up, and asked who was on the phone. I stood and greeted her with words of delight.

' Oh frabjous day !, Hilda,' I said. ' Callooh ! Callay ! He chortled in his joy !' ' What on earth's the matter with you, Rumpole?' 'The matter? Nothing's the matter! It's an occasion for rejoicing. I've given up my learned leader the flu!' Then I phoned the night editor of that prestigious Sunday paper which examines our lives in depth, and left a message for the industrious Philbeam.

I got up early the next morning and was down at Ludgate Circus, as the all-night printers came off work, and indulged myself in the treat of breakfast in Jock's Cafe opposite the Old Bailey, a place patronized by the discerning coppers, reporters, and meat porters of Smithfield, where the two eggs, rashers and fried slice are the best in London, and where I have roughed out, over a third cup of coffee, some of my most devastating cross-examinations and most moving speeches for the defence. I was joined at breakfast by Philbeam, to whom I gave the glad tidings that the world's greatest mitigator was docked in bed for the remainder of the trial. My spirits were only a little dashed by the fact that Philbeam had, so far, failed in his search for Harris.

'I've been round twenty pubs,' he told me. 'No joy. But I've got a number to phone. Place where his sister works.' He looked at his watch.' They won't be open till 9.30.' 'Oh, find him, Philbeam, old darling. We may be all set for the unmasking of "Dirty " Dickerson.' I sent Philbeam about his business and went over to the Palais de Justice. The dear old place was as I liked it best, quiet and peaceful with only a few tired cleaning ladies and sleepy attendants to greet me. I got changed into my working clobber, wig, gown and so on, at my leisure and went down to the lower ground floor. I had rung Bernard the night before and asked him to meet me for an early conference with the client. But when I got to the old battered Newgate door, which divides the safe sheep from the imperilled goats, I found only the secretary Joyce, looking harassed and with her arms full of files.

'Oh, Mr Rumpole,' she panted at me, 'Mr Bernard won't be with you this morning. A funeral.' 'Not his?' 'A client's.' 'That's all right then. I'm just going down the cells to see Charlie.' 'Oh. Oh, well. I'm with Mr Hoskins on a fraud in the West Court. We've got a conference over there and..."

'You run along, my dear,' I reassured her. 'I believe I can cope with a conference alone and without a leader.' At which she went off gratefully and I went up to the iron gate to do what no sensible barrister ever does, see a client alone before a trial. Perhaps I was too full of my sudden freedom from the leading rein to be sensible at that moment, and I was still in a cheerful mood when the screw left his mug of tea and jam sandwich to open the door to me.

'Got Wheeler, have you?' I asked him. 'Charlie Wheeler?' 'Well, I don't think he's gone out anywhere.' This screw was a wit.' He don't get many invitations.' 'Not many invitations! That's rich, that is. Exceeding rich!' I laughed appreciatively.

You know what being an Old Bailey Hack over the years blunts? It blunts the sensitivity. The sensitivity comes out like hair on the comb, and when you go down the cells you're prepared to laugh at anything.

'You ever paid Dickerson money, Charlie?' Wheeler and I were a deux in the interview room, both smoking away at my small cigars.

' I'd never entertain it! Oh, I know some as paid him.' ' Including Harry Harris ?' 'You knows a lot, don't you?' Charlie looked at me with some admiration.

' I try to keep abreast of the underworld. So you were known to the Detective Inspector as a dedicated non-payer?' 'You could say that.' There was a pause as I searched for Charlie's statement in the brief. Then he said, 'Mr Featherstone not here today?' 'We had a bit of luck with the flu. It says somewhere here that the D. I. was on the point of offering you bail...' 'That seemed funny to me, like.' 'Very funny. With your record.' ' Of course, he wanted something for it. He was asking me to put my hands up, like.' ' Sign a confession ? You weren't going to ?' ' I never done that, Mr Rumpole. It's not the way I work. All the same...' 'Yes?' 'I strung him along a bit. I let him think we might do a deal. We even shook hands on it like.' ' Yes. Tell me more about that.' ' Shook hands on the deal, like. Well, he put out his hand, like ... and took mine.' 'You ever had your hand taken by a police officer before?' This was the part that interested me.

'No! Only me collar.' ' Show me, how he shook hands with you. You be the Detective Inspector.' Charlie took my hand, but only for a moment.' It was all over in a second. And I never made no statement. It ain't in me character.' 'How did Dickerson look when he shook hands with you? Did he look pleased, triumphant?' ' I couldn't hardly see him.' 'What?' ' It was in my cell. In the Dartford Nick. I don't know ... about two o'clock of a morning. I was half asleep ... well, he was in the dark, like. He did seem that little bit nervous.' 'Nervous?' ' Well. You know what you expect from a man of his build. Good firm grip. Well, that hand of his felt a bit clammy and soft.' I stood up, the vague thought had not only become an idea but a plan of attack, a series of questions for cross-examination.

'How do you feel about this case, Mr Rumpole?' Charlie looked up at me doubtfully.

' Feel? Like stout Cortez.' 'Who?' 'When with the eagle eyes He stared at the Pacific, and all his men Looked at each other with a wild surmise.' 'You got me there, Mr Rumpole.' 'Keats! It's been an autumn of Keats. "To cease upon the midnight with no pain." Quite enough of that! We're recovered now. Rumpole resurrected!' 'You reckon we've got a chance, Mr Rumpole?' 'A tiny chance perhaps. Like a small electric light bulb in a dark cell. More chance than mitigating.' I sat down again at the table and started to explain the position as clearly as I could to Charlie.' I can't tell you, understand that? I can't put you in the box and let the jury have your excellent record as a safe blower read out to them. But I want your express instructions..."

' You 'ave them, Mr Rumpole. What you got in mind ?' 'I think I ought to ask Inspector "Dirty" Dickerson a few impertinent questions. So this is what I'm going to ask him, with your kind permission...' It was then that I got Charlie Wheeler's instructions to do exactly as I did in his trial. I think, in view of the following disastrous happenings, I should make that perfectly clear.

D. I. Dickerson was a large, smiling man with greying hair which covered the top of his ears and a bright and expensive silk tie and matching handkerchief. He looked the sort of man who would be the life and soul of the office party, or the man on the package holiday to Ibiza you would be most careful to move away from. He was holding his prized possession, a small plastic bag containing a minute quantity of gelignite, labelled 'Exhibit 1', as Erskine-Brown came to the end of his questions.

'We have heard from the expert that Wheeler's fingerprints are on that small piece of gelignite. Where did you find it ?' ' Beside the safe at the scene of the crime, my Lord,' Dickerson said respectfully.

' In the Dartford post office?' the Bull weighed in.

'Yes, my Lord.' 'Thank you, Detective Inspector.' Erskine-Brown sat down, his duty done.

'Have you any questions to ask the Detective Inspector?' the judge dared me.

'Just a few, my Lord.' Rumpole rose slowly to his feet.

' Well then, get on with it.' The judge was treating the defence with his usual courtesy.

' Do you know a man named Harris, Harry Harris ?' There are two ways to cross-examine, depending on the witness and your mood. You either start off politely, asking a series of questions to which the answer will be 'Yes,' gaining the subject's confidence and agreement, leading him gently up the garden path to a carefully planned booby trap, or you go in like an old warship, with all guns blazing. I had decided that the Bull's Court at the Bailey was no place for subtlety and I went in for the broadside approach. The D. I. looked somewhat taken aback, but answered with his usual bonhomie.

' I know a Harry Harris.' 'A friend of Charlie Wheeler's ?' 'Yes.' 'How would you describe him?' 'You want me to describe him?' 'Mr Rumpole has asked the questions. The risk is on his head.' The Bull's image was imprecise but his knowing leer at the jury made his meaning plain.

' Harris is a minor villain, sir. Round the Dartford area.' 'You asked for it, Mr Rumpole,' the judge was delighted and the jury smiled. I battled on, ignoring the barracking from the bench.

' Have you had any financial dealings with Harris ?' 'My Lord.' As if I hadn't got enough opponents, Erskine-Brown rose to interrupt.

'Erskine-Brown,' I muttered, 'Will you not interrupt my cross-examination!' ' Can I ask how questions about this man Harris are in any way relevant to the case of Wheeler?' Erskine-Brown persisted, with a glare of judicial encouragement.

'Quite right,' the judge challenged me. 'What's this man Harris got to do with this case ?' ' Not this case, my Lord, but...' 'Then your question is entirely irrelevant.' A simple mind, that of the Bull.

' My Lord, when the character of this officer is called into question...' 'Oh, really? Are you attacking this officer's character?' The judge tried a voice of dangerous courtesy, but only succeeded in sounding ordinarily rude.

' I wasn't offering him a gold medal.' At this the jury laughed. Bullingham let that one go and then said: ' I can only assume you're making this attack on instructions.' ' I take full responsibility, my Lord.' ' I see your learned leader isn't in Court.' 'Unfortunately, my Lord, he is struck down by the flu.' I tried to sound depressed. Bullingham came insultingly to my aid:'Perhaps you'd like me to adjourn this cross-examination. So it can be done properly. By learned leading counsel?' 'Thank you, my Lord. I am quite happy to proceed.' I had no time to loose, for God's sake! Guthrie's flu might be better by the next day. The judge tried a last attack.

' I hope you are not making this suggestion without being in a position to call Harris ?' I looked round the Court, and, at this moment my good angel Philbeam came bursting in through the swing doors. I put my stake on an even chance and said,' Certainly I can call him.' At this point the witness nobly volunteered to answer my questions, however objectionable they might be, and I beckoned Philbeam to my side. The news was not good. Harris's sister had been contacted, but hadn't heard of her brother for two years. Philbeam whispered: 'Shall I keep trying?' 'For God's sake!' I whispered back, and then straightened to hear D. I. Dickerson tell the judge that he never had any financial dealings of any sort with Harris. The Bull wrote this down carefully and said: ' Very well. Mr Rumpole has his answer, although it probably wasn't the one he wanted.' With this judge the rapier was always replaced by the bludgeon. 'Do you want to try your luck with any more questions, Mr Rumpole ?' 'Just one or two, my Lord. Detective Inspector. When Charlie Wheeler was in the Dartford Nick...' ' Where ?' the judge frowned.

' In the police cells. At Dartford Police Station,' I translated politely.

'There is such a thing as plain English, Mr Rumpole. Just as well to use it.' Bullingham said that to me. I had no time to lose my temper with him and I was off in pursuit of the D.I.

'Did you ever on any occasion at Dartford Police Station shake hands with Charlie Wheeler?' There was a moment's hesitation, and the witness put his big hands in his jacket pockets.

' Is my English plain enough for you?' ' Shake his hand? I may have done.' ' Have you ever shaken a prisoner's hand before ?' ' Not that I can remember.' ' So why should you have shaken hands with Charlie Wheeler?' Suddenly the Court was quiet, the jury were paying attention. Dickerson took a long ten seconds to think of his answer.

'Your client told me he was about to make a confession statement. I was congratulating him on showing a bit of sense.' The silence was broken by a general giggle, led by the judge.

' Is that the answer you wanted, Mr Rumpole?' The Bull was positively beaming.

'Yes, my Lord, it is. I wished to establish that this officer took my client by the hand.' 'As he was prepared to make a confession,' the jury were reminded from the bench.

Once again I ignored the interruption and asked the witness, ' Did you discuss bail with him on that occasion?' 'Bail? No, sir. There was no discussion of bail whatsoever.' Dickerson looked pained at the suggestion.

'Did you say you wouldn't oppose bail if he made a confession?' ' I said nothing of the sort, my Lord.' Bullingham sighed heavily, threw down his pencil and turned on me. 'Mr Rumpole, are there any further allegations of a serious nature to be made against this officer?' ' Only one, my Lord. May I have Exhibit i, please?' The usher brought me the little lump of gelignite in its plastic bag.

'That is the small piece of gelignite,' the judge took great pleasure in reminding the jury. 'With your client's fingerprints on it.' 'Exactly, my Lord. Who found this piece of gelignite, Detective Inspector?' ' I did. At the scene of the crime.' 'Did you show it to any other officer?' 'When I got back to the station.' 'When you got back to the station! So the jury must rely on your evidence and your evidence alone to satisfy them that this small piece of gelignite was ever at the scene of the crime.' ' If my evidence isn't good enough...' 'If your evidence isn't good enough. Detective Inspector, Charlie Wheeler is entitled to be acquitted.' I felt the quietness in Court again, the jury were listening. I leant forward and spoke to the witness as though we were alone in the room. 'Have you ever in your long experience known a safe blower to leave his gelignite with his fingerprints on it at the scene of a crime?' At which, of course, the judge had to comment to the jury. 'If criminals never made mistakes, we would have no trials at the Old Bailey.' However, I felt they were becoming more interested in the witness than the judge and I went on quickly, 'You see, there is another possibility the jury may have to consider...' ' Is there?' Dickerson smiled, politely interested.

'We have no idea when the fingerprints got on the gelignite.' 'Haven't we?' 'Or where. Is it just possible, Detective Inspector, that Charlie Wheeler only touched the gelignite in the Dartford Police Station?' There was another, minute pause before he answered.' I don't know what you mean.' It was time to tell the jury exactly what I meant, and bring Charlie's defence out into the open. ' In that dark cell, at two o'clock in the morning, do you think you had the gelignite, this little piece of gelignite, concealed in your palm when you held your hand out to him. And shook hands. As you had never shaken hands with any prisoner in your life before? Is that the only explanation of how Charlie Wheeler's fingerprints got on to Exhibit i?' I hadn't expected Dickerson to crumble and apologize, but I had hoped for a bluster, an outraged denial which might have said more than he intended. But he was too experienced a witness for that; he only smiled tolerantly and said, 'If that's what Wheeler told you. I mean if ... Then it's a load of nonsense. You know that, Mr Rumpole.' ' Is it all lies. Detective Inspector?' Bullingham asked.

'All lies, my Lord.' The judge wrote that last answer down, in case he forgot it. Then he gave the jury one of his least lovable grins. 'It's always painful to watch an officer of this sort of length of service under attack, members of the jury. I expect we'd all be glad of a break. Back at ten past two, Air Erskine-Brown.' So, ignoring Rumpole, he bundled himself out of Court.

'Mr Featherstone heard from the doctor, sir,' Henry was waiting for me as I came out of Court.' He's to stay in bed for the rest of the week. He was asking, is it all over?' 'Tell him it's all going according to plan. Nothing to send his temperature up.' In the lift, on my way up to the robing room, I met Miss Phyllida Trant. She seemed in a mood of strange elation and told me that everything was going wonderfully.

'Everything?' 'I took your advice and I didn't plead.' She was positively glowing, the light of battle burning behind her specs. ' Now it seems that there's no note of some of the verbals and most of it was after he was charged anyway and...' ' Good news from somewhere!' 'You were right, of course. When you said, always fight everything.' Fight everything; what else had we left to do? I called the Sunday paper again from the robing room. Philbeam had gone out again and left no message.

'Wheeler. You're a coward as well as a thief. You tied up this helpless sub Post Mistress and you robbed. What makes it all a great deal more grave. You deliberately chose, through your counsel, to attack the honesty and good name of someone of twenty-five years standing in the police force. I mean Detective Inspector Dickerson. I've had the misfortune to sit here and hear that fine officer subjected to a number of questions...' We were at the last gasp of the Wheeler trial, a proceeding marked by the continued absence of any man called Harris ... Even so the jury had taken three hours to find Charlie guilty by a majority, a fact which had clearly displeased the judge. I waited for the Bull to finish the ill-phrased lecture and come to announce a figure, when, to the surprise of everyone in Court, there was a voice of protest from the dock.

'I never!' ' Silence!' The usher shouted, but Charlie battled on.

' I never wanted my barrister to ask them questions! I told him to keep quiet!' I sat quite still. I couldn't blame Charlie; but I began to feel that we were at the start of something that could prove deeply embarrassing for Rumpole. Ignoring the interruption the judge went on.

'You have the most appalling record and it is clearly time that society was protected from you for a considerably long period. The least sentence I can pass is one of twelve years' imprisonment. Take him down.' Charlie was removed from the dock. I levered myself to my feet and started to move out of counsel's row when Bullingham stopped me.

'Just one moment. I have something to add, Mr Rumpole.' I stopped, rooted to the spot. The judge proceeded to sentence once more.

'Your attack on the integrity of Detective Inspector Dickerson was not only not backed up by the evidence. It's now clear it was an adventure of your own. Without instructions. I take a very serious view of it. Very serious indeed.' Fourteen years, I wondered? But the judge contented himself with saying ominously: ' I intend to report the matter in the proper quarter.' ' If your Lordship pleases.' I gave him my politest bow, a much-needed lesson in Courtroom manners and, perhaps, Rumpole's last genuflection in front of the bench. What had I to look forward to now, except the end of life as I knew it? As I took oil the wig and looked in the robing room mirror I seemed to see a new Rumpole, a man who might just possibly not be a barrister any more.

Featherstone, back in the land of the living, was pacing his room, I thought somewhat nervously, while I sat in his big leather armchair and smoked a small cigar.

' Reported to the Benchers of your Inn. A disciplinary hearing.

Before the Senate! My dear Horace. I don't want to worry you > 'On the contrary, you're having a most calming effect,' I reassured him. ' I've thought about retiring from the Bar for a long time. Perhaps I shall start a small market garden, behind Gloucester Road tube station?' ' I've had to write to the Senate myself about the case,' Guthrie looked embarrassed.

'To tell them that the attack on "Dirty" Dickerson was an escapade dreamt up by your learned junior. Yes, I'm sure you had to write and tell them that.' ' You'll confirm that, of course ?' 'Don't worry, old sweetheart. You've got a perfect alibi.' I stood as if in Court.' My Lord, I call Mrs Marigold Featherstone. She will prove conclusively that my client was flat on his back having his chest rubbed with Vick and chewing aspirin at the time of the dark deeds down the Bailey.' ' Rumpole, don't you wish...' 'He is entirely innocent of the attempted rape of D.I. " Clean Fingers" Dickerson.' 'Don't you wish you'd been laid up with flu? During R. v. Wheeler?' I looked at him, astonished at his lack of understanding. 'You want to know the truth, Guvnor? All right. I'll come clean. You've got me bang to rights.' 'Rumpole!' 'I loved that cross-examination. I enjoyed every minute of it, and, what's more, I swear by Almighty God, I was onto something. If I'd only had a tiny bit of straw to make a brick with...' 'I hope you're not going to say that, in front of the Senate!' Featherstone looked so worried that I comforted him by asking his advice.

' What would you suggest I said... As my brief?' He took me quite seriously and gave my hopeless case his most learned opinion. 'I think, he said at last, 'I'd put it in this way. In your enthusiasm, understandable enthusiasm, for your client's interests, you were carried away, Rumpole. In the heat of the moment you made an attack on the honesty of a senior police officer which you now deeply regret...' ' What do you think I might get ? Probation?' 'The worst aspect of your case, in my opinion ...' Feather-stone was giving the matter judicial consideration now.

' In your learned opinion?' ' Is that you proceeded entirely without instructions."

I looked at him with astonishemnt. 'Do you think I'm totally insane?' ' I must say I was beginning to wonder.' 'Of course I had instructions."

' But at the conference in Brixton we clearly decided...' 'I had another conference. Whilst you were tucked up with your hot-water-bottle.' 'Charlie Wheeler gave you instructions to put to this officer...?' 'That he handed him the gelignite! Yes, of course I got instructions.' Of course Featherstone asked the question which they'd be bound to ask in the Senate. 'You made a note of them at the time?' 'A note! I've got too old for making notes, in or out of Court. I carry things in my head.' There's no fool like an old fool, of course I should have made a note.

'Our solicitor! Bernard will have a note of the conference. Or at any rate a recollection.' Featherstone was doing his best.

'Bernard was off enjoying himself at some funeral or other. He left me to the tender mercies of Joyce."

'Then Joyce will remember. We'll get hold of Joyce.' He saw another ray of light and reached for the phone.

'Joyce wasn't there. Oh, she had some sort of fraud on with Hoskins in the West Court.' 'You mean you actually saw the client alone?' Featherstone was reduced to the unalterable fact.

' Oh, we live dangerously,' I told him,' down the Old Bailey.' 'The trouble is...' 'More trouble?' 'Wheeler denied he'd given you instructions. He told the judge as much.' ' Wouldn't you have done that in his place, old darling?' 'As a matter of fact, Rumpole, I've never been on trial for safe blowing.' I did my best to help Featherstone's imagination. 'You've just waited three hours for the jury to find you guilty. You've been told by learned leading counsel, no less, in Brixton Prison, that it's a few extra years for asking the "Dirty" D.I. certain rude questions. Wouldn't you deny you'd given any instructions? I'm too old to expect honour among safe blowers."

'It's a problem!" Featherstone sat at his desk, temporarily bankrupt of ideas. I felt sorry for him.

' To me it seems perfectly simple.' ' I'll have to give it a good deal of thought.' ' Give what a good deal of thought?' I was on my way to the door. It was only then I realized that the old darling had actually briefed himself for my defence.

'Exactly what I'm going to say. On your behalf to the Senate.' ' Soy? I don't want you to say anything. You'd only mitigate.' Featherstone wasn't the only one who has been giving thought to the nature of Rumpole's defence. A few days later Hilda rang up Chambers and invited my old friend George Frobisher to dinner. She put on a very passable meal for us, and, as we sat over our apple pie and cream, gave me some words of wisdom, apparently learned at her father's knee.

'Daddy always said, a man should stand up and admit he's in the wrong. He said that was by far the best way.' 'Hilda. What are you talking about?' I was puzzled by the relevance of the thoughts of Daddy.

'He always told his clients. "An apology costs nothing, but it can earn you untold gold in sympathy from the judge."' Hilda finished triumphantly.

' Old C. H. Wystan, your Daddy, was hardly one of the nation's fighters, was he, George ?' 'A man with a good deal of wisdom, for all that." George and Hilda seemed to be in agreement.

' I'll go and make some coffee.' 'All right. Quite all right.' 'I'll leave you two gentlemen to your wine.' Hilda left us and I poured port for George. I meant to pluck out the heart of his mystery.

' George,' I said, 'How long is it since Hilda last asked you to dinner with us?' ' It must be a good few years now.' 'A good few years. Yes, it must be. So why do you think my wife felt this sudden longing to have you share our cutlets?' 'You know perfectly well Hilda's worried, Rumpole. And so am I. Very worried by the stand you're taking.' ' Stand, George ? What sort of stand is that ?' 'This wretched man, this Wheeler. How can he be worth risking your career over, Rumpole? Your wife can't understand that and I must say I have considerable difficulty...' 'He was worth defending. Everyone's worth defending. That's what we're for, isn't it? Do we have any other function?' 'But Hilda says that you admitted to her that the man was a professional safe blower.' George looked at me, distinctly puzzled, but he had put his finger on the exact point.

'Professional? Of course! So he wouldn't have left fingerprints ...' 'Do you honestly believe, can you put your hand on your heart, Rumpole, and tell me you really believe that this man Wheeler was innocent?' ' Oh, come now, George. How many of your clients can you swear were innocent?' ' So you don't believe he was innocent?' ' If you ask my view of the matter, and you know my view is strictly irrelevant...' 'All the same, Rumpole. I'd like you to answer my questions.' I admired him then, a new George, quiet but firm and not to be put off. I told him he'd make a cross-examiner yet, and poured him another glass of port. Then I gave him his answer. 'No. No, I don't believe he was innocent. In fact I think Charlie Wheeler probably blew the safe in the Dartford post office.' ' So no injustice was done."

'Probably not...' George stood up then. He was beaming at me, apparently hugely relieved. ' So that is good news, Rumpole. You've seen sense at last.' Hilda came in with the coffee tray and George gave her the glad tidings. ' I believe your husband's seen sense at last.' 'I knew you'd be able to talk to him.' Hilda smiled as she poured the coffee. 'You've always told me, Rumpole, "George is so sensible." Rumpole's always had a tremendous amount of respect for you, George.' ' Guthrie Featherstone agrees it can all be dealt with by way of an apology, and now you admit it was unnecessary to attack the officer!' George took his coffee and smiled at me. I hated to disappoint him.

'Unnecessary? Did you say unnecessary?' 'You said yourself, Wheeler was probably guilty.' George seemed to think that was an end of the matter.

'Guilty or innocent. What's it matter? What matters is, he may have been convicted on faked evidence.' 'But, Rumpole, if he'd done it anyway ..." Hilda was as puzzled as George. I did my best to explain it to them both.

'We can't decide guilt or innocence. That's not for us, you know that, George. That's for twelve puzzled old darlings pulled off the street for three boring days with a safe blower. But we can make sure they're not lied to, not deceived, not tricked by some smiling copper who wants to take away their decision from them by a few conjuring tricks in a dark cell. Oh, for God's sake, have another glass of port.' I felt he needed it, for he sat looking quite despondent and asked what on earth I thought I was going to do.

' Grow vegetables. We'll probably have to go to the country to do it.' 'Rumpole. They won't disbar you ...' George did his best to sound comforting. I went over to the old desk in the corner and found a packet of small cigars.

' Suspend me, disbar me, I don't care. I shan't apologize for what I did for Wheeler.' 'Talk to him, George. Please talk to him.' Hilda sounded desperate. George did his best.

'Rumpole. Forget Wheeler for a moment. You've got yourself to think about.' I found my cigars and lit one. I was still searching for something I had concealed in a drawer of the desk.' Oh, I am thinking of myself. You see, Hilda, with the insurance policy and what we'd get for this flat, we could get quite a decent cottage and a small-holding.' 'A small-holding! Oh, George. Has he gone quite mad? You wouldn't know what to do with a small-holding, Rumpole!' 'Dig it and dung it! That's what I'd do. And grow the stuff I'm rather keen on. Artichokes and marrows and parsnips and, after a few years, perhaps asparagus ..." I had found what I wanted, a seed catalogue, full of fine colour photographs of prize vegetables. 'Look, Hilda. Do look at this. Please look at it.' I took the catalogue over to Hilda and held it open at a particularly succulent row of runner beans. 'Don't you think it all looks rather splendid?' She shook her head. Hilda Rumpole is incredibly urban, all her life has revolved round Law Courts and barristers' Chambers; she could only see a row of runners, or even a picking of early peas, through a haze of tears.

A man, under our system, is innocent until he's proved guilty, and in the time that elapsed before my case was due to be heard in the Senate, by the tribunal that decides matters of discipline at the Bar, I continued business as usual, although the briefs didn't exactly fall like summer rain onto the fertile soil of Rumpole's Chambers. However, I left home earlier than usual, largely to escape the sorrowful and rebuking eye of She Who Must Be Obeyed, often had breakfast on my own with The Times crossword at Jock's Cafe, and lingered late in Pommeroy's Wine Bar. I was sitting there at a lonely table with my head deep in the Evening Standard when I heard Erskine-Brown's voice ringing from the bar.

'Vegetables! Did you say Rumpole was going to grow vegetables?' 'He actually bought a catalogue. A list of seeds. With illustrations.' George sounded like a doctor, announcing the symptoms of a fatal disease.

'How old is Rumpole? Do you think he might be going a bit screwy?' 'Of course not!' The female voice was quite positive. 'The first thing I learned at the Bar was, never underestimate the cunning of Rumpole.' It was the clear and dulcet tone of Miss Trant.

For a while their voices were drowned in the general clatter of legal anecdotes, journalists' attempted seductions and cries for claret, which make up the full orchestra of the sound of Pommeroy's, and then I heard my old friend George booming sadly.

'Obstinate! Rumpole's incredibly obstinate. You know what he's saying now? Even if they just suspend him, for a little while. Even if they censure him, he'll leave the Bar, and he won't apologize!"

'Then surely one thing's perfectly clear, George.' It was Erskine-Brown again.

'What's that?' 'Rumpole has absolutely no one to blame but himself. I'm going back to Chambers. Come on, Philly. I've just got to pick up a brief, and then we're off to the Festival Hall!' Til catch you up.' I sank my head deeper in the 'Londoner's Diary' and then looked up as Miss Trant's voice came again, from about three feet away. 'You going to send us up some nice fresh vegetables?' As I lowered the paper Miss Trant sat down and joined me uninvited; it was amazing, the confidence she had developed since her baptism of fire in Dock Street. 'Peas and carrots. New potatoes! Sounds delicious.' 'I have been having doubts.' I suppose I needed someone to talk to at that moment, life with Hilda being then on the silent side. 'Looking back at my past life, hanging round Law Courts, I found absolutely no evidence for the proposition that I have green fingers.' 'Neither have I.' 'What?' 'My pot plants all go yellow.' 'It's only that, whenever I visit prisons and see the trusties planting out straight rows of chrysanths in the sooty soil, I think, yes. That's the job I'll choose when I'm in the Nick.' Then an extraordinary thing happened. Miss Trant actually seemed to lose her temper with me. 'Really! You're not going to the Nick. You told me never to underestimate your cunning, like the time when I was prosecuting you and you got me to bore the magistrate with a load of law, and you won the case!' 'Finally tumbled to that, did you?' I smiled, remembering the occasion.

'Well, if you can think of that in the Dock Street Mag's Court can't you deal with this little case of yours in the Senate?' ' I shan't apologize!' I told her that quite firmly, and another surprise: she didn't argue.

'Of course you won't. Why? Were you thinking of it?' 'Was I?' 'Creeping off to the country. To grow vegetables! It's like pleading guilty. Well, stuff that for a lark!' This slip of a girl had the spirit which was lacking in Featherstone, or Hilda, or even George; the courage of an advocate.

'Miss Trant,' I told her, 'I remember when you first came to the Chambers, you weie a somewhat straight-laced young woman, only interested in law reports.' 'I've learned a lot since then.' 'From your pupil master, Erskine-Brown?' 'No, from you! What do you say we ought to have written up in Chambers, in letters a foot high? Never plead guilty I' 'Bricks without bricks, Miss Trant ... Bricks without the bloody shadow of a brick. Unless ...' 'Well, go on. Unless?' 'Someone could lay their hands on a man called Harry Harris.' When she had gone I sat on for a while alone. I thought of my hearing before the Senate of the Inns of Court. What would that august body do to me? Change me utterly? I might leave their presence as someone quite new, perhaps even as myself. It seemed to me that I had spent my whole life being other people, safe blowers, fraudsmen, a few rather gentle murderers. I'd had remarkably little time to be Rumpole. Would I have time now; and if I had time, hanging heavy on my hands forever, should I enjoy the experience of being my own, genuine, unadulterated Rumpole at last?

Jack Pommeroy broke in on this uncomfortable reverie. There was a phone call for me, from Philbeam. He wanted me to stay where I was, he was bringing a man round for a drink, a man called Harry Harris.

* A few nights later Detective Inspector Dickerson was sitting in the corner of his favourite Chinese restaurant (The Garden of Delights, in Bromley) waiting. His eye lit up when a tall, very thin man with grey hair came in, for had this man not arrived the Detective Inspector was in great danger of having to pay his own bill.

'Harris!' Dickerson waved a large hand at the empty chair at his table. 'Where you been keeping yourself, Harry?' ' I got word you wanted to see me, Dickerson.' 'You want to buy me a Chinese, do you? The Ai combination with the sweet and sour lobster."

'I'd be glad to.' Harris smiled patiently.

' I thought you would. You been a bit late on your instalments, Harris.' ' Sorry, Dickerson. I've been travelling.' At this point Harris took a bulky envelope out of his breast pocket and handed it to the Detective Inspector, whose manner became, if possible, even more affable.

'Well, leave a forwarding address then. We'll get on much more nicely if I can bleed you regular. I think,' Dickerson consulted the wine list, 'a nice bottle of Chablis'd go well with the sweet and sour.' When Harris had ordered the Chablis from the Chinese waiter he broached an awkward subject.' Can we forget it now?' he asked, and his voice had, for the first time, a whining tone.

'Forget what, Harris?' 'A couple of fingerprints on a gold case.' There was a long silence and then Dickerson said, 'You're so careless, Harris, where you put your fingers. You're as bad as your friend Charlie Wheeler.' ' I heard you fitted Charlie up nicely too.' 'Fitted him up? Who told you I fitted Charlie up? The jury convicted him, didn't they?' Dickerson sounded cautious, but Harris was laughing.

'Such a nice friendly lad, Charlie. He'd shake hands with anyone!' It was a little while before Dickerson joined in the joke, but apparently he found it irresistible. 'All right, Harris,' he said through chuckles, 'Very funny. Very funny indeed. But let it be a lesson to you... If you don't bleed regular I'll have your fingers round a lump of jelly. Just the way I did with Charlie.' There was an interruption then, when the waiter brought the Chablis. Dickerson turned his attention to the temperature of the bottle. If he hadn't done so he might have noticed the tip of a small metallic object, hidden in the breast pocket of Harris's jacket. The reason for that, and for my having a verbatim account of this conversation, is that it was being taken down for posterity, and the subsequent police inquiry, on a small but efficient tape recorder which was later delivered to Philbeam's car, parked outside the Garden of Delights.

Whilst I was explaining matters to the Senate the learned friends ot No. 1 Equity Court were holding a Chambers meeting. I am grateful to George Frobisher for supplying me with a note of what was said during my enforced absence. The first item on the agenda was the question of accommodation in Chambers, and was raised by Erskine-Brown.

'It seems likely', he began, 'that we will soon be having a vacancy in Chambers.' 'What do you mean exactly?' Miss Trant asked the question.

'Well, Philly. After today's hearing, Rumpole's made it quite clear. He intends to leave the Bar and grow vegetables.' 'Vegetables? I hadn't heard about the vegetables.' Feather-stone was understandably puzzled.

'Shouldn't we perhaps wait?' George suggested, but Erskine-Brown was not to be stopped.

'I think it's important,' he said, 'that we should decide what the policy is. As you know, my own room is impossibly overcrowded. George Frobisher is sharing with Hoskins, which isn't always convenient when it comes to conferences. I mean, do we take in another young man who could make himself useful and do a bit of paper work and so on?"

The door was behind him and he didn't stop immediately when I opened it. 'Or do we use Rumpole's room to relieve our acute accommodation problem?' 'Do you want to take over my room, Erskine-Brown?' I was back from my hearing, from Erskine-Brown's point of view like bloody Banquo at the dinner party. He stopped in full flow and George said: 'Rumpole! It can't be over?' 'Ah, Horace.' Featherstone pulled up a chair for the ghost of Rumpole. 'You can help us. We've just been discussing the possible future.' 'So have I, old darling, and I'll tell you what. The possible future is rather interesting.' I lit a small cigar. 'Remember Detective Inspector Dickerson? He's suspended, a full inquiry. When he heard that in the Nick, Charlie suddenly remembered giving me instructions. So, we're applying to the Court of Appeal, with fresh evidence. I was rather thinking of doing it alone, without a leader. I'm sorry, Erskine-Brown. The vegetables have been postponed indefinitely ...' I left them then, the learned and astonished friends, to sort out their accommodation problems knowing that Rumpole's room would not be available in the foreseeable future.

When I got home to the mansions I found Hilda sitting inert by one bar of a sullen electric fire. She looked up as I came into the living room and said, 'Rumpole. Is it over?' ' I'm afraid so.' 'Oh, Rumpole. It's over!' 'I know, my dear. No peace. No quiet. No just being Rumpole. Above all, no vegetables. I'm doing rather a larky manslaughter tomorrow. At Chelmsford.' 'They let you off?' I couldn't imagine why she sounded so surprised. I filled in the details.

'Acquitted. By unanimous verdict. Left the dock without a stain on my character. In fact, I was commended for picking out one of the few rotten apples in that sweet-smelling barrow-load, the Metropolitan Police.' 'Oh, Rumpole!' It was an astonishing moment. She Who Must Be Obeyed actually had her arms round me, she was holding me tightly, rather as though I were some rare and precious object and not the old White Elephant that continually got in her way.

'Hilda. Hilda, you're not...?' I looked down at her agitated head. 'You weren't worried, were you?' 'Worried? Well, of course I was worried I' She broke away and resumed the Royal Manner. 'Having you at home all day would have been impossible!' 'Yes. Yes. I suppose it would.' 'Now we can go on. Just as before.' 'Just as before. I suppose... it calls for a celebration.' I went to the drinks table and poured two Booths, taking care not to ruin them with too much tonic.

'Well, just a tiny one. I've got dinner to get and ...' 'I'm sorry to have to tell you this, Hilda. You know your old Daddy, old C.H. Wystan, was quite wrong.' I handed her a steadying G. and T.

'Wrong? Why was Daddy wrong?' 'Never plead guilty! Come on, old thing, bottoms up.' I raised my glass. Hilda raised her's and we drank to a future which was going to be, thanks to the wonders of tape recording and the fallibility of human nature, as indistinguishable as possible from our past.