Rumpole and the Angel of Death (38 page)

‘Rumpole, a word with you, if you please, in a matter of urgency.'

Soapy Sam Ballard had paused, wigged and gowned, in full flight to another Court. He looked pale and agitated to such an extent that I was about to greet him with a quotation I thought might be appropriate: ‘The devil damn thee black, thou cream- fac'd loon! Where gott'st thou that goose look?' Before I could speak, however, Soapy Sam started to burble. ‘Bad news, I'm afraid. Very bad news indeed. We shall not be entering into a contract of service with Vincent Blewitt.'

I managed to restrain my tears. ‘But Bollard,' I protested, ‘didn't you think he was the very man for the job?'

‘I did. Until he came to me with an idea for a Chambers' party. Did you know anything about this, Rumpole?' The man was suddenly suspicious.

‘He told me he wanted to give Henry some kind of a send- off. I thought it was rather generous of him.'

‘But did he tell you exactly what sort of send-off he had in mind?'

‘A Chambers' party, I think he said. I can't remember the details.'

‘He described it as a singles party. At first, I thought he was suggesting tennis.'

‘A natural assumption.'

‘And then he asked me to leave my ham sandwich at home – I wondered what on earth the man was talking about. I mean, it's never been my custom to bring any sort of sandwich to a Chambers' party. Your wife's friend, Dodo Mackintosh, usually provides the nibbles.'

‘Have you any idea, Ballard' – I looked suitably mystified – ‘what he meant?'

‘I have now. He was talking about my wife Marguerite.'

‘Marguerite, who once held the responsible position of matron at the Old Bailey?'

‘That is exactly whom he meant.'

‘Who was known, even to the red judges, as Matey?'

‘Marguerite got on very well with the Judiciary. She treated many of them.'

‘Can I believe my ears? Vincent Blewitt called your Marguerite a ham sandwich?' I was incredulous.

‘I can't imagine what she would have to say if she ever got wind of it.'

‘All hell would break loose?'

‘Indeed it would!' Ballard nodded sadly and went on, ‘He said we'd all have more fun if I left her at home. And the same applied to your Hilda.'

‘Ballard, I can see why you're concerned.' I sounded most reasonable. ‘It was a serious error of judgement on Blewitt's part, but if that was the only thing . . . '

‘It was not the only thing, Rumpole.'

‘You mean there's worse to come?'

‘Considerably worse!' Ballard looked around nervously to make sure he wasn't overheard. ‘He suggested that the party should start . . . I don't know how to tell you this, Rumpole.'

‘Just take it slowly. I understand that it must be distressing.'

‘It is, Rumpole. It certainly is. He thought the party should start  . . .' Soapy Sam paused and then the words came tumbling out. ‘. . . By the male Members of Chambers and the girl guests blowing up balloons inside each other's underclothes. Rumpole, can you imagine what Marguerite would have said to that?'

‘I thought Marguerite was to be left at home.'

‘There is that, of course. But he wanted Mrs Justice Erskine-Brown to come. What would she have said if Blewitt had approached her with a balloon?'

‘She'd have jailed him for contempt.'

‘Quite right too! And then to top it all . . .'

‘He topped that?'

‘He said he knew I liked a good story, and wasn't that a great joke about the sleeveless woman?'

‘What on earth was he talking about?' I looked suitably mystified.

‘I have no idea. Do you know any story about a sleeveless woman?'

‘Certainly not!' I replied with absolute truth.

‘So then he told me about a legless nun. It was clearly obscene but I'm afraid, Rumpole, the point escaped me.'

‘Probably just as well.'

‘I'm afraid I shall have to tell Chambers. I'm informing you first as a senior member. We shall not be employing Vincent Blewitt or indeed any legal administrator in the foreseeable future.'

‘It will be a disappointment, perhaps. But I'm sure we'll all understand.'

‘Henry may have had his faults, Rumpole. But he calls me Sir and not Sam. And I don't believe he knows any jokes at all.'

‘Of course not. No, indeed.'

The case of
R.
v.
Ireton
had not, so far as I was concerned, ended happily.
Rumpole
v.
Blewitt,
on the other hand, was an undoubted victory. Win a few, lose a few. That is all you can say about life at the Bar.

Henry decided, in his considerable relief, that he should have a Chambers' party to celebrate his not leaving. All the wives came. Hilda's old schoolfriend Dodo Mackintosh provided the cheesey bits and, perhaps because he had a vague idea of what I had been able to do for him, our clerk laid on a couple of dozen of the Château Thames Embankment of which I drank fairly deep. The day after this jamboree, I was detained in bed with a ferocious headache and a distinct unsteadiness in the leg department.

In a brief period of troubled sleep about midday, I heard voices from the living-room and then the door opened quietly and the Angel of Death was at my bedside. ‘Mr Rumpole,' she smiled and her glasses twinkled, ‘I hear you're not feeling very well this morning.'

‘Really?' I muttered with sudden alarm. ‘Whatever gave you that idea? I'm feeling on top of the world, in absolutely' – and here I winced at a sudden stabbing pain across the temples – ‘tiptop condition.'

‘And Hilda tells me the dear old mind's not what it was?' Dr Betty smiled understandingly. ‘The butter knife in the top pocket, is that what she told me? Dear Mr Rumpole, do remember I'm here to help you. There's no need for you to suffer. The way out is always open, and I can steer you gently and quite painlessly towards it.'

‘I'm afraid I must ask you to leave now,' I told the Angel of Death. ‘Got to get up. Late for work already. As I told you, I never felt better. Full of beans, Dr Betty, and raring to go.'

God knows how I ever managed to climb into the striped trousers, or button the collar, but when I was decently clad I hotfooted it for the Temple. There, I sat in my room suffering, my head in my hands, determined at all costs to keep myself alive.