Rumpole and the Primrose Path (11 page)

Ballard apparently remained deeply shocked, so I ventured to ask a question.

‘When you wrote that you’d both be much happier if he vanished from the face of the earth, you weren’t suggesting the doctor would die. You simply meant that he’d get out of her life and leave you to each other. Wasn’t that it?’

‘Yes, of course.’ The Commander looked grateful. ‘You’re putting it absolutely correctly.’

‘That’s all right. It’s just a defence barrister’s way of putting it,’ I was glad to be able to say.

Soapy Sam, however, still looked displeased. ‘You can be assured,’ he told our client, ‘that I shall be asking you the questions, Mr Durden. Mr Rumpole will be with me to take note of the evidence. I’m quite sure the Jury won’t want to hear sordid details of your matrimonial infidelity. It won’t do our case any good at all if we dwell on that aspect of the matter.’

Ballard was turning over his papers, preparing to venture on to another subject.

‘If you don’t mind my saying so,’ I interrupted, I hoped not too rudely, ‘I think the Commander’s affair with the doctor’s wife the most important factor in the case, whichever way you look at it. I think we need to know all we can about it.’

At this Ballard gave a thin, watery smile and once again bleated, ‘As I said I shall be asking the questions in Court. Now, we can obviously attack the witness Luxford on the basis of his previous convictions, which include two charges of dishonesty. If you could just take us through your meeting with this man ...’

‘Did you use him much as an informer?’ I interrupted, much to Ballard’s annoyance.

But the Commander answered me, ‘Hardly at all. In fact, I think it was a year or two since he’d given us anything. I thought he’d more or less retired. That was why I was surprised when he came to me with all that information about one of my officers.’

Durden then went through his conversation with the Silencer, which contained no reference to any proposed assassination. This was made quite clear in our instructions, so I excused myself and slipped out of the door, counted up to two hundred in my head and re-entered to tell Soapy Sam that our Director of Marketing and Administration wished to see him without delay on a matter of extreme urgency. Our leader excused himself, straightened his tie, patted down his hair and made for the door.

‘Now then,’ I gave our instructing solicitor some quick instructions as I settled myself in Ballard’s chair, ‘have a look at our client’s bank statements, Mr Crozier. Make sure that an inexplicable two and a half thousand didn’t get drawn out in cash. If the account’s clean tell the prosecution you’ll disclose it providing they give us the good Doctor’s.’

‘Very well, Mr Rumpole, but why ... ?’

‘Never mind about why for the moment. You might help me a bit more about Doctor Wakefield. I suppose he is pretty well known in the town. Has he practised there for years?’

‘A good many years. I think he started off in London. A practice in the East End - Bethnal Green, that’s what he told us. Apparently a pretty rough area. Then he came out to Chivering.’

‘To get away from the East End?’

‘I don’t know. He always said he enjoyed working there.’

‘I’m sure he did. One other thing. He is a pillar of the Dramatic Society, isn’t he? What sort of parts does he play?’

‘Oh, leads.’ The solicitor seemed to brighten up considerably when he told me about it. ‘The Chivering Mummers are rather ambitious, you know. We did a quite creditable
Othello
when it was the A-level play.’

‘And the Doctor took the lead? You’re not suggesting he blacked up? That’s not allowed nowadays.’

‘Oh, no. The
other
great part.’

‘Of course.’ I made a mental note. ‘That’s most interesting.’

A minute later, a flustered Ballard returned to the room and I moved politely out of his chair. He hadn’t been able to find Luci with an ‘i’ anywhere in Chambers, a fact which came as no surprise to me at all.

When I got home to Froxbury Mansions, I happened to mention, over the shepherd’s pie and cabbage, that Commander Bob Durden had admitted to an affair with the Doctor’s attractive and much younger wife.

‘That comes as no surprise to me at all,’ Hilda told me. ‘As soon as he appeared on the television I was sure there was something fishy about that man.’

I was glad to discover that, when it comes to telling lies, Hilda can do it as brazenly as any of my clients.

 

In the weeks before the trial, I thought a good deal about Doctor Petrus Wakefield. Petrus was, you will have to admit, a most unusual Christian name, perhaps bestowed by a pedantic Latin master and his classically educated wife on a child they didn’t want to call anything as commonplace as Peter. What bothered me, when I first read the papers in
R. v. Durden,
was where and when I had heard it before. And then I remembered old cases, forgotten crimes and gang rivalry in a part of London to the east of Ludgate Circus in the days when I was making something of a name for myself as a defender at the Criminal Bar. These thoughts led me to remember Bill ‘Knuckles’ Huckersley, a heavyweight part-time boxer, full-time bouncer, and general factotum of a minicab organization in Bethnal Green. I had done him some service, such as getting his father off a charge of attempting to smuggle breaking-out instruments into Pentonville while Bill was detained there. This unlooked-for success moved him to send me a Christmas card every year and, as I kept his latest among my trophies, I had his address.

I thought he would be more likely to confide in me than in some professional investigator such as the admirable Fig Newton. Accordingly, I forsook Pommeroy’s one evening after Court and made instead for the Black Spot pub in the Bethnal Green Road. There I sat staring moodily into a pint of Guinness as a bank of slot machines whirred and flashed and loud music filled a room, encrusted with faded gilt, which had become known, since a famous shooting had occurred there in its historic past, as the Luger and Lime Bar.

Knuckles arrived dead on time, a large, broad-shouldered man who seemed to move as lightly as an inflated balloon across the bar to where I sat. He pulled up a stool beside me and said, ‘Mr Rumpole! This is an honour, sir. I told Dad you’d rang up for a meeting and he was over the moon about it. Eighty-nine now and still going. He sends his good wishes, of course.’

‘Send him mine.’ I bought Knuckles the Diet Coke and packet of curry-flavoured crisps he’d asked for and, as he crunched his way through them, the conversation turned to Doctor Petrus Wakefield. ‘Petrus,’ I reminded him. ‘Not a name you’d forget. It seemed to turn up in a number of cases I did in my earlier years.’

‘He treated friends of mine.’ Knuckles lifted a fistful of crisps to his mouth and a sound emerged like an army marching through a field of dead bracken. ‘They did get a few injuries in their line of business.’

‘What do you mean by that, exactly?’

‘Knife wounds. Bullet holes. Some of them I went around with used to attract those sort of complaints. You needed a doctor who wasn’t going to get inquisitive.’

‘And that was Doctor Petrus Wakefield?’

‘He always gave you the first name, didn’t he? Like he was proud of it. You got any further questions, Mr Rumpole? Don’t they say that in Court?’

‘Sometimes. Yes, I have. About Len Luxford. He used to come in here, didn’t he?’

‘The old Silencer? He certainly did. He’s long gone, though. Got a window-cleaning business somewhere outside London.’

‘Do you see him occasionally?’

‘We keep in touch. Quite regular.’

‘And he was a patient of Doctor Petrus?’

‘We all were.’

‘Anything else you can tell me about the Doctor?’

‘Nothing much. Except that he was always on about acting.

He wanted to get the boys in the nick into acting plays. I had it when I was in the Scrubs. He’d visit the place and start drama groups. I used to steer clear of them. Lot of dodgy blokes dressing up like females.’

‘Did he ever try to teach Len Luxford acting?’

My source grinned, coughed, covered his mouth with a huge hand, gulped Diet Coke and said with a meaningful grin, ‘Not till recently, I reckon.’

‘You mean since they both lived at Chivering?’

‘Something like that, yes. Last time I had a drink with Len he told me a bit about it.’

‘What sort of acting are you talking about?’ I tried not to show my feeling that my visit to the deafening Luger and Lime Bar was about to become a huge success, but Knuckles had a sudden attack of shyness.

‘I can’t tell you that, Mr Rumpole. I honestly can’t remember.’

‘Might you remember if we called you as a witness down the Old Bailey?’

My source was smiling as he answered, but for the first time since I’d known him his smile was seriously alarming. ‘You try and get me as a witness down the Old Bailey and you’ll never live to see me again. Not in this world you won’t.’

After that I bought him another Diet Coke and then I left him. I’d got something out of Knuckles. Not very much, but something.

 

‘This is one of those unhappy cases, Members of the Jury. One of those very rare cases when a member of the Police Force, in this case a very senior member of the Police Force, seems to have lost all his respect for the law and sets about to plot and plan an inexcusable and indeed a cruel crime.’

This was Marston Dawlish QC, a large, beefy man, much given to false smiles and unconvincing bonhomie, opening the case for the prosecution to an attentive Jury. On the Bench we had drawn the short straw in the person of the aptly named Mr Justice Graves. A pale, unsmiling figure with hollow cheeks and bony fingers, he sat with his eyes closed as though to shut out the painful vision of a dishonest senior copper.

‘As I say, it is, happily, rare indeed to see a high-ranking police officer occupying that particular seat in an Old Bailey courtroom.’ Here Marston Dawlish raised one of his ham-like hands and waved it in the general direction of the dock.

‘A rotten apple.’ The words came in a solemn, doom-laden voice from the Gravestone on the Bench.

‘Indeed, your Lordship.’ Marston Dawlish was only too ready to agree.

‘We used to say that of police officers who might be less than honest, Members of the Jury.’ The Judge started to explain his doom-laden pronouncement. ‘We used to call them “rotten apples” who might infect the whole barrel if they weren’t rooted out.’

‘Ballard!’ This came out as a stentorian whisper at my leader’s back. ‘Aren’t you going to point out that was an appalling thing for the Judge to say?’

‘Quiet, Rumpole!’ The Soapy Sam whisper was more controlled. ‘I want to listen to the evidence.’

‘We haven’t got to the evidence yet. We haven’t heard a word of evidence, but some sort of judicial decision seems to have come from the Bench. Get up on your hind legs and make a fuss about it!’

‘Let me remind you, Rumpole, I’m leading counsel in this case. I make the decisions -’

‘Mr Ballard!’ Proceedings had been suspended while Soapy Sam and I discussed tactics. Now the old Gravestone interrupted us. ‘Does your Junior wish to say something?’

‘No, my Lord.’ Ballard rose with a somewhat sickly smile. ‘My Junior doesn’t wish to say anything. If an objection has to be made, your Lordship can rely on me to make it.’

‘I’m glad of that.’ Graves let loose a small sigh of relief. ‘I thought I saw Mr Rumpole growing restive.’

‘I am restive, my Lord.’ As Ballard sat down, I rose up like a black cloud after sunshine. ‘Your Lordship seemed to be inviting the Jury to think of my client as a “rotten apple”, as your Lordship so delicately phrased it, before we have heard a word of evidence against him.’

‘Rumpole, sit down.’ Ballard seemed to be in a state of panic.

‘I wasn’t referring to your client in particular, Mr Rumpole. I was merely describing unsatisfactory police officers in general.’

It was, I thought, a remarkably lame excuse. ‘My Lord,’ I told him, ‘there is only one police officer in the dock and he is completely innocent until he’s proved guilty. He could reasonably object to any reference to “rotten apples” before this case has even begun.’

There was a heavy silence. I had turned to look at my client in the dock and I saw what I took to be a small, shadowy smile of gratitude. Ballard sat immobile, as though waiting for sentence of death to be pronounced against me.

‘Members of the Jury,’ Graves turned stiffly in the direction of the twelve honest citizens, ‘you’ve heard what Mr Rumpole has to say and you will no doubt give it what weight you think fit.’ There was a welcoming turn in the direction of the prosecution. ‘Yes, Mr Marston Dawlish. Perhaps you may continue with your opening speech, now Mr Ballard’s Junior has finished addressing the Court.’

Marston Dawlish finished his opening speech without, I was pleased to notice, any further support from the learned Judge. Doctor Petrus Wakefield was the first witness and he gave, I had to admit, an impressive performance. He was a tall, still, slender man with greying sideburns, slightly hooded eyes and a chin raised to show his handsome profile to the best possible advantage. When he took the oath he held the Bible up high and projected in a way which must have delighted the elderly and hard of hearing in the audience attending the Chivering Mummers. He smiled at the Jury, took care not to speak faster than the movements of the Judge’s pencil, and asked for no special sympathy as a betrayed husband and potential murder victim. If he wasn’t a truthful witness he clearly knew how to play the part.

 

An Old Bailey conference room had been reserved for us at lunchtime, so we could discuss strategy and eat sandwiches. Ballard, after having done nothing very much all morning, was tucking into a prawn and mayo when he looked up and met an outraged stare from Commander Durden.

‘What the hell was that Judge up to?’