The Trials of Rumpole (1987) by John Mortimer

Author:John Mortimer
Format: epub
Published: 1987-07-30T16:00:00+00:00

Sang what I first took for the ghost of some member of the Bach Choir, justifiably murdered long ago in Froxbury Court. Then I remembered that my wife was in the kitchen, the apparent source of the sound. Had She Who Must Be Obeyed taken leave of her senses?

‘Hilda! What on earth’s going on?’

‘I’m doing the Messiah, ’ Hilda said enigmatically, making a non-singing entrance with two cups of steaming Nescafe.

‘What the hell for?’

‘The Bar Choral Society.’ She put down the coffee as though I should have known all about it. ‘Marigold Featherstone rang me up and asked if I’d be interested. They take on wives.’

‘An assembly of barrister’s wives. Giving tongue. How perfectly ghastly!’ I lapped up port, this was no moment for coffee.

‘In praise of God, Rumpole. It is going to be Christmas.’ Hilda installed herself on the other side of the electric fire.

‘Sometimes I wonder if God enjoys Christmas all that much.’

At which Hilda put down her cup and saucer and leant forward to say, extremely seriously, ‘Marigold Featherstone’s not a happy woman.’

‘Perhaps it’s the Messiah getting her down. It’s been known to have that effect on people.’

‘It’s Guthrie Featherstone.’ Hilda shook her head sadly. ‘If you ask my opinion, that marriage is dying for lack of attention.’

‘Hilda! You shock me. You don’t stand there at choir practice when you should be giving praise to the Lord, gossiping away about Featherstone’s marriage?’

‘It’s not gossip, Rumpole. I told you. She’s not a happy woman. Of course, it’s enormously difficult being married to a politician…’

Or a part-time contralto…That was what I felt like saying. Actually I remained mute of malice.

‘Their marriage is cracking up, Rumpole. And it’s all your fault.’

‘My fault?’ I was astonished. I had only met Marigold Featherstone occasionally at a Chambers ‘do’. An ex-nurse who had once played tennis for Roedean, she was not exactly Rumpole’s bottle of claret.

‘Guthrie’s out late. Of course he has his all-night sittings. But even when he hasn’t…it seems you keep him in Pommeroy’s Wine Bar for hours. Boozing.’

‘I do?’ I only rarely took a glass with Guthrie, and, whenever I did, he was in and out of the bar like a rabbit in a hurry.

‘Marigold asks him where he’s been and he says, ‘Old Rumpole kept me talking about Chambers business in Pommeroy’s. I simply couldn’t get away from him.’’

‘Old Rumpole? Is that what he calls me?’ If our learned Head of Chambers was going to use me as an alibi he might at least have been polite about me.

‘I suppose that’s what you were getting up to tonight.’

I had, it was true, whiled away a couple of hours in Pommeroy’s, a place notable for the absence of Guthrie Featherstone, Q.C., M.P.

‘Well, there wouldn’t have been much point in coming back here, would there? Not while you were hitting high notes with Marigold Featherstone.’

‘You want to be very careful, Rumpole. You want to be careful you don’t break up two marriages.’ On which line She returned to the kitchen to keep an urgent appointment with the washing-up.

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