Rumpole and the Penge Bungalow Murders by John Mortimer

and television shop in Coldharbour Lane, at two in the morning of 3 March and stole six radios, one television set, five alarm clocks, four electric kettles, oh, and one small egg-timer.’
    â€˜Two o’clock in the morning, is that what it says?’ Uncle Cyril was short and plump with greying hair. I judged him to be in his sixties. He smiled a lot, seemed grateful for my visit and was clearly amused by the time the burglary had allegedly taken place.
    â€˜Yes,’ I assured him. ‘It was a night-time job.’
    â€˜But two in the morning! I never been out of bed at two in the morning! Never in my life. Why’ve they put that in? It’s just silly.’
    â€˜Presumably it’s because that’s when Mr Rochford says he saw you putting the stuff in your van . . .’
    â€˜Van?’ Uncle Cyril seemed even more amused. ‘I haven’t got a van. Not one that’s roadworthy anyway.’
    A great wave of relief had come over me. We were going to have a fight on our hands, a battle in court, during which I intended to startle Daisy and the hard-working Timson family with my brilliance. C. H. Wystan may have condemned me to silence in the Penge Bungalow affair, but I had a chance of winning the Queen against Uncle Cyril, alone and without a leader.
    â€˜So you want to plead not guilty?’ I was prepared to take formal instructions from the client.
    â€˜Guilty!’
    â€˜What?’ Had I heard him correctly?
    â€˜I’m going to say guilty.’
    â€˜But if you were in bed and you haven’t got a van that works, why on earth . . . ?’
    â€˜Because it’s safer.’
    â€˜You’ll be sent back to prison.’
    â€˜That,’ Uncle Cyril was no longer smiling, ‘will be much safer.’
    â€˜What are you talking about?’
    Uncle Cyril answered with a single word: ‘Molloys.’
    As our conversation had wandered into paths I no longer understood, I turned to Daisy for help.
    â€˜The Molloys,’ she explained the mystery, ‘and the Timsons hate each other.’
    â€˜Who are these Molloys?’
    â€˜Another big family in the same south London patch. The Molloys, on the whole, do crime that’s neither ordinary nor decent.’
    â€˜Too right,’ Uncle Cyril added, while I suggested, ‘Violent and unusual?’
    â€˜You’ve got it,’ Daisy assured me.
    â€˜The Molloys won’t forgive me over the Meadowsweet Building Society job.’
    â€˜What was that?’ I now asked Daisy.
    â€˜The offices got robbed. And one of the Molloys was arrested.’
    â€˜It was Jimmy Molloy. And I happened to mention his name to “Persil” White,’ Uncle Cyril told me.
    â€˜â€œPersil”?’ Again I turned to my interpreter for assistance.
    â€˜Detective Inspector White. He’s always telling people he’s whiter than white, so they’ve named him after a soap powder,’ Daisy explained.
    â€˜I happened to bump into “Persil” down the Needle Arms and he said, “You got anything for me, Cyril?”’
    â€˜He wanted an alarm clock?’ I asked. In my salad days I still had a lot to learn.
    â€˜No, I guess he wanted information, didn’t he, Cyril?’ Daisy asked our client.
    â€˜Too right he did.’
    â€˜And I suppose you gave him a few titbits?’
    â€˜I know it’s not right. Of course I do. But I’m getting too old for all this breaking and entering, across roofs and stuff. And I’ve got to an age when I prefer my bed of a night-time. So I’m glad of a bit of regular income.’
    â€˜And what did you tell “Persil” this time?’ Daisy asked.
    â€˜I just happened to mention, casual, that there was talk of Jimmy Molloy in connection with the Meadowsweet job.’
    â€˜For which Jimmy got three years, if I remember.’ Once again Daisy revealed her encyclopedic knowledge of the affairs of