Rumpole and the Penge Bungalow Murders by John Mortimer Page B

listened to with as much courteous attention by any of the judges who deal in crime as I received from the Timson family.
    For a while the evidence called concerned the Molloys, their tyrannical behaviour and desire to impose a reign of terror on south Brixton. The evidence was clear, uncontested and all one way. After twenty minutes, and the consumption of another coffee, bun and butter, I decided it was time I made my final speech. Accordingly, I tapped my coffee cup with a teaspoon and went straight to what seemed to me to be the heart of the matter.
    â€˜May it please you, members of the Timson family,’ I began in a low, conversational tone, ‘what Cyril is asking for is an ignominious surrender to the forces of evil. I’m sure I don’t need to remind you, it’s only a few years since we emerged victorious from a war with a ruthless enemy with whom I’m sure the Molloys would have had much in common. Did we quietly surrender to the Wehrmacht and to the SS? Did we say politely, “It’s all our fault, so please walk over us with your storm troopers and your jackboots?”’ At this point I distinctly heard Doris ask her husband what jackboots were, as though they might be some sort of fashion accessory. ‘We did not! We fought back and told the truth and, in the end, we won! And if we hadn’t, I ask you, what would have happened? The world would have been ruled by the Nazis.’ As I was in a Churchillian mood I pronounced the word Narzeez, as he did. ‘So, if we turn tail and run from the Molloys now, they’ll rule Brixton, doing what they like, bearing false witness and making accusations whenever it suits them.’
    â€˜We don’t want that.’ Fred Timson gave me an encouraging mutter.
    Then I embarked on a peroration, borrowed, I have to confess, from our wartime leader. ‘We must fight them in Coldharbour Lane, we must fight them on Streatham Hill and we must fight them in Clapham. We must never surrender!’ And after a suitable pause I added, in what I hoped were quieter but even more persuasive tones, ‘And your Uncle Cyril must never give aid and comfort to the enemy by pleading guilty just because he’s frightened of the Molloys. And if you want time to discuss this among yourselves, I will step over to the slot machine and buy myself a small bar of Cadbury’s milk chocolate.’
    I had hardly persuaded the machine to deliver up the goods before I was called back to the table by Fred Timson. It seemed they had a verdict; but first they had a question.
    â€˜If Cyril does a “not guilty”, Mr Rumpole, will you be here to defend him?’
    â€˜While I can stand on my hind legs,’ I assured him, ‘and while I can still speak, I will defend Uncle Cyril to the death.’
    â€˜Then he’ll do a “not guilty”. That’s what we’ve all decided and Uncle Cyril was never one to give any trouble to the family.’
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    The London Sessions judge, a small foxy-faced individual known as ‘Custodial Cookson’ because of his lengthy sentences, was not best pleased at Uncle Cyril’s apparent change of heart.
    â€˜This case was listed as a plea of guilty, Mr Rumpole. Now another date will have to be fixed for the trial. Your client is causing a good deal of trouble with the lists.’
    â€˜Any amount of trouble with the lists,’ I felt entitled to say, ‘is less important than Mr Timson’s right to a fair hearing.’
    â€˜You are of quite recent call to the bar, I think, Mr Rumpole.’ ‘Custodial Cookson’ had a voice like dead twigs blown over a frosty window. ‘Perhaps in the future you will be able to control your clients’ inconvenient changes of mind.’
    â€˜I hope not, Your Honour.’
    The custodial judge looked as though he would have liked to say a good deal more. Instead he told me we’d be informed of the new date and