Rumpole and the Angel of Death by John Mortimer Page B

minutes. The animal murderers, as you call them, won’t even have to go into the witness-box, let alone face cross-examination by Rumpole. Will anyone know the details of the hunt? Certainly not. Do you want publicity for your cause? Plead guilty now and you will be lucky to get a single paragraph on page two. At least, let’s get the front page for a day or so.’ I wasn’t being entirely frank with my client. The murder was serious and horrible enough to get the front pages in a world hungry for bad news at breakfast, even if we were to plead guilty without delay. But I needed time. In time, I still hoped, I would get Den to tell me the truth.
    â€˜I don’t know.’ My client sat down then as though suddenly tired. ‘What would you do, Gavin?’
    â€˜I think’ – Gavin shrugged off all responsibility – ‘you should be guided by Mr Rumpole.’
    â€˜All right’ – Den was prepared to compromise – ‘we’ll go for the publicity.’
    â€˜Dennis Pearson, you are accused in this indictment of the murder of Dorothea Eyles on the sixteenth of March at Fallows
    Wood, Wayleave, in the county of Gloucester. Do you plead guilty or not guilty?’
    â€˜My Lord, Members of the Jury’ – Den, as I had feared, was about to orate. ‘This woman, Dorothea Eyles, was guilty of the murder of countless living creatures, not for her gain but simply for sadistic pleasure and idle enjoyment. My Lord, if anything killed her, it was natural justice!’
    â€˜Now then, Mr-’ Mr Justice James MacBain consulted his papers to make sure who he was trying. ‘Mr Pearson. You’ve got a gentleman in a wig sitting there, a Mr Rumpole, who’s paid to make the speeches for you. It’s not your business to make speeches now or at any time during this case. Now, you’ve been asked a simple question: Are you guilty or not guilty?’
    â€˜She is the guilty one, my Lord. This woman who revelled in the death of innocent creatures.’
    â€˜Mr Rumpole, are you not astute enough to control your client?’
    â€˜It’s not an easy task, my Lord.’ I staggered to my feet.
    â€˜Your first job is to control your client. That’s what I learnt as a pupil. Make the client keep it short.’
    â€˜Well, if you don’t want a long speech from the dock, my Lord, I suggest you enter a plea of not guilty and then my learned friend, Mr Marcus Pitcher, can get on with opening his case.’
    â€˜Mr Rumpole, I was not born yesterday!’ Jamie MacBain was stating the obvious. It was many years since he had first seen the light in some remote corner of the Highlands. He was a large man whose hair, once ginger, had turned to grey, and who sat slumped in his chair like one of those colourless beanbags people use to sit on in their Hampstead homes. He had small, pursed lips and a perpetually discontented expression. ‘And when I want your advice on how to conduct these proceedings, I shall ask you for it. Mr Moberly!’ This was a whispered summons to the clerk of the court, who rose obediently and, after a brief sotto voce conversation, sat down again as the Judge turned to the Jury.
    â€˜Members of the Jury, you and I weren’t born yesterday and I think we’re astute enough to get over this little technical difficulty. Now we don’t want Mr Pearson, the accused man here, to start giving us a lecture, do we? So what we’re going to do is to take it he’s pleading not guilty and then ask Mr Marcus Pitcher to get on with it and open the prosecution case. You see, there’s no great mystery about the law. We can solve most of the problems if we apply a wee bit of worldly wisdom.’
    I suppose I could have got up on my hind legs and said, ‘Delighted to have been of service to your Lordship,’ or, ‘If you’re ever in a hole, send for me.’ But I didn’t want to start a quarrel