All language subtitles for Rumpole s03e01 Article.eng

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(Woman) 19.

20.

�22,000.

�24,000 at the back.

�26,000.

28.

�28,000.

�28,000.

�28,000. Any more?

A new bid.
From the lady in the aisle - �30,000.

�32,000 at the back.

�34,000. Still the lady's bid.

�36,000.

38,000.

�38,000.

�38,000. Any more?

�38,000 then.

Mr Harold Brittling, isn't it, sir?

Is it?
I suppose it is now you mention it.

I'm Detective Inspector Tebbit.
This is Detective Constable Eckersley.

May I have a word, Mr Brittling?

Oh, just the one word?
Oh, come, inspector.

Make it two. Make it three.
Help yourself. What's it about?

It's about the forgery of an oil
painting known as Nancy at Dieppe,

alleged to be
by the late Septimus Cragg RA.

Get Rumpole.

Rumpole? I say, Horace?

Oh, you're working.

No, Featherstone, I'm standing
on my head playing bagpipes.

Oh, how I hate bloody frauds!

It's a nice clean crime, really.

Not like your usual practice -
no blood, no sex.

Yeah, I think so.
It's some bank clerk.

He seems to have mislaid
about �500,000.

His adding up
is probably no better than mine.

Still, it's almost
a respectable crime.

Your practice has become
quite decent lately.

We might even see you prosecuting.

(Laughs)

My humble talents will never be used

for shoving some poor devil
into a condemned Victorian slum,

so he can be banged up with
psychopaths and a chamber pot.

All the same, you're being
comparatively quiet of late.

It's led
the Lord Chancellor's office...

I know...
to look upon these chambers

with a certain amount of...
shall we say "good will"?

Shall we? I better get up
to something noisy, then.

Oh, no, Horace, please!

I say, have you heard
about that awful thing

that's happened to Moreton Colefax?

Featherstone, I'm trying to add up.

The Lord Chancellor told Moreton

that he was going
to make him a judge.

As you know, one mustn't say a word
until the appointment's official.

Moreton told Sam Arbuckle.

Arbuckle told Grantley Simpson.

Grantley Simpson
told lan and Jasper Rugeley.

Lan and Jasper told Walter Gains
in Pommeroys.

Is this some sort of round game?

(Laughs) Not for Moreton Colefax
it wasn't!

The upshot is poor old Moreton
is not going to get appointed.

If the Lord Chancellor sends a fellow
to make him a judge,

that fellow mustn't tell a soul.

Why are you telling me?

I'm not telling you anything, Horace.
Whatever gave you that idea?

Oh, I'm sorry.

I should have realised
you were bumbling away.

It is vital you understand
I have told you nothing whatever.

Absolutely nothing.

Just as it's essential

that we preserve the respectable
image of Chambers.

There was that time
when the Erskine-Browns

were expecting rather too early on
in their married lives.

- They weren't married!
- Well, exactly.

We got over that satisfactorily.

(Phone rings)

Any sort of... Oh!

Just a moment.

Any sort of breath of scandal now...

at this rather historic moment

in the life of our chambers...

Yes.

(Whispers) There's a young girl here,
Rumpole.

She's asking for you.

Well, she's rolling her own cigarettes,

and they smell of burnt carpets.

Tell me, Henry, has the old boy
lost his marbles?

Which old boy, sir?

- The Lord Chancellor.
- That's not for me to say, sir.

As a barrister's clerk,
you know everything. Tell me.

Is he seriously thinking

of making Guthrie Featherstone,
QC, MP

a red judge?

I know our learned Head of Chambers
has given up politics.

- He's joined the SDP.
- Exactly.

- But a judge?
- It'd be improper for me to comment.

- Come on!
- I have no inside information.

Don't be so pompous and legal.

Well, I would say

that Mr Featherstone
would cut a fine figure on the Bench.

He'll look all right, I grant you.
Fill the costume.

But is he?
That's what I want to know. Is he?

Is he what, Mr Rumpole?

Is he really the genuine article?

Yes, Rumpole.
I thought you'd bring me those.

A floral tribute.
I sensed the east wind blowing.

Where did you find them?
Been visiting the cemetery again?

They were the last bunch
at Temple Tube station.

I dare say, they need a bit of air.
Still here, is she?

- I assume by she, you mean your girl?
- She's not my girl!

She came to see you,
then she burst into tears and left.

People who come to see me
often burst into tears and leave.

I hope I may be able to save them.
I'll give them an aspirin.

Two aspirins.

(Bang)

What the devil is that?

(Bang)

(Hollers) Horace Rumpole,
there you are! At last!

(Rumpole) Who is this lunatic?
Who are you?

You remember Blanco Basnet.

The fellow you got off
at Cambridge Assizes.

Marvellous you were.
Absolutely spiffing!

Hang on a jiffy. I'm coming up.

(Rumpole) 'Blanco Basnet?

'I have some vague recollection...

'Ah! A hanger-on at Newmarket.

'And what was the charge?
Embezzlement?

'Common assault?

'Overfamiliarity with a horse? '

(Doorbell rings)

You're not Basnet.

Of course I'm not Basnet.
I'm Brittling. Harold Brittling.

I am a close chum of old Blanco's,
of course.

When you got him off without a stain
on his fairly bloody character,

Horace and I, we drank the night away
at the Old Plough in Stratford Parva.

- I say, is this your girl?
- This is my wife, Hilda.

- This is my girl, Pauline.
- I've met her. Is she your daughter?

No, no. She's my girl.

Thighs that fairly cry out
for the old HB pencil,

and she don't talk much,

but strips off
like an early Augustus John.

I say, Horace, your girl, Hilda,
looks distinctly familiar to me.

- We've met before.
- I think it's hardly likely.

Used you not to hover about

around the Old Monmouth pub
in Charlotte Street?

Didn't I once escort you home

after the Guinness stout
had been flowing rather too freely?

(Rumpole)
'Either he is off his chump,

'or there are hidden depths
to She Who Must Be Obeyed.'

You two girls have chummed up
already, haven't you?

You see, Horace, I had to send Pauline
to track you down,

because I was temporarily detained
in the cooler.

(Rumpole) 'Oh, a customer.

'Probably a respectable
little dud-cheque merchant.'

If you've come to me for legal advice,
approach me in the proper manner.

Oh! But I am approaching you
in the proper manner,

bearing bubbly.

The widow Clicquot.

Perhaps Hilda
will rustle up a few beakers,

and we can start to celebrate.

- Celebrate what?
- Our case.

The case in which, Horace,

I am going to twist the tails
of the art experts,

the connoisseurs, and you, the tails
of the entire legal profession.

You're game for a bit of fun, aren't you?

Come on, Hilda, the beakers.
It's not like you to hold up a party.

Rumpole!

There's no harm
in having a glass of bubbly.

Very well. If you insist.

Who are you exactly?

Who am I exactly?

Slade School gold medallist.

Exhibited in the Salon in Paris.

Hung in the Royal Academy.

Quartered
in the Bond St galleries.

He's the Harold Brittling.

- Who is he?
- The Harold Brittling. Artist.

- Oh.
- Royal Academy.

Oh!

You're not overpictured here, are you?

But what's this objet d'art?

That's a watercolour of Lamorna Cove,

done by my friend, Dodo Mackintosh.

She used to be Dodo Perkins.

She has sent in to the Royal Academy
on more than one occasion.

- Do you like it, Mr?
- Harold.

- Harold.
- The point is, do you like it?

I think it's rather fine.
Beautiful, in fact.

The way Dodo has caught
the shadow on those rocks.

If you think it's fine and beautiful...

- I do. I do.
- That's what it is to you.

To her, it's worth a fortune.

The fact that to me, it looks rather
like a blob of budgerigar's vomit

that's neither here nor there.

You pay for what you think
is beautiful,

and that's what our case
is all about. Isn't it, Horace?

Look here, I can't do any case
until you consult a solicitor,

and he cares to instruct me.

Oh, I see.
We play it by the rules, do we?

No other way.

Oh, which means
that when the time comes,

wouldn't it be all the more fun
breaking them?

Mrs Rumpole! Hilda!
It's Marigold Featherstone.

I've just been to Harrods.
Got to get something for the Palace.

You're buying furniture.

No. No, of course not.

The hat and the outfit.
The Princess Di look, I suppose.

For when Guthrie goes... you know.

Well, not exactly.

They all get it, don't they?

A bit of a handle for those who make it
up to the High Court Bench.

A handle? Whatever for?

The names, of course!

Oh, dear.
I've said too much, haven't I?

Forget what I said.

I know you will,
dear Mrs Rumpole, Hilda.

Just forget every single word I said.

(Man) So that's it, Mr Rumpole.
Exhibit JLT1. That's the evidence.

(Harold) Being a reproduction,

it doesn't do the original
any justice.

- As a composition, it's a corker.
- How is it as a forgery?

That's what you're charged with.

The obtaining of money by deception,
and a forgery of this painting.

Do you realise
what you can get for that?

It's a spiffing composition, and if you
could see the texture of the paints,

the way those curtains are moving
in the wind from the harbour.

From the collection of Miss Evangeline
Price from Swansea, the artist's niece.

As the connoisseurs would put it,
its provenance is impeccable.

It's the genuine article, Mr Rumpole.
That's our case.

Of course, it's genuine. "A thing
of beauty is a joy for ever."

"Its loveliness increases.
It will never pass into nothingness."

As you may well do
for a possible five-year stretch.

- Did you ever know Cragg?
- Did I know him?

At the time, he was the old lion, the king
of the pack. I was the rising star.

He used to invite me down
to the farmhouse at Rottingdean,

which was crammed with his children,

their various mothers,
and a bevy of society beauties

all hell-bent at getting
their portraits painted. He and I...

"Nancy at Dieppe."

Do you recognise this model?

He had so many models, mistresses.
They were usually both.

I dare say,
but do you recognise that one?

Seems vaguely familiar.

Yes, vaguely familiar to me, too.

Thighs that fairly cry out
for the old HB pencil,

would you say?

(Rumpole) 'I don't like that.

'A client who winks at you when
you as good as tell him he's a forger.

'Most unsettling.'

It all depends, I suppose,
on where your talents lie.

You're mumbling again.

My talents seem to lie
in the field of bloodstains.

Cross-examining coppers
on their notebooks.

Addressing juries
on the burden of proof.

Now, if only I'd had
an unusual aptitude

for dashing off a pair
of naked thighs in a hotel bedroom.

You've seen her again, haven't you?

Then I might be living
in a farmhouse in Sussex,

with eight pool-eyed children
and their eight different mothers,

all devoted to me.

Princesses pounding on my portals
to have their portraits painted.

No, Hilda. I didn't see her.
She wasn't at the conference.

Concentrate
on what you can do, Rumpole.

Fine chance I ever have
of getting invited to the Palace.

All I'd need would be
an old tweed suit.

(Rumpole) 'And a young woman
wearing nothing

'but a soulful expression.
'Oh.'

They're making Guthrie Featherstone
a judge, you know.

- Whoever told you that?
- Marigold Featherstone.

Outside Harrods.
She didn't exactly tell me,

but she talked about having
a handle to her name.

Then I happened to run into Phyllida
Erskine-Brown in Sainsburys.

Oh, no!

And she explained it.

If you get made a judge,

you get knighted automatically
and go to Buck House.

- Poor old Guthrie.
- Why do you say that?

Our Phyllida
is bound to tell her husband.

Claude carries on about the judiciary

the way you used
to about Ronald Coleman.

Soon as he gets his Legal Aid cheque,
he's in Pommeroys for a gossip.

Oh, well.

Let's just hope
that he doesn't get paid

until poor old Guthrie Featherstone
gets his bum safely on the Bench.

One thing is quite certain, Rumpole.

There's no earthly chance
of your ever getting a handle.

Excuse me.

- Rumpole.
- Oh.

I went to the bar just now
to get myself a sherry,

and Jack Pommeroy, do you know
what Jack Pommeroy called me?

He called me... judge.

You'll just have to get used to it.

It means that someone
has been talking.

Don't look at me, old darling.

Look, Erskine-Brown
is raising his glass to me.

That's just a friendly gesture.

You remember what happened
to poor Moreton Colefax.

He wasn't made a judge because
he couldn't keep his mouth shut.

- It's all around the Temple.
- Of course it isn't. Stop worrying.

Then why is Erskine-Brown
drinking to me?

Maybe he thinks
you look like a judge.

"Beauty is in the eye
of the beholder."

Oh, Horace,
don't you see what this means?

I'm not going to get appointed.

(Usher's staff bangs)

(Usher) Be upstanding.

(Rumpole) 'The Honourable
Mr Justice Featherstone.

'You have reached
the pinnacle of your profession.

'At last your dedication to talking
to all the right people

'around the Sheridan Club,

'your years spent losing at golf
to senior judges

'have paid off.

'Arise Guthrie Featherstone J.

'Barristers older than you
will bow before you and ask,

"'lf Your Lordship pleases."

'My Lord, you have fulfilled
your destiny.'

(Erskine-Brown) Are you the author of
many works on 20th century painting,

and advisor to collectors
and galleries throughout the world?

I am.

Are you the author of "Cragg
and the British Impressionists"

and the expert on this painter?

It has been said, My Lord.

(Erskine-Brown) Now, have you
examined this alleged Cragg?

I have, My Lord.

It isn't included in any existing
catalogue of the artist's works.

It was thought it came
from a genuine source,

the artist's niece in Swansea.

We know that to be untrue.

We know nothing of the sort
until that has been found a fact

by the people in that jury box,
and no one else!

Very well, Mr Rumpole.
Perhaps he suspected it to be untrue.

Is that the situation?

My Lord, how can what
this witness suspected be evidence?

I'm sure you don't want
to be difficult.

(Rumpole) 'Why should you think that?

'It's my duty to be difficult.'

(Erskine-Brown) May I assist?
(Guthrie) I'd be grateful if you would.

(Rumpole) 'What's this?
The vicarage tea party?

'May I assist you
to a cucumber sandwich?

'Guthrie's learned the habit
of getting cosy with the prosecution.'

If you had known that this picture

did not come
from Miss Price's collection,

would you have had doubts
about its authenticity?

That question is speculative.
I object.

Mr Rumpole, would you like me to rule
on the propriety of the question?

The time may have come to make
up the judicial mind, yes, My Lord.

Then I rule Mr Erskine-Brown may ask
his question. Sorry, Mr Rumpole.

(Rumpole) 'Oh, yes!
You look brokenhearted.'

Well, Mr Gandolphini.

I had a certain doubt about it
from the start.

"From the start, I had a doubt."

Take it slowly.
Just follow His Lordship's pencil.

(Mutters) You may be sure
it is not drawing naked thighs in Dieppe.

Did you say something, Mr Rumpole?

Nothing, My Lord,
of the slightest consequence.

I do say that because I happen
to have extremely acute hearing.

- My Lord, congratulations.
- Well, Mr Gandolphini.

I thought the painting very fine.

Certainly in the manner of Septimus
Cragg. It's a beautiful piece of work.

I haven't seen a Cragg where
the shadows had so much colour.

Colour in the shadows?
May I have a look?

There's a good deal of green
and even purple

in the shadows on the naked body,
My Lord.

(Rumpole) 'Pause for His Lordship

'to make a microscopic examination
of Nancy.'

Oh, yes! That's very interesting.

Have you seen that, Mr Rumpole?

Would you show that to Mr Rumpole?
Would you care to borrow my glass?

Thank you, My Lord. I think I can manage
with the... ahem... naked eye.

Tell us, is Nancy a model who appears
in any of Cragg's works known to you?

- In none, my Lord.
- Did he paint his models many times?

Many, many times, My Lord.

Thank you so much, Mr Gandolphini.

Mr Gandolphini, you have said
that this is a beautiful painting.

It's very fine, yes.

- Has it �38,000 worth of beauty?
- That I can't say.

Oh, can you not?

I thought part of your trade
was reducing beauty to mere cash.

I value pictures, yes.

Then would you not agree
that this is a valuable picture?

- I have said...
- You have said that it is beautiful.

Have you not been telling this Jury
the truth?

Yes...

"Beauty is truth, truth beauty,

"that is all ye know on earth
and all ye need to know."

- Is that really all we need to know?
- In this case, yes, My Lord.

I think I might want
to hear a legal argument.

You shall. I promise, Your Lordship.

If this picture had been painted
by a more famous artist

than Septimus Cragg,

it wouldn't be more of a thing
of beauty, would it?

(Gandolphini) No.

Than had it been painted
by a less famous artist,

say, Joe Bloggs or His Lordship
on a wet Sunday afternoon.

Oh, really, Mr Rumpole!

It wouldn't be less beautiful. It would
still have the colourful shadows,

it would still have
the same feeling of light and air,

and the breeze from the harbour
and the warmth of the human body.

- Exactly...
- I don't want to interrupt.

Then don't!

We're investigating
the value of this work.

The value depends upon
its being a genuine Septimus Cragg.

My learned friend seems to think this
a straightforward criminal case.

We are discussing a work of art
as a thing of beauty.

We are not debating the price of fish!

(Applauds)

(Mutters) Tell the old chump
he's not at the music hall.

Is that all, Mr Rumpole?

Yes, My Lord. We've heard enough
from Mr Gandolphini.

- Mr Gandolphini, a small point.
- (Gandolphini) Yes, My Lord.

I happen to be extremely fond
of Claude Lorrain.

I do so agree, My Lord.

Yes, he's an absolutely
super painter, isn't he?

Supposing you were shown
a good, er... a beautiful, painting

attributed to Claude Lorrain,

and you were assured it came
from a reputable source,

you might accept that as being
a genuine Lorrain, mightn't you?

Certainly.

If you learned later it was painted
in the 17th century, not the 18th,

you might change your opinion,
mightn't you?

Well, not really, My Lord.

I'm sorry.
Perhaps you would tell us why not.

Well, you see, Claude did paint
in the 17th century, My Lord.

(Judge) Of course. That's right.

Finally, Mrs De Moyne,

when you bought this picture
at auction for �38,000,

you believed you were paying
for a genuine Cragg?

Of course I did. I was deceived.

Thank you.
Will you wait there, please?

Mrs De Moyne, it would seem
you're a collector of autographs.

You bought a very beautiful picture.

Yes.

So beautiful you were prepared
to pay �38,000 for it.

Yes, indeed.

Mrs De Moyne, this is
still the same beautiful picture.

It hasn't changed one whit.
How were you deceived?

Because it isn't a genuine Cragg!

That has yet to be established,
Mrs De Moyne.

I'm obliged to Your Lordship.
Why do you think you were deceived?

Someone rang me up.

Someone? What did they say?

- Well, he said...
- One moment, Mrs De Moyne.

- Do you want this evidence?
- Yes, My Lord. I'm curious.

- You may answer, Mrs De Moyne.
- That made me call the police.

The man who called said the picture
wasn't a genuine Cragg.

That it had never belonged
to Cragg's niece in Swansea.

He also said I got a bargain.

- A bargain? Why?
- Because it was better than a Cragg.

Was this an art expert?
Did he give you his name?

Yes, but I was so upset,
I didn't pay too much attention to it.

- I don't think I can remember it.
- Well, try.

White. I think it had "white" in it.

White. Whiting. Whitehead.
Whitehouse!

I can't remember.

- You can't?
- No.

Thank you, Mrs De Moyne.

(Erskine-Brown) I have
no re-examination. Your Lordship?

- Mrs De Moyne, you may step down.
- Thank you.

I'd like Miss Marjorie
Evangeline Price, please.

(Usher) Marjorie Evangeline Price.

You're wonderful.
Harold said you would be.

Oh, nonsense!

Well, just a bit wonderful,
I suppose.

(Mutters) Myersy,
how do you think it's going?

(Mutters) So far, better than I expected.
This is the one I'm afraid of.

Oh, really?

"I swear by Almighty God
that the evidence I shall give

"shall be the truth, the whole truth
and nothing but the truth."

Are you
Miss Marjorie Evangeline Price?

I am.

Do you live at 31, Majuba Road,
Swansea?

I do.

Was the late Septimus Cragg RA
your uncle?

Uncle Septimus, yes.

- Know the defendant, Brittling?
- Mr Brittling.

He came to see me in Swansea.

He had one of
Uncle Septimus's paintings to sell.

He wanted me to put it
into the auction.

The real seller didn't want
to be brought into it.

Did Mr Brittling tell you why?

Apparently, it was a businessman

who didn't want it to be known
he was selling his pictures.

People might have thought
he was in financial trouble.

You signed the papers and agreed to
the picture being sold in your name?

Yes, I'm afraid
it was very wrong of me,

but he was going to give me
a little bit of a percentage.

Well, an ex-school mistress
does get a very small pension.

(Rumpole) 'Just our luck!
The sort of witness the Jury love.

'A sweet old lady who's not afraid
to admit she's wrong.'

Did you have any idea
that the picture might not be genuine?

Oh, no!
Of course, I had no idea of that.

Mr Brittling was very charming
and persuasive.

(Erskine-Brown) How much
did Mr Brittling allow you to keep?

How very generous.

Thank you, Miss Price.

Miss Price,
do you remember your uncle?

Yes. He came to our house
when I was a little girl.

He had a red beard
and a very hairy tweed suit.

- I remember sitting on his lap.
- Is that all you remember of him?

I remember Uncle Septimus telling me

there were two sorts of people
in the world -

patients and nurses.

- He said I would be a nurse.
- Really? Which did he think he was?

My Lord,
can this possibly be relevant?

I can't see it at the moment,
Mr Erskine-Brown.

Which did he say he was?

He said he could always find someone
to look after him.

I think he was a bit of a spoiled baby,
really.

Miss Price, would you look
at exhibit one, please?

When Mr Brittling
first showed you that picture...

Oh, he didn't. I didn't ask to see it.

Mr Brittling told me about it,
and of course, I trusted him, you see.

- Yes. Thank you, Miss Price.
- No further questions.

(Rumpole) 'No doubt about it.

'There's nothing more like banging
your head against a brick wall

'than cross-examining a witness
who's telling nothing but the truth.'

What I wanted to ask you is,
how long is the case going to last?

Well, Judge... Guthrie, that rather
depends on Rumpole's defence.

The point is, I may not be able to sit
on Monday afternoon.

Appointment at the Palace.

Oh, yes.
Marigold got a new outfit, has she?

The girls rather like
all that nonsense, don't they?

It's a royal command.
You know that type of thing.

No, I don't. My only royal command

was to join
the ground staff of the RAF.

Oh, yes. Of course, Horace.
You old war horse!

(Laughs)

- How long will you be?
- Well... Horace?

Well... not too long, I shouldn't think.

It's rather an absurd little case.
A practical joke more or less.

- Just a prank, really.
- I can't pretend I find it a joke.

All he did was pull the legs
of a few so-called connoisseurs.

And made himself money
in the process.

It's deceit, Horace.
Forgery for personal profit.

If your client's convicted,

I'm afraid I couldn't rule out
a custodial sentence.

- You couldn't?
- How could I?

For a bit of "let's pretend"? A bit
of a joke on a pompous profession?

I don't suppose you could.

Jolly good to see you, fellows.

(Laughs) It's been just like
a Chambers' meeting!

Well, thanks for the dish of tea,
Guthrie... Judge.

Horace, another word.

Yes.

I've noticed that you've fallen
into a bad habit.

Bad habit?

Hands in pockets
when you're addressing the court.

It looks so bad. It sets such a poor
example to the younger fellows.

Keep the hands
out of the pockets, Horace!

I'm sure you don't mind me
pulling you up about it.

"I do solemnly and sincerely
and truly declare and affirm

"that the evidence which I shall give

"shall be the truth, the whole truth
and nothing but the truth."

Your name is Harold Reynolds
Gainsborough Brittling?

(Brittling) It is.

You come from an artistic family,
Mr Brittling?

(Brittling) Right from the start,
I showed an extraordinary aptitude.

At the Slade School, which I entered
at the ripe old age of 16,

I was a gold medallist twice,

and by far the most brilliant
student of my year.

(Rumpole) 'A modest fellow.
The Jury don't like him.'

Were you acquainted
with Septimus Cragg?

I knew him and I loved him.

He was the finest painter
of his generation,

and when he saw my work,
I think he recognised, well...

(Rumpole) 'A fellow genius.
Please, don't say it.'

- A fellow genius.
- (Rumpole) 'Oh.'

Did you subsequently see Septimus
Cragg on many other occasions?

Oh, well, you could say
that at Rottingdean,

I did become
one of the charmed circle.

(Rumpole) Would you take in your hands
exhibit one, please?

Oh, I beg of you not to refer to it
as exhibit one.

Exhibit one might be
a blunt instrument or something!

(Rumpole) 'Please, Brittling,
leave the jokes to me.'

Where did that picture come from?

Ah! But I really don't remember
very clearly.

- You don't remember?
- No, My Lord.

When one is leading the life of an artist,

the small details
tend to escape the memory.

I imagine that Septimus -
I'm sorry, Mr Cragg -

gave it to me
during one of my visits to him.

Artists pay these little tributes
to each other.

(Rumpole) Why did you ask
Miss Price to sell it for you?

I suppose it was because dealers
would have more faith in it,

if it were to come from such a source.

I rather wanted the old puss
to get her commission.

(Rumpole) 'That went down
with the Jury

'like a cup of cold cod liver oil.'

What is your opinion
of that painting?

I think it is the work
of the highest genius.

- (Rumpole) Did Septimus Cragg paint it?
- It's a lovely thing.

- Did Cragg paint it?
- It's a lovely thing.

What does it matter who painted it?

For the purposes of this case,
you may take it from me, it matters.

Did you paint that picture,
Mr Brittling?

Me? Is someone suggesting I did?

Yes, Mr Brittling. Someone is.

Well, in all modesty...

(Rumpole) 'In all what? '

You take my breath away.

Are you suggesting that I
could have produced this masterpiece?

Mr Rumpole,
we can take it the answer means no.

Yes, thank you.
If Your Lordship pleases.

Mr Brittling... you say you laundered
this picture through Miss Price?

- He did what, Mr Erskine-Brown?
- I'm so sorry, My Lord.

(Erskine-Brown) Why this performance
of selling the picture through Miss Price?

Just to tease them a bit.
Pull their legs!

- Pull whose legs?
- The legs of the art experts.

The connoisseurs.

So, we've all been brought here
to this court for a sort of a joke?

Oh, no. Not for a sort of a joke.

Something very serious
is at stake here.

- (Erskine-Brown) What?
- My reputation.

Your reputation as an honest man,
Mr Brittling?

No, no. Something
far more important than that.

My reputation as an artist.

You see, if I did paint this picture,

I must be a genius.

Mustn't I?

- Why did the judge stop Harold's bail?
- Oh, that happens sometimes

when the defendant
starts giving his evidence.

Personally,
I think the judge was showing off.

Well, he's young.

A bit wet behind the judicial ears.

What is the matter with Harold?
His evidence was a disaster.

- Does he want to lose this case?
- You know he does, don't you?

Look.
Would you take me for a drink, please?

How about a glass of Chateau Fleet
Street? We can go to Pommeroys.

No, we won't. We'll go to the Old
Monmouth in Charlotte Street.

Monmouth, oh!

(Phone rings)

Where are you, Rumpole?

You're in a bar in Soho?

With that girl?

You may be there for a long time!

Stop talking nonsense.
I don't believe a word of it.

- What did you tell her?
- The truth.

- She believe you?
- No.

- Let me do this.
- No. It's the least I can do.

- (Pauline) She's here.
- (Rumpole) Who?

All you need to prove
that Harold's innocent.

- Hello, Nancy.
- Hello.

I'll have a large port and lemon,
young man.

(Pauline) I'll get it.

(Door rattles)

- (Rumpole hollers) Hilda!
- It's not you, Rumpole, is it?

I wonder you bothered
to have come back at all.

- (Rumpole) Hilda, this door's locked.
- Yes.

- Would you unlock it, please?
- (Hilda) No.

Something's burning in the kitchen.

That was your dinner.

Where am I supposed to sleep?

What's wrong with the sofa?

Oh, hello.

Erskine-Brown, it's me, Horace.

Yes. I'm sorry. Did I wake you up?

Oh, I did. Well, isn't it time
to feed the baby, or something?

What?

Oh, he's four now.

How time flies!

Look, Claude,
would you check something for me?

It's about the purchaser.

Yes, Mrs De Moyne.

I don't want to have
to drag her back into court,

so could your officer ask her

if the man who rang her up
was called Blanco Basnet?

Yes. Blanco Basnet.

Blanco?

Well, it means white, you see.

(Laughs) Yes.

Sweet dreams, Claude.

Er... oh!

Blast!

(Bang)

(Rumpole) Ow!

- You look tired, Rumpole.
- It's hard work this vie de boh�me.

What the news about Mrs De Moyne?

Oh, she remembered the name
when the Inspector put it to her.

Blanco Basnet.
Odd sort of name, isn't it?

Odd sort of fellow.

(Usher's staff bangs)

(Usher) Be upstanding.

(Usher) Put up Harold Brittling.

You have another witness, Mr Rumpole?

I would like to call
Mrs Nancy Brittling.

(Usher) Nancy Brittling.

Mr Myers...

The client doesn't want
this witness called.

Tell him to paint a picture.
Let me do my work in peace.

(Usher)
Take the book in your right hand.

"I swear by Almighty God
that the evidence I shall give

"shall be the truth, the whole truth
and nothing but the truth."

- You are Mrs Nancy Brittling?
- Yes, dear.

Address your remarks
to the learned judge.

You were married to my client,

Mr Harold Reynolds
Gainsborough Brittling?

It seems a long time ago,
My Lordship.

Did Mr Brittling introduce you

to the painter, Septimus Cragg,
at Rottingdean?

Yes. I remember that.

It was my 19th birthday.

I had red hair then, and lots of it.
I remember he said I was a stunner.

Who said you were a stunner?
Your husband?

- Septimus said that, of course.
- (Rumpole) Of course.

Septimus asked me
if I'd pop across to Dieppe with him.

- And what did you feel about that?
- Thrilled to bits.

How did Harold Brittling
react to that course of events?

He was as sick as a dog.

My Lord, I fail to see the relevance
of this line of questioning.

We seem to be straying

into some rather squalid
divorce matter here.

We must let Mr Rumpole
take his own course.

- It might be quicker in the end.
- I am obliged to Your Lordship.

Mrs Brittling, did you go to Dieppe
with Septimus Cragg,

and did he paint your picture

in a bedroom
at the Hotel Du Vieux Port?

He painted me in the nude,
My Lordship.

I was a bit of something
worth painting in those days.

Look at exhibit one, please.

Yes. That's the picture.

I saw Septimus paint that

in the bedroom at Dieppe.

And the signature, Mrs Brittling?

Mrs Brittling!

I saw him paint his signature.

Well, we were so happy together.

For fun, he let me paint my name too.

Let His Lordship see.

It's a bit dark. I did it in purple.

Just at the edge of the carpet.
I just wrote "Nancy."

Upside down...
That's all.

Oh, Mr Rumpole, I think she is right.

She is, My Lord.

Show that to Mr Erskine-Brown.

How did your husband
get hold of this painting?

Septimus gave it to me,

but Harold fussed so much
that I let him have the picture.

After a bit, we separated.

I suppose he hung onto it,

until he wanted to pretend
that he'd painted it himself.

Yes. Thank you, Mrs Brittling.

Mrs Brittling...

...why have you come here
to give this evidence?

It must be painful for you
to remember these sordid events.

Painful? Oh, no!

It's a pure pleasure, my dear,
to see the picture again,

and to remember what I looked like
when I was 19 and happy.

(Rumpole) He hung onto it,

until he wanted to pretend

that he had painted it himself.

Ladies and Gentlemen of the Jury, you
may think that the one driving passion

in Harold Brittling's life was his almost
insane jealousy of Septimus Cragg.

Cragg became his young wife's lover.

That was another turn of the screw

to a man tormented by the fact

that Septimus Cragg
was a painter of genius,

and Brittling,
was merely a very clever one -

utterly devoid of any style
of his own.

So years after Cragg's death,
he planned his revenge.

He would prove he could paint
better than Cragg ever did.

He would prove this fine painting
was his work and not Cragg's.

That was to be his revenge.

Not just for one weekend in Dieppe,

but for a whole lifetime's
humiliation.

To achieve that revenge,

he was prepared to sell his Cragg
in a devious way

that would be bound
to attract attention and suspicion,

and then to cast doubts
on its authenticity.

He was prepared to face
a charge of forgery and go to prison...

...as long as he could prove
that he was the true painter

of a work of genius.

But don't be deceived,
members of the Jury.

Harold Brittling is a fake criminal.

He is no forger.

He is not guilty of the crime
he is charged with.

He is guilty
only of the savage bitterness

sometimes felt by the merely talented,
for men of genius.

You may think,
as you bring in your verdict,

of "not guilty", that that is
a very understandable emotion.

Indeed, you may even feel pity
for a poor painter

who, in his desperate efforts
to steal a great man's reputation,

was only too well aware
of his own shortcomings,

and did not dare to produce
even a forgery of his own.

You bastard, Rumpole!

You've joined the connoisseurs!

Thank you.

You sent for me, judge?

- Good win, Horace.
- Thank you.

I always knew your client
was innocent.

Oh, did you?

Yes. One gets a nose
for that sort of thing.

One can assess a witness

and see whether
they're telling the truth.

Have to do it all the time
in this job, Horace.

- Horace?
- Yes, judge.

You remember that...
bit of a tizz I got into?

You know,
about the big secret getting out?

No need to tell anyone about that.

I rang the Lord Chancellor's office
about that

the day after we met in Pommeroys.

You did what?

I told them
that you hadn't said a word.

It was a joke invented
by Claude Erskine-Brown.

(Laughs)

I owe you a great debt of gratitude.

Yes, I told them nobody dreamt
they'd make you a judge.

Did you really ring the Lord Chancellor's
office? Are you telling the truth?

Oh, can't you tell, Guthrie?

I thought you had
the infallible judicial eye.

Ahem.

What is it this time, Rumpole?
Not flowers again.

Bubbly! Pommeroys' sparkling.
Special offer.

Non-vintage, of course.

You had enough to drink
with that girl.

Pauline who passed through
the Old Bailey,

and then was heard no more.

Forget her, Hilda!

I hope this means that you won.

Indeed, it does.

The old chump will never forgive me
for having got him off.

I doubt if we'll ever see
either of them again.

Here, I give you a toast.

"Beauty is truth, truth beauty -
that is all ye know on earth."

"And all ye need to know." Keats.

Yes.

Poor old Keats
didn't know the half of it.

In the courtroom,
beauty isn't the whole truth, is it?

Down the Old Bailey, we need to know
a damn sight more than that.

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