All language subtitles for Rumpole s04e03 and the Official Secret.eng

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(Whirring)

(Birds twitter)

(Big Ben chimes two o'clock)

"Biscuit war in the Ministry of Defence."

Do listen to this, Hilda,
this is what passes for news.

"Government extravagance
has been highlighted

"by the astonishing sums
subsidising tea and biscuits

"consumed by civil servants
at the Ministry of Defence.

"The cost of elevenses,
plus the money spent on entertaining

"a long list of foreign visitors,
would, it is calculated,

"have paid for the Crimean War
three times over."

- (Hilda shouts) Afters, Rumpole?
- Afters? Of course I want afters.

(Shouts) We need a hatch, Rumpole!

Didn't I hear some rumours
of a baked jam roll?

If we had a hatch
through into the kitchen

I shouldn't have to walk
all the way round to fetch your afters.

I don't like hatches, Hilda.

You're always against
anything at all convenient.

We had a hatch
at the vicarage when I was a boy.

The thing rumbled up from the bowels
of the earth smelling of stale cabbage.

This wouldn't rumble up from anywhere.

It'd come straight through
from the kitchen.

- Custard?
- Custard!

Yeah, just imagine, if we hadn't spent
all that money on tea and biscuits

we could have had
another three Crimean Wars.

You sent for me, Mr Thorogood.

Is this your glove, Miss Tuttle?

Oh, I say, how super!
It's worth losing things, isn't it,

for the sheer bliss
of having them turn up again?

I think this gentleman
would like to have a word with you.

Yes. I'm Detective Inspector Fallowes,
this is Detective Sergeant Hamling.

We're investigating the possible leak
of classified information

from the Ministry of Defence, and
would be grateful for your co-operation.

What do you suggest we do,
Oliver, turn a blind eye?

You can't really go through
with this prosecution,

because of some piddling
little leak about biscuits?

Biscuits or bombs,
in my opinion it's the same principle.

We'll be a laughing stock.

She signed the Official Secrets Act.
She broke her oath,

that's not a piddling little leak,
as you so elegantly put it.

Rosemary Tuttle,
I've seen her wandering around

looking like a Ukrainian peasant
out of a musical comedy.

She's an amiable eccentric.

Amiable eccentrics, in my opinion,
are far too dangerous

to be allowed to wander around
ministries selling secrets to the press.

It was the chatterbox column
in "The Sunday Fortress".

The Minister reads
"The Sunday Fortress"

and he wasn't entertained by it.

Speaking personally,
I feel sorry for the old trout.

Papers have been sent to the Attorney
General. We'll be guided by him.

Now, recommended re-siting
for Operation Blueberry.

Are we ready to pass on to that?

Oh, Mr Erskine-Brown, please.
Claudey? Batty Bowling.

Yes. Yes, long time, isn't it?

I've got to make it snappy,
I'm not phoning from the office.

There's an old girl
in need of legal advice.

Think nothing of it. Anything I can do.
See you soon, Batty.

(Opera music plays)

Oh, I was looking for your wife.

Join the club. With her practice
she's almost never at home these days.

She asked me to do
some research for her.

I suppose Phyllida and I
will meet again some day.

It's no picnic, I can tell you,
being married to a busy silk.

Look here,
what about me calling you Sue?

You can if you like.
Actually, my name's Liz.

Just testing.
Well, to be quite honest with you,

it's, er... it's a pretty ghastly
sort of situation, Liz.

My wife has absolutely no time for it.

No time for it?

Either she's away, or on
the rare moment that she's at home

she's far too tired.
I feel I'm missing a vital part of my life.

- Can you understand that?
- Well, I... I suppose I can in a way.

I mean, it's not the sort of thing
a chap likes to do on his own.

- No! No, of course not.
- It'll be 18 months next Tuesday.

I'm suffering
terrible withdrawal symptoms.

I'll leave these with you,
then I've got to be...

All she could manage was
"La Vie Parisienne" over Christmas.

- You must know how it feels?
- No. I'm not sure that I do exactly.

So long. I can hardly remember
the last time I sat down

to a decent evening of Wagner.

(Ducks quack)

(Big Ben chimes two o'clock)

Well, I must be getting back.

Oh, I forgot, I have nowhere to go.

Civil servants
can be remarkably uncivil at times.

- I must admit it... it is a bit hairy.
- I've been making some enquiries.

All the chaps in the Ministry
have been doing that.

No, some enquiries
among friends in the law.

What you're going to need
is a specialist.

Specialist? In Official Secrets?

A specialist in laughing
ridiculous cases out of court.

- (Whispers) Psst! Rumpole!
- Erskine-Brown?

- A word in confidence.
- A secret?

Ssshh! I've invited you
to the opera next month.

Not Wagner?

Well, yes, it does happen to be
"The Meistersinger".

Who said that Wagner's music
isn't nearly as bad as it sounds?

Oh, don't worry, you won't actually
have to come to the opera.

- You didn't ask me?
- Oh, I did ask you.

- I refused?
- Quite the reverse, you accepted.

You'd like to get to know
a good deal more about music drama.

White man speak in riddles.

It's just that if my wife
should happen to ask you

where I was on the 28th of next month...

- Yes?
- We went to the opera together.

- But I won't have been there.
- That's the whole point!

- Will you have been there?
- Ah, that's something of a secret.

I can count on you, can't I, Rumpole?

Why should I go along with you
in this sordid little conspiracy?

Because I've done
an enormous favour for you, Rumpole.

Favour?

- I was at school with this chap.
- You surprise me.

Batty Bowling. It seems he's done
tremendously well in the civil service.

Some harmless old biddy in his
department's got into a spot of trouble.

They wanted someone
who'd turn the whole trial

into a sort of musical term,
so naturally I recommended you.

Oh, naturally. Civil of you,
Claude, extremely civil of you.

To me. Right here and down a bit.

What's this?

A present from Her Majesty the Queen.

No, a loan from the Ministry of Defence.

- What's in it? The Crown Jewels?
- It's your brief.

In a safe?

That's how they're supplied
when the matter is confidential,

so that the papers don't fall
into the wrong hands.

- Ah! How do you open it?
- There's a number for the combination.

What is it?

(Whispers) It doesn't do
to mention these things in public!

Well, whisper it into the lock, Henry.

There's a brief in there,
a cash brief, with any luck.

Four... five... three... eight... one.

- Wrong.
- Four, five, three, one, eight, wasn't it?

(Whispers) Dianne, please!

Four, five, three, one... eight.

Oh, dear! Open sesame!

Oh-ho-ho!
That's the safest safe I've ever seen.

"Dear Mr Chatterbox, do you want
to hear about tea and scandal,

"their ancient custom,
in the Ministry of Defence?

"It's all highly secret and might make
a good story for your column."

Sounds familiar.
Where does that come from?

- I've no idea.
- Neither have I.

(Phone rings)

Oh, oh, that'll be for me.
Yes, I'm expecting a call.

All right.

Hello? Er... yes, yes, it is.
Will you hold on a moment, please?

- I'll take it in the kitchen.
- Why?

Isn't a person entitled to a few secrets?

Oh, secrets!

"I'll be on the second bench
after the bridge coming from the Mall.

"I've got fairish hair, and I wear
rather brightly coloured clothes.

"I'll leave at 2pm.
What you want will be left on the seat,

"folded inside a copy
of 'The Daily Telegraph'."

Oh!

(Hilda shouts) Rumpole!

- Yes, Hilda?
- What's the matter with our phone?

- It looks perfectly all right to me.
- It makes little hiccupping sounds.

- Hiccupping?
- Have you paid the bill?

Bill, perhaps not. Pressure of work.

Well, if you hadn't paid the bill
it should be cut off, it shouldn't hiccup.

Well, see to it, Rumpole,
and try not to be totally irresponsible.

To hear is to obey,
oh, mistress of the blue horizons.

But Miss Tuttle is bound
by the Official Secrets Act.

It's alleged she copied confidential
documents and gave them to the press.

- (Rumpole) About biscuits?
- Section 2 says...

Now, please, Mr James,
it is a well-known fact

that section 2 of the Official Secrets Act

is the raving of governmental paranoia.

- But if she has broken the law...
- Then the jury has the right to acquit.

Members of the jury, if you consider this
to be a case of bureaucracy run mad,

that this spinster lady,
whom I have the honour to represent,

should be hounded through the courts
simply because our masters in Whitehall

cannot control their revolting greed
for ginger nuts and Dundee shortcake,

then you have every right to return
a resounding verdict of not guilty.

Look, I'm awfully sorry to butt in...

Yes, what do you what?

Well, you can say
all that in court, if you like.

Oh, but I do like, Miss Tuttle. Strong
stuff, I admit, but I feel fully justified.

- But don't you see? I didn't do it.
- Nothing?

Mr Rumpole, I'm jolly well innocent.

Innocent. My dear lady, your glove was
found that night by the copying machine.

I can't understand how it got there at all.
It must have walked.

Miss Tuttle,
please consider this very carefully.

If you admit to this noble act,
I can make you a heroine,

a Joan of Arc in shining armour,
battling the forces of bureaucracy.

And what if I deny it?

Then in the jury's eyes you're
trying to lie your way out of trouble.

Please, Miss Tuttle,
consider it very carefully.

I've got to tell the truth.

Yes. Yes, Miss Tuttle,
I suppose you have.

All right, Mr James,
we will check the evidence,

and we'll start
with our own typewriter test.

(Chatter)

- (Liz) Rumpole!
- Oh, Miss Probert, you startled me.

- I wanted to tell you something.
- Not a secret?

It's about Claude Erskine-Brown.
He's asked me...

- To the opera?
- Yeah. What do you think?

Well, at your age it should be all right.

But for me, well, time's getting
a bit short for Wagner.

It might be terribly embarrassing.

Oh, I don't remember they did
much stripping off at Nuremburg.

He'd not use it to project
some sort of masculine aggression?

He might say
I've got terribly nice eyes.

- Oh, I don't think so.
- Oh, don't you?

- I don't mean that they're not nice. I...
- Rumpole!

Don't you start presenting
a male stereotype!

Oh, certainly not. God forbid.

No, purely functionalised,
yours, scarcely worth a mention.

(Phone rings)

(Rumpole) Uncle Tom.
(Uncle Tom) Ah, Horace.

I've been meaning to ask you this
for a good number of years.

- Ask away, dear boy.
- You come into chambers everyday.

You'd come in regularly every day
if you had to live with my sister.

- But you never seem to get a brief.
- I've had briefs in my time.

I've done running down cases,
three or four running down cases.

- But not for some considerable time.
- Well, not recently, no.

But you always carry
a briefcase just like mine.

I'd say our briefcases
were roughly the same vintage.

- What I want to know is, what's in it?
- Care to have a look?

- I would consider it a privilege.
- Good. There we go.

- A carton of milk.
- Milk.

A green muffler
my sister insists I take with me.

- Pretty.
- Cheese and tomato sandwiches.

- Care for one?
- No, no.

Times crossword. A few golf balls,
and some throat pastilles.

- Zubes.
- Zubes. What are Zubes for?

Well, doesn't your voice get tired
when you're speaking in court?

But you never speak in court.

Well, one never knows
when one might be called upon.

No, one never knows.

I say, who was that chap on the ladder?

Somebody sent in to mend the light,
I suppose.

- He was like you, Horace.
- Er... not terribly like me, Uncle Tom.

Well, he seemed extraordinarily
interested in my briefcase.

- (Whispers) Rumpole!
- Ballard.

A word in your ear. Walls have ears,
you know, particularly in a clerk's room.

I'm prosecuting you in the secrets case.

- (Whispers) The biscuits case?
- The secrets.

The secret biscuits.
What are we whispering for?

It's not often a secrets brief
comes our way in chambers.

- Aha! Dead for a ducat! Dead!
- Rumpole, what are you doing?

I thought there might be a couple
of Russians behind the arras.

This is a particularly serious case,

and what's at issue here
isn't merely biscuits.

Oh, I know. Something far more
important than that. Lavatory paper.

- Rumpole!
- And tea and biscuits, of course.

And free holidays,
and entertaining named persons.

It's a question of loyalty to the Crown.

I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but the
Attorney General takes a serious view.

Oh, is the old sweetheart
fond of biscuits?

Look here, Rumpole... Horace,
I don't know whether I've told you this

but I have just been elected
to the Sheridan Club.

How wonderful.
Was it on "News At Ten"?

I wondered if you'd care
to join me there for a spot of lunch?

Why do you hesitate?

I always fear prosecuting counsel when
they come bearing offers of free lunch.

They suddenly look terribly Greek.

(Chatter)

I'm just taking a ginger ale. One does
try to avoid alcohol at lunch time.

Oh, does one?
I'll have a club claret, please.

Er... could you make it a double?

A large claret, please,
and a ginger ale. Thank you.

Seeing as it's on
the Ministry of Defence.

- The Attorney General...
- Oh, he's paying, is he?

No, he's here. Er... Mr Attorney,
this is Horace Rumpole.

He's defending Tuttle.
Can I get you a drink, can I?

- A gin and ton, thanks, Sam. A large.
- Oh...

- I imagine Tuttle's a plea of guilty?
- Absolutely no harm in imagining.

This is only the tip of the iceberg,
you know.

- What is?
- Biscuits.

Oh, I know. There's something
far more important - Swiss roll.

Molesworth?

- Rumpole.
- What?

- My name's Rumpole.
- No, Molesworth.

No, really.

The American Air Force base
at Molesworth.

Oh, sorry.

Where all the alleged protesters
camp out with their Thermoses.

Or is it Thermi?

I must say, if they're all genuine CND
protesters, my name's Gorbachev.

And there's no point
in going into Molesworth.

I imagine Sam will take
a plea on the biscuits.

If she confesses, this Lord Chief'll
probably keep the old bat out of chokey.

Is the Lord Chief Justice
coming down to try it?

Oh, yes. It's a question of loyalty
in the Civil Service.

The Government's
very concerned about it.

It's going to be quite a party.

Wouldn't you, Sam,
take a plea on the biscuits?

Oh, I'd be guided, of course,
by the Law Officers of the Crown.

- I'll have my G and T.
- There's something I'd like to ask you.

Well, perhaps this isn't the place
for further discussion.

- All the best, you fellows.
- My telephone has developed hiccups.

Perhaps it's had
rather too much claret. Ha-ha!

What's more, we had a red notice about
a month ago, they haven't cut it off yet.

Well, you're in luck's way then,
aren't you, Rumpole? Frank!

Oh, my dear fellow, how are you?

"Do you want to hear about
tea and scandal"...comma.

Thank you for letting
Miss Tuttle use her typewriter.

Oh, that's all right, Mr Rumpole,
anything to oblige the defence.

I'm sure. She told you why she took it
into the Ministry, did she?

She said she brought it in to get on with
reports when the typing pool was busy.

Quite.

Oh, by the way, Mr Rumpole,
I'd, er... just like to warn you, sir,

to be careful of acquaintances
when on a sensitive case like this.

Indeed?

O'Rourke mean anything? Seamus
O'Rourke, suspected IRA sympathiser?

O'Rourke? Absolutely nothing.

Perhaps to your wife then.
We'd just like you to be extra careful.

You don't mind me mentioning it?

There, now, I expect
you'll want to take these with you.

Thank you.

They came from the same machine
as the notes to "The Sunday Fortress".

(Rumpole shouts)
Get up and leave, please.

Ah, Mr James,
leave "The Daily Telegraph"!

(Birds twitter)

Well, for the moment, I'm giving Miss
Tuttle some idea of learned counsel.

Er... Mr Rumpole.
This is Oliver Bowling of the Ministry.

Ah, Mr Bowling, I believe
I'm indebted to you for the brief.

It's the most ridiculous business.
It won't do anyone the slightest good.

Anything I can do to help?
Character witness?

Did Miss Tuttle
always have a lunch here?

- I mean, right there?
- Oh, I believe so.

In all sorts of weather, too.

A bit of a fresh-air fiend, Rosemary
Tuttle, and very regular in her habits.

Oh?

Back in the office by ten past two.
You could set your watch by her.

- It's so rare nowadays.
- What, outdoor sandwich eaters?

No, I mean someone
you can rely on, utterly.

(Phone rings)

A word with you.

We're not going
into secret session again?

Miss Probert, might I have a word
with your pupil master?

All right, Liz.

That girl, Probert,
she can't possibly come into court.

- She is going to take a note for me.
- Impossible.

She's a member of the bar, Ballard,
you can't keep her out!

We were grossly deceived.
She is not a clergyman's daughter.

Oh, I'm sorry. Are the courts only open
to clergymen's daughters today?

You and I had better buzz off home.

Detective Inspector Fallowes
has just told me who she is.

So?

She is the daughter of Ron Probert,
Red Ron.

- Well?
- Chairman of a certain London council.

So?

You do see, we can't have a girl like
that in court, not on a sensitive case.

You mean a case
about sensitive biscuits?

It might not be just biscuits, we might
have to apply to add new charges.

Oh, yes, you do that. Make this
prosecution look even more fatuous.

I would advise you
to take this matter seriously.

And I would advise you, Ballard,

if you can find a taxidermist willing
to undertake the work, to get stuffed.

I'm only warning you, Rumpole,
in the national interest.

"The Oxford Dictionary of Quotations".

A bit worn around the edges, like me.

Tea, there we are. Yes. Tea. Tea... tea.

Ah, there we are.
Breakfast, lunch, dinner and...

"Is there honey still for..." No.

"Dost sometimes counsel take
and sometimes tay..."

That's not it. "To their tea and scandal".

That's more like it.
One hundred and four. Hilda!

(Hilda shouts) What did you say?

Do you happen to know anyone Irish?

I can't hear you. If we had a hatch,
you could talk to me through that

and I could hear you perfectly well.

Seamus O'Rourke.

What on earth
are you talking about, Rumpole?

Do you happen to know an Irish friend
called Seamus O'Rourke?

- What sort of friend?
- Well, any sort of friend.

- Why do you ask?
- Oh, God knows.

- What?
- Er... God knows why I ask, Hilda.

It's something to do
with Official Secrets. There we are.

"Retired to their tea and scandal,
according to their ancient custom."

William Congreve.

- It's time for the news.
- Oh, there's the real nonsense.

(Male newsreader)
'... in Brussels next week.

'Whitehall is buzzing tonight with rumours

'of a further leak
from the Ministry of Defence.

'An article in "Newsweek"
has suggested

'that information
concerning the sensitive

'NATO Operation Blueberry
is already in the hands of the KGB... '

So, that's why we're having
the pleasure of his company.

- Whose company?
- The Lord Chief Justice of England.

Put up Rosemary Alice Tuttle.

- (Man) Are you Rosemary Alice Tuttle?
- Yes, I am.

(Chief Justice) Are any amendments
to be made to this indictment?

New charges to be added?

My lord,
I make no immediate application.

What is an immediate application
when it's at home?

Either my learned friend
is making an application, or not.

Why don't you wait and see,
Mr Rumpole?

- No doubt your time will come.
- I dare say it will.

(Chief Justice) Yes, Mr Ballard...

Yours was in a corner of the clerk's
room. Sure you didn't leave it there?

Of course I didn't leave it there.

And what is Uncle Tom's
doing in my room?

(Chief Justice) Very well.
Let the jury be sworn...

(Chatter)

Rosemary... good luck.
I'm sorry I can't stay, I must dash.

- All the very best.
- Thank you.

- Bye-bye.
- Thank you very much.

He seems a decent enough fellow, old
Batty Bowling, er... for a civil servant.

I have the most super boss,
Mr Rumpole.

Always listens to your problems,
never spares himself.

Burns the midnight oil. Well, so do I.

Often when I'm late typing up a report,
I hear his singing.

Oh, musical, is he?

About the only chap I know
who can actually whistle Wagner.

Whistle Wagner? That's fantastic.

It must be something
they teach them at Winchester.

Well, we've got you bail
for the lunch hour.

Care for a Guinness and a fragment of
steak pie and greens across the road?

- No, I've brought sandwiches.
- Of course, yes.

There's a little churchyard
just round the corner here.

Yes. Quite. There's something I wanted
to ask you, um... about Congreve.

Congreve? Is he at the Ministry?

A William Congreve, Miss Tuttle,
an English dramatist of genius.

Carried on with
the Duchess of Marlborough.

- Doesn't the name ring any sort of bell?
- Oh, yes, vaguely.

- I was an economist, actually.
- Yes, of course.

Oh, and there's one other thing,
um... the bomb.

The bomb?

The nuclear deterrent.
Do you have affection for it?

Oh, golly, yes.
Like all chaps in the Ministry.

We're 100�% behind the bomb.

Of course.
That's all I wanted to know. Thank you.

(Rumpole) Mr Warboys,
or should we call you Mr Chatterbox?

There's no need
to be offensive to the witness.

Do keep still, Ballard.
It is the man's pen name.

It would probably be better if you simply
used the witness's name, Mr Rumpole.

Of course, I'm obliged to Your Lordship.
I shall try to remember.

Mr War-boys, you make your living
by divulging secrets, do you not?

I dunno what you mean.

- Who's sleeping with whom.
- I write a gossip column, yeah.

Familiar with section 2
of the Official Secrets Act?

I know something about it.

That it is an offence
to receive secret information?

- I believe it is.
- You can receive two years in the nick.

Two years' imprisonment, Mr Rumpole.

Oh, I'm obliged to Your Lordship.
I beg its pardon. Imprisonment.

For a story about biscuits?

Oh, the Ministry of Defence
is very protective of its biccies.

Members of the jury,
you may hear a good deal about biscuits

from the defence in this case,

and I suggest that
after Mr Rumpole has got his laugh

we take this matter seriously.

This is a case about whether
or not a servant of the Crown

was loyal to the interests
of the Government. Very well.

Your Lordship would prefer me
not to call a biscuit a biscuit?

Shall we settle for
une petite pi�ce de p�tissi�re?

What is your next question,
Mr Rumpole?

Ah, yes, I was so fascinated with
Your Lordship's address to the jury,

I've forgotten my next question.

Er... ah, yes!
Do you expect to be prosecuted

for receiving secret information,
Mr Warboys?

- Er... no, not really.
- The police have set your mind at rest?

I've been told
I've nothing to worry about, yeah.

In return for giving evidence
against the spinster lady

whom I have the honour to represent,

you are saving your own skin,
Mr Warboys!

I have agreed to co-operate
with the police, yeah.

Upholding the finest traditions
of British journalism.

Mr Rumpole, have you any relevant
questions to ask this witness?

Of course. Now, then, regarding
your alleged meeting with Miss Tuttle...

In St James's Park.

- That was the only time you saw her?
- Yeah.

And you didn't speak to her at all.

In fact, by the time you had
reached her bench she had gone?

That's what happened.

Now, Mr Warboys, from the moment
you saw her get up and go,

until you reached the bench
and collected that envelope,

was the newspaper it was wrapped in
always in your sight?

No, I can't be sure.

Several people may have passed in
front of the bench between you and it?

They may have done.

They may have done. So, you
never actually met Miss Tuttle at all?

No. I had her letters, of course.

- She hadn't signed them, had she?
- No.

- Didn't even have her name on them?
- No.

So, when you say her letters,
that's a pure guess.

The second letter said that, er...
she would be sitting on the park bench

and would leave at two o'clock.
And there she was.

But when you say that she actually
wrote those notes, that is a guess.

I suppose Mr Ballard
will say to the jury

that that is a reasonable
deduction, Mr Rumpole.

My lord, I cannot be responsible

for what my learned friend
may say to the jury.

Thank you, Mr Chat... Mr Warboys.

Mr Royce Williams, are you
an expert in questioned handwriting,

and have you also made
a special study of typewriters?

- Yes.
- Have you considered the notes...

(Whispers)
I'm beginning to feel at home at last.

...Mr Warboys
of "The Sunday Fortress",

and the other documents, three and four,
later typed by Miss Tuttle,

as has been admitted in the Detective
Inspector's office at New Scotland Yard?

- Yes, I have.
- Hand the documents to the witness.

Just tell the court your conclusions.

My conclusions, my lord, is they're
all typed on the same typewriter,

and on standard issue A4 typing paper.

By standard issue, you mean?

Standard issue in government
departments, my lord.

Thank you.

Yes, Mr Rumpole?

Mr Royce Williams, as an
acknowledged expert on the subject,

would you say that
a typewriter doesn't work itself,

but that a human agency
is involved in the operation?

Yes, of course.

And that human operators
have varying levels of skill?

- I should have thought that obvious.
- Please bear with me.

Now, on the whole, a highly
skilled typist will type smoothly,

hitting every key with equal force,

whereas one not so used
to the machine

may hit some keys harder than others,

perhaps after hesitation, or perhaps
less hard because they have less skill.

That is certainly possible.

You've considered that
with these documents?

- No, I must confess...
- (Rumpole) Let us take an example.

Would you look, please, at the word,

"scandal" in the note
sent to Mr Warboys?

Aren't the S and the C heavier
than the other letters in the word?

That would seem to be so.

And now let us look at the example
typed by Miss Tuttle in Scotland Yard.

Every letter has
the same definition throughout.

Yes, I think they have.

Might that not lead you to the conclusion
that while both notes were typed

on the same machine,
using the same paper,

they were typed by two different people?

- I suppose it might.
- You suppose there might.

Mr Rumpole,
where is this evidence leading us?

Your Lordship asks me that!

(Rumpole)
'Believe me, old darling, I wish I knew.'

To the truth, my lord, or isn't that
what we are supposed to discover?

(Chatter)

Well, what do you think
of the new latest leak from the Ministry?

Important, is it?
Oh, perhaps I shouldn't ask!

Sometimes I wonder
what is really important.

Wouldn't it be better if we all told
everyone what we've got,

instead of trying to frighten each other
with a lot of spurious secrets?

- Mustn't say that in the Department.
- Oh, of course not.

I'd better get back there.

Can't you wait
and see me cross-examine

your big cheese,
the Permanent Under Secretary?

Afraid not.

What sort of chap is he,
Sir Frank Fawcett?

Comes from an antediluvian family,

fellows that the flood
couldn't wash away.

- He'll be immensely fair.
- Ah.

Give me a ring if you need me.

I may want to ring you at home
when court's over.

Oh, right. Well, you'll need the number.

There we are. I'll be leaving early,
a chap from the Foreign Office

has got the use of the Royal Box
at Covent Garden.

- You can dine there, it's rather fun.
- Oh, really?

"Comes from a branch
of one of your antediluvian families,

"fellows that the flood
couldn't wash away."

(Rumpole) Sir Frank Fawcett,

you know something about my client,
Miss Rosemary Tuttle?

Yes, I have read the reports on her.

You have no reason
to think that she would

constitute any sort of danger
to the State, have you?

- May I refresh my memory, my lord?
- Yes, of course.

Thank you.

Rosemary Alice Tuttle, born of Austrian
parents, Franz and Maria Toller.

They emigrated when she was
two years old and changed their name.

She was educated
at Hampstead High School for Girls,

and the London School of Economics.

Ah, there's no mystery about that,
except that they chose the name Tuttle.

She was vetted
when she took up her post with us.

Yes. Er... is anything further
known against her?

Do you really want all this evidence in?

Keep your head when all about are
losing theirs, and blaming it on you.

There were unconfirmed reports
that she was seen

at Molesworth American Air Force base
in January 1986...

- Rumpole!
- Yes, isn't it appalling?

Allegedly attending
an entirely peaceful demonstration.

She was questioned about the matter,
and denied it.

She suggested it might have been
someone else similarly dressed.

- Did that seem to you improbable?
- It did, my lord, yes.

She wasn't recommended for promotion
and was kept under surveillance.

(Chief Justice) Surveillance
which seems to have been ineffective.

(Fawcett) I'm afraid so, my lord.
(Rumpole) Yes, she got at the biccies.

- (Chief Justice) Mr Rumpole!
- Yes, very well.

Let us try to take
this little scandal seriously.

Have you been able to check
that the material leaked to the press

about the cost of refreshment and
entertaining and so on was accurate?

- It's not entirely accurate.
- Yes, please, go on.

Well, actually, um... my enquiries
have led me to believe

that we spend a good deal more
than has been suggested, my lord.

Ah, so that the secrets
leaked to the press

aren't accurate official secrets at all?

Not entirely accurate, no.

Sir Frank, there is something
a great deal more significant

than biscuits at the bottom
of this particular barrel, isn't there?

- I'm not sure what you mean, exactly.
- Neither am I.

I mean that far more
sensitive material than that

has recently been leaked
from the Ministry of Defence.

You think that that question
is in the interests of your client?

That's why I asked it.
Would you answer, please?

- My lord...
- Answer, we are in camera.

The answer is yes.

And there has been
no application to add

further charges against my client?

- Not as yet, my lord.
- No, Mr Rumpole, not as yet.

So, then, you don't yet know
the source of this particular leak?

No.

And when, and if, charges are brought
against whoever it may be,

then this little scandal about the cost

of Civil Service
gastronomical extravagance

will seem even more
paltry and insignificant.

Members of the jury,
it may come as a welcome relief

to you all if we adjourned now.

(Usher) Be upstanding.

(Rumpole) Yes, Henry.
Could you get me a number?

4025920. That's right.

Oh, er... Bowling is his name,
Oliver Bowling. Thank you.

- Rumpole.
- Yes, Claude. Claude!

You look as though the Valkyries
have been after you all night.

Rumpole, I have to tell you,
we didn't go to the opera together.

Oh, a pity,
I was looking forward to not being there.

I mean, if you should see my wife,

if Phyllida should bump into you
around chambers,

don't bother to tell her how much
you enjoyed "Meistersingers".

- Snoozed off, did I?
- She knows I didn't take you.

Oh! Been rumbled, Erskine-Brown.

Oh, ha-ha, Horace!
As I suppose you might say, "grassed".

Well, I may as well tell you the truth.

Liz Probert rang up Phyllida and said
that I'd taken her to Covent Garden.

- Well, hadn't you?
- Well, of course I had.

Oh, I see. And Phyllida Erskine-Brown,
the Portia of our chambers,

isn't demonstrating
the quality of mercy.

She doesn't speak, Rumpole.
Breakfast passes by in utter silence.

And I did nothing,
you understand, absolutely nothing.

Not even compliment Miss Liz
on her eyes in the crushed bar?

- How did you know?
- That was your mistake, Claude.

Young women like Miss Probert these
days don't appreciate that sort of thing.

To go and blurt out the truth
like that to a chap's wife!

It was totally uncalled for!

Maybe she doesn't believe
in Official Secrets.

- Talking of which...
- What?

Bowling. Why the Batty?
Very good at cricket, was he?

Good heavens, no. Bats in the belfry.

Never minded what he said,
questioned everything in class.

- And he was a bit of a show-off.
- What about?

Oh, his literary knowledge,
spouting quotations.

- Something like you, Rumpole.
- (Phone rings)

I... I say, Horace, do you imagine
Phylli will ever speak to me again?

Of course she will, Claude.
Yes. If only to say goodbye.

Oh, hello, Mr Bowling.
It's Horace Rumpole.

Look, I wonder if you could spare me
a few minutes during the first act, say?

Oh, splendid. I'd be most grateful...

Well, I know how concerned
you are about Miss Tuttle.

Good evening, my name's Rumpole.
Mr Bowling said you'd show me up.

- Yes, if you'll come this way, sir.
- Thank you.

Thank you.

(Operatic singing)

(Whispers) I can give you ten minutes.

Tosca doesn't get going
until the second act.

- When she kills him.
- Exactly.

How can I help you?

Well, I wanted to defend Miss Tuttle
on the basis that what she did

was entirely public-spirited
and quite justifiable.

Well, I'm inclined to agree.

But she rather put me off my stroke.
She insisted she did nothing.

My dear chap, the evidence.

Ah, yes, the evidence.
What evidence, exactly?

Someone else used her typewriter
to type those notes to the press.

That someone could have left her glove
beside the copying machine,

and dropped the envelope in "The
Daily Telegraph" under that park bench.

Why would anyone
want to go through that?

Yes, indeed. Why should anyone
want to frame Miss Tuttle

on a silly charge about biscuits?

Well, yes. And why?

Someone who wanted to make her
look ridiculous, dishonest,

and totally unreliable.

Someone who wanted
to make her appear in public

as a gossiping old busybody
who couldn't even get her facts right,

so that if she gave evidence
about something really important

no-one would pay
a blind bit of notice to her.

Really important?

The big leak, Mr Bowling,
the NATO thing -

warheads, submarines, whatever it was.

Or perhaps it was no more
important than biscuits, hmm?

Would the world be
a more dangerous place

if we did without secrets altogether?
You don't think so, do you?

- Did I say that to you?
- Oh, yes.

I can understand your intentions.

The end of the arms race,
the beginning of peace.

I must get back to the opera.

I don't know exactly when it was,
but it must have been a time

when you ought to have been on leave,
out of the office certainly.

It was late at night, she heard you
whistling Wagner, perhaps?

She walked in, saw you doing
whatever you were doing,

and almost certainly
she didn't realise what it was,

but you couldn't be certain of that,
could you?

Bank robbers
sometimes shoot witnesses.

Now, how much more subtle to make
her appear absolutely ridiculous?

What do you intend to do?

Recall Sir Frank Fawcett to the witness
box, and put the whole business to him.

Oh, you remember Sir Frank, whose
"antediluvian family survived the flood"?

But that was your quotation,
from Congreve.

Congreve...

"Love for Love". And you quoted him
in your note to Mr Chatterbox.

That was what Erskine-Brown
told me about you,

you can't resist showing off
about your knowledge,

even when perpetrating a forgery.

Ah, poor Miss Tuttle.

She is a very conventional
English spinster lady.

She wouldn't dream
of demonstrating at Molesworth.

That was your unconfirmed report,
I take it?

Oh, and the only thing she knows about
Congreve is that gentleman's name.

Rumpole...

I can't help you!
My allegiance is to my client.

It's a question of loyalty.

(Music builds to a crescendo)

(Underground train approaches)

Ah, Rumpole,
there's been a development.

There's a small paragraph
on the inside page of "The Times".

"Regrettable accident
at Covent Garden tube station."

Like everything else about this case,
absolutely unnecessary.

I've been in touch
with the Attorney General...

Oh, and how does he feel?

We're offering no further evidence
in view of the fact

that the information
leaked to the press was inaccurate.

Of course, that gives you the out,
doesn't it? That's lucky for you.

And my client, of course, discharged
without a stain on her character.

- Yes.
- Tell the truth, did he?

I'm not prepared to divulge that.

He rang Sir Frank Fawcett
from the opera?

- I'm not prepared...
- Secrets!

In God's name,
whatever would we do without them?

But they lead to death,
don't they, Ballard?

Stupid unnecessary secrets
lead to death.

(Loud banging)

- A fair cop!
- Oh!

- Mr Rumpole!
- Ah, you recognise me.

One of the advantages of practice

at the criminal bar is that
one does not expect to be burgled.

- Burgled? I'm just...
- You know what I mean.

Breaking and entering!

It looks like you're breaking and exiting.
You mind me pointing out

that's an interior wall
that you're attacking.

I'd abandon your career in crime,
you've no talent for it.

I don't know what you're talking about.

House-breaking implements.
An entire bag full of them.

(Hilda shouts) Rumpole!

I might have let you go
with a promise of future good behaviour,

but one is coming in whom the quality
of mercy is considerably strained.

I thought you were in court all day.

Hilda, there is a man in the room.
An intruder!

Of course there's a man in the room.

He's come to do the hatch.
How are you getting on, Mr O'Rourke?

- Oh, just fine, missus.
- Not Seamus O'Rourke?

All repairs and conversions
cheerfully undertaken.

They've been listening
to your telephone conversations, Hilda.

Talking of the telephone, Rumpole...

Conversations
concerning a kitchen hatch.

The instrument has died on us at last.
Listen to that. Silent as the tomb.

I told you to pay the bill.

- Pressure of business.
- Yes. Well, now they've cut us off.

At last.

I'm sorry about this intrusion,
Mr O'Rourke, please continue.

Nobody's listening to us any more.

Nobody wants to look
inside my briefcase,

nobody is following me
from Temple tube station.

Secrets case is over.

Old Batty Bowling is dead,
normal service will be resumed shortly.

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