All language subtitles for Rumpole s05e06 Life.eng

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(Classical music plays)

Perdita...

- The fish...
- Oh, no! Didn't it arrive?

- No, it didn't.
- (Sighs) I can't think why.

Probably because you forgot to order it.

You don't expect it
to come of its own accord?

I didn't forget, did I?

- Did I?
- Don't move!

- Sorry, Daniel.
- It's really too bad of you.

You know Daddy
looks forward to his fish pie.

It's really not too much to ask is it,
just to ring up and order the fish?

Oh, really, Helen,
it's not worth bothering about.

There's no need to make such a fuss.
We'll have eggs.

Hell and death!

Again.

(Inhales and exhales)

Now if we could just run through
your routine, Mr Rumpole.

Breakfast?

Oh, generally at the "Tasty Bite"
in Fleet Street, a fairly light affair.

Excellent.

- A couple of eggs... fried slice.
- Fried slice?

- Three or four rashers of bacon.
- Oh, that's all, I hope.

Yes, apart from the sausage, tomato,
and the toast, marmalade and coffee.

Let's have you up on the scales then.

Lunch is...

We only get an hour for lunch,
so it's a bit of a snack as it so happens.

A salad?

Oh, who am I to take food
from the mouths of starving rabbits?

No, a quick steak and kidney pud
at the pub opposite the Bailey.

A few boiled potatoes,
some cabbage.

I find a pint of draught Guinness
keeps the strength up at lunchtime.

And then nothing at all until dinner.

Nothing? Good.

Well, unless it's some
small crumpet at teatime.

There have been times, Mr Rumpole,
when I have known indulgence

in a small crumpet at teatime

to make the difference
between life and death.

- Drink?
- Oh, thank you very much.

No, do you drink?
Apart from non-alcoholic beverages?

Oh, I hardly touch them.

No, a Pommeroy is a very ordinary
claret in my medical experience.

It keeps you astonishingly regular.

The point is,
do you want to drop down dead?

- Sometimes.
- What?

When I'm doing a hopeless rape say,

under the icy stare
of Judge General Graves.

But on the other hand, when I've got
the medical evidence on the run,

and the jury on my side,
on those days, I can tell you,

Horace Rumpole could live forever.

Well, he won't.

No.

How long you do depends
on the diet I'm going to give you.

- No wine.
- (Shouts) What?

No meat, fish, eggs, bread,

butter, milk, sugar
or pastry of any kind.

I see.
And how do I manage without food?

Thin-o-Vite.
A fat free energy cereal.

Mix it with water
and have as much as you like.

- Make a pig of yourself on it.
- Oh, ho! I can't wait(!)

I hope to see a lot less of you
in a month's time.

(Atmospheric music plays)

Daniel?

Dan!

Oh, darling.

- Pick 'em up, Rumpole!
- Pick what up?

Pick up your feet.
One, two, one two.

I've just walked the entire way from
Liverpool Street along the river.

- Come on now, chin up, swing the arms.
- Whatever is the matter?

The war's over Winnie.

The war may be over, Rumpole,
but the battle for fitness goes on.

I mean to introduce a new scheme
of health education in Chambers.

- Know what I've got in this briefcase?
- Copy of "The Spycatcher".

Ye... No!
A device for expanding the chest.

I intend to use it,
during the odd free moment,

keep the chest open,
keep the lungs free.

It is my duty, as your Head of Chambers,
to prolong my life as much as possible.

Oh, really,
why should you want to do that?

Can't let you fellas in Chambers down.

We wouldn't want to put
you to any trouble.

I can't let you down, Rumpole,
not now that I'm leading you.

You're what?

Well, haven't you heard?
Oh, terrible business.

Murder of Sir Daniel Derwent RA,
well known painter.

So they tell me,
I know nothing of these things.

- Yes, I'm leading you.
- Well, I only hope you can keep up.

- One two, one two...
- I shall be leading you from behind!

Traffic jam in Islington, Henry.
And do you know what caused it?

A procession of
gay and lesbian demonstrators,

demanding more services,
off the rates.

Why is that funny?

- I say, is that a new hairdo?
- I don't see that it's at all funny.

- What's my hair got to do with it?
- It looks jolly nice.

Much softer and well, more feminine.
Congratulations!

Oh, for God's sake, Claude!
Give us a break.

Why shouldn't Islington Council
provide gay and lesbian counselling?

Just think what they save you
on education and...

- Radiant. You're looking radiant.
- I'd expect you to be against it.

I'd expect discrimination
from you, Claude.

- Discrimination?
- Oh, yeah.

How many gay and lesbian members
have we got in these Chambers?

Well, none, I hope, I mean, I think.
No, no, I'm sure.

There you are then. Discrimination.

Perhaps it's just that we don't get
that many gay and lesbian applications.

I'd like to see what would happen
if we got one. Just one.

I can imagine your middle class, middle
aged, male attitudes bristling with...

Middle aged, Liz.
Did you say, "middle aged"?

Sexual discrimination.

It comes in a packet, Claude,
with middle aged spread.

I love it when you're angry. Come for
a coffee. I'll let you pay for yourself.

Improve your attitudes, Claude.
That's all you need.

(Indistinct chatter)

Lady Derwent...

the allegation the prosecution
makes against you in this case,

and an extremely serious one it is,
as I'm sure Mr Rumpole would agree...

- Wouldn't you, Mr Rumpole?
- Get on with it, Ballard.

Yes, there you are you see.
The allegation is that you deliberately

administered a massive overdose
of the drug diamorphine

to your husband, who had recently
made a will in your favour.

Now the question is, Lady Derwent,
did you administer that fatal dose?

Be careful.

I would advise you to be frank
with your legal advisors.

- Well, did you?
- Just a minute, Mr Ballard.

If I may make so bold
as your mere junior.

- Well, Rumpole, what is it?
- A word if I may in your shell-like...

...up here.

- Don't ask her that.
- What?

Whether she pumped her husband
full of diamorphine

to lay her fingers on a bit of ready cash.
What a tactless question.

Isn't that what this case is all about?

Of course that's what it's all about,
that's why we don't ask.

- Why not?
- In case she says, "Yes".

Then we'd know
what the case was all about.

And I'd be back in Chambers,
unemployed,

having fantasies about
steak and kidney pud,

and you'd be back
doing motor insurance.

First rule in murder, old love,
never ask the customer if they did it,

in case they tell you.

Now, Lady Derwent...

You met your husband

when he was professor of painting
at St. Matthews, didn't you?

Yes, I was a student.

He fell in love with you, understandably.

I don't know about that.
I fell in love with him.

Then he got a divorce and married you.

- You were what, 24 at the time?
- 23.

And then his daughter, Helen,
came to live with you.

She's about five years older?

I'm afraid Helen always
resented me rather.

She thought I'd taken Daniel away
from her mother. It wasn't like that.

No, of course not.
They'd separated before you met him.

Yes, they used to separate and
come together. It was never happy.

When it finally ended,
well, Daniel's wife was very bitter.

- Was Helen bitter too?
- I think she worshipped her father.

She didn't make it easy for me.

Did you resent your husband
having his daughter to live with you?

Were there quarrels about that
Lady Derwent, hmm, were there?

Daniel hated quarrels,
I did my best not to have them.

Helen wanted to take over the running
of the house, like the mother had done.

You understand.

Oh, I'd have to understand
if I'm going to cross-examine her.

I imagine I will be cross-examining
Miss Helen Derwent.

It will fall to me as leading counsel
for the defence.

Yes, but just in case you're feeling
a bit tired when we get to that stage.

I don't anticipate feeling
the least bit tired. No, I don't.

- Don't let's look on the black side.
- Don't you raise your voice to me...

Mr Rumpole, Mr Ballard is briefed
as leading counsel in this case

according to our client's
previous solicitors instructions.

Mr Bernard, there is a case
that has gone down in history

as the "Penge Bungalow Murders".

If you consult the relevant volume
of notable British trials you will see

that I've brought victory home in that
case alone and without a leader.

Lady Derwent, I believe you also live
with your mother-in-law,

Mrs Barbara Derwent.
How do you get on with her?

I've always loved Bunty. She
was so kind, she never criticised me,

or made me feel the fool
about the house.

She was so pleased
when Daniel and I got married.

She said Imogen
had been the most terrible snob.

- That's the first Lady Derwent.
- Yes.

Bunty wasn't a snob at all, she'd been
a dancer when she was young,

in the chorus, of course you'd never
guess that now, she's got so fat.

Funny, isn't it?

Yes, well, we all change,
Lady Derwent, over the years.

We can't all get many laughs out of it.

You don't have a biscuit or a few
peanuts about you? Of course not.

Lady Derwent, we've all had copies of
the post mortem result on your husband.

Medical evidence.

He was suffering from an illness which
gave him a relatively short time to live.

- Yes, it doesn't make sense.
- I've been trying to work it out.

Danny loved life so much,
everything about it.

He loved his work
and I think he loved me.

What doesn't make sense is the idea of
you killing your husband for his money

when he was going to die anyway.

That's something that might
even occur to you, Ballard.

We have also seen copies
of this... pamphlet or circular,

which was apparently found
among the clothes in your bedroom.

It is a work entitled "Across The River".

I don't know how it got there,
I've never seen it before.

It appears to advocate Euthanasia.

It's been most useful to have
this little chat with you, Lady Derwent.

"The troubled soul in a state
of acute pain or terminal illness may..."

We must see what we can do
about getting you...

- "...into a less troubled country."
...some bail.

"What is needed is a rudimentary
knowledge of medical science..."

Yes, well, we must be
getting on now, Lady Derwent.

As a matter of fact, the fact of the matter
is I'm not feeling altogether up to stuff.

Mr Rumpole, you look decidedly unfit,
sir. What is it?

- Mr Rumpole?
- I shall be all right, Lady Derwent.

You and I will probably be all right.

Perhaps you'd like to run us back to
Temple in your sturdy little motor?

I say wait for me, will you?
You were saying... Wait, wait for me!

Our doctor only wants
to keep you alive, Rumpole.

Does he honestly call this "living"?
Thin-o-Vite and a crisp bread.

Better than being dead,
that's the doctor's point.

Ah, but is it? Is not being dead
enough, Hilda. Battery hens aren't dead.

Chained up fattening pigs
and crated up veal calves aren't dead.

Even Judge Graves down the Old Bailey
appears to be still breathing...

...if you look closely.

Life isn't enough, Hilda, not per se. A
fella's got to have something to live for,

some fine, ennobling,
enriching experience.

Like steak and kidney pudding,
you mean?

You made a funny!
Yes, all right, like steak and kidney pud.

Urgh! Poison!

Two pounds forty, please.

Is that your breakfast, Rumpole?

I'm in the hands of a dotty doctor
who wants to keep me alive at all costs.

- Sounds reasonable.
- Really?

From you I would have thought
people of a certain age

ought to be bagged up
and put out for the dustbin.

- And one light sugar bun.
- Ssh! Be quiet, for God's sake!

I'll get you into our Chambers, Dave,
I promise you.

It just takes a bit of organisation.

There's a man called
Claude Erskine-Brown.

To be honest, he reckons he fancies me.

Liz, you don't mean to say
you'd use sexual manipulation?

It's all in a good cause, Dave.

We can work together,
on the rent enquiry in Tower Hamlets.

You wouldn't mind going
for an interview with Claude?

I'll tell him you're not black.

Oh, Liz, for you I'd go for an interview
with the Lord Chancellor.

Oh, don't worry. Claude's not a bit
like the Lord Chancellor.

For one thing he can't seem
to keep sex off his mind.

(Giggling)

- (Knocking)
- Come!

- Inchcape?
- Yes, Dave Inchcape.

Dave. Of course.

- Well, Dave...
- Hi!

Erskine-Brown. Claude.

Sam Ballard's busy on a big murder,

so he's asked me to interview you
in his room, as deputy head.

- That's very kind of you.
- Oh, well, think nothing of it... Dave.

Why don't you sit down...

...over here.

Well... Dave...

the fact is Liz Probert's
had a long talk to me about you.

Great girl, Liz.
She's tremendously keen

that we shouldn't have
any kind of discrimination in Chambers.

We shouldn't be against you simply
because you are what you are.

- What am I?
- Well... what you are.

- Entirely through no fault of your own.
- Oh, you mean young?

Well, yes. Young, I suppose.

And...

Well, these things are no doubt
decided for us at a very early age.

- You mean wanting to be a barrister?
- Well that... And...

(Makes squeaking sounds)

It's a matter of sort of genes
you get born with, biologically speaking.

You think I was born
with a barrister's genes?

(Laughs hysterically)

Very good that. Very funny, very funny.

You lot always have had
a marvellous sense of humour.

I expect you want to know
a bit about my experience.

- Good heavens, no.
- You don't?

No, no, no, no.
I take the attitude, Dave,

that your experiences
are entirely a matter between you and...

well, whoever you've
had the experiences with.

- Tomkins in Testament Buildings.
- Please, don't tell me!

It's absolutely none of my business.

- You mean Tommy Tomkins?
- Yes, I was with him for about a year.

I thought Tommy was married
to a lady magistrate?

He is. Does that make a difference?

Well, not nowadays, I suppose.

The way I look at it is this...

Dave, my attitude is there's
no essential difference between us.

Except you've had
more experience than me.

Oh! Oh, no, no,
I wouldn't say that.

Of course I do have the children,
young Tristan and Isolde.

A perpetual joy.

Named after Wagner's
star-crossed lovers, of course.

Dave, you can't know what it's like
having little ones around you.

- No, I'm sorry.
- No, please, don't apologise.

No one's going to blame you.
Think what you save us on the rates.

- What?
- Well, by not having children.

No, in my view you're absolutely entitled
to counselling services.

Well, I'll be reporting to Ballard.
I'm sure we'll be able to squeeze you in.

- Well, I don't mind sharing a room.
- Not with me. That would hardly do.

We can put you in with Liz Probert,
then you wouldn't have any distractions.

Well, thanks Claude. Thanks very much.

Not at all.

That way out, Dave.

(Rumpole) "'It was about the noon,
of a glorious day in June,

"'when our general rode along us,
for to form us for to fight."

'Our general? Huh, General Bollard.
What am I landed with?

'A commanding officer with about as
much talent for Old Bailey warfare

'as a sheep in Holy Orders.

'Body building! 'Won't do a thing
except prolong the life of Bollard...

'Unnecessarily.

'Courage building, that's what's needed.

'The talent to draw the sabre and charge
into the gunfire of Judge Gerald Graves.

'Into the mouth of hell!
I can't see Bollard doing that.

'Cannon to right of him,
cannon to left of him.

'Bollard would sneak off home
and exercise with his chest expander.'

- It's your big case today, isn't it?
- Huh!

I just saw Sam Ballard
going up to the Robing Room.

That must have been a treat for you,
Matron.

Oh, it was. He was looking
wonderfully fit, was our Sam.

I suppose it's a case of follow my leader
for you today, isn't it, Mr Rumpole?

You ought to look after
yourself, you know.

Aren't we letting that naughty tummy
of ours get a little bit out of hand?

I'm vanishing into air, into thin air.
Thank you, Matron.

That's all right, my dear. I like to keep
a watchful eye on all my barristers.

- Yes, Mr Marcus Griffin.
- May it please you, My Lord.

Members of the jury, in this case,
I appear with my learned friend,

Mr Arthur lan Daybell to prosecute,

and the defence is in the able hands
of my learned friend, Mr Samuel Ballard,

who's ably assisted by
Mr Horace Rumpole, his junior.

Members of the jury,

this case concerns the death, from
a massive overdose of diamorphine,

of Sir Daniel Derwent RA,
the well known painter.

He had made a will, leaving his entire
estate, a considerable sum of money,

members of the jury,
something well over two million pounds,

to his wife, Perdita,
the defendant in this case.

He had made no provision
for his mother, Mr Barbara Derwent,

his daughter from a previous marriage,
Helen,

though these two ladies lived with him
at number one, Ruskin Street, Chelsea,

as members of his family

- He made provision during his lifetime.
- I know, I know, it's in my brief.

Yes, but the jury hasn't read
your brief. Get up and tell them.

- Horace!
- Don't Horace me.

Get up on your hind legs, why don't you
make your presence felt?

- Our time will come.
- By then it'll be too late.

The jury will believe that
Perdita's a bloody little gold-digger.

Mr Ballard, I think your junior
is trying to tell you something.

I'm extremely sorry, My Lord.

I apologise most sincerely
for any interruption.

- No need to apologise.
- Sit down, Rumpole.

Mr Ballard, I can't hear your junior.

Sir Daniel Derwent made a very
generous financial disposition

on his mother and daughter
during this lifetime.

- Can Your Lordship hear me now?
- My Lord, that would appear correct.

- Thank you, Rumpole.
- Of course, it's correct.

It would also be correct
if the prosecution presented

the facts of the case
in a full and fair manner to the jury,

and not try to colour the evidence
by a one-sided account.

Rumpole, sit down.

My Lord, any mistake I may
have made was quite unintentional.

Provided it is accepted that this
prosecution is capable of mistakes.

Mr Rumpole, my understanding is
that you appear here as junior counsel

to your learned and very experienced
leader, Mr Samuel Ballard.

(Mutters) Funny
things happen down the Bailey.

- Quiet, Rumpole.
- My Lord, that is perfectly correct.

Continue with your opening speech,
Mr Marcus Griffin,

entirely in your own way.

Members of the jury,

the deceased and his wife
occupied separate bedrooms.

When he was ill he couldn't sleep.

The following articles were found in the
defendant, Lady Derwent's, bedroom.

A hypodermic syringe
and a quantity of empty ampoules,

which had once contained diamorphine.

These were found in Lady Derwent's
bedroom cupboard.

In one of her drawers
there was a further discovery.

A pamphlet apparently produced by
a society advocating euthanasia,

it's entitled "Across The River",

and in it the effects of overdoses of
various drugs used to relieve pain

are freely discussed. Members
of the jury, you will hear evidence about

the matrimonial relationship
of this couple.

I've told you they occupied
separate bedrooms.

Because he couldn't sleep.

Do you wish to interrupt again,
Mr Rumpole?

No, My Lord, I'm prepared to let the
prosecution continue with inaccuracies.

Our time will come.

Nurse Gregson!

What time did you call that afternoon
to give Sir Daniel Derwent his injection?

I arrived a few minutes after four o'clock.

- Was Lady Derwent in the house?
- Oh, don't lead, please.

Who was in the house?

- Miss Helen Derwent.
- The deceased's daughter.

And his mother,

And Lady Derwent was there.
One couldn't help noticing her.

Why not?

She was sitting on a chair, My Lord,
stripped naked to the waist.

Am I to understand that
this young lady was sitting

among the family
with her bosoms unclothed?

- That is right, My Lord.
- Is that a criminal offence?

Mr Rumpole...

I'm merely asking for legal direction,
My Lord.

This evidence seems to be irrelevant.

Mr Ballard, is there any way
in which you can discourage

further interruptions
from your learned junior?

I can only say I will do my best,
My Lord.

Thank you, Mr Ballard.
We shall be very much obliged.

- And you saw Sir Daniel Derwent?
- Oh, yes, he was there.

- He was painting his wife's portrait.
- Painting unclothed bosoms.

An unfortunate habit of artists
throughout the centuries.

- Mr Ballard...
- My Lord.

I think Mr Rumpole spoke again.

- That may very well be so, My Lord.
- See to it, Mr Ballard.

Horace, as your leader,
I order you to keep quiet.

Be quiet,
I'm trying to hear the evidence...

I gave Sir Daniel an injection of
diamorphine, as Dr Harman prescribed.

I understand this was a top up injection,
as he was in considerable pain.

Yes, it was.

The family had a hypodermic and might
have done the job themselves,

but they always got me to do it.

They were a little bit squeamish
when it came to using a needle.

Was that the hypodermic syringe
they kept, but didn't use?

I imagine so.

Did you have a quantity of diamorphine
ampoules for use on other patients?

I did.

Were they all contained
in wrappings similar to those?

Yes.

After you had given the injection,
what did you do?

I went out into the hall with my bag,

and I was putting on my coat
when Mrs Derwent senior...

- The deceased's mother?
- Yes.

...asked me if I'd like to stay
for a cup of tea.

I said I would
and I went back into the studio.

- I left my bag in the hall.
- Leaving your bag unattended?

Yes.

Mrs Derwent Senior
went out to make the tea,

and Lady Derwent
was given a break from sitting.

She put on some kind of wrap and
went out to help her mother-in-law.

- What about you?
- Oh, I stayed in the studio.

Did Sir Daniel leave the studio at all
while you were there?

I couldn't be certain.
If he did, it was only for a few minutes.

- Did Miss Helen Derwent leave it?
- No, I'm sure she didn't.

And how did the visit end?

We all had tea in the studio.

Then I collected my bag and went home,
as it was my last call for the day.

- And the next morning?
- I checked my bag.

And discovered a large quantity of
diamorphine ampoules were missing.

I also heard on the news
that Sir Daniel had died in the night.

Yes. Thank you, Nurse Gregson.
Just wait there.

Come on, Ballard,
this is your big moment.

(Clear his throat)

Nurse Gregson...

(Coughing)

Was there any particular question?

(Whispering) Could Sir Daniel Derwent
have injected himself with the overdose

if he had enough diamorphine
and a hypodermic syringe?

Ah, yes. Nurse Gregson,

if Sir Daniel had managed
to get hold of enough diamorphine

and had that syringe, could he not have
administered the overdose to himself?

I suppose he could have done.

Could he have left the studio and taken
the drugs from the bag in the hall?

Ah, yes, Nurse Gregson,
let me ask you this.

Might Sir Daniel have left the studio
while tea was being prepared?

Your bag was in the hall, he might have
taken the ampoules from it.

I have said he might have gone out
for a few minutes, that's all.

Sit down, shut up, don't spoil it.

You admit that he could have
injected himself?

He could have.
But I don't think he did.

- (Whispering) Leave it alone, Ballard.
- Ssh!

Tell the members of the jury,
Nurse Gregson, why don't you think so?

Sir Daniel had a horror
of hypodermic needles, My Lord.

I'm quite sure he could not have done
such a thing on his own.

"Couldn't have done
such a thing on his own."

- Thank you, Nurse Gregson.
- Yes, thank you, Nurse Gregson.

Well done(!) Our learned leader
scores an own goal.

- Good day to you both.
- Good morning.

(Sings to himself)

One two, one two, one two...

Ideas for the cross-examination
of Helen Derwent.

- One two, one two...
- (Shouts) Bollard!

Ohhh!

Good God!
Stunned by his own chest expander.

I should have warned him.
Exercise can prove fatal.

Operator, put out an urgent call
for Matron, please, would you?

Matron! Matey!

Oh, he passed a poor night,
after effects of concussion.

Muscle pulled in the back.
Severe shock.

Doctor's recommendation,
two days complete rest.

Poor fellow.
He's been so wonderfully brave about it.

Never a thought of 'self'.

Well, isn't that our lovely
Sam Ballard all over?

We can finish this case in two days,
if the evidence keeps going at this rate.

He's only worried about letting
you and the client down.

He's got no idea
how you'll get on without him.

No, I don't suppose he has.

His last words as we got him
into the ambulance were,

"Rumpole will ask for an adjournment."

An accident?
In the Queen's Counsel's Robing Room?

I never imagined that was
a particularly dangerous environment.

You say you're asking
for an adjournment?

My instructions are quite clear, My Lord,
I am to carry on.

My junior is Miss Liz Probert.
I guarantee that she will not interrupt.

- You are to carry on, Mr Rumpole?
- None other, My Lord.

Mr Marcus Griffin,
what have you to say about this?

If Mr Rumpole is determined to carry on,
as he seems to be,

I do not see how he
can be prevented from doing so.

"Cannot be prevented."
I am afraid you may be right.

Very well, let's get on with it, shall we?

I have been waiting to do that
for some time, My Lord.

(Marcus) Finally, Miss Derwent.
Where did you find those three articles

which My Lord has
on the desk before him?

The wrappers for the ampoules
and the syringe

were in my step-mother's
bedroom cupboard.

The pamphlet was in a drawer
among her clothes.

- Bernard!
- And when did you find them?

On the morning after.

...this "Across The River Society",

threaten them with a subpoena,
anything,

but get a list of their membership.

I'll try.

Don't try, old darling,
now we're alone. Succeed.

Mr Rumpole, do you want
to cross-examine this witness?

Just a few questions, My Lord, yes.

Miss Helen Derwent, you didn't approve
of your father's second wife?

She was very young and feckless.

I suppose he was
besotted with her in a way.

I suppose some men
might enjoy being besotted.

Perhaps.

By feckless
you mean incompetent?

- Totally incompetent.
- Ah!

On the very night my father died
she'd forgotten to order the fish.

- Oh, dear.
- It may not sound much.

But my father looked forward to
his fish pie on a Friday night.

Of course Perdita had forgotten to
order it, so we had to have omelettes.

- Who cooked them?
- What?

Did Lady Derwent cook the omelettes?

- Perdita?
- Yes.

Of course not!
She was just about up to boiling water.

- I think Granny cooked them.
- Just the omelettes?

He had some mulligatawny soup
Granny had made the day before,

and a treacle tart.
Is there anything else you want to know?

(Rumpole) What's the matter with me?
I can't stop thinking about food.'

I would like to ask you a little more
about your father.

- His work meant a lot to him?
- It was his whole life.

But his increasing illness
meant that a time was coming

when he would not be able
to paint any longer.

That might be so.

Well, now, might not an artist
who sees the end of his talent

realise that he had nothing left to live
for, and decide to take his own life?

- Have you considered that possibility?
- Daddy never mentioned suicide.

- Didn't mention it to you, perhaps.
- Or to anyone else, as far as I know.

Besides, he still had a lot to live for.

You mean his happiness
with a beautiful young wife?

No, I did not mean that.

On the morning after your father's death
you went upstairs by yourself.

While Lady Derwent was talking with
the doctor you searched her room.

- I took a look around in there, yes.
- You had a look around.

Hoping to find something
to incriminate your step-mother?

- No.
- Then why?

I had often thought
that Perdita would no be able to face

looking after my father
through his final illness.

- She was just too young and incom...
- Feckless. Is that the word you'd use?

Exactly.

It often occurred to me
that she might try...

...and help Daddy out of this world.

Especially if it would be
to her financial advantage.

Did Daddy tell you that he had left
all his money to his young wife?

He said that, yes.

After having made generous provision
for you and his mother.

That's been agreed by the prosecution,
we needn't waste time on that.

Your Lordship is always helpful.

You know something, I expect,
of the law of wills?

I know a little.

You know if Lady Derwent is found guilty
of the murder she will inherit nothing?

We all know that, Mr Rumpole.

Oh, I'm sorry, My Lord, I didn't know
the jury had passed all the bar exams.

Mr Rumpole!

And if she is found guilty,

the two million pounds will be divided
between you and your grandmother.

Are you suggesting that these exhibits,
the broken ampoules,

the syringe and the pamphlet were never
in your client's bedroom at all?

Your Lordship goes so quickly
to the heart of the case.

That is, of course,
the truth of the matter.

You found those empty ampoules
near your father's body,

the hypodermic syringe, the pamphlet,
was that there as well?

What exactly are you accusing me of?

Mr Rumpole, may I remind you
of the evidence Nurse Gregson gave.

This witness remained
in the studio with the nurse

the whole time the medical bag
was left unattended.

She had no chance at all of
removing the diamorphine ampoules.

Oh, I quite agree with that, My Lord,

I'm not suggesting that
Helen Derwent killed her own father.

What are you suggesting may I ask?

That she put those exhibits
in my client's bedroom

so that some gullible jury
might convict her of murder, My Lord.

Oh, really?
Who do you think killed my father?

As I think the jury will think
when they've heard all the evidence,

your father took his own life.

When his painter's hand
refused to obey his commands.

Hilda. I am conducting
an important murder trial.

Alone now, thank God, without a leader.

Bollard having knocked out his few
brains in the pursuit of a longer life.

Tomorrow I hope to make
a final speech to the jury.

I cannot do that on Thin-o-Vite.

It's not Thin-o-Vite any more, Rumpole.
It's a nourishing low calorie diet soup.

I'm only giving it to you because
I'm concerned about your health.

Couldn't you be a little less concerned
and give me another... give me a cutlet?

(Phone rings)

Oh, Bernard.

Good heavens, yes, of course. How
stupid of me, I should have guessed.

Well, I mean,
I should have known all along, really.

No, no, we don't have to.

No accused person
can be forced into the witness box.

So why should I put
Lady Derwent there?

So old Marcus Griffin
can have a go at her?

No, no, no.

There's another cogent reason why we
should go straight to final speeches.

What?

We might finish the case
before Bollard gets out of bed.

I shall say to the jury...

'Members of the jury,

'Lady Perdita Derwent has been
accused of the monstrous crime

'of murdering the husband
that she loved.'

She is fully entitled to say, as you
or I would be, were we accused,

to say to this bumbling prosecution,
"All right, prove it,

"but don't expect any help from me
in your unsavoury business."

And, at the end of the day,
to say to you now,

that nothing, nothing at all, has been
proved beyond reasonable doubt.

The famous painter who loved his art,

finds, through increasing illness,
that he can paint no longer.

Can't we all understand
his decision to take his own life?

Nurse Gregson
leaves her bag in the hall.

Sir Daniel Derwent
leaves the studio for just long enough

to take from it the
ampoules of diamorphine.

Nurse Gregson tells us
he didn't like needles.

Members of the jury, very few of us do,

but if we are desperate enough
we can all use them.

So what remains
of this pathetic prosecution?

Only the evidence of what
Helen Derwent says she found.

Why did she,
cold and calculating as she is,

go up her step-mother's room

on that dreadful morning
after her father's death?

Was it to find evidence,
or to plant it?

Did she lie when she said she found
these exhibits in her step-mother's room,

in order to feed her malice,
and to satisfy her greed for money?

Members of the jury,
I suggest to you that you would not

convict in a case
of un-renewed dog licence

on the evidence of Helen Derwent.

She will get off, won't she?

I suppose you think that anyone should
get off, I mean anyone that killed him.

As a member of the
"Across The River Society".

You are a member, aren't you?
It was your pamphlet.

He couldn't paint any more, he wouldn't
want to live if he couldn't paint.

- Are you sure?
- Oh, absolutely positive.

It was for the best.

- Individual omelettes?
- What?

You cooked each of you an individual
omelette and mulligatawny soup.

Well, I suppose that would disguise
any flavour of diamorphine.

I know you don't like hypodermics.

- What are you trying to say?
- Oh, nothing very complicated.

Only that you took those ampoules
from Nurse Gregson's bag,

you knew what they looked like, you
got their contents into your son's food.

Then Helen found them
and planted them.

- But what I'd like to know is this.
- There's something you don't know?

Did you discuss this sudden decision
to take your son's life with him at all.

What were his views on the subject?

There was no need for any discussion.
A mother knows, Mr Rumpole.

A mother always knows.

(Judge Graves) Will you please answer
my first question, yes or no.

Have you reached a verdict
on which you are all agreed?

Yes, My Lord.

Do you find Perdita May Derwent
guilty or not guilty of murder?

- Not guilty, My Lord.
- And that is the verdict of you all?

My Lord,
might my client be discharged?

Yes, Mr Ballard. We were sorry
you were away from us so long.

(Usher) Silence in court! Be upstanding,
this court is now adjourned.

God Save The Queen.

Lady Derwent, I'm so very glad
we managed to pull it off for you.

It's a wonderful victory for Sam,
isn't it, Mr Rumpole?

Considering he was away
so much of the time.

Matron was a ministering angel, she
practically camped out in the hospital.

She wouldn't let me come back until
she was quite sure I was out of danger.

We should all be grateful for that.

- Goodbye, Lady Derwent.
- How can I thank you?

Just go on living.
You've got a lot of that left to do.

Come on, Miss Probert, I dare say
I could manage another coffee.

- Hi.
- I met your Claude Erskine-Brown.

Good. He's going to move your
admission at the Chambers meeting.

- Well, that's fine, but...
- But?

Well, is there anything strange
about Erskine-Brown?

Strange?

At our meeting, he said one or two things
that seemed a little, well, strange.

I mean I haven't the slightest prejudice
against blokes like that.

But tell me quite honestly, Liz,
you don't think he fancies me?

I don't think it's you he's after.

We don't really need anyone else
to share out work.

I speak as a man with daughters.

- Daughters.
- Daughters.

I just think it'd be jolly bad
if this Chambers

got the reputation
for any sort of discrimination.

I'm with you there, Claude.
Entirely with you.

Which is why I'm particularly keen on the
admission of young David... Dave.

He prefers the style "Dave" Inchcape.

- Is Inchcape black?
- No, Uncle Tom. Dave is not black.

Oh, pity. They had a little black chap
in old Fatty Jackson's Chambers.

Let him in after a good deal
of soul searching.

Afterwards he went off and became
Prime Minister of Limpopoland,

or whatever, and he made
old Fatty Lord Chief Justice

and the other fellows in Chambers got

Attorney General,
and all sorts of rich pickings.

Would you like to go to Limpopoland,
Horace?

Oh, anywhere, Uncle Tom, as long
as there aren't any Chambers meetings.

As I say I've met Dave,
and he's been extremely frank with me.

- Out of the closet, as we would say.
- Out of what closet?

- Never mind, Uncle Tom.
- Is this black chap in the closet?

I wouldn't worry about it.

There should be no problem,
accommodation wise,

if Liz Probert would be so kind
as to share a room with Dave.

- Is that all right, Probert?
- I think I might be so kind.

Oh, good. That's settled then.

Now I have an announcement to make
of a purely private and personal nature.

You will all know
Mrs Marguerite Plumstead,

Matron down at the Old Bailey.

Respected, and may I say, loved
by so many bachelors... barristers.

- Yes, a formidable lady!
- Yes.

Well, during my recent
indisposition, Matron or Matey,

as I shall always think of her,
was a ministering angel to me.

She was at my bedside
in my stay in hospital.

She saw me through my convalescence.

We have been thrown together
as a result of my accident.

I am now happy to tell you

that I shall no longer be living
a bachelor existence in Waltham Cross.

Mrs Plumstead
has consented to become my wife.

Ha... have you... Have you consulted
Mr Plumstead about this at all?

No, no. Mr Plumstead, after long service
with the Department of the Environment,

has, I regret to say, passed over.

- Ah, gone across the river, has he?
- Precisely, yes.

Of course you'll all be invited to the
celebrations with your wives and...

In the case of Dave Inchcape,
no doubt, live in companions.

(Champagne cork pops)

(Indistinct chatter)

Good luck.

Whoever thought that Sam Ballard
would have taken a shine to Matey?

Mrs Rumpole, won't you have just
tiny slice of cake,

as it's such a special occasion?

Well, of course I will, why ever not?

I thought you might be watching
that naughty tummy, like your husband.

Rumpole and I are both perfectly fit,
thank you, Matron.

Oh, I know. Sam says your husband
was such a help to him in the big murder.

I am so glad old Rumpole can still
lend a hand, as a junior barrister.

Old Rumpole, as you call him,

seems to have done the big murder
largely on his own.

As he did the Penge Bungalow Murders,
you must have heard of that case?

No, I'm not sure I have.

Oh, Matron how I envy you.
You've so much to learn about the law.

- Mr Rumpole?
- Yes.

- It's happened.
- What?

My wife. Her turn has come.
She's no longer just a chair.

- Oh, well, what now?
- Well, my year has begun.

I am now the
Lady Mayoress of Bexley Heath.

- Oh, Henry, my heart bleeds for you.
- Anne is being extremely brave about it.

- Ah, Rumpole.
- Yes.

- Terribly sad, isn't it?
- Oh, I don't know.

If you want to live forever, you've not
got any alternative, but to marry Matey.

No, sad about Doctor McAndrew,
he was your doctor too, wasn't he?

- Yes. Why what's up?
- Dropped dead.

What?

He must have been considerably
younger than you.

Oh, poor Doctor McAndrew.
Oh, I am sorry. How sad.

- I say, Rumpole, look over there.
- Where... Oh, where?

Just look.
I've been greatly deceived.

The fellow's a raving heterosexual.

You sure you don't mind
sharing a room with me?

I think I could bear it.

Excuse me? Thank you.

Oh, that chap, Inchcape, remarkably fair
skinned for an African Prime Minister.

Do you think we've been
led up the garden?

Wouldn't be at all surprised,
Uncle Tom.

That Matron gave me
the smallest sliver of cake, Rumpole.

- I could hardly see it on my plate.
- Never mind, fill up on Bollard's bubbly.

(Laughter)

(Clapping)

Silence in court!

It's my pleasure
to wish the happy couple health.

- Not too much health, Hilda.
- What did you say, Rumpole?

Just enough to get to one's feet in court,
Hilda. Or raise a glass to the lips.

It's the quality of life that counts,
Hilda, the quality of life.

And to hell with Thin-o-Vite.

As Ballard's best man,

and as one who has practiced for many
years in the courts of matrimony...

And lost of most of his cases.

...I can only advise my learned leader
to avoid a fight,

plead guilty on all possible occasions,

and to rely on
a moving speech in mitigation.

As we see him off to what I'm sure
will be a sentence for life...

Well, really!

I think that could have been better put.

We know that you will be served under
humane conditions in an open prison,

and with the best possible
medical attention.

Now will you all raise your glasses
to Sam Ballard and his lovely bride,

your favourite known to us all
affectionately as "Matey".

- The toast to the bride and groom.
- The bride and groom!

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