“Certainly, my Lord,” I said, always anxious to oblige. “By his true last will of the first of March, 1974, the late colonel recognized the care of a devoted matron—”
“Just the facts, Mr. Rumpole. Just give me the plain facts,” snapped the old spoilsport.
“And the plain fact is, under the previous will of the fifteenth of February, 1970, the Percival Ollards had managed to scoop the pool.”
“Scoop the pool” was, it seemed, not a phrase or saying in current use in the Chancery Division.
“You mean, I suppose,” the judge corrected me, “that Mr. Percival Ollard, together with his wife and son were the sole beneficiaries of the deceased’s residuary estate.”
Somehow I managed to finish giving the judge the brief facts of the case without open warfare breaking out. But the atmosphere was about as convivial as a gathering of teetotal undertakers.
I then called Matron to give evidence. She filled the witness box with authority, she was dressed in respectable and respectful black, she gave her answers in ringing and resonant tones, and yet I could tell that the judge didn’t like her. As she gave her touching description of her devoted care of the late colonel, and her harrowing account of the Percival Ollards’ neglect of their relative, Mr. Justice Venables looked upon Matron as though she was a person who had come to his Court for one reason only, money. Well, it was a charge which might, with equal justice, be levelled against me, and Guthrie Featherstone, and even, let it be said, the learned judge.
“Finally, Matron,” I asked the last question with a solemnity which would have deeply moved the jury, if there had been a jury, “what did you think of the deceased?”
“He had his little ways, of course, but he was always a perfect gentleman.” She looked at the judge; he averted his eye.
“What did you call each other?” I asked.
“It was always ‘Matron’ and ‘Colonel Ollard.’ ”
“But you were friends?”
“It was always on a proper basis, Mr. Rumpole. I don’t know what you’re suggesting.” Miss Beasley gave me an “old-fashioned” look, whereat Featherstone, seeing a rift in our ranks, levered himself to his hind legs and addressed a sympathetic judge.
“I hope my learned friend isn’t suggesting anything, by way of a leading question...?”
“Certainly not, my Lord!” And I went on before His Lordship had time to answer. “Miss Beasley, during the years that Colonel Ollard was with you, did Mr. Percival Ollard visit him at all?”
“I think he came over once or twice in the first couple of weeks. Once he took the colonel for a run on the Downs, I think, and a tea out.”
Featherstone had the grace to subside, and my questioning continued.
“But after that?”
“No. He never came at all.”
“And his family, his wife Marcia, and the young Nijinsky?”
“The what, Mr. Rumpole?” Mr. Justice Venables was not amused.
“Master Peter Ollard, my Lord. A lad with terpischorean tastes.”
“Oh no. I never saw them at all.”
“Yes. Thank you. Just wait there a moment, will you, Miss Beasley?” I subsided and Guthrie Featherstone rose. I had no particular worries. The middle-of-the-road M.P. was merely a middle-of-the-road cross-examiner.
“Miss Beasley. You say that Colonel Ollard had his little ways,” Guthrie began in a voice like hair oil poured on velvet.
“He did, yes.” Matron faced the old darling with confidence.
“Is Miss Mary Waterhouse one of your nurses?”
“She was one of my nurses. Yes.” The name brought a small sign of disapproval from the generalissimo of Sunnyside.
“Did the colonel take boiled eggs for breakfast?” Featherstone asked what I thought at the time was not much of a question.
“On some days. Otherwise he had bacon and sausage.”
“And did the colonel once fling his boiled eggs at Nurse Waterhouse and instruct her, and I quote, ‘To sit on the bloody things and hatch them out’?”
I let out a small guffaw, in which the judge didn’t join. I even began to warm to the memory of Colonel Ollard.
“He... may have done,” Matron conceded.
“The colonel disliked hard-boiled eggs.” Featherstone, bless his timid old heart, seemed to be making a fair deduction.
“He disliked a lot of things, Mr. Featherstone. Including young boys who indulged in ballet lessons.” Matron tried to snick a crafty one through the slips, and, of course, fell foul of the judge immediately.
“Just answer the questions, Miss Beasley. Try not to score points off the other side,” Venables, J., warned her. Again, I got the strong impression that His Lordship hadn’t exactly warmed to Matey.
“Did he also dislike slices of toast which were more than exactly four inches long?”
“The colonel liked things just so, yes,” Miss Beasley admitted.
“And did he measure his toast with a slide rule each morning to make sure it was the correct length?”
“Seems a perfectly reasonable thing to do,” I said to Mr. Pontefract, in what I hoped was an audible mutter.
“Did you say something, Mr. Rumpole?” the judge inquired coldly. I heaved myself to my feet.
“I just wondered, my Lord, does the fact that a man measures his toast mean that he’s not entitled to dispose of his property exactly as he likes?”
At this, the old sweetheart on the bench decided to do his best to polish up my manners.
“Mr. Rumpole,” he said. “Your turn will come later. Mr. Guthrie Featherstone is cross-examining. In the Chancery Division we consider it improper to interrupt a cross-examination, unless there’s a good reason to do so.”
Of course I bowed low, and said, “If your Lordship pleases. As a rank outsider I am, of course, delighted to get your Lordship’s instructions on the mysteries of the Chancery Division.” I supposed old Venables thought that down the Old Bailey we interrupted opponents by winking at the jury and singing sea shanties. It was then my turn to subside and let Featherstone continue.
“Let me ask you something else, Matron. Colonel Ollard had fought, had he not, at the battle of Anzio?”
“That was where he won his Military Cross,” said Miss Beasley, with some understandable pride in the distinction of her late patient.
“Yes, of course. Very commendable.”
That was a tribute, of course, coming from Featherstone. I seemed to remember that he did his military service in the Soldiers’ Divorce Division.
Then Featherstone asked another question. “Matron,” he purred with his usual charm, “did Colonel Ollard tell you that he had frequently discussed the battle of Anzio with the Prime Minister, the late Sir Winston Churchill?”
“I know that Sir Winston was always interested in Colonel Ollard’s view of the war, yes.” Miss Beasley sounded proud, and even the judge looked impressed.
“And that he had also discussed it with Field-Marshal Lord Montgomery of Alamein?”
“Colonel Ollard called him ‘Bernard.’ ”
“And with the then Soviet leader, Mr. Stalin. Did Colonel Ollard call him ‘Joseph’?” Oh dear, I sighed to myself, things were becoming grim when Featherstone tried to make a funny.
“No. He always called him ‘Mr. Stalin,’ ” Miss Beasley answered primly.
“Very respectful. If I may say so.” Featherstone gave the judge a chummy little smile and then turned back straight-faced to the witness.
“You know he told Nurse Waterhouse, one morning last October, that he had been talking to Sir Winston, Lord Montgomery, and Mr. Stalin the evening before. Does that surprise you?” I had the awful feeling that Featherstone had struck gold. There was a sudden silence in Court as Pontefract and I held our breath, waiting for Matron’s answer.