Rumpole and the Angel of Death Read Online Free

don’t you dare light that thing until I’m out of the room.’
    â€˜I’m sure you’re busy.’
    â€˜I certainly am. We’re having a special meeting tonight of the Sisterhood of Radical Lawyers. We aim to blacklist anyone who sends Claude briefs or appears in Court with him. We’re going to petition the Judges not to listen to his arguments and Ballard’s got to give him notice to quit.’
    â€˜Mizz Liz,’ I said, ‘how would you describe me?’
    â€˜As a defender of hopeless causes.’
    â€˜No, I mean my personal appearance.’
    â€˜Well, you’re fairly short.’ The Prosecutor gave me the once over. ‘Your nose is slightly purple, and your hair – what’s left of it – is curly and you’re . . .’
    â€˜Go on, say it.’
    â€˜Well, Rumpole. Let’s face it. You’re fat.’
    â€˜You said it.’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜So should I get you blackballed in Court?’
    â€˜Of course not.’
    â€˜Why not?’
    â€˜Because you’re a man.’
    â€˜I see.’
    â€˜I shouldn’t think you do. I shouldn’t think you do for a moment.’
    Mizz Probert left me then. Full of thought, I applied the match to the end of the small cigar.
    It was some weeks later that Fred Timson, undisputed head of the Timson clan, was charged with receiving a stolen video recorder. The charge was, in itself, something of an insult to a person of Fred’s standing and sensitivity. It was rather as if I had been offered a brief in a case of a non-renewed television licence, or, indeed, of receiving a stolen video recorder. I only took the case because Fred is a valued client and, in many respects, an old family friend. I never tire of telling Hilda that a portion of our family beef, bread, marmalade and washing-up liquid depends on the long life of Fred Timson and his talent for getting caught on the windy side of the law. I can’t say that this home truth finds much favour with She Who Must Be Obeyed, who treats me, on these occasions, as though I were only a moderately successful petty thief working in Streatham and its immediate environs.
    The Defence was elaborate, having to do with a repair job delivered to the wrong address, an alibi, and the fact that the chief prosecution witness was a distant relative of a member of the Molloy family – all bitter rivals and enemies of the Timsons. While Fred and I were drinking coffee in the Snaresbrook canteen, having left the Jury to sort out the complexities of this minor crime, I told him that I’d seen Tony Timson playing the King of the Fairies.
    â€˜No, Mr Rumpole, you’re mistaken about that, I can assure you, sir. Our Tony is not that way inclined.’
    â€˜No, in Midsummer Night’s Dream. An entirely heterosexual fairy. Married to the Fairy Queen.’
    Fred Timson said nothing, but shook his head in anxious disbelief. I decided to change the subject. ‘I don’t know if you’ve heard of one of Tony’s fellow prisoners. Bob Weaver, a huge fellow. Started off as a boxer?’
    â€˜Battering Bob Weaver!’ Fred seemed to find the memory amusing. ‘That’s how he was known. Used to do bare-knuckle fights on an old airfield near Colchester. And my cousin Percy Timson’s young Mavis married Battering Bob’s brother, Billy Weaver, as was wrongly fingered for the brains behind the Dagenham dairy-depot job. To be quite candid with you, Mr Rumpole, Billy Weaver is not equipped to be the brains behind anything. Pity about Battering Bob, though.’
    â€˜You mean the way he went down for the Deptford minicab murder?’
    â€˜Not that exactly. That’s over and done with. No. The way he’s deteriorated in the nick.’
    â€˜Deteriorated?’
    â€˜According as Mavis tells Percy, he has. Can’t hold a decent conversation when they visits. It’s all about books and