[theme music] ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ MAN (ON RADIO): Well, the Victoria line is still suffering from an earlier broken down train and a non-runner on southern region junction to Holborn viaduct.

The 844 Commander, what have you spotted?

COMMANDER (ON RADIO): Well, I spotted this delays, on the A40 M that's going across the flyover.

The eastbound exit slip road can be bumpy.

Partial to frozen peas, are you, Timson?

What's the matter with that?

He likes his chips and peas.

Thaw it out, Cosgrove.

[radio chatter] This go well with your chips too, does it?

RUMPOLE: Members of the jury, an Englishman's freezer is his castle.

Surely, he is entitled to put anything he likes in it, anything he may have bought cheaply from a man offering articles for sale into public houses.

Not dropped off the back of a lorry.

My Lord, during the entire course of this case, there has been absolutely no evidence concerning lorries.

JUDGE: Of course, Mr. Rumpole.

This was the unknown man in the pub, wasn't it?

There have been cases of receiving stolen property in this building before, you know.

I'm sure you've been engaged in a good many of them.

As I was saying, members of the jury, a people with something particularly valuable to protect often put them in strange places.

And many of us may have had aunts-- Rumpole.

--who were in the habit of hiding pound notes in the tea caddy, burying them deep in the Darjeeling, and thus running the risk of boiling up their small savings for their elevenses.

Mr. Rumpole, your aunt is not evidence.

That is your Lordship's ruling.

Of course it is.

Then in my most humble submission, your Lordship is absolutely right.

Ignore aunts, members of the jury.

This case must be decided strictly on the evidence.

And where in this case, let us ask, is there proof that this is, in fact, stolen property?

Is there not, Detective Inspector Bellman?

RUMPOLE: Ah, yes, the enthusiastic DI who regards convictions with as much pride as the late Don Giovanni regarded his conquests of the female sex.

No doubt he notches them up on his braces.

[laughter] Detective Inspector Bellman has said that there have been burglaries of Georgian silver in certain country houses in Kent.

But members of the jury, not one householder has been called to identify this property as his or to say that it was stolen from him.

Mr. Rumpole, you intend to address this jury at your usual length?

I intend to do my duty, My Lord, in the best interests of my client.

10:30 tomorrow morning, members of the jury.

And when considering this case, you will put entirely out of your minds anything Mr. Rumpole may have told you about his curious family.

I expect our relatives know the proper place for their valuables-- in the bank.

Rumpole.

How can you drink that stuff?

I'll show you.

You raise the glass to the lips.

You tilt the head slightly backward, and you let the liquid trickle down gently past the tonsils.

Like that.

Of course, I've had an awful lot of practice.

But even you will come to it in time.

Well, of course, you can drink it.

I mean, presumably, it's possible to drink methylated spirits, shaken up with a little ice and a dash of Angostura bitters.

That's a fair description.

The point is, why should you want to?

Forgetfulness, Erskine-Brown.

Consignment of the sepulchral Judge Graves to the Lethe of forgotten things.

He has Judge Bullingham's pernicious habit of constantly interrupting my address to the jury.

Oh, I'm defending an alleged receiver of stolen sugar bowls.

Is he guilty?

Hugh "Snakelegs" Timson inherited the family fencing business when his Uncle Percy retired to live in Benidorm.

Well, then why worry?

Because there is no evidence that the stuff was stolen.

But the lugubrious Judge Graves has put the kiss of death on the presumption of innocence.

Ah, well.

Thank you, Edith.

Chalk it up, would you, please?

Of course, there is another reason why I drink Pomeroy's plonk.

Can't be the color.

Who cares about the color?

Not to put too fine a point on it, if you drink enough of this stuff, you stand a good chance of getting blotto.

Horace!

Good heavens!

The purpose of wine is not to get you blotto.

You astonish me.

It's to taste sunlight trapped in a glass.

To remember some green slope in Burgundy or a village by the Gironde.

I dare say there is a patch of barren soil in some corner of a foreign field where the Fleet Street grape struggles for existence.

Probably somewhere between a cowshed and a pissoir.

The nose, Rumpole!

What?

The nose.

I beg your pardon.

It's terrible.

Because we disagree about Pomeroy's plonk, there's no reason to descend to personal abuse.

Rumpole.

My nose may not be a thing of beauty and a joy forever, but in its youth, it may have had a certain tip tilted charm.

My dear Horace-- I admit that in its latter years, it may have put on a little weight.

You misunderstand.

At least my nose doesn't make me look like a constipated goshawk.

But I don't mean your nose, Rumpole.

I mean the wine's nose.

Oh, don't babble, Erskine-Brown.

The nose signifying bouquet.

Now, it's one of the expressions we use in wine lore, together with length.

Well, the length of this looks to be about 1 inch and shrinking rapidly.

The length of time a fine wine lingers on the palate.

Now look here, why don't you let me educate you?

My friend, Martyn Vanberry, organizes tastings in the city, blind tastings.

Blind, are they?

Sounds exactly what I need.

Lead me to them.

Got to cheer myself up somehow.

We're getting a verdict tomorrow.

Not guilty!

Oh, Mr. Rumpole, you were wonderful.

Well, just a little bit wonderful, perhaps.

Liz Probert.

I've just passed the bar exams.

Oh, then we don't shake hands.

The customers don't like it, you see.

They may think we're making secret deals.

We don't stereotype that much, do you, Mr. Rumpole?

And you don't call me Mr. Rumpole.

I thought you were much too busy fighting the class war to care about outdated behavior patterns.

Fighting the what?

Protecting working people from middle-class judges.

[laughs] The Timsons would hate to be called working people.

They are entirely middle-class villains.

And they're very conservative, too, as a matter of fact.

They live according to strict monetarist principles and the free market economy.

Oh, and they're dead against the closed shop.

They believe shops should be open all hours of the night, preferably with a jemmy.

Excuse me.

It was brilliant!

I sat in, and it all seemed hopeless.

But you got him off?

You know why?

None of the owners would identify their silver.

They'd received the insurance money, you see.

They were doing very nicely.

Thank you.

Last thing on earth they wanted was to get their old sugar bowls back and have to return the money.

Life's a bit more complicated than they teach you at the bar exams, Ms. P. But he was innocent.

Well, let's say there wasn't enough evidence to convict him.

Look, Rumpole, can you give me some counseling, career wise?

Oh, not now, I'm afraid, Miss Probert.

I have a blind date with some rather attractive bottles of wine.

Oh, another quaint old tradition of the bar Miss Probert.

Members only, I'm afraid.

[indistinct chatter] I'm Martyn Vanberry.

Welcome to the shop.

Ah.

Horace Rumpole.

Oh, the legal eagle.

You came here with Colly, didn't you?

Claude Erskine-Brown, yes.

We used to call him Colly at school.

After the dog?

No, after the doctor, Collis Browne.

Claude was a bit of a pill at Winchester.

We had to kick him around a bit.

How frightfully decent of you.

Look, I better get the show on the road.

Bill, come on through.

Birdie, how lovely to see you.

I'm glad you're here.

You're joking.

Well, gather round, everybody.

Gather round.

Well, I think you all know the rules.

It's as easy as musical chairs.

The wrong guesses get knocked out as we go along, until there are just two players and one superb bottle of wine left.

And my decision is final.

Oh, dear.

Good afternoon, Mr. Mantis.

Afternoon all.

Right, bring on the antifreeze.

Let's get warmed up.

I'll just hang the coat up.

I can't imagine why Martyn invites him to these dos.

Hardly your typical connoisseur.

Impossibly common little man.

Knows a lot about wine, does he?

Buys a lot, Martyn tells me.

I suppose you do pretty well out of a garage in Luton.

Oh.

Honoria Bird, wine correspondent of the Sunday Examiner.

Oh, Horace Rumpole, Barrister at law.

Ah.

MARTYN: Can we begin now?

Suits me.

Let the battle commence.

Come back for seconds, can we?

Hardly.

RUMPOLE (VOICEOVER): Hmm.

A beaker full of the warm south.

Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene.

Comparing this to Chateau Fleet Street is like comparing a planning appeal in the House of Lords to an indecent exposure before the Uxbridge Magistrates.

It's just over there.

Expectoration corner.

I say, you haven't swallowed it, have you?

You must be a new boy.

Well, Rumpole, your first shot.

Yes.

What is it, Horace?

Oh, well, it's outside my price range for a start.

Outside his price range.

Have a guess.

Oh, I'd say at least 10 quid a bottle.

Oh, he's out.

MARTYN: Yes, I'm afraid you're out.

Mr. Mantis.

Er, Les Barges, possibly '75, 76.

A bit under the age of consent.

Tasty little snog, but not quite right for your actual dirty weekend.

Know what I mean?

[cackles] Inexpressibly vulgar.

Everybody agree?

Come along, Martyn.

When are you going to give us something difficult?

MARTYN: Wine number two coming up.

All right.

Mr. Rumpole, let me give you a glass of Vanberry's ordinaire.

It's a consolation prize.

Oh, splendid.

I don't have to spit it out, do I?

Oh.

MARTYN: Colly?

I seem to taste Avignon, er, Chateauneuf du Pape.

'79 possibly.

What do you say, Birdie?

Something perhaps a little more southerly?

Australian.

Coonawarra.

Probably around '81.

Well done, Birdie.

[applause] Let down by the nose, old darling.

Not very fair, really.

One always forgets about the colonies.

MARTYN: The final round, and something quite remarkable.

Gordon Bennett!

When I said bring on the antifreeze, you really took me seriously, didn't you?

Well, Birdie, let me give you a clue, Birdie.

It's not whisky.

I think I guessed that.

But think, Birdie.

Think of whisky translated.

Try Johnny Mobil.

MARTYN: Equine whisky, Birdie.

Equine?

White Horse.

Very good.

Conservative too.

On the right.

On the right.

On the right.

Bank of the River Saint-Emillion.

That's not White Horse exactly.

Cheval Blanc?

1971, I'm afraid.

Nothing earlier.

Well done, Birdie.

Still an unbeatable palate.

I'm sorry you got pipped to the post, Mr. Mantis.

You did jolly well.

Come with me, Birdie.

You get another certificate of the Grande Countess des Vin, and a complimentary bottle of the Gevrey-Chambertain Claude Dugat 1970.

A somewhat underrated vintage.

Congratulations, Birdie.

HILDA: Is that you, Rumpole?

No.

It's the man come to tune the harp.

HILDA: Oh, dear.

You do seem in a funny mood tonight, Rumpole.

Seems, Madam?

Nay, it is, I know not seem.

'Tis not alone, my inky cloak, good Hilda, nor customary suits of solemn black, nor windy suspiration of forced breath, no, nor the fruitful river in the eye.

As a matter of fact, I won a case today.

Yes, I thought you might have.

That's why you're so full of yourself.

Oh, you like me better when I lose.

At least you're quieter.

And I went to a wine tasting.

Don't you always?

Oh, Hilda.

Ha, ha.

No, I do it by instinct.

Claude Erskine-Brown is giving me lessons in it.

Well, he ought to have something better to do now that he's got a family.

Now, Hilda, you are a woman of considerable experience, aren't you?

I don't know what you mean.

I mean, you can tell margarine from butter?

Of course.

You wouldn't have any doubts about it, would you?

I mean, not like those idiot women on television.

Of course not.

Although, if the margarine was labeled fresh dairy butter, and you had just been told that it came straight from the cow-- Rumpole, I'm glad you're feeling so full of yourself tonight.

Although why anyone should want to wrap margarine in butter packets.

I've got a bit of news for you.

As for those poor unfortunates that have to guess which washing powder makes their undies whiter-- My old school friend Dodo Mackintosh is coming to stay for a few days.

She's very keen to see you in action at the Old Bailey.

And I don't think that she'd appreciate you talking about undies very much.

They always look so afraid they're going to disappoint the interviewer.

[laughs] What did you say?

[coughs] Did you see "The Church Times," Rumpole?

Only for the racing tips.

First class fellow writing on legal matters-- Canon Probert.

This week's piece is headed, "Vengeance is mine.

I will repay, sayeth the Lord."

Oh, you look up, Ballard.

You're getting "The Church Times" in my egg and fried slice.

"Too often, the crafty lawyer frustrates the angel of retribution."

Too often the angel of retribution makes a complete balls up of the burden of proof.

What we need in Chambers is someone with the spirit of Canon Probert, someone to convince the public that lawyers still have a remnant of moral fiber.

Probert?

Did you say Probert?

Canon of Worsfield.

How odd.

Why is that name so familiar?

Liz Probert.

About my application to be a pupil in Chambers.

He wants one, too.

Dianne.

I do keep telling you, Ms. Probert, it'll come before the Pupillage Committee in the normal course.

Pupil?

One of you a pupil?

Any good at putting, are you?

Do you have to be?

Well, my old pupil master, CH Wystan, awfully nice chap, but he never gave me anything to do.

So I became the best fellow in Chambers at getting his balls in the wastepaper basket.

Awfully good training, you know.

I never had an enormous practice.

Well, I had very little practice at all, if the truth be known.

So I was able to concentrate on my golf, you see.

Now, if you want to be a pupil, my advice to you is get yourself a match in a blink.

Just taking this to Mr. Rumpole.

Oh, look, don't bother.

I'll do it.

Where is he?

First door on the right.

But-- Oh, let her go, Dianne.

Better than her hanging around the clerk's room holding up our work.

What's the, um-- what's the law on the subject?

What's the what?

The law on the doctrine of impossible attempts.

Hasn't the House of Lords just had something new to say about it?

Oh, the House of Lords, they're always saying something.

They're a bunch of old chatterboxes, if you want my opinion.

Thank you.

Yes.

But you must know the case.

Oh, must I?

Well, yes.

I mean, there have been all these articles about it in the Criminal Law Review.

Oh, my favorite bedtime reading.

So you know the House of Lord's decision?

I know it.

Of course, I know it.

The long winter evenings at Foxbury Mansions, we talk of little else.

Oh, good heavens, the name is on the tip of my tongue.

Er, Swinglehurst.

Oh, yes, Swinglehurst.

There we are at my fingertips, as usual, Mr. Bernard.

Here we are, "The doctrine of impossible attempt examined.

The Queen against the dewdrop.

Distinguished."

Yes.

good stuff, Mr. Bernard.

Fine rich prose.

So how does that affect Tony Timson trying to steal three non-existent television sets?

Ah.

Yes, indeed.

How does it?

Yes.

I think a written opinion would be of more use to you, Mr. Bernard.

There are other authorities I may have to consult in depth.

[muttering] Oh, I shall be enormously grateful.

Oh, think nothing of it, Mr. Bernard.

Nothing of it.

All part of the Rumpole service.

Bye.

How on earth-- I was just passing.

I'll do that opinion for you.

Oh, you know a bit of law, do you?

Top student of my year, if you want the statistic.

I must confess that after a lifetime at the Bar, I have very little interest in the law.

Give me a bloodstain or two, a bit of disputed typewriting, couple of hairs on a cardigan.

You can keep your House of Lords decisions.

Look, Rumpole, my application is in before the Pupillage Committee.

Oh, you want to join our gallant band of brothers here in equity court, do you?

I just hope they don't all suffer from standard male reflexes.

Miss Probert, is your father a canon of the Church of England who writes a great deal of nonsense about legal matters?

Oh, don't answer that.

I mean, who's this head of Chambers got a sexist attitude toward women barristers?

Oh, dear old Sam Ballard is ridiculously prejudiced against young women whose fathers are not canons of the Church of England.

So I'd keep very quiet about it if I were you.

We had a girl in Chambers called Fiona Allways.

Yes, she married a merchant banker and went to live in Cheltenham.

Just as soon as you teach them to take a decent note in court, they marry a merchant banker and go and live in Cheltenham.

Elizabeth Probert.

Probert.

Yes.

I suppose she might have a certain elfin charm without her glasses.

I wonder if she'd care to help with my County Court practice.

That's all you think about, Erskine-Brown-- wine, women, and your County Court practice.

Now, that is distinctly unfair.

As I said before, I'm not sure that we want any new intake in Chambers.

I mean, is there enough work to go round?

I speak as a member with daughters to support.

You know, thinking the matter over, I think Phyllida might be rather against her.

Probert, Probert.

Isn't that the name of your favorite writer on church affairs?

Karen Probert?

Yes.

Is she some relation?

Well, she hasn't denied it.

Oh, well, in that case-- In what case?

Elizabeth Probert comes from a family with enormously sound views on the religious virtue of retribution as part of our criminal law.

I see her as an admirable pupil for Rumpole.

You don't think that he might teach her some of his courtroom antics?

I think she might just possibly be his salvation.

Keep the old Cortina in the drive now, then, do you?

You're not leaving that out there, do you?

What's the matter?

Garage full, is it?

Keys?

Well, I can't quite put my hands on them for a minute.

All right, open up.

TIMSON: Oh, no.

Come on.

Leave off.

Leave off.

Hey, now, leave off!

Ah.

Here.

Fancy a drop of this to go with your chips and peas, do you, Timson?

Rumpole!

Excuse me, sir, where are you going?

To a conference in Brixton.

Well, I'll give you a lift.

I've got a car.

I'm coming with you.

Why?

Mr. Ballard just told me.

I passed the committee, and I've been given to you.

To me?

As a pupil.

You mean it to go as far as that?

I can look up the law.

Oh, for heaven's sake, we won't need the law.

Take some kind of a rudimentary note, can you?

Just tell Mr. Rumpole why you had all that wine in your garage.

Nothing to do with you coming from a broken home, was it?

Broken home?

What are you talking about?

Mom and dad was married 40 years.

He never so much as looked at another woman.

What are you on about?

Just setting Miss Probert's mind at rest.

All right, Snakelegs, how come your garage was used as a cellar for fine wines?

A drop of good stuff, was it?

Didn't you taste it?

Teetotal, me.

You know that, Mr. Rumpole?

Well, the wife, well, she will have a glass of tawny port at Christmas.

Not that I think it's right, you understand.

It's drink that leads to crime.

We all know that, don't we, Mr. Rumpole?

But where did you get it?

The judge might be curious to know.

Well, there was this fella I happen to bump into.

RUMPOLE: Not in a pub.

The Needle Arms in Bromley.

Well, how did you guess?

Are you psychic or something, Mr. Rumpole?

Oh, please, Snakelegs, let's have a little variation.

Judge Graves is getting terribly bored with that story.

Graves?

We're not having him again, are we?

RUMPOLE: Not if I can help it.

All right.

So you bought all these crates of stuff from this fella in a pub.

Who's got a list of the exhibits?

Thank you, Ms. Probert.

Don't happen to remember his name by any chance, do you?

Cheval Blanc, Saint-Emilion.

No, no, no, no, no.

It was nothing like that, sir.

Something more Irish, um-- what are our chances, Mr. Rumpole?

[laughs] You've heard of snowballs in hell?

You did all right by me last time.

Last time, the losers didn't come forward and claim their property.

Because of the insurance.

Miss Probert remembers.

This time, the loser of the wine is the principal witness for the prosecution.

Martyn Vanberry.

Of Vanberry's Purveyors of Fine Wines.

Prentice Alley, City of London?

Yes.

Not a particularly attractive character, but a highly respectable public school bully.

Where are we going now?

Oh, we are going to see a witness.

I thought we weren't allowed to see witnesses.

Oh, we're allowed to see this one.

This one is an expert.

And we're allowed to see experts.

Oh, daddy buy you this little runabout, did he?

A present from the canon.

My daddy isn't a canon.

Oh, hush, hush, Miss Probert.

What is he exactly?

What's he do?

He's the Labour leader of the North London Council.

Not Red Ron Probert?

Yeah.

[laughs] Oh, dear.

Don't tell our learned head of Chambers that, will you?

Promise?

Promise.

It's always nice to meet a genuine enthusiast, Mr. Rumpole.

I've been wondering about your qualifications as a connoisseur.

I mean, where you got your training.

Training?

Day trip to Boulogne, with the Luton Secondary Modern.

You should have seen us, what a scruffy bunch of kids we were, all acne and lavatory jokes.

Enough to drive, sir, what took us into the funny farm.

We were always off trying to give him the slip, you know, chasing non-existent girls.

And when we caught them, they were fatter and spotty than the local talent around the Wimpy Bar.

[laughs] Well, I ended up in the station buffet for some unknown reason.

And I spent what I'd been saving for an unavailable knee-trembler.

If you'll pardon my French, Ms. Probert.

And I bought half a bottle of wine.

I don't know what it was.

Ordinaire de la garde.

French Railways perpetual standby.

One taste, I was hooked.

When you've been brought up on fizzy drinks, the taste of old pennies and sweet tea that you could stand a spoon up in, I tell you, that wine became a bit of a revelation, Mr. Rumpole.

You know, I used to keep a cellar under my bed?

And I shared it out with special friends in tooth mugs.

All right, is it?

Somewhat better than the Cheval Blanc round Vanberry's.

[laughs] Morning, Henry, Dianne.

Any mail?

No.

How are the amateur dramatics going?

Oh, we're giving "Private Lives" next month.

Ms. Osgood takes the Gertie Lawrence role.

Miss Osgood, the lady in charge of the court lists down the Old Bailey?

Yes, Mr. Rumpole.

Could I put you down for a couple of seats?

Orchestra stalls, Henry, the very best the town hall can provide.

And next time you're chatting with Ms. Osgood during rehearsals, now that Judge Bullingham is out of the way for a bit, holidaying, I believe, with some chums in Pamplona, it is vital that the latest Timson receiving case does not get before the White Sepulcher.

Who, sir?

The funereal Judge Graves, second only in horror to the Mad Bull himself.

I understand Judge Molesey is sitting next week, sir.

Molesey, a Daniel come to judgment.

Oh, we'll be all right with this judge.

I'll have old Molesey eating out of my hand, as mild-mannered as an old darling has ever thought in terms of probation.

Oh, probation for receiving stolen wine?

With old Molesey, I wouldn't be at all surprised.

A fortnight's community service is his equivalent of a sentence in the galleys.

BERNARD: Mr. Rumpole!

He's a real old sweetheart.

Judge Molesey's got a severe cold.

Cold?

Can't the old fool wrap up warm?

We'll transfer you to another judge, Mr. Rumpole.

Another judge?

What do you mean?

Mr. Rumpole, do you wish to detain this gentleman in the witness box?

Well, just for a little while, My Lord.

You have questions for him?

One or two, My Lord.

Yes.

Is there any dispute that your client had this gentleman's wine in his possession?

No dispute about that, My Lord.

No.

To what issue in this case will your questions be directed?

RUMPOLE (VOICEOVER): If you sit there quietly for a minute or two, old darling, you might just possibly find out.

They will be directed to the issue of my client's guilt or innocence, My Lord, a matter which may be of some interest to the jury.

Mr. Martyn Vanberry, I take it that the wine you lost was insured?

Well, of course.

I had it fully insured.

As a prudent business man.

I hope I am that, My Lord.

No, I'm sure you are, Mr. Vanberry.

Perfectly sure you are.

How long have you been trading as a wine merchant in Prentice Alley in the city of London?

Well, just three years, My Lord.

Before that, where were you trading?

By selling pictures.

As a matter of fact, I had a shop in Chelsea.

We specialized in 19th-century watercolors.

The name of the business?

Vanberry Fine Arts.

Quite.

Mr. Bernard, have you managed to find any insurance claims for Vanberry's Fine Arts yet?

- No, not yet.

We're still looking, Mr. Rumpole.

RUMPOLE (VOICEOVER): Only one thing to do.

Take a gamble.

I must put it to you that Vanberry Fine Arts made a substantial insurance claim in respect of the premises in the King's Road.

There was a serious break in, and most of our stock was stolen.

Thank God for that.

Of course, I had to make a claim, My Lord.

Of course.

You seem to be rather prone to serious break-ins, Mr. Vanberry.

It is the rising tide of lawlessness that threatens to engulf us all.

You should know that better than anyone, Mr. Rumpole.

Usher, could I have a bottle from exhibit number four, please?

Exhibit number four.

That's part of the wine.

Yes, My Lord.

You're not proposing to sample it, I hope, Mr. Rumpole.

I do not make application to do so at this moment, My Lord.

Mr. Vanberry, you say that this bottle contains a fine claret of vintage quality.

It does, My Lord.

Retailing at what price?

Oh, I think around 50 pounds a bottle.

And insured for?

I believe we insured it for the retail price.

Such a wine would be hard to replace, My Lord.

Of course, it would.

It is a particularly fine vintage of the-- the-- what did you say it was?

Cheval Blanc.

Cheval Blanc?

We all know what we have to pay for a fine burgundy nowadays, don't we, members of the jury.

It's a claret, My Lord.

Claret?

Yes, of course it is.

Didn't I say that?

Yes, well, Let's get on with it, Mr. Rumpole.

I wish to make an application concerning this exhibit, My Lord.

Oh, very well.

Make it known.

I would like to apply to the court for permission to open this bottle of alleged Cheval Blanc.

You're not serious?

Well, your lordship seems to have the possibility in mind.

Mr. Rumpole, from time to time, the weight of these grave proceedings at the Old Bailey may be lifted when the judge makes a joke.

One doesn't do it often.

One seldom can.

But one likes to do it whenever possible.

I was making a joke, Mr. Rumpole.

Ah.

I am sure the court is most grateful for your honor's levity, but I am entirely serious.

My learned pupil, Ms. Probert, has come equipped with a corkscrew.

Mr. Rumpole, may I get this quite clear?

What would be your purpose in opening this bottle?

For the purpose of tasting the wine, My Lord.

Mr. Rumpole, this is a court of law.

This is not a bar room.

I have sat here for a long time, far too long in my opinion, listening to your cross examination of this unfortunate gentleman who has, the jury may well find, suffered at the hands of your client.

I am not prepared to sit here while you drink the exhibits.

Not drink.

Taste, My Lord.

And may I say this, that if the defense is denied the opportunity of tasting this exhibit, this vital exhibit, I shall have to apply immediately to the Court of Appeal.

Court of Appeal?

Court of Appeal, My Lord.

You will take this matter to the Court of Appeal?

This very afternoon, My Lord.

That's what you'd do?

Oh, without hesitation, My Lord.

[clears throat] What do you say to that, Mr. Tristram Paulett?

My Lord, I'm sure the court would not wish my learned friend to have any cause for complaint, however frivolous.

And it might be better not to delay matters by making an application to the Court of Appeal.

Exactly what was in my mind, Mr. Tristram.

Very well, Mr. Rumpole.

In the quite exceptional circumstances of this case, the court is prepared to give you leave to taste.

Of course, I shall invite your lordship and my learned friend to join me.

MARTYN: My Lord-- Was there something you wished to say, Mr. Vanberry?

No, My Lord.

RUMPOLE (VOICEOVER): Yes.

An all too familiar taste.

And to those of a cultured palate demanding an immediate visit to expectoration corner, Chateau Thames Embankment, 1986, a particularly brutal year Mr. Rumpole, are you saying that this claret is not what it pretends to be?

Exactly, My Lord.

And I shall be calling evidence on the matter.

No doubt you will do that in the course of your defense, which will be tomorrow morning, members of the jury.

Rumpole's got a pupil.

I hope he's an apt pupil.

Oh, it isn't a he.

It's a she.

A she?

Oh, really, Rumpole?

Yes.

A Miss Liz Probert.

You call her Liz?

Oh, no, I call her Miss.

And, uh, is she a middle-aged person?

Oh, about 24.

Is that middle age these days?

And is Hilda quite happy about that?

Oh, Hilda doesn't look for happiness.

Oh?

What does she look for?

The responsibilities of command.

[phone rings] Oh, excuse me.

Hello?

Yes, Rumpole speaking.

Eastham?

Ken Eastham?

Oh, you work for Vanberry's?

Of course.

You were the pourer in the blind tasting contest, weren't you?

This Liz Probert, Hilda, aren't you curious to meet her?

No, no, no.

Not particularly.

That's interesting, Mr. Eastham.

That's very interesting indeed.

Thank you for ringing.

You've been most helpful.

All right.

Bye.

Oh, yes, indeed.

You look extremely full of yourself, Rumpole.

No doubt he is full of himself, with a young pupil to trot about with.

Dodo will be coming down to the Old Bailey tomorrow, Rumpole.

She's tremendously keen to see you in action.

You've come to see him in action?

Yes.

Mr. Rumpole in, Dianne?

No.

He's around the corner.

Yeah, that's right.

He's out having his breakfast, preparing himself for the labors of the day.

I'll show you where to go.

For my next case, matrimonial quarrel.

The husband puts his hand out to stop his wife leaving home, accidentally, oh quite accidentally, he got the vagus nerve in her throat.

That's the way you can stop somebody's heart, without really meaning to.

Didn't they teach you that in the bar exam, Miss Probert?

No.

Just about there on you, Ms. Probert.

Rumpole in action.

Poor Hilda.

- Mr. Ballard?

- Yes.

Oh, chappie downstairs said I'd find you up here?

I'm Lizzie's father.

Probert.

Of course.

Yes, I am delighted to meet you.

Delighted.

Please sit down.

Do sit down, please.

Please, sit down.

Do, do-- I should have realized.

You're in Mufti.

What?

Your collar.

What's wrong with my collar?

Nothing.

Nothing at all.

I'm sure it's very comfortable.

RUMPOLE: Are you miss Honoria O'Sullivan Bird?

I am.

Are you a Grand Maitresse des Vins?

And for the past 15 years, have you been wine correspondent to the Sunday Examiner of Fleet Street, London, EC4?

That is so.

RUMPOLE: Miss Bird, you will be handed a glass with some wine in it.

Would you please taste it?

Mm-hmm.

RUMPOLE: Yes.

Painful though it may be, you'll have to swallow it, Ms. Bird.

We have no expectoration corner here.

Please don't lead the witness.

Oh, certainly not.

In your own words, would you describe the wine you have just tasted?

Is it worth describing?

RUMPOLE: Oh, my client's liberty may depend upon it.

It is rough and I would say crude Bordeaux type wine of mixed origins.

It may well contain some product of North Africa.

Have you met such a wine before?

I believe it is served in certain bars in this part of London, to the more poorly paid members of the legal profession.

Would you price it at 50 pounds a bottle?

BIRDIE: You're joking.

It is not I that made the joke, Ms. Bird.

It would be daylight robbery to charge more than 2 pounds.

2 pounds?

Thank you, Ms. Bird.

Oh, just wait there a moment, please.

Miss Bird, the wine you have just tasted came from a bottle labeled Cheval Blanc '71.

I take it that you don't think that is a correct description?

Certainly not.

At a blind tasting of Mr. Vanberry's shop, did you not identify a bottle of Cheval Blanc '71?

Yes?

Did you not?

I had my doubts about it.

But did you not identify it?

Yes, I did.

Thank you, Ms. Bird.

Ms. Bird, on that occasion, were you competing against a Mr. Monty Mantis, a garage owner of Luton, in a blind tasting contest?

Yes, I was.

And did Mr. Mantis express a poor opinion of the alleged Cheval Blanc?

He did.

And were you encouraged by various hints and clues to identify it as a fine claret by Mr. Vanberry?

Yes.

He was trying to help me a little.

Yes.

To help you call it Cheval Blanc.

I suppose so, yes.

Ms. Bird, looking back on that occasion, do you think you were tasting genuine Cheval Blanc?

Looking back on it, My Lord, I don't think I was.

I must say, I'm a tremendous admirer of your work.

Are you really?

I thought you lawyers were always right.

Not always.

Some of them are entirely wrong, but there are a few of us prepared to fight the good fight.

On with the revolution.

You think it needs that to awaken a real sense of morality?

Don't you?

A revolution in our whole way of thinking, I fear so.

I greatly fear so.

Fear not, Brother Ballard.

We're in this together.

Of course.

Yes.

Brother?

Were you in some Anglican monastic order?

[laughs] Only the Clerical Workers Union.

Clerical workers.

That, of course.

Yes.

Amusing way of putting it.

And most of them weren't exactly monastic.

Oh, dear, yes.

There's been a falling off, even among the clergy.

We had a few Cheval Blanc '71 in the cellar.

Then this new consignment arrived.

A new consignment from one of your usual sources.

No, I didn't know where it came from.

Did Mr. Vanberry give you any specific instructions regarding the new consignment?

Yes.

He asked me to move it to the other side of the cellar.

And did you put it all there?

No.

I had started to unpack one of the cases and put a few bottles in the old Cheval Blanc bin.

And what happened to the other cases?

Those you had not unpacked?

They were the ones that were stolen.

Tell us, Mr. Eastham, what was Mr. Vanberry's reaction when told of the burglary?

He seemed quite calm about it.

He said, oh, well, it's all insured.

Rumpole, I'm not absolutely sure that I follow the effect of the evidence you have been calling.

If Mr. Vanberry were in the business of selling the inferior stuff we have tasted, and Ms. Honoria Bird has tasted as highly expensive claret, surely the deceit would be obvious to anyone drinking it.

Oh, My Lord, I'm not suggesting that the wine was in Mr. Vanberry's possession for drinking.

Not for drinking?

RUMPOLE: No, My Lord.

Well, what-- what on earth was it in his possession for?

He had it for stealing, My Lord!

And our Liz is doing well, is she?

Oh, we have great hopes of her.

A girl with her background, how could she go wrong?

She's with Rumpole, a somewhat elderly member of these Chambers.

I think she may do him some good.

Do him?

Perhaps he's mixed too long with the criminal classes, but Rumpole seems somewhat lacking in a sense of sin!

He had it for stealing, members of the jury.

But the theft was as phony and as fraudulent as the wine itself.

No doubt Mr. Vanberry had arranged for this cheap, liquid, inexpensive bottles to be taken away and disposed of.

That was his plan and his intention, so that when my client, Mr. Timson, bought the wine from a man in the Needle Arms, he was not buying or receiving stolen property.

He was buying wine that was sold by its owner in order to defraud his insurers.

Or whatever the position of any one else in this court, my client has committed no crime whatsoever.

[whistling] You seem very full of yourself again tonight, Rumpole.

I suppose you've won another case.

Oh, yes, I'm afraid so.

Ha, ha.

Oh, for a draft of vintage that hath been cooled along age in the deep delved earth.

Yes, yes.

A crude Bordeaux type of mixed origins.

On sale to the more poorly paid members of the legal profession.

How true.

Oh, dear.

What have you got to laugh at, Rumpole?

Yeah, Ballard.

Your head of Chambers?

Yes.

He met Ms. Probert's daddy, Red Ron and still thought he was some sort of Anglican divine.

He even called him Father.

He went entirely by the name on the label, you see.

Tasting of flora and the country green.

I say it's remarkably quiet around here.

I seem to miss the fluting tones of your childhood chum, old Dodo Mackintosh.

Dodo's gone home.

Oh, why?

She's disgusted with you, Rumpole.

Provencal song and sunburnt mirth.

As a matter of fact, I told you she'd better go.

You told her that?

She said she'd seen you making out to some young girl in a tea shop.

That's what she said?

Well, I really couldn't imagine any young girl wanting to be made out to by you, Rumpole.

I told you it was absolutely ridiculous.

Thank you very much.

Oh, for a beaker full of the warm south, full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene with beaded bubbles winking at the brim and purple stained mouth.

She said that you were in some sort of embrace.

Well, Dodo got it entirely wrong, hadn't she, Rumpole?

Oh, of course she got it wrong.

She can't tell margarine from butter like you, Hilda.

That I might drink and leave the world unseen.

And with thee fade away into the forest dim.

Hilda, would you care to fade away with me into the forest dim?

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