[theme music] ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ [sniffles] What's the matter, Hilda?

You're coming down with a cold, are you?

It's touching, Rumpole.

Oh, I'm so sorry.

Rumpole, no, the book.

The book is very touching.

Oh.

Another one of Amelia Nettleship's historical romances, is it?

Who's the hero this time, Wicked Lord Jasper someone or other?

Oh, Lord Simon Stingo.

He comes from Donegal.

- Oh.

We thought he was a bit of a rake.

But he's turned out quite differently.

Sad, is it?

No.

No, it's all ending quite happily.

Hmm.

He vowed he'd never marry.

But Lady Sophia has made him swallow his words.

And, as written by Amelia Nettleship, I'm sure he found them very indigestible.

Any chance of putting the light out, Hilda?

No, not yet.

I've got another three chapters to go.

[sighs] AMELIA: Beautiful and carefree, though she was, tireless at the waltz and a fearless rider to hounds, Lucy Lockhampton was resolved not to lightly squander her most precious possession before her marriage night.

She loved Harry Sexton too much for that.

Miss Nettleship?

AMELIA: Yes, Hetty?

I am working, you know.

HETTY: Miss Nettleship, it's the Beacon.

I've no idea what you're talking about.

There's a piece about you in the Daily Beacon.

AMELIA: Harmless?

I wouldn't say exactly harmless.

Well, come on, Hetty.

It says, "Miss Amelia Nettleship is--" oh, really, Miss Nettleship, I can't.

AMELIA: "Miss Amelia Nettleship is a bit of a puzzle.

The girls in her historical novels always keep their legs crossed until they've got a ring on their finger.

But whatever lucky man leads Amelia to the altar will inherit a torrid past that makes Mae West sound like Florence Nightingale.

Her latest lothario, so far unnamed, is said to be a married man who's been seen leaving in the wee small hours."

Really, Miss Nettleship?

How can they say such things about you, of all people?

Don't just stand there, Hetty.

Get on to the lawyers.

[laughter] [indistinct chatter] Oh, what can ail thee, Erskine-Brown?

Alone and palely loitering?

Hmm, it's my practice, Rumpole.

Oh, still practicing ?

I thought you might've got the hang of it by now.

I used to do a decent class of work.

Hmm.

I once had a brief in a libel action.

Ah.

You were never in a libel, Rumpole.

Who cares about the bubble reputation?

Give me a decent murder, a couple of well-placed bloodstains.

Now, guess what I've got coming up.

A large claret for me!

Actual bodily harm and affray.

Oh, yeah.

In the Kitten-A-Go-Go Club, Soho, two unsavory characters in earrings and leather jackets, dueling with Coca-Cola bottles.

Sounds like my line of country.

Exactly.

I'm scraping the bottom of your barrel, Rumpole.

I mean, you've got a reputation for sordid cases.

Oh, thank you, Erskine-Brown.

Uh, a large Chateau Thames Embankment, please, Jack.

On the slate.

I'll have to ask you for a few tips on affray.

Visit the locus in quo.

The what?

Go to the scene of the crime.

Inspect the geography of the place.

The geography of the Kitten-A-Go-Go?

Right.

Do I have to?

Of course.

Then you can suggest that it was too dark to identify anyone, or the witness couldn't see round a pillar, or-- Mr. Rumpole?

A piece of him.

Ted Sleaman, Deputy Editor, Daily Beacon.

Oh.

I've just been having an argument with my editor over there.

Oh.

You do libel, don't you?

Good heavens!

Yes, the law of defamation is mother's milk to me.

I cut my teeth on hatred, ridicule, and contempt.

Slimy Sleaman?

Collywobbles Erskine-Brown?

We were at school together.

Yes, obviously.

Uh, look, would you care to join my editor, glass of Bolly?

- What?

- Bollinger.

Thank you, Slimy.

I'd love to.

Yes, you too, Colly.

Well, come on, then.

Oh, golly, Colly, Bolly.

Jack!

This horse was unfit for work!

Mr. Rumpole.

Morry Machin, editor of the Beacon.

Connie, my features editor.

- Hello.

Hello.

I have admired you often, sir, from afar.

They say you're a fighter, Mr. Rumpole.

You're a terrier, sir, after a legal rabbit.

Oh, I do my best.

Is that what we're drinking?

Oh, Ted, for God's sake, a bit of pouring for Mr. Rumpole.

Oh, and for-- Oh, my learned friend, Claude Erskine-Brown, specializes in common assault.

I shall remember you, sir, if ever I get into a scrap.

Oh, Mr. Rumpole, we, um-- we were thinking of bringing you in.

We have a, um, spot of trouble over a libel.

Connie, do you have the cutting?

Mm-hmm.

Rumpole, tell him you can't do libel.

How do I know that?

I've never tried.

Yes, I never turned down a brief in a libel action.

You've never been offered a brief in a libel action.

But, um, on the whole, you do crime, don't you, Rumpole?

Well, little scraps in Soho clubs?

Oh, sordid stuff.

Don't care for it.

Libel, now, that is people's reputation at stake.

Oh, you think that's important.

"Who steals my purse steals trash; 'tis something, nothing; 'Twas mine, 'tis his, and has been slave to thousands; But he that filches from me my good name Robs me of that which not enriches him And makes me poor indeed."

[clapping] One of your speeches, Mr. Rumpole?

Uh, Shakespeare.

[chuckles] Oh, yeah, I see.

Our paper goes in for a certain amount of fearless exposure.

Who's bonking who and who pays.

Our readers love it.

Thank you, Connie.

I take it you'd have no hesitation in acting for the Beacon, would you?

A barrister, my dear sir, is a taxi plying for hire.

That is the fine tradition of our trade.

It is my sacred duty, Mr. Machin, to take on anyone in trouble, however repellent I may personally find them.

Yeah, we are dedicated to exposing hypocrisy in our society, wherever it exists, high or low.

So when we find this lady pretending to be such a force for purity and parading a morality in front of the Great British public-- Being all for saving your cherry till the honeymoon.

Thank you again, Connie.

Or, as I would put it, denouncing premarital sex-- She's even against the normal stuff.

--whereas her own private life is apparently extremely steamy, we feel it our duty to inform our public.

RUMPOLE: "The private life of Amelia Nettleship, by The Beacon Girl on the Spot, Stella January."

Are we talking of the Amelia Nettleship, the expert bottler of pure historical bilge water?

The lady novelist.

And hypocrite, so it seems.

Mind you, I have never met the woman.

She robs me of my sleep.

I don't know about her morality.

But her prose style is calculated to deprave and corrupt the English language.

We'll have to get a statement from the girl that wrote this, Stella January.

Oh, small problem.

Stella left us couple of months ago.

RUMPOLE: Oh, and went where?

Pass.

[chuckles] Overseas, probably.

You know what these girls are like.

Well, we'll have to find her.

We shall fight, Mr. Machin Morry.

And we shall conquer.

First rate, Mr. Rumpole.

I knew we could rely on you.

Of course, you can.

I never plead guilty.

There speaks a man who knows damn all about libel.

[camera shutter clicking] ERSKINE-BROWN: It's been my invariable rule in affray cases, Mr. Thrower.

Always inspect the locus.

The what?

The scene of the crime.

Then you can cross-examine the witnesses on the geography.

Had a lot of experience of affray, have you, Mr. Erskine-Brown?

You might say I cut my teeth on actual bodily harm.

THROWER: [chuckles] [camera shutter clicking] PEPPIATT: My junior, Dick Garsington.

You know Dick?

RUMPOLE: No.

[chuckles] I forget you come from another world.

You're one of the criminal boys.

Oh, just a juvenile delinquent, really.

As you know, Dick and I act for the proprietors of the Daily Beacon.

Melbury Publications Limited.

PEPPIATT: And Mr. Cuxham here, as Melbury's solicitor, is instructing us all.

So we should act as a team of which I, as leading counsel, am, I suppose, captain.

MACHIN: [chuckles] Oh, are we playing cricket, old chap?

CUXHAM: Rather an expensive game for Melbury, Mr. Rumpole.

The proprietors are liable to indemnify the editor for any loss occasioned by a libel action.

I insisted on that when I took the job.

Very sensible of you, Mr. Machin, no doubt.

Now, it's obvious, isn't it, Rumpole?

We mustn't seek to justify these serious charges against Miss Nettleship's honor.

Oh, wouldn't that be cricket?

If we try to prove she's some sort of amateur tart, the jury could bump the damages up to $200,000 or $300,000 grand.

- Or $400,000.

PEPPIATT: Thank you, Dick.

Even more.

The mind boggles, Mr. Cuxham.

Yes.

But look here, this defense you've filed.

"The statements contained in the said article are true."

Our bargaining counter.

Your what?

Something to give away in the course of negotiations.

When we agree terms with the other side, we'll abandon all our allegations gracefully.

We put our hands up?

Well, the trouble is there's no evidence Miss Nettleship did any of these things.

Then we'll have to find some.

Isn't that what solicitors are for?

I'm quite unable to believe anyone who writes so badly hasn't got some other vices.

Couldn't we find Mr. Rumpole an ashtray?

[tele music, "prince charmant"] ♪ ♪ MAN: Can I have a beer, please?

♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ [camera shutter clicking] ♪ ♪ HENRY: [chuckles] RUMPOLE: Morning, Mrs. Slammery.

Oh, dear, dear, dear.

You'll have to smarten this place up, Henry, now that I've gone into civil law.

What's this?

Your brief, Mr. Rumpole, in Amelia Nettleship versus the Daily Beacon and Maurice Machin.

What's that?

The fee I agreed for you, Mr. Rumpole.

You see, I understand the newspaper's paying for Mr. Machin's defense.

Not bad, Henry.

Well, it's reasonable, Mr. Rumpole.

But it's the daily refreshers makes it a worthwhile proposition.

How much?

$500 a day.

Now, you can make the case last, can't you, Mr. Rumpole?

Make it last?

Henry, I will stretch it out unto the trump of doom.

We have serious and lengthy allegations to make, Henry, allegations that may take days and days with a bit of luck.

HENRY: [chuckles] For the first time after a long career at the bar, I begin to see something.

See what, Mr. Rumpole?

A way of providing for my old age.

Oh, here comes our poor, old criminal lawyer.

Any more problems with your affray, Claude?

All under control, Rumpole.

Thank you very much.

- Good.

Morning, Henry.

Morning, Dianne.

Morning, Mr. Erskine-Brown.

DIANNE: Good morning, Mr. Erskine-Brown.

That your Beacon, Dianne, may I just have a glance?

Who's the beauty today, I wonder?

Oh, yes, the Beacon, a fine crusading newspaper, prints the truth without fear or favor.

[whimpers] Are you feeling all right, Claude?

Rumpole-- My dear fellow, you've gone quite pale.

You told me to go there.

Oh, go where, for God's sake?

The locus in quo.

Oh, that's not what it's called, Claude.

No.

It appears to be called the Kitten-A-Go-Go.

It's Mr. Ballard.

He'd like to see you in his room, sir, without delay.

[knock on door] Erskine-Brown.

You wanted to see me, Ballard?

You're looking well.

You're in wonderful form.

I don't remember when I've seen you looking quite so fit.

Good heavens.

- Erskine-Brown-- Yes.

Well, nice to chat.

I've got a summons across the road.

Just a minute!

I don't read the Daily Beacon.

ERSKINE-BROWN: Don't you?

Very wise.

Neither do I.

Terrible rag.

Half-clad young women on page four, so they tell me.

And no law reports.

But coming out of the Temple Tube Station, Mr. Justice Fishwick pushed this in my face.

It seems he's just remarried.

And his new wife takes in the Daily Beacon.

How odd?

BALLARD: What's odd?

Well, a judge's wife reading the Beacon.

Hugh Fishwick married his cook.

Really?

I didn't know.

Well, that explains it.

I-- I still don't see why he should push it in your face, though, Ballard.

BALLARD: Because he thought I ought to see it.

But nothing in that rag could be of the slightest interest to you, surely.

Something is.

ERSKINE-BROWN: What?

You.

Oh, really?

Good heavens!

Is that me?

Unless you have a twin brother masquerading as yourself, you feature in an article on London's square mile of sin.

It's all a complete misunderstanding.

BALLARD: I'm glad to hear it.

I can explain everything.

BALLARD: I hope so.

You see, I got involved in this affray.

You got involved in what?

ERSKINE-BROWN: This fight in the Kitten-A-Go-Go.

Perhaps I ought to warn you, Erskine-Brown.

You needn't answer incriminating questions.

No, no, I didn't get involved in a fight.

Good heavens, Ballard.

No, no, no.

[stutters] I'm doing a case about a fight, an affray, [stutters] with Coca-Cola bottles.

And Rumpole advised me to visit this club.

Horace Rumpole is an habitué of this house of ill repute at his age?

No, not at all.

Don't be stupid, Ballard.

[stutters] He said I ought to take a view of the scene of the crime.

This wretched scandal sheet puts the whole matter in the wrong light, entirely.

If that is so, Erskine-Brown, and I make no further comment while the matter is subjudice, you will, no doubt, be suing the Daily Beacon for libel?

Do you think I should?

BALLARD: It is quite clearly your duty to protect your reputation and the reputation of this chambers.

Wouldn't it be rather expensive?

What is money compared to the hitherto unsullied name of Number 3 Equity Court?

Your secretary said you'd be here.

Can't stop.

Gotta do my mileage.

I've been advised to issue a writ.

Oh, good.

My editor seems to enjoy a libel action.

Glad you liked your pic.

Of course, I didn't like it.

It'll ruin my career.

Nonsense, Collywobbles.

You'll be briefed by all the clubs.

You'll become the strippers' QC.

However did they get my name?

Oh, I recognized you at once.

Bit of luck, wasn't it?

(SHOUTS) Slimy!

We were at school together.

RUMPOLE: Do I address Ferdinand Isaac Gerald Newton, known in the trade as "Fig" Newton, private investigator to the quality?

How is business, Mr. Rumpole?

Never better, Fig old love.

I'm doing civil work now, you know.

Just got a big brief in a libel action.

Should provide a bit of comfort for the old age.

But my solicitor-- instructing solicitor is, uh-- well, he could be described, using purely legal terms, as a bit of a wally.

So I've come direct to you.

Send him your bill, by the way, when we, uh-- when we win.

What exactly is it you require me to do, Mr. Rumpole?

Keep your eye on a lady.

I usually am, Mr. Rumpole, keeping my eye on one lady or another.

RUMPOLE: Now, this one's a novelist, Amelia Nettleship.

Do you know her works?

No, I can't say I do, sir.

Are you on a winner?

With a little help from you, Fig, perhaps yes.

But, as in most cases, there is one drawback.

Oh?

What's that, sir?

- The client.

- Ah.

Back in a minute.

Oh, Mr. Rumpole.

Ted, glass for Mr. Rumpole.

No, thanks.

Look, you've got to do something about my friend Claude Erskine-Brown.

Oh, you mean the barrister that goes to funny places in the afternoon?

[chuckles] What are you asking me to do, Mr. Rumpole?

Well, apologize, of course.

Print the facts.

Claude Erskine-Brown was in the Kitten-A-Go-Go club purely in pursuit of his legal business.

I love it!

There speaks the great defender.

You'd put up any story, wouldn't you, however improbable, just to get your client off?

It happens to be true.

As far as we are concerned, we published a pic of a gentleman in a pinstriped suit examining the goods on display.

No reason to apologize for that, is there, Connie?

No reason at all, Morry.

MACHIN: What's your view, Ted?

No reason at all.

So you're going to do nothing about it?

Nothing we can do.

Mr. Machin, I told you that it was a legal rule that a British barrister is in duty bound to take on any client, however repellent.

I do remember you saying something of the sort.

But you are stretching my duty to the furthest limit of human endurance.

Oh, I have every confidence in you, Mr. Rumpole.

I'm sure you'll uphold the finest traditions of the bar.

[laughter] You will do your best for old Morry, won't you?

I'll do my duty.

He's going through rather a rough time.

Oh?

The proprietors want to sack him.

Because of this case?

Not exactly.

The circulation's dropping.

Tits and bums, you see, going out of fashion.

Wives don't like it.

Who'll be the next editor?

Well, I'm the deputy now.

I see.

Look, would you help me on the case?

In strictest confidence.

What?

RUMPOLE: I want to get some sort of line on this Stella January.

Could you find out how her article came in?

Get hold of the original.

There might be an address, some sort of clue.

Yes, I'll, uh, have a try, Mr. Rumpole, anything I can do to help old Morry.

Oh, yes, of course.

[birds chirping] [muffled whistling] Oh, sorry, Claude.

There you are, Rumpole.

RUMPOLE: Yes.

Thank you.

I'm so grateful for your wonderful advice.

Claude, I'm doing all I can to help.

Oh, please.

Don't try to do anything else to help.

"Visit the scene of the crime," you said.

"Inspect the locus in quo."

So where has your kind assistance landed me, hmm?

Hmm?

My name's mud.

Ballard's as good as threatened to kick me out of chambers.

I've got to spend my life savings on a speculative libel action.

And my marriage is on the rocks.

Wonderful what you can do, Rumpole, with a few words of advice.

Your clients must be everlastingly grateful to you.

Marriage on the rocks, you say?

ERSKINE-BROWN: Oh, yes, yes.

Phylli was ever so reasonable about it.

As far as she was concerned, she said she didn't care what I did in the afternoons.

But we'd better live apart for a while for the sake of the children.

She didn't want Tristan and Isolde to associate with a father dedicated to the exploitation of women.

Oh, Portia, whatever happened to the quality of mercy?

So thank you very much, Rumpole.

I'm enormously grateful to you.

The next time you've got a few helpful tips to hand out, for God's sake, keep them to yourself.

Claude, you're shaving.

Wonderful to witness the workings of a keen legal mind.

You're sleeping in chambers.

You'd better watch that, you know.

Bollard nearly got rid of me for a similar offense.

Well, where else do you expect me to go?

Phyllida's having the locks changed in Islington.

Claude, have you no friends?

Strictly entre nous, Phylli and I have reached the end of the line.

Oh.

I don't exactly want to advertise the fact amongst my immediate circle, so-- [sighs] I seem to remember when you fell out with Hilda, you planted yourself on us.

Ah, yes.

Yeah, ah, [stutters] Claude, I cannot tell you how immensely grateful I was for your hospitality on that occasion, but-- Quite an easy run-in on the underground, is it, from Gloucester Road?

Of course.

My door is always open.

I'd only be too happy to put you up until this little matter is settled.

- Thank you, Horace.

- But-- The least you could do, I should have thought, under the circumstances.

But it's a sacrifice, Claude, I couldn't ask my dearest friend to make.

What, to ask you to shoulder the burden of daily life with She Who Must Be Obeyed?

I'm sure you'll find some nice little hotel somewhere.

Somewhere cheap and cozy, right near the British Museum.

I can assure you, old man, life is no picnic in the Gloucester Road.

[laughs] [rain pattering] Hilda!

HILDA: Is that you, Rumpole?

No, it's Father Christmas.

What on earth have you got there?

All the fruits of the earth, Hilda.

Or rather, the fruits of the first check from the libel case, the first of many if we can spin the proceedings out for a week or two.

Here we are.

Champagne, Chateau Fleet Street Premier Cru, a stilton cheese, flowers gathered from the Temple Tube Station, jumbo box of cheroots, lavender water.

I haven't finished the bottle you gave me for Christmas yet.

Finish it, Hilda.

No need to stint ourselves, now I've gone into libel.

You're doing that awful case.

RUMPOLE: That awful case, Hilda, will bring us in 500 smackeroonies a day in refreshers.

HILDA: Helping that squalid newspaper insult Amelia Nettleship.

It's a barrister's duty to take on all comers, Hilda, however squalid.

That's not a duty.

That's just a way of making money out of the most terrible people like the editor of the Daily Beacon.

My mind is quite made up, Rumpole.

I shall not use one single drop of that corrupt lavender water.

♪ ERSKINE-BROWN: ♪ La donna e mobile ♪ What in God's name-- Claude!

How did you get here?

Claude telephoned me and told me all his troubles, Rumpole.

Well, of course, I invited him to stay.

He's got my dressing gown on.

Yes, I had to pack in a hurry.

I say, Horace, thoughtful of you to get in champagne to welcome me.

How was your bath, Claude?

Absolutely delightful.

Thank you, Hilda.

- What a relief.

The geyser can be quite temperamental.

[chuckles] [sighs] Oh, I say, is this your chair, Horace?

Yes.

HILDA: Stay where you are, Claude.

We mustn't have you catching cold, must we, after your bath?

Well, Rumpole, aren't you going to open the champagne?

[sneezes] [car door opens] [car door closes] [engine starts] [rain pattering] There's no bacon and eggs, Hilda?

Claude doesn't like a cooked breakfast, Rumpole.

But there's plenty of muesli.

I got it in for him specially.

What's that, sawdust and bird droppings?

HILDA: I'm sure Claude won't mind you having some.

Oh, how generous of him.

ERSKINE-BROWN: [non-english singing] Morning, Hilda.

Rumpole, I hope you slept well.

When the grand opera finished in the spare bedroom, yes.

[chuckles] Well, I always find a little Wagner settles me down for the night.

Is there any goat's milk, Hilda?

HILDA: Oh, yes, of course, Claude.

Goat's milk?

I got it in for you specially.

You rushing off to work, Horace?

Some of us have to.

Well, I've got nothing special on today.

I might look into chambers later on.

I think I'll try a little of that organic honey, Hilda.

So much better for you than sugar.

Organic honey?

Yes, the bees only sip from flowers grown without chemical fertilizers.

How do they know?

What?

The other bees tell them, do they?

"Oh, don't sip from that pansy, old chap.

It's been grown with chemical fertilizers."

HILDA: Oh, leave your Times, will you, Rumpole?

Why?

Well, Claude doesn't want to go out and buy Times, especially, does he?

Oh, go on, don't be so selfish, Rumpole.

Don't you dare touch that crossword.

I might twist the proprietors' arms to drop the allegations.

After all the publicity, my-- my lady couldn't take less than $50,000.

$40,000 and a full and groveling apology.

We could wrap it up and lunch at the Sheridan.

Oh, it's steak and kidney pud day at the Sheridan.

$45,000?

Oh, all right, then, $45,000 and a full apology.

You happy with that, Mr. Cuxham?

Well, sir, if you advise it.

We'll chat to the editor.

I'm sure we're all going to agree in the end.

Miss Nettleship, we've just had a few words with the opposition.

I saw that.

What's the rat's lawyer got to say?

You only have to join in the apology.

Melbury Publications pay the costs and the $45,000.

You're trying to filch my client's good name.

Well, that's what we're fighting about.

Of course, it is.

It may not be a very good name.

He may edit a rather disgusting little newspaper.

But you want him to make a statement saying that he has printed lies.

Well, Mr. Rumpole's right.

It's my good name.

I looked up the quotation.

It is the "immediate jewel of my soul."

Oh, steady on, old fellow.

CUXHAM: Here comes Mr. Landseer now, sir.

Well, Pere, are we in business?

I'm sorry, Robin, there's no shifting my girl.

She wants to fight for every penny she can get.

But Pere, this case is going to take two weeks.

RUMPOLE (VOICEOVER): At 500 smackers a day.

Oh, well played, Miss Amelia Nettleship.

LANDSEER: Members of the jury, in this case, I appear with my learned friend Mr. Thistle for the plaintiff, Miss Amelia Nettleship, in her action against the Daily Beacon.

The newspaper's proprietors, Melbury Publications Limited, are represented by my learned friends, Mr. Robin Peppiatt and Mr. Garsington.

Mr. Morris Machin, the editor of the Beacon, is separately represented by my learned friend, Mr. Horace Rumbold.

[clears throat] Rumpole!

Oh, I do beg his pardon.

Mr. Rumpole's usual practice, as I understand it, lies elsewhere.

Members of the jury, Miss Nettleship is the authoress of a number of historical novels, which some of you may have read and enjoyed.

Rattling good yarns, members of the jury.

I beg Your Lordship's pardon?

I said rattling good yarns, Mr.

Peregrine Landseer, and the sort your wife might pick up without the slightest embarrassment, unlike so much of the distasteful material one finds between hard covers today.

[clears throat] My Lord.

Yes, Mr., um-- RUMPOLE: Rumpole, My Lord.

Yes, Mr. Rumpole?

Might it not be better to let the jury come to their own conclusions about Miss Nettleship?

Well, yes, of course, I quite agree.

And when they do, they'll find she can put together a rattling good yarn.

[laughter] RUMPOLE (VOICEOVER): Mr. Justice Teasdale.

Unmarried, lives with a Persian cat in Wimbledon.

So I don't know what all that talk of his wife was about.

President of the Boys' Brigade, once an unsuccessful Tory candidate in Weston-Super-Mare North.

It takes a great deal of talent for a Tory to lose Weston-Super-Mare North.

And worst of all, he's a devoted fan of Miss Amelia Nettleship.

About that's Stella January article-- I bought a drink for the systems manager.

And the copy's still in the system.

There's one rather odd thing.

Well, tell me.

The logon-- that's the identification on the word processor-- it came from the editor's office.

Oh, you mean it was written there?

Well, no one writes things anymore.

Ah, of course not.

How stupid of me.

But it does seem to have been put in from the editor's word processor.

That is very interesting.

If Mr. Rumpole has quite finished his conversation.

[grunts] My Lord, I can assure my learned friend I listened to every word of his speech.

It's such a rattling good yarn.

And you'll get the papers too, as soon as you can.

Henry, my brief tray.

Yes, Mr. Erskine-Brown.

Put that away, Dianne, do.

ERSKINE-BROWN: It's got no briefs in it.

Yes, well, it's a quiet time now, sir, same all around the Temple.

UNCLE TOM: I say, Erskine-Brown, would you mind putting me up for your club?

Oh, please, Uncle Tom.

Chap I knew who was in the RAF said they used to have places like that in Port Said.

Not that I've ever been there for a holiday.

My sister and I always stuck to Bournemouth.

Well, no use my hanging around chambers if there's no work to do.

HENRY: Yeah, that's right, sir.

We can always reach you at home.

Well, no, er, not exactly.

If you want me urgently, just ring Rumpole's home number.

You're at Mr. Rumpole's.

Yeah, very good, sir.

I don't believe they have any clubs like yours in Bournemouth.

By the way, where is Rumpole today?

Oh, he's in court, sir, doing his libel.

Quality work for Rumpole.

What is the world coming to?

You did get the number of the car?

Alas no, sir.

Visibility was poor.

And weather conditions were appalling.

Oh, Fig.

And you didn't even see the driver?

Alas, no again, sir.

However, when Miss Nettleship had closed the door and extinguished the lights, presumably in order to return to her bed, I proceeded to the track in front of the house where the vehicle was standing.

There, I retrieved an article which I just thought might have been dropped by the driver in getting in or out of the motor vehic-- vehicle.

[sneezes] Well, what was it?

For God's sake, show it to me.

- What?

Oh, yes.

Mr. Rumpole, the judge is back.

He's asking for you.

Miss Nettleship, is there one word of truth in this article about you in the Daily Beacon?

Not one word, My Lord.

Not one word of truth.

Thank you, Miss Nettleship.

Thank you, Miss Nettleship.

Please, keep on writing those rattling good books.

Yes, My Lord, I mean to.

LANDSEER: Now, Miss Nettleship, this, um, unfortunate article has not affected your output?

No, I still do my work.

And that, if I may say so, shows considerable courage.

AMELIA: Thank you, My Lord.

RUMPOLE (VOICEOVER): Oh, come on, old darling.

Give her the Victoria Cross, why don't you?

And your sales have not been affected?

No, I don't think so.

Folks still like a good read, don't they?

Thank you, Miss Nettleship.

And Mr. Peppiatt, your questions go entirely to the issue of damages?

That is so, My Lord.

JUDGE TEASDALE: You're not seeking to justify this slur on this lady's reputation?

I am not, My Lord.

I don't know whether others will attempt that dangerous course.

JUDGE TEASDALE: That is what one would have expected from counsel of your experience, Mr. Peppiatt.

My Lord.

Have you questions for this lady, Mr. Rumpole?

Just a few, My Lord, yes.

[clears throat] Miss Nettleship, are you a truthful woman?

AMELIA: I try to be.

And you, uh, call yourself an historical novelist?

I try to write books which uphold certain standards of morality.

RUMPOLE: Well, let's forget the morality for a moment and concentrate on the history.

Very well.

RUMPOLE: Uh, may I read, uh, a short extract from a so-called historical novel of yours entitled Lord Stingo's Fancy?

Ah, yes.

Isn't that the one which ends happily?

Happily all of Miss Nettleship's novels end, My Lord, eventually.

[laughter] This criminal chap's going to bump up the damages enormously.

"Sophia had first set eyes on Lord Stingo when she was a dewy 18-year-old.

And he had clattered up to her father's castle, exhausted from the Battle of Naseby.

Now at the ball to triumphantly celebrate the gorgeous enthroning coronation of the Merry Monarch, King Charles II, they were to meet again.

Sophia was now in her 20s, but in ways too numerous to completely describe, still an unspoilt girl at heart."

You call that a historical novel?

Certainly.

RUMPOLE: Haven't you forgotten something?

I don't think so.

What?

Oliver Cromwell.

I really don't know what you mean.

RUMPOLE: Well, clearly, if this girl, this Sophia-- how do you describe her?

Dewy, Mr. Rumpole.

Ah, yes, dewy.

I'm grateful to Your Lordship.

I had forgotten the full horror of the passage.

If this dew-bespattered Sophie was 18 at the time of the Battle of Naseby in the reign of King Charles I, she would have been 33 in the coronation year of King Charles II, because Oliver Cromwell came in between.

Ah.

I am an artist, Mr. Rumpole.

RUMPOLE: What sort of an artist?

I think Miss Nettleship means an artist in words.

Ah, then, Your Lordship undoubtedly noticed that in the passage I read out, there were two split infinitives and a tautology.

A what, Mr. Rumpole?

Uh, two words having the same meaning, My Lord, as in "enthroning coronation."

Tautology, T-A-U.

I can spell, Mr. Rumpole.

Ah, then, Your Lordship has the advantage of the witness.

She spells Naseby with a "Z."

LANDSEER: My Lord, I hesitate to interrupt.

Perhaps this sort of cross-examination is common practice in the criminal courts.

But I cannot see how it can possibly be relevant in an action for libel.

Neither can I, Mr. Landseer.

I must confess-- These questions go straight to the heart of this witness's credibility.

I have to suggest, Miss Nettleship, that as an historical novelist, you are a complete fake.

My Lord, I have made my point.

You have no respect for history and very little for the English language.

I try to tell a story, Mr. Rumpole.

RUMPOLE: And your evidence to this court has been, to use My Lord's vivid expression, "a rattling good yarn."

AMELIA: I have sworn to tell the truth.

He's getting worse and worse.

Damages are going to hit the roof.

RUMPOLE: Miss Nettleship, let us come to the last matter dealt with in this article.

JUDGE TEASDALE: I'm sure the jury will be grateful you're reaching the end, Mr. Rumpole.

And I shall finish a great deal sooner, My Lord, if I am allowed to proceed without further interruption, if Your Lordship pleases.

"Her latest lothario, so far unnamed, is said to be a married man who's been seen leaving in the wee small hours."

AMELIA: I read that.

You had somebody with you last night, didn't you, until what might be revoltingly referred to as "the wee small hours"?

What are you suggesting?

That someone was with you.

And when he left, you stood in the open doorway, waving goodbye and blowing kisses at half past 5:00 on a rainy morning.

Who was it, Miss Nettleship?

That is an absolutely uncalled for suggestion.

You called for it when you issued a writ for libel.

Do I have to answer?

His Lordship will instruct you to.

I think it may save time in the end if you answer Mr. Rumpole's question.

That is absolutely untrue.

"Absolutely untrue."

Thank you, Miss Nettleship.

I think we might continue with this tomorrow morning if you have any further questions, Mr. Rumpole?

Indeed I do, My Lord.

Mr. Rumpole, isn't it time you went home?

[scoffs] Home, Jack, has lost whatever attraction it had for me.

"Homeless, near a thousand homes, I stood."

However.

No champagne?

I don't think we've got much to celebrate.

I wanted to ask you about Miss Stella January, your Beacon Girl on the Spot.

What?

Bright, attractive sort of reporter, was she?

I don't know.

You're the features editor.

I never met her.

Well, any idea how old she was, for instance?

Oh, young, I should think.

Knowing Morry, I assume she'd be young.

Uh-huh.

Just starting in the business.

And I wanted to ask you about-- You're very inquisitive.

Oh, it's my trade.

--about the love life of Mr. Morry Machin.

Good God.

Whose side are you on, Mr. Rumpole?

Well, at the moment, and usually, as a matter of fact, on the side of the truth.

You suggested a moment ago he had some sort of interest in this girl, Stella January.

Short-lived, I'd say.

RUMPOLE: Is he married?

Two or three times.

Now he seems to have got some sort of steady girlfriend.

Oh, do you know her?

CONNIE: Not at all.

He keeps her under wraps.

Does he indeed?

CONNIE: Hmm.

Thank you very much.

You've been a great help.

Who are you going to grill next?

As a matter of fact, I have a date with Stella January.

["the meistersingers" playing] ♪ ♪ [orchestral stab] We're coming to Act 3, Hilda.

Hilda?

I'm going to play you Act 3 of The Meistersingers.

Oh.

That'll be very nice, Claude.

Not too long for you, is it?

Ooh.

Oh, good heavens, no.

[yawns] I'm enjoying every minute of it.

I wonder where Rumpole is.

I always say with music like this, you simply can't bear it to end.

It's not like Rumpole to be as late as this.

Oh, he's probably happy in Pomeroy's wine bar, drinking up his dinner.

Now, Hans Sachs, the cobbler, muses on the madness of the world.

I just hope nothing's happened to him.

ERSKINE-BROWN: Oh, nothing ever happens to Rumpole.

He just makes things happen to other people.

["the meistersingers" playing] ♪ ♪ [telephone ringing] MACHIN: Working late, Mr. Rumpole?

I hope you'll be able to do better for us tomorrow.

Yes, I hope so, too.

I've, uh, come to see Stella January.

I told you.

She's not here anymore.

She went abroad.

I think she's here.

Ted, perhaps I'd better have a word with my learned counsel.

I'll be on the back bench.

Well, now, Mr. Rumpole, sir, how can I help you?

She wasn't really a young woman, was she?

She was only with us a short while.

But she was young, yes.

I quote from her article.

"Miss Nettleship makes Mae West sound like Florence Nightingale."

No young woman today is going to think of Mae West.

Mae West is as remote in history as Messalina or Helen of Troy.

That article, I hazard a guess, was written by a man well into his middle age.

Who?

You.

[chuckles] Have you been drinking at all this evening?

Of course, I've been drinking at all.

You don't think I'd come out with these blinding flashes of deduction when I'm completely sober, do you?

Well, hadn't you better go home to bed?

You wrote that article.

There's no argument about it.

It was found in the system with your word processor number on it.

Careless, Mr. Machin.

You clearly have no talent for crime.

Puzzling thing was why should you attack Miss Nettleship when she's such a good friend of yours?

Good friend?

I've told you I've never even met the woman.

That was a lie, like the rest of this pantomime lawsuit.

You were with her last night till half past 5:00 in the morning.

And she said goodbye to you with every sign of affection.

What makes you say that?

In a hurry, were you?

This was dropped beside your car.

MACHIN: Anyone can buy the Beacon.

Not anyone can buy the first edition, the one that fell on the editor's desk at 10 o'clock that evening.

I'd say that was a rarity around Godalming, in the County of Surrey, wouldn't you?

- Is that all?

- No.

You were watched.

I went down to see her to ask her to drop the case.

To use a legal expression, pull the other one.

It's got bells on it.

I don't know what you're suggesting.

I'm suggesting a little conspiracy to pervert the course of justice.

What does that mean?

You're being sacked from the Beacon.

Sales are down on Amelia's historical virgins.

So you and your steady girlfriend get together to make a tax-free half a million.

I wish I knew how.

It's perfectly simple.

All you do is turn yourself into the unknown girl reporter, Stella January, for half an hour and libel Amelia.

She sues the paper and collects.

And you both sail off into the sunset to share the loot.

But there's one thing I shan't forgive you for.

MACHIN: Well, what's that?

Your little scheme called for a barrister who would not settle.

An Old Bailey hack.

A stranger to the civilized world of libel.

An old warhorse who'd attack la Nettleship and inflame the damages.

You used me, Mr. Morry Machin.

I thought you'd be accustomed to that.

Oh, yes.

I told you I was an old taxi waiting on the rank.

But I'm not prepared to be the getaway driver for a criminal conspiracy.

But you haven't said anything to anyone.

Not yet.

And you won't 'cause you're my lawyer.

Not any longer, Mr. Machin.

I have just resigned.

I don't belong to you anymore.

I'm an ordinary citizen about to report an attempted crime.

I don't think there's any limit on the jail sentence for conspiracy.

MACHIN: They told me in Pomeroy's you never prosecute.

No, I don't, do I?

On this occasion, I must say I am sorely tempted.

But as it's a libel action, I'll offer you terms of settlement.

What can I say?

Get the fair Amelia to drop her case.

Which means you'll both be paying the costs, including the fee of Fig Newton, who's caught a nasty cold in the course of these proceedings.

Regarding my learned friend, Claude Erskine-Brown-- What's he got to do with it?

--print a full and abject apology on the front page of the Beacon.

And get the paper to pay him a substantial sum by way of damages.

What is this going to cost me?

I don't know.

But I know what it's cost me.

Two weeks at 500 quid a day-- provision for my old age.

Ah!

Good night, Stella.

[telephone ringing] Henry and Dianne, have you seen this morning's Beacon?

Oh, no, we don't read that sort of publication here, Mr. Erskine-Brown.

Not after the way they treated you, sir.

Just look how they treated me.

A groveling apology on the front page.

"The Daily Beacon accepts that the distinguished barrister, Claude Erskine-Brown-- 'distinguished barrister,' that's me-- went into the Kitten-A-Go-Go Club solely for the purpose of preparing for a criminal case and offers this full apology together with substantial damages."

Substantial, Henry, and entirely free of tax.

Where is Mr. Rumpole?

Oh, he's across the road, sir, on the second day of his libel.

Wrong, Henry, on the last day of his libel.

Oh, Mr. Rumpole, your refreshers!

Gone with the wind.

Miss Amelia Nettleship withdrew her case.

Everyone dropped their allegations against her.

And my poor old client was landed with the costs.

[chuckles] What's bitten you, Claude?

You look as though you've won a weekend in Milan with Dame Nellie Melba.

- Have you seen this, Horace?

- Yes.

"Substantial damages."

Yes, by God, you've done better out of the libel than I have.

I'm so glad I was able to win your case for you.

You won?

Uh, it's your wife, sir.

Oh, Phylli.

Yes?

You saw the paper, then?

Yes, of course.

I knew you never doubted my word.

Look, um, how about dinner tonight?

I'll book the Gavroche, shall I?

Yes, of course.

I love you.

Claude, you're not going to leave us.

I'm sorry, Horace.

It's not that I'm ungrateful.

Oh, no, of course not.

Now look, you will look after Hilda, won't you?

I'll pick up a taxi, go round to your place, and collect my belongings.

Oh.

You mean we're never going to find out how The Meistersingers end?

[chuckles] HENRY: So the libel's over, Mr. Rumpole?

RUMPOLE: Yes, quite over, Henry.

Look, isn't there a little bit of burglary around?

Couldn't you find me a nice, gentle breaking and entering, something that shows human nature in a better light than civil law?

Good heavens!

What's happening now, Hilda?

This young woman is about to go away to Paris for the weekend with a man old enough to be her father.

Oh, I should think that happens quite often these days.

It seems he is her father.

Well, at least you've gone off the works of Miss Amelia Nettleship.

Oh, the way she dropped that libel action.

The woman's no better than she should be.

[chuckles] Which of us is?

Any chance of putting the light out, Hilda?

No, not yet.

You'll have to wait now until I finish the chapter.

[grunts] [theme music] ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪