[music playing] ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ AUCTIONEER: 19.

20.

22,000 pounds.

24,000 pounds at the back.

26,000 pounds.

28.

28,000 pounds.

28,000 pounds.

28,000 pounds.

Any more?

A new bid from the lady in the aisle.

30,000 pounds.

32,000 pounds at the back.

34,000.

Still the lady's bid.

36,000.

38,000.

38,000 pounds.

38,000 pounds.

Any more?

38,000 pounds then.

[bangs gavel] TEBBIT: Mr. Harold Brittling, isn't it, sir?

Oh, is it?

I-- I suppose it is, now you mention it.

TEBBIT: I'm Detective Inspector Tebbit.

And this is Detective Constable Eckersley.

May I have a word with you, Mr. Brittling, sir?

Oh, just the one word?

Oh, come, come, Inspector.

Make it two.

Make it three.

Help yourself.

What's it all about?

Shall we say it's about the forgery of an oil painting known as "Nancy at Dieppe," alleged to be by the late Septimus Cragg, RA?

Get Rumpole.

[muttering] Rumpole.

I say, Horace.

Oh, you're working.

No, Featherstone.

I'm standing on my head, playing bagpipes.

[chuckles] Oh, how I hate bloody frauds.

Oh.

Well, it's a nice, clean crime, really.

Not like your usual practice.

No blood, no sex.

Yeah, I think so.

Some bank clerk seems to have mislaid about half a million quid.

Probably because his adding up is no better than mine.

Still, it's almost a respectable crime.

You know, your practice has become quite decent lately.

We might even see you prosecuting!

[chuckles] - Oh.

My humble talents, such as they are, are never going to be used for shoving some poor devil into a condemned Victorian slum so he can be banged up with a couple of psychopaths and a chamber pot, thank you.

All the same, your being comparatively quiet of late, Horace, has led the Lord Chancellor's Office-- I know-- to look upon these chambers with a certain amount of, uh, shall we say, goodwill?

Oh, shall we?

I better get up to something noisy, then, at night.

No, Horace.

Please.

I say, have you-- have you heard about that awful thing that's happened to Morton Colfax?

Look, Featherstone, I'm trying to add up.

Well, the Lord Chancellor told Morton that he was going to make him a judge.

As you know, one mustn't say a word until the appointment's official.

Well, Morton told Sam Arbuckle.

And Arbuckle told Grantley Simpson.

And Grantley Simpson told Ian and Jasper Raggley over in Paper Buildings.

And Ian and Jasper told Walter Gaines, who they happened to meet in Pomeroy's wine bar.

Is this some sort of round game?

[laughs] Not for Morton Colfax, it wasn't.

The thing's all around the temple.

And the upshot is poor old Morton is not going to get appointed.

So if the Lord Chancellor sends for a fellow to make him a judge, that fellow's lips are sealed.

He mustn't tell a soul.

Who are you telling me, then?

I'm not telling you anything, Horace.

Good heavens, my dear man.

Whatever gave you the idea I was telling you anything?

Oh, I'm sorry.

I should have realized you were just bumbling away like some sort of muse, eh?

No, Horace.

It is vital that you should understand that I have told you nothing whatever, absolutely nothing, just as it's essential that we preserve the quiet, respectable image of these chambers, you know?

There was that rather difficult time we went through when the Erskine-Browns were expecting rather too early on in their married lives.

They weren't married!

Well, exactly.

Of course, we got over that quite satisfactorily.

But any-- [phone ringing] --any sort of breath-- oh.

Just a moment.

Any sort of breath of scandal now, at this rather historic moment in the life of our chambers-- Yeah?

There's a young girl here, Rumpole.

She's asking for you.

Well, she's rolling her own cigarettes, and they smell of burnt carpets.

Thank you.

Tell me, Henry.

Has the old boy lost his marbles?

Which old boy, sir?

The Lord Chancellor.

Has he gone off his rocker?

Oh, that's not for me to say, sir, is it?

Henry, as a barrister's clerk, you know everything.

Now, tell me.

Is he seriously thinking of making Guthrie Featherstone, QCMP, a red judge?

I mean, I know our learned head of chambers has given up politics.

He's joined the SDP.

Exactly.

But a judge?

It would be quite improper for me to comment, Mr. Rumpole.

Oh, come on.

I have no inside information.

Don't be so pompous and legal.

Well, I would say that Mr. Featherstone would cut a fine figure on the bench.

Oh, he'll look all right, I grant you.

He'll fill the costume well enough.

But is he?

That's what I want to know, Henry.

Is he?

Is he what, Mr. Rumpole?

Is he really the genuine article?

Oh.

Yes, Rumpole.

I thought you'd bring me those.

Bit of a floral tribute.

I sensed the east wind blowing.

Where did you find them?

Have you been visiting the cemetery again?

They were the last bunch at Temple Tube station, Hilda.

I dare say they need a bit of air.

Still here, is she?

I assume by "she," you mean your girl?

She's not my girl.

Well, she came to see you.

Then she burst into tears suddenly and left.

People who come to see me often burst into tears suddenly and leave.

It's in the nature of the legal profession.

I hope I may be able to save them.

I'll give them an aspirin.

Two aspirins.

[clattering] What the devil is that?

[clattering] Horace Rumpole!

There you are, at last!

RUMPOLE: Who is this lunatic?

Who are you?

You remember Blanco Basnet!

The fellow you got off at Cambridge assizes.

Marvelous, you were.

Absolutely spiffing.

[laughs] Hang on a jiffy.

I'm coming up.

RUMPOLE (VOICEOVER): Blanco Basnet?

I have some vague recollection.

Ah, a hanger-on at Newmarket.

And what was the charge?

Embezzlement, common assault, overfamiliarity with a horse.

[doorbell ringing] Ah, you're not Basnet.

Of course I'm not Basnet.

I'm Brittling.

Harold Brittling.

I am a close chum of old Blanco's, of course.

And when you got him off without a stain on his fairly bloody character, Horace and I, we drank the night away at the old plow in Stratford Parlor.

I say, is this your girl?

This is my wife, Hilda.

Ah.

And this is my girl, Pauline.

Yes, I've met her.

Is she your daughter?

No, no, she's my girl!

[laughs] Thighs that fairly cry out for the old HB pencil.

And she don't talk much.

Oh, but strips off like-- like an early Augustus John.

I say, Horace, your girl Hilda looks distinctly familiar to me.

You-- we've met before, Hilda, haven't we?

I think it's hardly likely.

Used you not to hover around about the Old Monmouth Pub in Charlotte Street?

And didn't I once escort you home after the Guinness stout had been flowing rather too freely?

[laughs] RUMPOLE (VOICEOVER): Either this little gnome's off his chump, or there a hidden depths to she who must be obeyed.

Of course, you two girls have chummed up already, haven't you?

You see, Horace, I had to send Pauline to track you down because I was temporarily detained in the cooler.

RUMPOLE (VOICEOVER): Oh, a customer.

Probably quite respectable little dud cheque merchant.

Look, if you've come to me for legal advice, I'm afraid you'll have to approach me in the proper manner.

Oh.

But I am approaching you in the proper manner-- bearing bubbly, the Widow Cliquot.

Perhaps Hilda will rustle up a few beakers from the kitchen, and we can start to celebrate.

Celebrate what?

Our case, the case in which, my dear Horace, I am going to twist the tails of the art experts, the connoisseurs, and you, the tails of the entire legal profession.

You're game for a bit of fun, aren't you?

Oh, come on, Hilda.

Rustle up the old beakers.

It's not like you to hold up a party.

Rumpole.

Well, there's no harm in having a glass of bubbly, Hilda.

Oh, very well.

If you insist.

Who are you, exactly?

Who am I exactly?

Slade School gold medallist, exhibited in the salon in Paris, hung in the Royal Academy, and quartered in the Bond Street galleries.

He's the Harold Brittling.

Who is he?

The Harold Brittling.

Artist.

Oh.

Royal Academy.

Oh.

You're not over-pictured here, are you?

What's this objet d'art?

HILDA: Oh, that's a watercolor of Lamorna Cove, done by my old school friend, Dodo Mackintosh.

She used to be Dodo Perkins, you know?

She lives in the West Country now.

But she has sent in to the Royal Academy on more than one occasion.

Do you like it, Mister, uh-- Harold.

Harold.

The point is, Hilda, do you like it?

Oh, I think it's rather fine.

Beautiful, in fact.

The way that Dodo has caught the shadow on those rocks, you know?

If you think it's fine, and beautiful, Hilda-- I do.

I do.

--that's what it is to you.

To her, it's worth a fortune.

The fact that, to me, it looks rather like a blob of budgerigars' vomit, well, that's neither here nor there.

You pay for what you think is beautiful.

And that's what our case is all about, isn't it, Horace?

Look here, Brittley.

I can't do any case until you consult a solicitor, and he cares to instruct me.

Oh.

Oh, I see.

We play by the rules, do we?

No other way.

Oh, which means that when the time comes, wouldn't it be all the more fun breaking up?

Mrs. Rumpole.

Hilda.

It's Marigold Featherstone.

HILDA: Oh.

Just been to Harrod's.

Got to get something for the palace.

You're buying furniture?

No.

No, no.

Of course not.

Just the hat and the outfit.

Princess Di look, I suppose.

It's for when Guthrie goes, you know?

Well, not exactly.

Well, they all get it, don't they?

A bit of a handle.

All the fellows who make it up to the high court bench.

A handle?

Whatever for?

Their names, of course.

Oh, dear.

I've said too much, haven't I?

Forget what I said.

I know you will, dear Mrs. Rumpole, Hilda.

Just forget every single word I said.

MYERS: So that's it, Mr. Rumpole.

Exhibit JLT-1.

That's the evidence.

BRITTLING: Being a reproduction, of course, it doesn't do the original any kind of justice.

But as a composition, it's a corker.

How is it as a forgery?

That's what you're charged with, you know-- the obtaining of money by deception and the forgery of this painting.

Do you realize what you can get for that?

It's a spiffing composition.

And if you could see the texture of the paints, the way those curtains are moving in the wind from the harbor-- The picture comes from the collection of a Mrs. Evangeline Price from Swansea, the artist's niece.

Which means that, as the connoisseurs would put it, its provenance is impeccable.

It's the genuine article, Mr. Rumpole.

That's our case.

Of course it's genuine.

A thing of beauty is a joy forever.

Its loveliness increases.

It will never pass into nothingness, as you may well do for a possible five-year stretch.

Did you ever know Cragg?

Did I know him?

At the time, he was the old lion, the king of the pack.

I was the rising star.

And while I was still at the Slade, he used to invite me down to the farmhouse at Rottingdean, which was crammed with his children and their various mothers and a bevy of society beauties, all hellbent on getting their portraits painted.

He and I-- Nancy Tiep.

Do you recognize this model?

He had so many models, mistresses.

They were usually both.

RUMPOLE: I dare say.

But do you recognize that one?

Seems vaguely familiar.

Yes, vaguely familiar to me, too.

The sort of thighs that fairly cry out for the old HB pencil, would you say?

RUMPOLE (VOICEOVER): Oh, I don't like that.

A client who winks at you when you as good as tell him he's a forger?

Most unsettling.

It all depends, I suppose, on where your talents lie.

You're mumbling again.

My talents seem to lie in the field of blood stains, cross-examining coppers on their notebooks, addressing juries on the burden of proof.

Now, if only I'd had an unusual aptitude for dashing off a pair of naked thighs in a hotel bedroom.

You've seen her again, haven't you?

And I might be living in a farmhouse in Sussex with eight pool-eyed children and their eight different mothers, all devoted to me, with princesses pounding on my portals to have their portraits painted.

No, Hilda, I didn't see her.

She wasn't at the conference.

You ought to concentrate on what you can do, Rumpole.

Fine chance I ever have of getting invited to the palace.

All I need would be an old tweed suit.

RUMPOLE (VOICEOVER): And a young woman wearing nothing but a soulful expression.

[sighs] They're making Guthrie Featherstone a judge, you know.

Whoever told you that?

Marigold Featherstone, outside Harrod's.

Well, she didn't exactly tell me, but she talked a lot of nonsense about the palace and having a handle to her name.

And then I happened to run into Phyllida Erskine-Brown in Sainsbury's.

Oh, no.

And she explained it.

Well, I knew, of course, that if you get made a judge, you get knighted automatically and have to go to Buckhouse and all that sort of thing.

- Poor old Guthrie.

Why ever would you say that?

Because our Phyllida is bound to tell her husband.

And Claude Erskine-Brown carries on about the judiciary the way you used to about Ronald Colman.

As soon as he gets his legal aid check, he's straight into Pomeroy's for a gossip.

Oh, well.

Let's just hope that he doesn't get paid until poor old Guthrie Featherstone gets his bum safely on the bench.

Well, one thing is quite certain, Rumpole.

There's no earthly chance of your ever getting a handle.

[chatter] Excuse me.

Excuse me.

Rumpole.

Hmm?

Oh.

I went up to the bar just now to get myself a small sherry.

And Jack Pomeroy-- do you know what Jack Pomeroy called me?

He called me-- (WHISPERING) judge.

Oh, you'll just have to get used to it.

It means that someone has been talking!

Well, don't look at me, old darling.

Oh, look.

Erskine-Brown.

He's raising his glass to me.

That's just a friendly gesture.

You remember what happened to poor Morton Colfax.

He wasn't made a judge because he couldn't keep his mouth shut.

It's all around the temple.

Of course it isn't.

Stop worrying.

Then why is Erskine-Brown drinking to me?

Well, maybe he thinks you look like a-- (WHISPERING) judge.

After all, old darling, beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

Oh, for god's sake, Horace.

Don't you see what this means?

I'm not going to get appointed.

[bangs gavel] Be upstanding.

RUMPOLE (VOICEOVER): The honorable Mr. Justice Featherstone.

You have reached the pinnacle of your profession.

At last, your dedication to talking to all the right people around the Sheridan club, your years spent losing at golf to senior judges have paid off.

Arise, Guthrie Featherstone, J. Barristers older than you will bow before you and ask, if your lordship pleases.

My lord, you have fulfilled your destiny.

ERSKINE-BROWN: Mr. Gandolfini, are you the author of many works on 20th-century painting and advisor to private collectors and galleries throughout the world?

I am.

Are you also the author of Cragg and the British Impressionists, and the leading expert on this particular painter?

It has been said, my lord.

ERSKINE-BROWN: Now, have you examined this alleged Cragg?

I have, my lord.

I may say, it isn't included in any existing catalog of the artist's works, although I believe, at one time, it was thought it came from a genuine source-- the artist's niece in Swansea.

Yes.

And now we know that to be untrue.

You know nothing of the sort until that has been found a fact by the 12 sensible people in that jury box, and no one else.

Very well, Mr. Rumpole.

Perhaps he suspected it to be untrue.

Is that the situation, Mr. Gandolfini?

My lord, how can what this witness suspected possibly be evidence?

Mr. Rumpole, I'm sure you don't want to be difficult.

RUMPOLE (VOICEOVER): Oh, why should you think that, old darling?

I consider it my duty to be as difficult as possible.

ERSKINE-BROWN: May I assist, my lord?

FEATHERSTONE: I'd be grateful if you would, Mr. Erskine-Brown.

RUMPOLE (VOICEOVER): What's this?

A vicarage tea party?

May I assist you to another cucumber sandwich?

One day on the bench, and Guthrie's learnt the habit of getting cozy with the prosecution.

Mr. Gandolfini, if you had known that this picture did not, in fact, come from Miss Price's collection, would you have had some doubts about its authenticity?

The question is entirely speculative.

I object.

Mr. Rumpole, would you like me to rule on the propriety of Mr. Erskine-Brown's question?

I think the time may have come to make up the judicial mind.

Yes, my lord.

Then I rule that Mr. Erskine-Brown may ask his question.

Sorry, Mr. Rumpole.

RUMPOLE (VOICEOVER): Oh, yes, old darling.

You look broken hearted.

Well, Mr. Gandolfini.

I had a certain doubt about the picture from the start.

From the start, I had a doubt.

ERSKINE-BROWN: Take it slowly now.

Just follow His Lordship's pencil.

And you may be sure it is not drawing naked thighs in Dieppe.

Did you say something, Mr. Rumpole?

Nothing, my lord, of the slightest consequence.

I do say that because I happen to have extremely acute hearing.

My lord, congratulations.

Well, Mr. Gandolfini.

I thought the painting very fine, and certainly in the manner of Septimus Cragg.

It's a beautiful piece of work.

But I don't think I ever saw a Cragg where the shadows had so much color in them, where-- Color in the shadows?

May I have a look, usher?

There's a good deal of green and even purple in the shadows on the naked body, my lord.

RUMPOLE (VOICEOVER): Pause for his lordship to make a microscopic examination of Nancy.

Oh, yes.

That's very interesting.

Have you seen that, Mr. Rumpole?

Would you show that to Mr. Rumpole?

Would you care to borrow my glass, Mr. Rumpole?

Thank you, my lord.

I think I can manage with the [clears throat] naked eye.

Tell us.

Is Nancy a model who appears in any of Cragg's works known to you?

In none, my lord.

Did Cragg paint most of his models many times?

Many, many times, my lord.

ERSKINE-BROWN: Thank you so much, Mr. Gandolfini.

Mr. Gandolfini, you have said that this is a beautiful painting.

It's very fine.

Yes.

RUMPOLE: Has it at least 38,000 pounds worth of beauty, would you say?

That, I can't say.

Oh, can you not?

I thought part of your trade was reducing beauty to mere cash.

I value pictures, yes.

Then would you not agree that this is a valuable picture, no matter who painted it?

I have said-- You have said that it is beautiful.

Have you not been telling this jury the truth, Mr. Gandolfini?

Yes, but-- Beauty is truth, truth beauty.

That is all you know on Earth and all you need to know.

Is that really all we need to know, Mr. Rumpole?

In this case, yes, my lord.

I think I might want to hear a legal argument about that.

Oh, you shall.

I promise, your lordship.

Mr. Gandolfini, if this picture had been painted by a more famous artist than Septimus Cragg, it wouldn't be more of a thing of beauty and a joy to behold, would it-- GANDOLFINI: No, but-- --than had it been painted by a less famous artist-- say, Joe Bloggs, or his lordship on a wet Sunday afternoon?

Oh, really, Mr. Rumpole?

RUMPOLE: Well, it wouldn't be less beautiful, would it?

It would still have the colorful shadows.

It would still have the same feeling of light and air and the breeze from the harbor, and the same warmth of the human body.

Exactly the same, of course.

But without the-- My lord, I don't want to interrupt.

Oh, then don't, Mr. Erskine-Brown.

We're not investigating the beauty of this work, but the value.

And the value of this picture depends upon its being a genuine Septimus Cragg.

My lord, my learned friend seems to think this a perfectly straightforward criminal case.

Of course, it is not.

We are discussing a work of art as a thing of beauty and a joy forever.

We are not debating the price of fish.

[claps] Oh, do tell the old chap he's not at the music hall, will you?

Is that all, Mr. Rumpole?

Yes, my lord.

I think we've heard enough from Mr. Gandolfini.

Mr. Gandolfini, a small point.

GANDOLFINI: Yes, my lord.

I happen to be extremely fond of Claude Lorrain.

Oh, I do so agree, my lord.

Yes.

He's an absolutely superb painter, isn't he?

Now, supposing you were shown a good-- a beautiful painting attributed to Claude Lorrain, and you were assured that it came from a reputable source, well, you might accept that as being a genuine Lorrain, mightn't you?

- Certainly, my lord.

- Yes.

Well, if you were to learn later it was painted in the 17th century and not the 18th, well, you might change your opinion, mightn't you?

Well, not really, my lord.

Oh, I'm sorry.

Perhaps you would tell us why not.

Well, you see, Claude did paint in the 17th century, my lord.

FEATHERSTONE: Oh, yes, of course.

That's right.

[humorous music] ERSKINE-BROWN: Finally, Mrs. de Moyne, when you bought this picture at auction for 38,000 pounds, did you believe you were paying for a genuine Septimus Cragg?

Of course I did.

I was terribly deceived.

Thank you.

Will you wait there, please?

Mrs. de Moyne, it would seem that you are not so much an art lover as a collector of autographs.

You bought a very beautiful picture.

Yes.

RUMPOLE: So beautiful, you were prepared to pay 38,000 pounds for it.

Yes, indeed.

Mrs. de Moyne, this is still the same beautiful picture.

It hasn't changed one whit.

How, then, were you deceived?

Because it isn't a genuine Cragg.

That has yet to be established, Mrs. de Moyne.

I'm obliged to your lordship.

When you say you were deceived, what led you to believe that?

Someone rang me up.

Someone?

What did they say?

Well, he said-- One moment, Mrs. de Moyne.

Do you want to let this evidence in, Mr. Rumpole?

Yes, my lord.

I'm curious to know.

You may answer, Mrs. de Moyne.

That's what made me get in touch with the police.

The man who called said the picture wasn't a genuine Cragg, that it had never belonged to Cragg's niece in Swansea.

He also said I'd got a bargain.

A bargain?

Why?

Because it was better than a Cragg.

Was this an art expert talking?

Did he give you his name?

He did, yes.

But I was so upset, I didn't pay too much attention to it.

I don't think I can remember it.

RUMPOLE: Well, try.

DE MOYNE: White.

I think it had "white" in it.

White.

Whiting?

White?

Whitehouse?

I can't remember.

RUMPOLE: You can't?

No.

Oh, very well.

Thank you, Mrs. de Moyne.

ERSKINE-BROWN: I've no re-examination.

Does your lordship have any questions?

Thank you, Mrs. de Moyne.

You may step down.

Thank you.

I'd like Miss Marjorie Evangeline Price, please.

BAILIFF: Marjorie Evangeline Price.

You're wonderful.

Harold said you would be.

Oh, nonsense.

Well, just a bit wonderful, I suppose.

Myers, how do you think it's going?

So far, better than I expected.

Good.

This is the one I'm afraid of.

Oh, really?

I swear by almighty God that the evidence I shall give shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

Are you Miss Marjorie Evangeline Price?

PRICE: I am.

Do you live at 31 Majuba Road, Swansea?

I do.

ERSKINE-BROWN: Was the late Septimus Cragg, RA, your uncle?

Uncle Septimus, yes.

Do you know the defendant, Brittling?

Mr. Brittling.

He came to see me in Swansea.

He said he had one of Uncle Septimus' paintings to sell.

And he wanted me to put it into the auction for him.

The real seller didn't want his name to be brought into it.

Did Mr. Brittling tell you why?

Well, apparently, it was a businessman who didn't want it to be known he was selling his pictures.

People might have thought he was in financial trouble, apparently.

So you signed the papers and agreed to the picture being sold in your name?

Yes.

I-- I'm afraid it was very wrong of me.

But he was going to give me a little bit of a percentage.

And, well, an ex-schoolmistress does get a very small pension.

RUMPOLE (VOICEOVER): Just our luck.

The sort of witness the jury love.

A sweet old lady who is not afraid to admit she's wrong.

Did you have any idea that the picture might not be genuine?

Oh, no.

Of course.

I had no idea of that.

Mr. Brittling was very charming and persuasive.

ERSKINE-BROWN: How much did Mr. Brittling allow you to keep?

I think-- I'm not sure, but I think it was 10%.

How very generous.

Thank you, Miss Price.

Miss Price, do you remember your uncle, Septimus Cragg?

Yes, I remember him coming to our house when I was a little girl.

He had a red beard and a very hairy tweed suit.

I remember sitting on his lap.

Is that all you remember of him?

Well, I remember Uncle Septimus telling me there were two sorts of people in the world.

RUMPOLE: Oh?

Patients and nurses.

He seemed to think that I would grow up to be a nurse.

RUMPOLE: Really?

And which did he think he was?

My lord, can this possibly be relevant?

I can't see it at the moment, Mr. Erskine-Brown.

Which did he say he was?

He said he could always find someone to look after him.

I think he was a bit of a spoiled baby, really.

Miss Price, would you look at Exhibit 1, please?

When Mr. Brittling first showed you that picture-- Oh, he didn't.

I didn't ask to see it.

Mr. Brittling told me about it.

And, well, of course, I trusted him, you see.

Yes.

Thank you, Miss Price.

No further questions.

RUMPOLE (VOICEOVER): No doubt about it.

There's nothing more like banging your head against a brick wall than cross-examining a witness who's telling nothing but the truth.

What I wanted to ask you fellows is, how long is the case going to last?

Well, Judge Guthrie, that rather depends on Rumpole's defense.

The point is, I may not be able to sit on Monday afternoon.

Appointment at the palace.

You know how these things are.

Oh, yes.

Marigold got a new outfit for it, has she?

Well, the girls rather like all that sort of nonsense, don't they?

It's not so much an appointment.

More of a royal command, you know?

That type of thing.

No, I don't, really.

My only royal command was to join the ground staff of the RAF, as I remember it.

Oh, yes.

Of course, Horace.

You old war horse.

How long are you going to be?

Well, Horace?

Well, not too long, I should think.

It's rather an absurd little case, really, isn't it?

I mean, practical joke, more or less.

Just a prank, really.

I can't pretend that I find it a joke, exactly, no.

I mean, all he did was pull the legs of a few so-called connoisseurs.

And made himself a considerable sum of money in the process.

Its deceit, Horace.

Forgery for personal profit.

If your client's convicted, I'm afraid I couldn't rule out a custodial sentence.

You couldn't?

How could I?

Well, for a bit of let's pretend?

A bit of a joke on a pompous profession.

No, Judge, I don't suppose you could.

Jolly good to see you, fellows.

[laughs] It's been just like a chambers meeting.

Well, thanks for the dish of tea, Guthrie.

Judge.

FEATHERSTONE: Horace, another word?

Yes?

I've noticed that you've fallen into rather a bad habit, Horace.

Bad habit?

Hands in pockets when you're addressing the court.

It looks so bad, Horace.

It sets such a poor example to the younger fellows.

Keep the hands out of the pockets, Horace.

I'm sure you don't mind me pulling you up about it.

BRITTLING: I do solemnly, sincerely, and truly declare and affirm that the evidence which I shall give shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

Your name is Harold Reynolds Gainsborough Brittling.

BRITTLING: It is.

You come from an artistic family, Mr. Brittling.

BRITTLING: Right from the start, I showed an extraordinary aptitude at the Slade School, which I entered at the ripe old age of 16.

I was a gold medalist twice, and by far the most brilliant student of my year.

RUMPOLE (VOICEOVER): A modest fellow.

Jury don't like him.

Were you acquainted with the late Septimus Cragg?

I knew him, and I loved him.

He was the finest painter of his generation.

And when he saw my work, I think he recognized, well-- RUMPOLE (VOICEOVER): A fellow genius?

Oh, please, don't say it.

--a fellow genius.

RUMPOLE (VOICEOVER): Oh.

Where did you subsequently see Septimus Cragg on many other occasions?

Oh, well-- well, you could say that at Rottingdean, I did become one of the charmed circle.

RUMPOLE: Would you take in your hands Exhibit 1, please, Mr. Brittling?

Oh, I beg of you not to refer to it as Exhibit 1.

Exhibit 1 might be a blunt instrument or something.

[laughs] RUMPOLE (VOICEOVER): Please, Brittling, old darling, leave the jokes to me.

Where did that picture come from, Mr. Brittling?

Ah.

Well, I really don't remember very clearly.

Don't remember?

No, my lord.

You see, when one is leading the life of an artist, the small details tend to escape the memory.

I imagine that Septimus-- I'm sorry, Mr. Cragg-- gave it to me during one of my visits to him.

Artists pay these little tributes to each other, don't you know?

RUMPOLE: Why did you ask Miss Price to sell it for you?

BRITTLING: Well, I suppose it was because the dealers would have more faith in it if it were to come from such a source.

And I rather wanted the old puss to get her bit of commission.

RUMPOLE (VOICEOVER): Well, that went down with the jury like a cup of cold cod liver oil.

Mr. Brittling, what is your opinion of that painting?

I think it is the work of the highest genius.

RUMPOLE: Did Septimus Cragg paint it?

It's a lovely thing.

Did Cragg paint it?

It's a lovely thing.

What does it matter who painted it?

RUMPOLE: For the purposes of this case, you may take it from me.

It matters.

Did you paint that picture, Mr. Brittling?

Me?

Is someone suggesting I did?

RUMPOLE: Yes, Mr. Brittling.

Someone is.

Well, in all modesty-- RUMPOLE (VOICEOVER): In all what?

--you take my breath away.

Are you suggesting that I could have produced this masterpiece?

Mr. Rumpole, I think we can take it that the answer means no.

Yes, thank you.

If your lordship pleases.

Mr. Brittling, you say you laundered this picture through Miss Price.

Did he what, Mr. Erskine-Brown?

I'm so sorry, my lord.

Mr. Brittling, why this elaborate performance of selling the picture through Miss Price?

Oh, just to tease them a bit.

Pull their legs.

ERSKINE-BROWN: Pull whose legs?

The legs of the art experts.

The connoisseurs.

So we've all been brought here to this court for a sort of a joke?

Oh, no, not for a sort of a joke.

Something very serious is at stake here.

ERSKINE-BROWN: What?

My reputation.

Your reputation as an honest man, Mr. Brittling?

No, no.

Something far more important than that.

My reputation as an artist.

You see, if I did paint this picture, I must be a genius, mustn't I?

Why did the judge stop Harold's bail?

Oh, that happens sometimes when the defendant starts giving his evidence.

Personally, I think the judge was just showing off.

Well, he's young, a bit wet behind the judicial ears.

What on Earth is the matter with Harold?

His evidence was a disaster.

Does he want to lose this case?

You know he does, don't you?

Look, would you take me for a drink, please?

How about a glass of Chateau Fleet Street?

We can go to Pomeroy's across the road.

No, we won't.

We'll go to the Old Monmouth in Charlotte Street.

What?

Oh?

[phone ringing] Where are you, Rumpole?

You're in a bar in Soho with that girl?

And you may be there for a long time?

Oh, stop talking nonsense, Rumpole.

You know I don't believe a word of it.

What'd you tell her?

The truth.

She believe you?

No.

[laughter] Here, let me do this.

- No.

It's the least I can do.

She's here.

RUMPOLE: Who?

All you need to prove that Harold's innocent.

Hello, Nancy.

Hello.

I'll have a large port and lemon, young man.

PAULINE: I'll get it.

RUMPOLE: Hilda?

It's not you, Rumpole, is it?

I wonder you bother to have come back at all.

RUMPOLE: Hilda, this door's locked.

Yes.

Would you unlock it, please?

HILDA: No.

Hilda, there's something burning in the kitchen.

That was your dinner.

RUMPOLE: Where am I supposed to sleep?

What's wrong with the sofa?

Ah, hello.

Erskine-Brown?

It's me, Horace.

Yes.

I'm sorry.

Did I wake you up?

Oh, I did.

Well, isn't it time to feed the baby or something?

What?

Oh, he's four now.

How time flies.

Look, Claude, would you check something for me?

It's about the purchaser.

Yes, Mrs. de Moyne.

Look, I don't want to have to drag her back into court.

So could your officer ask her if the man who rang her up was called Blanco Basnet?

Yes, Blanco Basnet.

Blanco.

Well, it-- it means white, you see?

[chuckles] Yeah.

Sweet dreams, Claude.

Oh!

Bastard.

[clattering] Ow!

[groans] You look tired, Rumpole.

Oh, it's jolly hard work, this vie de boheme.

What's the news about Mrs. de Moyne?

Oh, she remembered the name as soon as the inspector put it to her.

Blanco Basnet.

Odd sort of name, isn't it?

Odd sort of fellow.

BAILIFF: Be upstanding.

Put up Harold Brittling.

You have another witness, Mr. Rumpole?

Yes, my lord.

I would like to call Mrs. Nancy Brittling.

BAILIFF: Nancy Brittling.

Mrs. Nancy-- BAILIFF: Nancy Brittling.

Client doesn't want this witness called.

Well, tell the client to go and paint a picture.

Let me do my work in peace.

BAILIFF: Take the book in your right hand and read the words on the cover.

I swear by almighty God that the evidence I shall give shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

RUMPOLE: You are Mrs. Nancy Brittling?

Yes, dear.

Address your remarks to the learned judge.

You were married to my client, Mr. Harold Reynolds Gainsborough Brittling?

NANCY: It seems a long time ago now, my lordship.

And did Mr. Brittling introduce you to the painter Septimus Cragg at Rottingdean?

Yes, I remember that.

It was my 19th birthday.

I had red hair then, and lots of it.

I remember, he said I was a stunner.

Oh, who said you were a stunner?

Your husband?

No, Septimus said that, of course.

RUMPOLE: Of course.

And Septimus asked me if I'd pop across to Dieppe with him the next weekend.

RUMPOLE: Oh, and what did you feel about that?

Thrilled to bits!

RUMPOLE: And how did Harold Brittling react to that course of events?

He was sick as a dog, my lordship.

ERSKINE-BROWN: My lord, I fail to see the relevance of this line of questioning.

We seem to be straying into some rather squalid divorce matter here.

I think we must let Mr. Rumpole take his own course, Mr. Erskine-Brown.

It might be quicker in the end.

I'm obliged to your lordship.

Mrs. Brittling, did you in fact go to Dieppe with Septimus Cragg?

And while you were there together, did he paint your picture in a bedroom at the Hotel du Vieux Port?

He painted me in the nude, my lordship.

I'll tell you, I was a bit of something worth painting in those days.

RUMPOLE: Would you look at Exhibit 1, please?

Yes.

That's the picture.

I saw Septimus paint that in the bedroom at Dieppe.

RUMPOLE: And the signature, Mrs. Brittling?

Mrs. Brittling?

I saw him paint his signature.

And, well, we were so happy together.

Just for a bit of fun, he let me paint my name too.

RUMPOLE: Let His Lordship see.

It's a bit dark.

I did it in sort of purple, just at the edge of the carpet.

I just wrote Nancy, upside-down.

That's all.

Oh.

Mr. Rumpole, I think she is right.

I think she is, my lord.

Would you share that to Mr. Erskine-Brown?

Mrs. Brittling, do you know how your husband got hold of this painting?

Oh, yes.

Septimus gave it to me.

But Harold fussed so much that in the end, I let him have the picture.

Well, after a bit, we separated, and I suppose he hung onto it until he wanted to pretend that he'd painted it himself.

Yes.

Thank you, Mrs. Brittling.

Mrs. Brittling, why have you come here to give this evidence?

Hmm?

It must be painful for you to remember these sordid events.

Painful?

Oh, no.

It's a pure pleasure, my dear, to see the picture again and to remember what I looked like when I was 19 and happy.

RUMPOLE: He hung onto it until he wanted to pretend that he had painted it himself.

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you may think that the one driving passion in Harold Brittling's life was his almost insane jealousy of Septimus Cragg.

Cragg became his young wife's lover.

And that was merely another turn of the screw to a man already tormented by the fact that Septimus Cragg was a painter of genius.

And he himself, Brittling, was merely a very clever one, utterly devoid of any style of his own.

So years after Cragg's death, he planned his revenge.

He would prove that he could paint a better Cragg than Cragg ever painted.

He would prove that this fine painting was his work and not Cragg's.

That was to be his revenge, not just for one weekend in Dieppe, but for a whole lifetime's humiliation.

To achieve that revenge, he was prepared to sell his Cragg in a devious way that would be bound to attract attention and suspicion, and then to cast doubts on its authenticity.

He was prepared to face a charge of forgery.

He was prepared to go to prison, as long as he could prove that he was the true painter of a work of genius.

But don't be deceived, members of the jury.

Harold Brittling is a fake criminal.

He is no forger.

He is not guilty of the crime he is charged with.

He is guilty only of the savage bitterness sometimes felt by the merely talented for men of genius.

You may think, members of the jury, as you bring in your verdict of not guilty, that that is a very understandable emotion.

Indeed, you may even feel pity for a poor painter who, in his desperate efforts to steal a great man's reputation, was only too well aware of his own shortcomings, and did not dare to produce even a forgery of his own.

You bastard, Rumpole!

You've joined the connoisseurs!

Thank you.

You sent for me, Judge.

Good win, Horace.

Oh, thank you, Judge.

Of course.

I always knew your client was innocent.

Oh, did you indeed?

Oh, yes.

One gets a nose for that sort of thing.

One can soon assess a witness and know and see whether they're telling the truth.

Have to do it all the time in this job, Horace.

Horace?

Yes, Judge?

You remember that, uh, bit of a tizz I got into?

You know about the big secret getting out?

No need to tell anyone about that, hmm?

I, uh-- I rang the Lord Chancellor's office about that the day after we met in Pomeroy's.

You did what?

Yes.

I told them that you hadn't said a word.

Was just a silly joke invented by Claude Erskine-Brown.

Uh-- [chuckles] Horace, I owe you a great debt of gratitude.

Yes, I told them nobody in the temple dreamt they'd make you a judge.

Horace, did you really ring the Lord Chancellor's office?

Are you telling me the truth?

Oh, can't you tell, Guthrie?

I thought you had the infallible judicial eye.

[clears throat] Oh, what is it this time, Rumpole?

Not flowers again.

Bubbly.

Pomeroy's Sparkling.

Special offer.

Non-vintage, of course.

I should have thought you'd had quite enough to drink with that girl last night.

Pauline of the soft eyes, who passed through the old bailey, and then was heard no more.

Forget her, Hilda.

I just hope this means that you've won.

Indeed, it does.

And the old chap will never forgive me for having got him off.

So I doubt if we'll ever see either of them ever again.

Here.

I'll give you a toast.

Beauty is truth, truth beauty.

That is all ye know on Earth-- And all ye need to know.

Keats.

Yes.

Poor old Keats.

He didn't know the half of it, did he?

In the courtroom, beauty isn't the whole truth, is it?

Down the old bailey, we need to know a damn sight more than that.

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