[audio logo] [theme music] ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ [whirring] [birds twitter] [bells chiming] Biscuit war in the Ministry of Defence.

Do listen to this, Hilda.

This is what passes for news.

Government extravagance has been highlighted by the astonishing sums spent subsidizing tea and biscuits consumed by civil servants at the Ministry of Defence.

The cost of elevenses, plus the money spent on entertaining a long list of foreign visitors would, it is calculated, have paid for the Crimean War three times over.

HILDA: Do you want afters, Rumpole?

Afters?

Of course I want afters.

HILDA: We need a hatch, Rumpole!

Didn't I hear some rumors of a baked jam roll?

If we had a hatch through into the kitchen, I shouldn't have to walk all the way around to fetch your afters.

I don't like hatches, Hilda.

You're always so dead set against anything at all convenient.

We had a hatch at the vicarage when I was a boy.

The dreadful thing came rumbling up from the bowels of the earth, smelling of stale cabbage.

Well, this wouldn't come rumbling up from anywhere.

It'd come straight through from the kitchen.

Custard?

Custard.

Yeah, just imagine, if we hadn't spent all that money on tea and biscuits, we could have had another three Crimean wars.

You sent for me, Mr. Thorogood?

Is this your glove, Ms. Tuttle?

Oh, I say how super!

It's worth losing things, isn't it, for the sheer bliss of having them turn up again?

I think this gentleman would like to have a word with you.

Yes, indeed.

I'm Detective Inspector Fallowes, and this is Detective Sergeant Hamling.

We're investigating the possible leak of classified information from the Ministry of Defence, and would be grateful for your cooperation.

What do you suggest we do, Oliver, turn a blind eye?

You can't really go through with this prosecution, can you?

There was some piddling little leak about biscuits.

Biscuits or bombs, in my opinion, it's the same principle.

We'll be a laughing stock.

She signed the Official Secrets Act.

She broke her oath.

That's not a piddling little leak, as you so eloquently put it.

Oh, Rosemary Tuttle.

Have you seen her wandering around looking at some sort of Ukrainian peasant out of a musical comedy?

She's an amiable, eccentric.

Amiable eccentrics, in my opinion, are far too dangerous to be allowed to wander around ministries selling secrets to the gutter press.

It was the chatterbox column in The Sunday Fortress.

Well, the Minister reads The Sunday Fortress, and he wasn't at all entertained by it.

Well, speaking entirely personally, I feel sorry for the old chap.

Well, the papers have been sent to the Attorney General.

No doubt we'll all agree to be guided by him.

Now, recommended re-siting for Operation Blueberry.

Are we ready to pass on to that?

Oh, Mr. Erskine-Brown, please.

Claudey?

Batty Bowling.

It's a long time, isn't it?

Look, erm, I've got to make it a bit snappy.

I'm not failing from the office.

There's an old girl in need of a bit of legal advice.

Think nothing of it.

Anything I can do?

See you soon, Batty.

[opera music] Oh, I was looking for your wife.

Join the club.

With her practice, she's almost never at home these days.

She asked me to do some research for her.

I suppose Phyllida and I will meet again someday.

It's no picnic, I can tell you, Ms. Probert, being married to a busy silk.

Look here.

What about me calling you Sue?

You can if you like.

Actually, my name's Liz.

Just testing.

Well, to be quite honest with you, it's a-- it's a pretty ghastly sort of situation, Liz.

My wife has absolutely no time for it.

No time for it?

No time at all.

Either she's away or on the rare moment she's at home.

She's-- she's far too tired.

I feel I'm missing a vital part of my life.

Can you understand that?

Well, I-- I suppose I can, in a way.

I mean, it's not the sort of thing a chap likes to do on his own.

No, no, of course not.

It'll be 18 months next Tuesday.

I'm suffering the most terrible withdrawal symptoms.

Look, I'll just leave these with you, and then I've really got to be-- All she can manage was La Vie Parisienne over Christmas.

You must know how it feels.

No.

I'm not sure that I do know exactly.

So long.

I can hardly remember the last time I sat down to a decent evening of Wagner.

[bells chiming] Well, I must be getting back.

Oh, I forgot.

I have nowhere to go.

Civil servants can be remarkably uncivil at times.

I must admit, [sobs] it is a bit heavy.

I've been making some inquiries.

All the chaps in the Ministry seem to have been doing that.

No, some inquiries among friends in the law.

What you're going to need is a specialist.

A specialist?

In Official Secrets?

I was thinking more in terms of a specialist in laughing ridiculous cases out of court.

Psst!

Rumpole!

Erskine-Brown?

A word in confidence.

A secret?

Shh.

I've invited you to the opera next month.

Not Wagner.

Well, yes, it does happen to be Die Meistersinger.

Who was it that said that Wagner's music isn't nearly as bad as it sounds?

Oh, don't worry, Rumpole, you won't actually have to come to the opera.

Oh, you mean you didn't ask me?

Oh, I did ask you.

And I refused?

No, no, quite the reverse, you accepted.

You'd like to get to know a good deal more about music drama.

White man speak in riddles.

It's just that if my wife should happen to ask you where I was on the 28th of next month-- Yes.

--we went to the opera together.

But I won't have been there, Claude-- Shh.

That's the whole point.

Will you have been there?

Uh.

Well, now, that's something of a secret.

I can count on you, can't I, Rumpole?

Look, Claude, why should I go along with you in this sordid little conspiracy?

Because I happen to have done you an enormous favor, Rumpole.

Oh, favor?

Yes.

I was at school with this chap.

You surprise me.

Batty Bowling.

It seems he's done tremendously well in the civil service.

Some harmless old biddy in his department's got into a spot of trouble.

They wanted someone who'd turned the whole trial into a sort of music hall turn.

So naturally, I recommended you.

Oh, naturally.

Civil of you, Claude.

Extremely civil of you.

To me.

Right here and down a bit.

What's this?

What's this?

A present, it seems, from Her Majesty the Queen.

No, Uncle Tom, alone from the Ministry of Defence.

What's in it?

The Crown Jewels?

- It's your brief, Mr. Rumpole.

- What?

In a safe?

That's how they're supplied to defense counsel when the matter is highly confidential, so that the papers don't fall into the wrong hands.

Ah.

How do you open it?

There's a number for the combination.

Yes.

Well, what is it?

(WHISPERING) It doesn't do, Mr. Rumpole, to mention these things in public.

Well, whisper it into the lock, Henry, will you?

There's a brief in there, old sweetheart, a cash brief, with any luck.

4, 5, 3, 8, 1.

Wrong.

4, 5, 3, 1, 8, wasn't it, Henry?

(WHISPERING) Diane, please.

It's 4, 5, 3, 1, right.

Oh, dear.

Open sesame!

[laughs] That's the safest safe I've ever seen.

Dear Mr. Chatterbox, do you want to hear about tea and scandal?

Their ancient custom, in the Ministry of Defence?

It's all highly secret and might make a good story for your column.

Tea and scandal.

That sounds familiar.

Where does that come from?

I have no idea.

Neither have I.

[phone rings] Oh.

HILDA: Oh, that could be for me.

- Oh.

- Yes.

I'm expecting a call.

- All right.

Hello?

Yes, yes, it is, speaking.

Will you hold on a moment, please?

Oh.

I'll take it in the kitchen.

Why?

Isn't a person entitled to a few secrets?

Oh, secrets.

I'll be on the second bench after the bridge coming from the Mall.

I've got fairish hair.

I wear rather brightly colored clothes.

I'll leave at 2:00 PM.

What you want will be left on the seat, folded inside a copy of The Daily Telegraph.

Oh.

HILDA: Rumpole!

Yes, Hilda.

Rumpole, what's the matter with our phone?

It looks perfectly all right to me.

It makes little hiccupping sounds.

Hiccupping?

Have you paid the bill, Rumpole?

Oh, bill.

Well, perhaps not.

Pressure of work.

Well, if you hadn't paid the bill, it should be cut off.

It shouldn't hiccup.

- Yes.

Yes.

Well, see to it, Rumpole, and try not to be totally irresponsible.

To hear is to obey.

Oh, mistress of the blue horizons.

But Ms. Tuttle is bound by the Official Secrets Act.

It's alleged she copied confidential documents and gave them to the press.

RUMPOLE: About biscuits?

But section two of the Official Secrets Act says-- Please, Mr James.

Oh, sweetheart.

It is a well-known fact that Section two of the Official Secrets Act is the raving of governmental paranoia.

But if she has broken the law-- Then the jury has every right to acquit her.

Members of the jury, if you consider this to be a case of bureaucracy run mad, that this spinster lady, whom I have the honor to represent, should be hounded through the court simply because our masters in Whitehall cannot control their revolting greed for ginger nuts and Dundee shortcake, then you have every right to return a resounding verdict of not guilty.

Look, I'm awfully sorry to butt in-- Yes, what do you want?

Well, you can say all that in court if you like.

Oh, but I do like, Ms. Tuttle, strong stuff, I admit, but I feel fully justified.

But don't you see?

I didn't do it.

What?

Nothing?

Mr. Rumpole, I'm jolly well innocent.

Innocent?

My dear lady, your glove was found that night by the copying machine.

I can't understand how it got there at all.

It must have walked.

Ms. Tuttle, please consider this very carefully.

If you admit to this noble act, I can make you a heroine, a Joan of Arc, Ms. Tuttle in shining armor, battling the forces of bureaucracy.

And what if I deny it?

Then, in the jury's eyes, you're just a common criminal trying to lie their way out of trouble.

Please, Ms. Tuttle, consider it very carefully.

I've got to tell the truth.

Yes, yes, Ms. Tuttle, I suppose you have.

All right, Mr. James, we will check the evidence and we'll start with our own typewriter test.

[chatter] LIZ: Rumpole!

Oh, Ms. Probert, you startled me.

I wanted to tell you something.

Not a secret.

It's about Claude Erskine-Brown.

He's asked me-- - To the opera?

Yeah.

What do you think?

Well, at your age, it should be all right But for me, well, time's getting a bit short for Wagner.

It might be terribly embarrassing.

Oh, I don't remember they did much stripping off at Nuremberg.

You don't think he'd use it as an excuse to project some sort of masculine aggression?

He might say I've got terribly nice eyes or something horrible.

Oh, I don't think so.

Oh, don't you?

Oh, I don't mean that they're not nice-- Rumpole!

Oh, don't you start presenting a male stereotype.

Oh, certainly not.

God forbid.

No, purely functional eyes, yours, scarcely worth a mention.

[phone rings] Uncle Tom.

UNCLE TOM: Oh, Horace.

RUMPOLE: I've been meaning to ask you this for a good number of years.

Well, ask away, dear boy.

You come into the chambers regularly every day.

Well, you'd come in regularly every day if you had to live with my sister.

Yes, but you never seem to get a brief.

I've had briefs in my time.

I've done running down cases, three or four running down cases.

Yes, but not for some considerable time.

Well, not recently, no.

But you always carry a briefcase just like mine.

Yes, I'd say our briefcases were roughly the same vintage.

Well, what I want to know is what's in it.

Care to have a look?

I would consider it a privilege.

Good.

There we go.

Carton of milk.

Milk.

Green muffler my sister insists I always take with me.

Pretty.

Cheese and tomato sandwiches.

Care for one?

RUMPOLE: No, no.

Times crossword.

Yes.

A few golf balls.

Uh-huh.

And some throat pastilles.

Zubes.

RUMPOLE: Zubes.

What are the Zubes for?

Well, doesn't your voice get tired when you're speaking in court?

But you never speak in court.

Well, one never knows when one might be called upon.

No, one never knows.

I say, who is that chap on the ladder?

Oh, somebody sent in to man the light, I suppose.

He was like you, Horace.

Er, not terribly like me, Uncle Tom.

Well, he seemed extraordinarily interested in my briefcase.

Oh.

(WHISPERING) Rumpole.

Ballard.

A word in your ear.

Walls have ears, you know?

Particularly in the clerk's room.

I'm prosecuting you in the secrets case.

(WHISPERING) The biscuits case?

(WHISPERING) The secrets.

The secret biscuits.

What are we whispering for?

It's not often a secrets brief comes our way in chambers.

Ah.

Dead for a ducat!

Dead!

Rumpole, what are you doing?

I thought there might be a couple of Russians behind the arras.

This is a particularly serious case.

What's at issue here isn't merely biscuits.

Oh, I know.

Something far more important than that.

Lavatory paper.

Rumpole.

And tea and biscuits, of course.

And free holidays and entertaining named persons.

It's a question of loyalty to the crown.

I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but the attorney general himself takes a serious view.

Oh, is the old sweetheart fond of biscuits?

Look here, Rumpole.

Horace.

[chuckles] I don't know whether I've told you this, but, uh, I've just been elected to the Sheridan club.

How wonderful.

Was it on News at Ten?

I wondered if you care to join me there for a spot of lunch.

Why do you hesitate?

I always fear prosecuting counsel when they come.

Bearing offers a free lunch.

They suddenly looked terribly Greek.

Well-- [indistinct chatter] I'm just taking a ginger ale.

One does try to avoid alcohol at lunchtime.

Oh, does one?

I'll have a club claret, please.

Could you make it a double?

A large claret, please, and a ginger ale.

Thank you.

Seeing as it's on the Ministry of Defence.

The attorney general-- Oh, he's paying, is he?

No, he's here.

Mr. Attorney.

This is Horace Rumpole.

He's defending Tuttle.

Can I get you a drink, can I?

A gin and tonic, thanks, Sam.

Large.

- Oh, yes.

I imagine Tuttle is a plea of guilty.

Absolutely no harm in imagining.

This is only the tip of the iceberg, you know.

What is?

Biscuits.

Oh, I know there's something far more important.

Swiss roll.

Molesworth?

Rumpole.

What?

My name's Rumpole.

No, Molesworth.

No, really.

The American Air Force base at Molesworth.

Oh, sorry.

Where all the alleged protesters camp out with their thermoses.

Or is it thermi?

I must say that all genuine CND protesters, my name is Gorbachev, and there's no point in going into Molesworth.

I imagine Sam will take a plea on the biscuits.

If she confesses, this Lord Chief will probably keep the old bat out of chokey.

Is the Lord Chief Justice coming down to try it?

Oh, yes.

It's a question of loyalty in the Civil Service.

The government's very concerned about it.

It's going to be quite a party.

Wouldn't you, Sam, take a plea on the biscuits?

Oh, I'd be guided, of course, by the Law Offices of the Crown.

Is that my G and T?

Yes.

There's something I'd like to ask you.

Well, perhaps this isn't the place for further discussion.

All the best to you, fellas.

It's about my telephone.

It's developed hiccups.

Perhaps it's had rather too much claret.

[laughs] What's more, we had a red notice about a month ago.

They haven't cut it off yet.

Well, you're in luck's way then, aren't you, Rumpole?

Oh, my dear fellow, how are you?

Do you want to hear about tea and scandal?

Comma.

Thank you for letting Ms. Tuttle use her typewriter.

Oh, that's all right, Mr. Rumpole.

Anything to oblige his offense.

I'm sure.

She told you why she took it into the Ministry, did she?

Yes, she says she brought it in to get on with the reports on the typing pool was busy.

Quite.

Oh, by the way, Mr. Rumpole, I'd just like to warn you, sir.

A gentleman has to be careful of his acquaintances when he's on a sensitive case like this.

Does he indeed?

Does the name of O'Rourke mean anything to you?

Seamus O'Rourke, suspected IRA sympathizer?

O'Rourke?

Absolutely nothing.

Perhaps your wife then?

We'd just like you to be extra careful.

You don't mind me mentioning it?

There now, I expect you'll want to take these with you.

Thank you.

There's no doubt they came from the same machine as the notes from The Sunday Fortress.

RUMPOLE: And now get up and leave, please!

Oh, Mr. James, leave The Daily Telegraph.

Well, for the moment, I'm being Ms. Tuttle, some idea of learned council.

Oh.

It's over here-- Uh, Mr. Rumpole, this is Oliver Bowling of the Ministry.

Ah, Mr.

Bowling, I believe I'm indebted to you for the brief.

So glad you can take it on.

It's the most ridiculous business.

It's not going to do anyone the slightest good.

Erm, is there anything I can do to help?

Character witness, that sort of thing?

You can tell me one thing.

Did Ms. Tuttle always have a lunch here?

I mean, right there?

Oh, I believe so.

And in all sorts of weather, too.

A bit of a fresh air fiend, Rosemary Tuttle, and very regular in her habits.

Oh.

Well, back in the office by 10 past 2:00.

You could set your watch by her.

It's so rare nowadays.

What, outdoor sandwich eaters?

[chuckles] No, I mean, someone you can rely on, utterly.

[phone rings] A word with you.

Ballard, we're not going into secret session again, are we?

Ms. Probert, might I have a word with your pupil master?

All right, Liz.

That girl, Probert, she can't possibly come into court.

She is going to take a note for me.

Impossible.

She's a member of the bar, Ballard!

You can't keep her out!

We were grossly deceived.

She is not a clergyman's daughter.

Oh, I'm sorry.

Are the courts are only open to clergyman's daughters today?

You and I had better buzz off home.

Detective Inspector Fallowes has just told me who she is.

So?

She is the daughter of Ron Probert.

Red Ron.

Well?

Chairman of a certain London council.

So?

You do see, we can't have a girl like that in court, not on a sensitive case.

You mean a case about sensitive biscuits?

It might not be just biscuits anymore.

We might have to apply to add new charges.

Oh, yes, you do that and make this particular prosecution look even more fatuous.

Look here, Rumpole, I would advise you to take this matter seriously.

And I would advise you, Ballard, if you can find a taxidermist willing to undertake the work, to get stuffed.

I'm only warning you, Rumpole, in the national interest.

The Oxford Dictionary of Quotations.

A bit worn around the edges, like me.

Tea.

Tea, tea, tea.

Oh, there we are.

Breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

And "is there honey still for?"

No.

"Dost sometimes counsel take and sometimes tay."

That's not it.

"To their tea and scandal."

That's more like it.

104.

Hilda!

HILDA: What did you say?

Do you happen to know anyone Irish?

HILDA: I can't hear you.

If we had a hatch, you could talk to me through that.

And then I could hear you perfectly well.

Seamus O'Rourke.

What on earth are you talking about, Rumpole?

Do you happen to know an Irish friend called Seamus O'Rourke?

What sort of friend?

Well, any sort of friend.

Why do you ask?

Oh, God knows.

What?

Er, God knows why I ask, Hilda.

It's something to do with official secrets.

There we are.

"Retired to their tea and scandal according to their ancient custom."

William Congreve.

It's time for the news.

Oh, there's the real nonsense.

REPORTER (ON TV): Going on in Brussels next week.

Whitehall is buzzing tonight with rumors of a further leak from the Ministry of Defence.

An article in the American magazine Newsweek has suggested that information concerning the sensitive NATO operation blueberry is already in the hands of the KGB.

The matter-- So that's why we're having the pleasure of his company.

REPORTER (ON TV): Question time.

The pound, which-- Whose company?

The Lord Chief Justice of England.

Put up Rosemary Alice Tuttle.

Are you Rosemary Alice Tuttle?

MS. TUTTLE: Yes, I am.

CHIEF JUSTICE: Are there any amendments to be made to this indictment?

New charges to be added?

My Lord, I make no immediate application.

What is an immediate application when it's at home?

Either my learned friend is making an application or he is not.

Why don't you wait and see, Mr. Rumpole?

No doubt your time will come.

I daresay it will.

CHIEF JUSTICE: Yes, Mr. Ballard.

Yours was in a corner of the clerk's room, Mr. Rumpole.

Sure you didn't leave it there?

Of course I didn't leave it there.

And what is Uncle Tom's doing in my room?

CHIEF JUSTICE: Very well.

Let the jury be sworn.

Rosemary.

- Oh.

- Good luck.

I'm sorry I can't stay.

I must dash.

All the very best.

- Thank you.

- Bye-bye.

Thank very much.

MR.

BOWLING: Bye-bye.

He seems a decent enough fellow, old Batty Bowling, a former civil servant, that is.

I have the most super boss, Mr. Rumpole.

Always ready to listen to your problems and never spares himself.

Burns the midnight oil.

Well, so do I.

Often, when I'm late typing up a report, I hear his singing.

Oh, musical, is he?

About the only chap I know who can actually whistle Wagner.

Whistle Wagner?

It's fantastic.

Must be something they teach them at Winchester.

Well, we've got your bell for the lunch hour.

Yes.

Would you care for a Guinness and a fragment of steak pie and greens across the road?

Uh, no.

Thank you, Mr. Rumpole.

I brought sandwiches.

- Oh, of course.

And there's rather a dear little churchyard just around the corner here.

Yes, yes.

Oh, there's something I wanted to ask you, um, about Congreve.

Congreve?

Is he at the Ministry?

A William Congreve, Ms. Tuttle, an English dramatist of genius, carried on rather shockingly, with the Duchess of Marlborough.

Doesn't the name ring any sort of bell?

Oh, yes, vaguely.

I was an economist, actually.

Yes, of course.

Oh, and there's one other thing, the bomb.

The bomb?

More politely known as the nuclear deterrent.

Do you have affection for it?

Oh, golly, yes.

Like all the chaps in the Ministry.

We're 100% behind the bomb.

Of course.

That's all I wanted to know.

Thank you.

Mr. Warboys.

Or should we call you Mr. Chatterbox?

There's no need for my learned friend to be offensive to the witness.

Oh, do keep still, Ballard.

It is the man's pen name.

It would probably be better if you simply used the witness's name, Mr. Rumpole.

Of course.

I'm obliged to your Lordship.

I shall try to remember.

Mr. Warboys, you make your living by divulging secrets, do you not?

I don't know what you mean.

Who's sleeping with whom, you keep your eye to the keyhole?

I write a gossip column, yeah.

RUMPOLE: You're familiar with section 2 of the Official Secrets Act?

I know something about it.

RUMPOLE: That it is an offense to receive secret information?

I believe it is.

And for which you can receive a two years in the nick.

Two years imprisonment, Mr. Rumpole.

Oh, I'm obliged to Your Lordship.

I beg its pardon.

Imprisonment.

For a story about biscuits?

Oh, the Ministry of Defence is very protective of its biccies.

[laughter] Members of the jury, you may hear a good deal about biscuits from the defence in this case.

And I suggest that after Mr. Rumpole has got his laugh, we take this matter seriously.

This is a case about whether or not a servant of the crown was loyal to the interests of the Government.

Very well.

Your Lordship would prefer me not to call a biscuit a biscuit?

Shall we settle for une petite piece de patisserie?

What is your next question, Mr. Rumpole?

Ah, yes, I was so fascinated with Your Lordship's address to the jury, I've forgotten my next question.

Er-- ah, yes!

Do you expect to be prosecuted for receiving secret information, Mr. Warboys?

Er, no, not really.

The police have set your mind at rest, have they?

I've been told I have nothing to worry about, yeah.

In return for giving evidence against the spinster lady whom I have the honor to represent, you are saving your own skin, Mr. Warboys.

I've agreed to cooperate with the police, yeah.

Yes, thus upholding the finest traditions of British journalism.

Mr. Rumpole, have you any relevant questions to ask this witness?

Of course.

Now then, regarding your alleged meeting with Ms. Tuttle-- In St. James's Park.

Yes.

That was the only time you saw her?

Yeah.

And on that occasion, you didn't speak to her at all.

In fact, by the time you reached her bench, she had gone.

That's what happened.

Now, Mr. Warboys, from the moment you saw her get up and go until you reached the bench and collected that envelope, was the newspaper it was wrapped in always in your sight?

I can't be sure.

Several people may have passed in front of the bench between you and it.

They may have done.

They may have done.

So you never actually met Ms. Tuttle at all?

No.

I'd had her letters, of course.

Well, you say her letters, but she hadn't signed them, had she?

- No.

Didn't even have her name on them?

No.

So when you say her letters, that's a pure guess.

Well, the second letter said that she would be sitting on the park bench and would leave at 2 o'clock and there she was.

Yes, but when did you say that she actually wrote those notes, that is a pure guess.

I suppose Mr. Ballard will say to the jury that that is a reasonable deduction, Mr. Rumpole.

Well, my Lord, I cannot be held responsible for what my learned friend may say to the jury.

Thank you, Mr. Chat-- Mr. Warboys.

Mr. Royce Williams, are you an expert in questioned handwriting, and have you also made a special study of typewriters?

MR. ROYCE WILLIAMS: Yes.

And have you considered the notes-- (WHISPERING) I'm beginning to feel at home at last.

--sent to Mr. Warboys of The Sunday Fortress and the other documents, three and four, later typed by Ms. Tuttle, as has been formally admitted in the detective Inspector's Office at New Scotland Yard?

Yes, I have.

Would you hand the documents to the witness, please?

Just tell the court your conclusions.

My conclusions, my Lord, is they're all typed on the same typewriter and on standard issue A4 typing paper.

By standard issue, you mean?

Standard issue in government departments, my Lord.

Thank you.

Yes, Mr. Rumpole.

Mr. Royce Williams, as an acknowledged expert on the subject, would you say that a typewriter doesn't work itself, but that a human agency is involved in the operation?

Yes, of course.

And that human operators have varying degrees of skill?

I should have thought that was obvious.

Yes.

Please bear with me, Mr. Royce Williams, if I have a simple mind.

Now, on the whole, a highly skilled typist will type smoothly, hitting every key with equal force, whereas one not so used to the machine may hit some keys harder than others, perhaps after hesitation, or perhaps less hard because they have less skill.

That is certainly possible.

Have you considered that in relation to these documents?

No, I must confess-- Let us take an example.

Would you look, please, at the word scandal in the notes sent to Mr. Warboys?

Aren't the S and the C heavier than the other letters in the word?

That would seem to be so.

And now let us look at the example typed by Ms. Tuttle in Scotland Yard.

Every letter has the same definition throughout.

Yes, I think they have.

Might that not lead you to the conclusion that while both notes were typed on the same machine using the same paper, they were typed by two different people?

I suppose it might.

You suppose they might.

Mr. Rumpole, where is this evidence leading us?

Your Lordship asks me that?

RUMPOLE (VOICEOVER): Believe me, old darling, I wish I knew.

To the truth, My Lord.

Oh, isn't that what we are supposed to discover?

Well, what do you think of the latest leak from the Ministry?

Important, is it?

Oh, perhaps I shouldn't ask.

[chuckles] Sometimes I wonder what is really important.

Wouldn't be a healthier and more peaceful place if we all told everyone exactly what we've got instead of trying to frighten each other with a lot of spurious secrets?

[gasps] Mustn't say that in the Department, of course.

Oh, of course not.

I suppose I'd better get back there.

Oh, can't you wait and see me cross-examine your big cheese, the Permanent Under Secretary?

I'm afraid not.

What sort of chap is he, Sir Frank Fawcett?

Comes from a branch of one of your antediluvian families, fellows at the flood couldn't wash away.

That sort of thing.

He'll be immensely fair.

Give me a ring if you need me.

Yes.

Well, I may want to ring you at home when court's over.

Oh, right.

Well, you'll need the number.

There you are.

I'll be leaving fairly early.

This chap from the Foreign Office has got the use of the Royal Box at Covent Garden.

You can dine there, you know.

It's rather fun.

Oh, really?

Comes from a branch of one of your antediluvian families.

Fellows that the flood couldn't wash away.

Sir Frank Fawcett, you know something about my client, Ms. Rosemary Tuttle?

Yes, I have read the reports on her.

You have no reason to think that she would constitute any sort of danger to the state, have you?

May I refresh my memory, My Lord?

Yes, of course.

Thank you.

Rosemary Alice Tuttle, born of Austrian parents, Francis and Maria Toller.

They emigrated to this country when she was two years old and changed their name.

She was educated at the Hampstead high school for girls and the London School of Economics.

Well, it's no mystery about that, except that they chose the name Tuttle.

She was, of course, thoroughly vetted when she took up her post with us.

Yes.

Er, is anything further known against her?

Do you really want all this evidence in?

Keep your head, Ms. Probert, when all about are losing theirs, and blaming it on you.

There were unconfirmed reports that she was seen at Molesworth American Air Force base in January 1986.

- Rumpole!

- Yes.

Isn't it appalling?

Allegedly attending an entirely peaceful demonstration.

She was questioned about the matter and denied it.

She suggested it might have been someone else similarly dressed.

Did that seem to you rather improbable?

It did, my Lord, yes.

After that, she was not recommended for further promotion and was kept under special surveillance.

Surveillance, which in this case, seems to have been somewhat ineffective.

FAWCETT: I'm afraid so, my Lord.

RUMPOLE: Yes, he got at the biccies.

CHIEF JUSTICE: Mr. Rumpole?

Yes, very well.

Let us try to take this little scandal seriously.

Have you been able to check that the material leaked to the press about the cost of refreshment and entertaining and so on was accurate?

It's not entirely accurate.

Yes, please go on.

Well, actually, I'm afraid my inquiries have led me to believe that we spend a good deal more than has been suggested, my Lord.

Ah, so that the secrets leaked to the press aren't accurate official secrets at all?

Not entirely accurate, no.

Sir Frank, there is something a great deal more significant than biscuits at the bottom of this particular barrel, isn't there?

I'm not sure what you mean, exactly.

Neither am I, Mr. Rumpole.

I mean that far more sensitive material than that has recently been leaked from the Ministry of Defence, hasn't it?

Mr. Rumpole, do you really think that that question is in the interests of your client?

That is why I asked it.

Would you answer please?

My Lord-- Better answer Mr. Rumpole's question.

We are in camera.

The answer is yes.

And there has been no application to add further charges against my client, Ms. Tuttle?

Not as yet, my Lord.

No, Mr. Rumpole, not as yet.

So then you don't yet know the source of this particular leak?

No.

And when, and if, charges are brought against whoever it may be, then this little scandal about the cost of Civil Service gastronomical extravagance will seem even more paltry and insignificant.

Members of the jury, it may come as a welcome relief to you all if we adjourn now.

USHER: Be upstanding.

RUMPOLE: Yes, Henry.

Could you get me a number?

4025920.

That's right.

Oh, Bowling is his name.

Oliver Bowling.

Thank you.

- Rumpole.

Yes.

Claude.

Claude!

Good Lord, you look as though the Valkyries have been after you all night.

Rumpole, I have to tell you, we didn't go to the opera together.

Oh, what a pity.

I was looking forward to not being there.

I mean, if you should see my wife, if Phyllida should happen to bump into you around chambers, don't bother to tell her how much you enjoyed Meistersingers.

Snoozed off, did I?

She knows I didn't take you, Rumpole.

Oh, been rumbled, Erskine-Brown.

Oh, [laughs ironically] As I suppose you might say, grassed.

Well, I may as well tell you the truth.

Liz Probert rang up Phyllida and said that I'd taken her to Covent Garden.

Well, hadn't you?

Well, of course I had.

Oh, I see.

And Mrs. Phyllida Erskine-Brown, the Portia of our chambers isn't demonstrating much of the quality of mercy.

She doesn't speak, Rumpole.

Breakfast passes by in utter silence.

And I did nothing, you understand?

Absolutely nothing.

Not even compliment Ms. Liz on her eyes in the crush bar.

How did you know?

That was your mistake, Claude.

Young women like Ms. Liz Probert these days don't appreciate that sort of thing.

To go and blurt out the truth like that to a chap's wife.

It was totally uncalled for!

Oh, well, maybe she doesn't believe in official secrets.

Oh, talking of which.

- What?

Bowling.

Why the Batty?

Very good at cricket, was he?

Good heavens, no, no, no, no.

A bat-- Bats in the belfry, you know.

RUMPOLE: Oh, I see.

Never mind what he said, questioned everything in class, that sort of thing.

And he was a bit of a show-off.

A show-off?

What about?

Oh, his literary knowledge, you know, always spouting quotations.

Something like you, Rumpole.

[phone rings] I-- I say, Horace, do you imagine Phylli will ever speak to me again?

Of course she will, Claude, yes.

If only to say goodbye.

Oh, hello, Mr.

Bowling.

It's Horace Rumpole.

Look, I wonder, could you spare me a few minutes this evening during the first act, say?

Oh, splendid.

I'd be most grateful.

Well, I know how concerned you are about Ms. Tuttle.

Good evening.

My name is Rumpole.

Mr.

Bowling said you'd show me up.

Yes, if you'll come this way, sir.

Thank you.

Thank you.

[opera music] ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ I can give you 10 minutes.

Tosca doesn't really get going, does it?

Until the second act.

When she kills him.

[chuckles] Well, exactly.

How can I help you?

Well, I wanted to defend Ms. Tuttle on the basis that what she did was entirely public spirited and quite justifiable.

Well, I'm inclined to agree.

But you rather put me off my stroke.

She insisted she did nothing.

My dear chap, the evidence.

Ah, yes, evidence.

What evidence exactly?

Someone else used her typewriter to type those notes to the press.

That someone could have left her glove beside the copying machine and dropped the envelope wrapped in The Daily Telegraph onto that park bench.

Why on earth would anyone want to go through that sort of rigmarole?

- Yes, indeed.

Why should anyone want to frame Ms. Tuttle on a silly charge about biscuits?

Well, yes, and why?

Someone who wanted to make her look ridiculous, dishonest, and totally unreliable.

Someone who wanted to make her appear in public as a gossiping old busybody who couldn't even get her facts right, so that if she gave evidence about something really important, no one would pay a blind bit of notice to him.

Really important?

The big leak, Mr.

Bowling, the NATO thing, Warheads, submarines, whatever it was.

Or perhaps it was no more important than biscuits, hmm?

Would the world be a more dangerous place if we did without secrets altogether?

You don't think so, do you, Mr.

Bowling?

Did I say that to you?

Oh, yes.

I can understand your intentions.

The end of the arms race, the beginning of peace.

Look, I really must be getting back to the opera.

I don't know exactly when it was, but it must have been a time when you ought to have been on leave, out of the office certainly.

It was late at night.

She heard you whistling.

Wagner, perhaps.

She walked in, she saw you doing whatever it was you were doing, almost certainly she didn't realize what it was.

But you couldn't be certain of that, could you?

Bank robbers sometimes shoot witnesses.

Ah, how much more subtle to make them appear absolutely ridiculous?

What do you intend to do?

I suppose recall Sir Frank Fawcett to the witness box and put the whole business to him.

Oh, you remember Sir Frank, whose antediluvian family survived the flood?

That was your quotation from Congreve.

Congreve?

Love for love.

And you quoted him in your note to Mr. Chatterbox.

That was what Erskine-Brown told me about you, you can't resist showing off your knowledge, even when perpetrating a forgery.

Ah, Poor Ms. Tuttle.

She is a very conventional English spinster lady.

She wouldn't dream of demonstrating at Molesworth.

That was your unconfirmed report, I take it.

Oh, and the only thing she knows about Congreve is that gentleman's name.

Rumpole.

I can't help you!

My allegiance is to my client.

It's a question of loyalty.

[classical music] Ah, Rumpole, there's been a development.

Yes, I know, it's a small paragraph on the inside page of The Times.

Regrettable accident at Covent Garden tube station.

Like everything else about this case, absolutely unnecessary.

I've been in touch with the attorney general-- Oh, and how does he feel?

We're offering no further evidence in view of the fact that the information leaked to the press was apparently inaccurate.

Of course, that gives you the out, doesn't it?

That's lucky for you.

And my client, of course, discharged without a stain on her character.

Yes.

Tell the truth, did he?

I'm not prepared to divulge that.

What did you ring Sir Frank Fawcett from the opera?

I told you, I am not prepared-- Secrets!

God's name, whatever would we do without them?

But they lead to death, don't they, Ballard?

Stupid, unnecessary secrets lead to death.

[loud banging] A fair cop!

Mr. Rumpole!

Ah, you recognize me.

One of the advantages of practice at the criminal bar is that one does not expect to be burgled.

Burgled?

I'm just-- You know perfectly well what I mean.

Breaking and entering!

It looks as though you're breaking and exiting.

Do you mind me pointing out that's an interior wall that you are attacking?

I'd abandon your career of crime, you have no talent for it.

- Crime?

I don't know what you're talking about, Mr. Rumpole.

Housebreaking implements.

An entire bag full of them.

HILDA: Rumpole?

I might have let you go with the promise of future good behavior, but one is coming in whom the quality of mercy is considerably strained.

I thought you were in court all day.

Hilda, there is a man in the room, an intruder.

Well, of course, there's a man in the room.

He's come to do the hatch.

How are you getting on, Mr. O'Rourke?

Oh, just fine, Missus.

Not Seamus O'Rourke, by any chance?

All repairs and conversions cheerfully undertaken.

They've been listening to your telephone conversations, Hilda.

Talking of the telephone, Rumpole.

Conversations concerning a kitchen hatch.

The instrument has died on us at last.

Listen to that.

Silent as the tomb.

I told you to pay the bill.

Ah, yes.

Well, you know, pressure of business.

Yes.

Well, now they've cut us off.

At last.

I'm sorry about this intrusion, Mr. O'Rourke.

Please continue.

Nobody's listening to us anymore.

Nobody wants to look inside my briefcase.

Nobody is following me from the temple tube station.

Secrets case over.

Old Batty Bowling is dead.

Normal service will be resumed shortly.

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