[theme music] ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ [classical music] ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ Perdita.

The fish.

Oh no, didn't it arrive?

No, it didn't.

I can't think why.

Probably because you forgot to order it.

You don't expect it to come of its own accord, do you?

I didn't forget, did I?

Did I?

Don't move.

Sorry, Daniel.

It's really too bad of you.

You know how Daddy looks forward to his fish pie.

It's really not too much to ask, is it, just to ring up and order the fish?

Oh, (LAUGHING) really, Helen.

It's not worth bothering about.

There's no need to make such a fuss.

We'll have eggs.

[tired sigh] Hell and death.

Again?

[deep breath] Just now, if we could just run through your routine, Mr. Rumpole.

Breakfast?

Oh, generally at the Tasty Bite in Fleet Street, a fairly light affair.

Excellent.

A couple of eggs, fried slice.

Fried slice?

Three or four rations of bacon.

Ooh, that's all, I hope.

Oh, yes, apart from the sausage and tomato and the toast, marmalade, and coffee, yes.

Let's have you up on the scales, then.

Lunch is-- we only get an hour for lunch, so it's a bit of a snack, as it so happens.

Mm, a salad, perhaps?

Oh, who am I to take food from the mouths of starving rabbits?

Oh, a quick steak and kidney pud at the pub opposite the Bailey, a few boiled potatoes, some cabbage.

I find a pint of draught Guinness keeps the strength up at lunchtime.

And then nothing at all until dinner.

Nothing, good.

Well, unless you count the small crumpets at teatime.

There have been times, Mr. Rumpole, when I have known indulgence in a small crumpet at teatime to make the difference between life and death.

Drink?

Oh, thank you very much.

No, do you drink?

Apart from non-alcoholic beverages.

Oh, I hardly touch them.

Mm!

Pomeroy is very ordinary claret.

In my medical experience, it keeps you astonishingly regular.

The point is, do you want to drop down dead?

(QUIETLY) Sometimes.

What?

When I'm doing a hopeless rape, say, under the icy stare of Judge Gerald Graves-- ah, but on the other hand, when I've got the medical evidence on the run and the jury on my side, on those days, I can tell you, Horace Rumpole could live forever.

Well, he won't.

No.

How long you do depends on the diet I'm going to give you.

No wine.

What?

No meat, fish, eggs, bread, butter, milk, sugar, or pastry of any kind.

I see.

And how do I manage without food?

Thin-o-vite, a fat-free energy cereal-- mix it with water, and have as much as you like.

Make a pig of yourself on it.

(CHUCKLING) I can't wait.

I hope to see a lot less of you in a month's time.

[tense music] ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ Daniel?

Dan?

Oh, darling.

Pick 'em up, Rumpole!

Pick what up?

Pick up your feet.

One, two, one, two!

I just walked the entire way from Liverpool Street along the river.

Come on, now.

Chin up, swing the arms.

Whatever is the matter?

The war is over, Winnie.

The war may be over, Rumpole, but the battle for fitness goes on.

I mean to introduce a new scheme of health education in Chambers.

Know what I've got in this briefcase?

Copy of "The Spy Catcher"?

Ye-- no, a device for expanding the chest.

I intend to use it during the odd free moment.

Keep the chest open.

Keep the lungs free.

It is my duty as your Head of Chambers to prolong my life as much as possible.

Oh, really?

Why?

Why should you want to do that?

Can't let you fellows in Chambers down.

Oh, well, we wouldn't want to put you to any trouble.

Anyway, I can't let you down, Rumpole-- not now that I'm leading you.

You're what?

Well, haven't you heard?

Oh, terrible business.

Murder of Sir Daniel Derwent, RA.

Yes.

Well-known painter-- well, so they tell me.

I know nothing of these things.

Yes, yes.

I'm leading you.

Well, I only hope you can keep up.

One, two, one, two!

I shall be leading you from behind.

Traffic jam in Islington, Henry.

And do you know what caused it?

A procession of gay and lesbian demonstrators demanding more services off the rates.

Why is that funny?

I say, is that a new hairdo?

I don't see that it's at all funny.

What's my hair got to do with it?

It looks jolly nice, actually-- much softer and, well, more feminine.

Congratulations.

Oh, for God's sake, Claude, give us a break.

And why shouldn't the Islington Council provide gay and lesbian counseling?

Just think what they save you on education.

Radiant-- you're looking radiant!

Of course, I'd expect you to be against it.

I'd expect discrimination from you, Claude.

Discrimination?

Oh, yeah.

How many gay and lesbian members have we got in these Chambers?

- Well, none, I hope.

I mean, I think.

No, no.

I'm sure.

There you are, then-- discrimination.

Well, perhaps it's just that we don't get that many gay and lesbian applications.

Well, I'd like to see what would happen if we got one.

Just one!

I can imagine your middle class, middle aged, male attitudes, bristling with-- Middle aged?

Did you say middle aged?

Sexual discrimination-- comes in a packet, Claude, with middle aged spread.

I love it when you're angry.

Come for a coffee later on.

I'll let you pay for yourself.

Improve your attitude, Claude.

That's all you need.

[office chatter] Lady Derwent, the allegation the prosecution makes against you in this case-- and an extremely serious one it is, as I'm sure Mr. Rumpole would agree-- wouldn't you, Mr. Rumpole?

- Get on with it, Ballard.

- Yes.

There you are, you see.

The allegation is that you deliberately administered a massive overdose of the drug diamorphine to your husband, who had recently made a will in your favor.

Now, the question is, Lady Derwent, did you administer that fatal dose?

(QUIETLY) Be careful.

I would advise you to be perfectly frank with your legal advisors, madame.

Well, hmm?

Did you?

(STAMMERING) Just a minute.

Mr. Ballard, if I may make so bold as your mere junior-- Well, Rumpole, what is it?

A word, if I may, in your shellac?

Up here?

Excuse us.

Don't ask her that.

What?

Whether she pumped her husband full of diamorphine to lay her fingers on a bit of ready cash-- what a tactless question.

Yes, but isn't that what this case is all about?

Of course that's what it's all about.

That's why you don't ask.

Well, why not?

In case she says yes.

But then we'd know what the case was all about.

Exactly, and I'd be back in Chambers, unemployed, having fantasies about steak and kidney pud.

And you'd be back doing motor insurance.

First rule in murder, old love, never ask the customer if they did it, in case they tell you.

Ah, Lady Derwent, you met your husband when he was Professor of Painting at Saint Matthews, didn't you?

Yes, I was a student.

RUMPOLE: He fell in love with you, very understandably.

I don't know about that.

I fell in love with him.

And then he got a divorce and married you.

You were, what, 24 at the time?

23.

And then, his-- his daughter Helen came to live with you.

She's about five years older?

I'm afraid Helen always resented me, rather.

She thought I'd taken Daniel away from her mother.

It wasn't like that at all.

No, of course not.

They'd separated before you met him.

Yes, they used to separate and come together.

It was never happy.

When it finally ended, well, Daniel's wife was very bitter.

Was Helen bitter, too?

I think she worshipped her father.

She didn't make it particularly easy for me.

So, did you resent your husband having his daughter to live with you?

Were there quarrels about that, Lady Derwent?

Hmm, were there?

Daniel hated quarrels.

I did my best not to have them.

I suppose Helen wanted to take over the running of the house, just like her mother had done for so many years.

Well, you understand.

Oh, I'll have to understand if I'm going to cross-examine her.

I imagine I will be cross-examining Miss Helen Derwent.

It will fall to me, as leading counsel for the defense.

Yes, but just in case you're feeling a bit tired when we get to that stage.

I don't anticipate feeling the least bit tired.

No, I don't, not at any stage.

Oh, don't let's look on the black side.

Don't you raise your voice to me-- Mr. Rumpole, Mr. Ballard is briefed as leading counsel in this case, according to our client's previous solicitor's instructions.

Mr. Ballard, there is a case that has gone down in history as the "Penge Bungalow Murders."

If you consult the relevant volume of notable British trials, you will see that I brought victory home in that case, alone and without a leader.

Lady Derwent, I believe you also live with your mother-in-law, Mrs. Barbara Derwent.

How do you get on with her?

I've always loved Bunty.

She was so kind.

She never criticized me or made me feel a fool about the house or anything.

And she was so pleased when Daniel and I got married.

She said Imogen had been the most terrible snob.

That's the first Lady Derwent.

Yes.

Bunty wasn't a snob at all.

She'd been a dancer when she was young, in the chorus.

Of course, you'd never guess that now.

She's got so fat.

Funny, isn't it?

Yes.

Well, we-- we all change, Lady Derwent, over the years.

We can't all get many laughs out of it.

Don't suppose you have a biscuit or a few peanuts about it?

No, of course not.

Lady Derwent, we've all had copies of the post-mortem result on your husband.

Medical evidence.

He was apparently suffering from an illness, which gave him a relatively short time to live.

Yes, it doesn't make sense.

I've been trying to work it out.

Danny loved life so much, everything about it.

He loved his work, and I think he loved me.

What doesn't make sense is the idea of you killing your husband for his money when he was going to die, anyway.

I suppose that's something that might even have occurred to you, Ballard.

And we have also seen-- seen copies of this-- this pamphlet or circular, which was apparently found among the clothes in your bedroom.

It is a work entitled Across the River.

I honestly don't know how it got there.

I've never seen it before.

It appears to advocate euthanasia.

[clears throat] Yes.

Well, it's been most useful to have this little chat with you, Lady Derwent.

"The troubled soul, in a state of acute pain or terminal illness, may-- We must see what we can do about-- --be helped across the river into a less troubled country."

Some bail.

"All that is needed is a rudimentary knowledge of medical science and the effects of--" Anyway, we must be getting along now, Lady Derwent.

As a matter of fact, the fact of the matter is, I'm not feeling altogether up to snuff.

Mr. Rumpole, you look decidedly unfit, sir.

What is it?

Mr. Rumpole?

Oh, I shall be all right, Lady Derwent.

You and I will probably be all right.

Ballard, perhaps you'd like to run us back to Temple in your sturdy little motor.

I say, wait for me, will you?

Say, wait-- wait for me.

Lady D. [bangs into doorway] Oh.

Our doctor only wants to keep you alive, Rumpole.

Does he honestly call this living?

Thin-o-vite and a crisp of bread?

Well, it's better than being dead.

That's the doctor's point.

But is it?

Is not being dead enough, Hilda?

Battery hens aren't dead.

Chained up, fattening pigs and crated up veal calves aren't dead.

Even Judge Graves down the Old Bailey appears to be still breathing, if you look closely.

Life isn't enough, Hilda, not per se.

A fellow's got to have something to live for, some fine, ennobling, enriching experience.

Like steak and kidney pudding, you mean?

You've made a funny.

Yes, all right, like steak and kidney pud.

[groans] Poison.

Two pounds 40, please.

Is that your breakfast, Rumpole?

Yes.

I'm at the hand of a dotty doctor who wants to keep me alive at all costs.

Sounds reasonable.

Oh, really?

From you, I would have thought people of a certain age ought to be bagged up and put out by the dustbins.

And one large sugar bun.

[shushes] (WHISPERING) Be quiet, for God's sake.

I'll get you into our Chambers, Dave, I promise you.

Just takes a bit of organization.

There's a man called Claude Erskine-Brown.

To be honest, he reckons he fancies me.

Liz, you don't mean to say you'd use sexual manipulation.

It's all in a good cause, Dave.

We can work together on the rent inquiry in Tower Hamlets.

You wouldn't mind going for an interview with Claude, would you?

I'll tell him you're not Black.

Liz, for you, I'd go for an interview with the Lord Chancellor.

Oh, don't worry, Claude is not a bit like the Lord Chancellor.

For one thing, he can't seem to keep sex off his mind.

[choking, chuckling] [grumbles] [knocking] Come.

Inchcape.

Yes, Dave Inchcape.

Dave, of course.

Well, Dave, hi.

Erskine-Brown, Claude.

Sam Ballard's busy on a big murder, so he's asked me to interview you in his room as deputy head.

That's very kind of you.

Oh, well, think nothing of it.

Dave, why don't you sit down?

Um-- Over here.

Well, Dave, the fact is Liz Probert's had a long talk to me about you.

Great girl, Liz-- she's tremendously keen that we shouldn't have any kind of discrimination in Chambers.

I mean, we shouldn't be against you simply because you're what you are.

What am I?

Well, what you are, entirely through no fault of your own.

Oh, you mean young?

Well, yes, young-- I suppose.

And-- well, these things are no doubt decided for us at a very early age.

You mean wanting to be a barrister?

Well, that and-- [whimpers] it's a matter of the sort of genes you get born with, biologically speaking.

You think I was born with a barrister's genes?

[chuckling] Very good, that.

Very funny, very funny.

Of course, you lot always have had a marvelous sense of humor.

Well, I expect you want to know a bit about my experience.

- Good heavens, no.

- You don't?

No, no, no.

No, no.

I take the attitude, Dave, that your experiences are entirely a matter between you and, well, whoever you've had the experiences with.

Well, Tompkins in testament building.

Now, please don't tell me.

It's absolutely none of my business.

You-- you mean, Tommy Tompkins?

Yes, I was with him for about a year.

But I thought Tommy was married to a lady magistrate.

Well, so he is.

Does that make a difference?

Well, not nowadays, I suppose.

No, the way I look at it is this.

Dave, my attitude is, there's no essential difference between us.

Except you've had a great deal more experience than me.

Oh!

Oh no, no.

No, I wouldn't say that.

But of course, I do have the children, young Tristan and Isolde-- a perpetual joy, named after Wagner's star-crossed lovers, of course.

Dave, you can't know what it's like having little ones around you.

No, I'm sorry.

Now, please, don't apologize.

No one's going to blame you.

Think what you save us on the rates.

What?

Well, by not having children.

No, in my view, you're absolutely entitled to counseling services.

Well, I'll be reporting to Ballard.

And I'm sure we'll be able to squeeze you in.

Well, I don't mind sharing a room.

Well, not with me, I'm afraid.

That would hardly do, would it?

No, perhaps we can put you in with Liz Probert.

Then, you wouldn't have any distractions.

Well, thanks, Claude.

Thanks very much.

Not at all.

That way out, Dave.

[street chatter] RUMPOLE (VOICEOVER): It was about the noon of a glorious day in June, when our general rode along us, for to form us for to fight.

Our general-- [scoffs] General Bollard, what am I landed with?

A commanding officer with about as much talent for Old Bailey warfare as a sheep in holy orders.

Body building won't do a thing except prolong the life of Bollard unnecessarily.

Courage building, that's what's needed-- the talent to draw the saber and charge into the gunfire of Judge General Graves, into the mouth of Hell.

Can't see Bollard doing that.

Cannon to right of him, cannon to left of him.

Bollard would sneak off home and exercise with his chest expander.

It's your big case today, isn't it?

Ah!

I just saw Sam Ballard going up to the robing room.

Oh, that must have been a treat for you, Matron.

Oh, it was.

He was looking wonderfully fit, was our Sam.

Well, I suppose it's a case of follow my leader for you today.

Isn't it, Mr. Rumpole?

You ought to look after yourself, you know?

Yeah.

Aren't we letting that naughty tummy of ours get a little bit out of hand?

I'm vanishing into air-- into thin air.

Thank you, Matron.

That's all right, my dear.

I like to keep a watchful eye on all my barristers.

Yes, Mr. Marcus Griffin.

May it please you, my Lord?

Members of the jury, in this case, I appear with my learned friend, Mr. Arthur Ian Daybell to prosecute.

And the defense is in the able hands of my learned friend, Mr. Samuel Ballard, who's ably assisted by Mr. Horace Rumpole, his junior.

Members of the jury, this case concerns the death from a massive overdose of diamorphine of Sir Daniel Derwent, RA, the well-known painter.

He had made a will, leaving his entire estate, a considerable sum of money, members of the jury-- something well over 2 million pounds-- to his wife, Perdita, the defendant in this case.

He had made no provision for his mother, Mrs. Barbara Derwent, his daughter from a previous marriage, Helen, though these two ladies lived with him at number 1 Ruskin Street, Chelsea, as members of his family.

(QUIETLY) He made provision for them during his lifetime.

Yes, I know, I know.

It's in my brief.

Yes, but the jury hasn't read your brief.

Get up and tell them.

- Horace-- Don't Horace me.

Get up on your hind legs, why don't you?

Make your presence felt.

- Our time will come.

Yes.

By then, it will be too late.

The jury will believe that Perdita is a bloody little gold digger.

Mr. Ballard, I think your junior is trying to tell you something.

I'm extremely sorry, my Lord.

I apologize most sincerely for any interruption.

No need to apologize.

Sit down.

Mr Ballard, I can't hear your junior.

Sir Daniel Derwent made a very generous financial disposition on his mother and daughter during his lifetime.

Can your lordship hear me now?

My Lord, that would appear to be correct.

Thank you, Rumpole.

Of course it's correct.

It would also be correct if the prosecution presented the facts of the case in a full and fair manner to the jury at this stage, and not try to color the evidence by a one-sided account.

That will do, Rumpole.

Please, sit down.

All right.

Any mistake I may have made was quite unintentional.

Provided it is accepted that this prosecution is capable of mistakes.

Mr. Rumpole, my understanding is that you appear here as junior counsel to your learned and very experienced leader, Mr. Samuel Ballard.

Yes, some very funny things happened on the Bailey.

Quiet, Rumpole.

My Lord, that is perfectly correct.

Continue with your opening speech, Mr. Marcus Griffin, entirely in your own way.

Members of the jury, the deceased and his wife occupied separate bedrooms.

When he was ill, he couldn't sleep.

The following articles were found in the defendant, Lady Derwent's bedroom-- a hypodermic syringe and a quantity of empty ampoules, which had once contained diamorphine.

These were found in Lady Derwent's bedroom cupboard.

In one of her drawers, there was a further discovery-- a pamphlet apparently produced by a society advocating euthanasia.

And in it, the effects of overdoses of various drugs used to relieve pain are freely discussed.

Members of the jury, you will hear evidence about the matrimonial relationship of this couple.

I've told you they occupied separate bedrooms.

Because he couldn't sleep.

Do you wish to interrupt again, Mr. Rumpole?

No, my Lord.

I'm quite prepared to let the prosecution continue with its inaccuracies.

Our time will come.

Nurse Gregson!

What time did you call that afternoon to give Sir Daniel Derwent his injection?

I arrived a few minutes after 4 o'clock.

Was Lady Derwent in the house?

Oh, don't lead, please.

Who was in the house?

Miss Helen Derwent.

The deceased's daughter.

And his mother.

And Lady Derwent was there.

One couldn't help noticing her.

MARCUS: Why not?

She was sitting on a chair, my Lord, stripped naked to the waist.

Am I to understand this young lady was sitting among the family with her bosoms unclothed?

That is right, my Lord.

(WHISPERING) Is that a criminal offense?

Mr. Rumpole?

I'm merely asking for a legal direction, my Lord.

At the moment, this evidence seems to be utterly irrelevant.

Mr. Ballard, is there any way in which you can discourage further interruptions from your learned junior?

I can only say I will do my best, my Lord.

Thank you, Mr. Ballard.

You should be very much obliged.

And you saw Sir Daniel Derwent?

Oh yes, he was there.

He was painting his wife's portrait.

(QUIETLY) Painting unclothed bosoms-- an unfortunate habit of artists through the centuries.

Mr. Ballard.

My Lord?

I think Mr. Rumpole spoke again.

That may very well be so, my Lord.

See to it, Mr. Ballard.

MARCUS: Nurse-- Horace, as your leader, I order you to keep quiet.

Be quiet.

I'm trying to hear the evidence.

--an injection of diamorphine, as Dr. Harman had prescribed.

Nurse, I understand this was a top-up injection, as he was in considerable pain.

Yes, it was.

The family had a hypodermic and might have done the job themselves, but they always got me to do it.

They were a little bit squeamish when it came to using a needle.

Was that the hypodermic syringe they kept but didn't use?

I imagine so.

Did you have a considerable quantity of diamorphine ampoules in your bag for use on other patients?

Yes, I did.

Were they all contained in wrapping similar to those?

Yes, they were.

After you had given the injection, what did you do?

I went out into the hall with my bag.

And I was putting on my coat when Mrs. Derwent Senior-- The deceased's mother?

Yes-- asked me if I'd like to stay for a cup of tea.

I said I would, and I went back into the studio.

I left my bag in the hall.

MARCUS: Leaving your bag unattended?

Yes.

Mrs. Derwent Senior went out to make the tea, and Lady Derwent was given a break from sitting.

She put on some kind of wrap and went out to help her mother-in-law.

What about you?

Oh, I stayed in the studio.

Did Sir Daniel leave the studio at all while you were there?

I couldn't be certain.

If he did, it was only for a few minutes.

Did Miss Helen Derwent leave it?

Oh, no, I'm sure she didn't.

And how did the visit end?

We all had tea in the studio.

Then, I collected my bag and went home, as it was my last call for the day.

And the next morning?

I checked my bag and discovered a large quantity of diamorphine ampoules were missing.

I also heard on the news that Sir Daniel had died in the night.

Yes.

Thank you, Nurse Gregson.

Just wait there.

(WHISPERING) Come on, Ballard.

This is your big moment.

[clears throat] Uh-- um-- Miss Gregson?

[clears throat, coughs] Was there any particular question?

(QUIETLY) Could Sir Daniel Derwent have injected himself with the overdose if he had enough diamorphine and a hypodermic syringe?

Oh yes, Nurse Gregson, if Sir Daniel had managed to get hold of enough diamorphine and had that syringe, could he not have administered the overdose to himself?

I suppose he could have done it.

(WHISPERING) Could he have left the studio and taken the drugs from the bag when it was in the hall?

Oh, yes, Nurse Gregson.

Let me ask you this.

Might Sir Daniel have left the studio while tea was being prepared?

Your bag was in the hall.

He might have taken the ampoules from it.

I have said he might have gone out for a few minutes, that's all.

Sit down.

Shut up.

Don't spoil it.

And you admit that he could have injected himself?

He could have, but I don't think he did.

Leave it alone, Ballard.

[shushes] Tell the members of the jury, Nurse Gregson, why don't you think so?

Sir Daniel had a horror of hypodermic needles, my Lord.

I'm quite sure he could not have done such a thing on his own.

Couldn't have done such a thing on his own.

Thank you, Nurse Gregson.

MARCUS: Yes, thank you, Nurse Gregson.

Well done.

Our learned leader scores an own goal.

MARCUS: --evidence will take some time.

Oh, good day to you both, good day.

Morning.

[humming, scatting] [groans, coughs] [humming, scatting] One, two.

One, two.

One, two.

One, two.

Couple of ideas for the cross-examination of Helen Derwent.

One, two, one, two.

Ballard!

[grunts] Good God-- stunned by his own chest expander.

I should have warned him.

Exercise can prove fatal.

Operator, put out an urgent call for Matron, please, would you?

Matron.

Matey.

Muscle pulled in the back, severe shock-- doctor's recommendation, two days' complete rest.

Poor fellow.

He's been so wonderfully brave about it.

Never a thought of self.

Well, isn't that our lovely Sam Ballard all over?

We can finish this case in two days if the evidence keeps going at this rate.

The only thing he's worried about is letting you and the client down, Mr. Rumpole.

Oh.

He's got no idea how you're going to get on without him.

No, I don't suppose he has.

Almost his last words as we got him into the ambulance were, "well, of course, Rumpole will ask for an adjournment."

An accident in the Queen's Counsel's Robing Room?

I never imagined that was a particularly dangerous environment.

So you're asking for an adjournment?

My instructions are quite clear, my Lord.

I am to carry on.

My junior is Ms. Liz Probert.

I guarantee that she will not interrupt.

You are to carry on, Mr. Rumpole?

RUMPOLE: None other, my Lord.

Mr. Marcus Griffin, what have you to say about this?

If Mr. Rumpole is determined to carry on, as he seems to be, I do not see how he can be prevented from doing so.

Cannot be prevented-- I'm afraid you may be right.

Very well.

Let's get on with it, shall we?

I have been waiting to do that for some time, my Lord.

MARCUS: And finally, Miss Derwent, where did you find those three articles which my Lord has on the desk before him?

The wrappers for the ampoules and the syringe were in my stepmother's bedroom cupboard.

The pamphlet was in a drawer among her clothes.

Bernard!

MARCUS: And when did you find them?

This euthanasia group, this Across the River Society, threaten them with a subpoena, anything.

But get a list of their membership.

I'll try.

Don't try, old darling, now we're alone.

Succeed.

Mr. Rumpole, do you want to cross-examine this witness?

Just a few questions, my Lord, yes.

Miss Helen Derwent, you didn't approve of your father's second wife?

She was very young and feckless.

I suppose he was besotted with her, in a way.

I suppose some men might enjoy being besotted.

Perhaps.

By feckless, you mean incompetent?

Totally incompetent.

RUMPOLE: Ah.

On the very night my father died, for instance, she had forgotten to order fish.

Oh, dear.

[tuts] It may not sound much, but my father looked forward to his fish pie on a Friday night.

Of course, Perdita had forgotten to order it, so we had to have omelets.

Who cooked them?

What?

Did Lady Derwent cook the omelets?

Perdita?

Yes!

Of course not.

She was just about up to boiling water.

I think Granny cooked them.

Just the omelets?

He had some mulligatawny soup Granny had made the day before and a treacle tart.

Is there anything else you want to know?

RUMPOLE (VOICEOVER): What's the matter with me?

I can't stop thinking about food.

I would like to ask you a little more about your father.

His work meant a lot to him.

Oh, it was his whole life.

But his increasing illness meant that a time was coming when he would not be able to paint any longer.

That might be so.

Well now, might not an artist who sees the end of his talent realize that he had nothing left to live for, and decide to take his own life?

Have you considered that possibility?

Daddy never mentioned suicide.

Well, didn't mention it to you, perhaps.

Or to anyone else, as far as I know.

Besides, he still had a lot to live for.

Ah, you mean his happiness with a beautiful, young wife?

No, I did not mean that.

On the morning after your father's death, you went upstairs by yourself.

While Lady Derwent was talking with the doctor, you searched her room.

I took a look around in there, yes.

You had a look around, in the hope of finding something to incriminate your stepmother?

- No.

- Then, why?

I had often thought that Perdita would not be able to face looking after my father through his final illness.

She was just too young and incompetent-- RUMPOLE: --and feckless.

Is that the word you'd use?

Exactly.

So it often occurred to me that she might try and, well, help Daddy out of this world, especially if it would be to her financial advantage.

RUMPOLE: Did Daddy tell you that he had left all his money to his young wife?

He said that, yes.

After having made generous provision for you and his mother.

That's been agreed by the prosecution.

We needn't waste time on that.

Your Lordship is always helpful.

You know something, I expect, of the law of wills?

I know a little.

Do you know that if Lady Derwent is found guilty of the murder of her husband, she will inherit nothing?

We all know that, Mr. Rumpole.

Oh, I'm sorry, my Lord.

I didn't know the jury had passed all the bar exams.

Mr. Rumpole-- And if she is found guilty, the 2 million pounds will be equally divided between you and your grandmother?

Are you suggesting that these exhibits-- the broken ampoules, the syringe, and the pamphlet-- were never in your client's bedroom at all?

Oh, Your Lordship goes so quickly to the heart of the case.

That is, of course, the truth and the matter.

You found those empty ampoules, didn't you, near your father's body?

And the hypodermic syringe and the pamphlet, was that there as well?

What exactly are you accusing me of?

Mr. Rumpole, may I remind you of the evidence Nurse Gregson gave?

This witness remained in the studio with the nurse the whole time the medical bag was left unattended.

She had no chance at all of removing the diamorphine ampoules.

Oh, I quite agree with that, my Lord.

I'm not suggesting for a moment that Helen Derwent killed her own father.

Then, what are you suggesting, may I ask?

That she put those exhibits in my client's bedroom so that some gullible jury might convict her of murder, my Lord.

Oh, really?

And who do you think killed my father?

As I think the jury will think when they've heard all the evidence, your father took his own life when his painter's hand refused to obey his commands.

Hilda, I am conducting an important murder trial-- alone now, thank God, and without a leader, Ballard having knocked out his few brains in the pursuit of a longer life.

Tomorrow I hope to make a final speech to the jury.

I cannot do that on Thin-o-vite!

It's not Thin-o-vite anymore, Rumpole.

It's a nourishing, low-calorie diet soup.

And I'm only giving it to you because I'm concerned about your health.

Well, couldn't you be a little less concerned and give me another-- give me a cutlet?

[phone ringing] Oh, Bernard.

Oh, good heavens, yes.

Of course, how stupid of me.

I should have guessed.

Well, I mean, I should have known all along, really.

No, no, we don't have to.

No accused person can be forced into the witness box.

So why should I put Lady Derwent there, just so old Marcus Griffin can have a go at her?

No, no, no.

There's another cogent reason why we should go straight to final speeches.

What's that?

We might finish the case before Ballard gets out of bed.

[laughs] I shall say to the jury-- Members of the jury, Lady Perdita Derwent has been accused of the monstrous crime of murdering her husband she loved.

She's fully entitled to say, as you or I would be, were we accused-- to say to this bumbling prosecution, all right, prove it.

But don't expect any help from me in your unsavory business.

And at the end of the day, to say to you now that nothing-- nothing at all has been proved beyond reasonable doubt.

A famous painter who loved his art finds, through increasing illness, that he can paint no longer.

Can't you understand?

Can't we all understand his decision to take his own life?

Nurse Gregson leaves her bag in the hall.

Sir Daniel Derwent leaves the studio for just long enough to take from it the ampoules of diamorphine.

Nurse Gregson tells us he didn't like needles.

Members of the jury, very few of us do.

But if we are desperate enough, we can all use them.

So what remains of this pathetic prosecution?

Only the evidence of what Helen Derwent says she found.

Why did she, cold and calculating as she is, go up to her stepmother's room on that dreadful morning after her father's death?

Was it to find evidence, or was it to plant it?

Did she lie when she said she found these exhibits in her stepmother's room, in order to feed her malice and to satisfy her greed for money?

Members of the jury, I suggest to you that you would not convict in a case of unrenewed dog license on the evidence of Helen Derwent.

She will get off, won't she?

I suppose you think that anyone should get off-- I mean, anyone that killed him, as a member of the Across the River Society.

You are a member, aren't you?

And it was your pamphlet.

He couldn't paint anymore.

He wouldn't want to live if he couldn't paint.

Are you sure?

Oh, absolutely positive.

It was for the best.

Individual omelets?

What?

You cooked each of you an individual omelet that night and mulligatawny soup.

Well, I suppose that would disguise any flavor of diamorphine.

I know you don't like hypodermics.

What are you trying to say, Mr. Rumpole?

Oh, nothing very complicated.

Only that you took those ampoules from Nurse Gregson's bag.

You knew exactly what they looked like, and you got their contents into your son's food.

Then, Helen found them and planted them.

But what I'd like to know is this.

There's something you don't know?

Did you discuss this sudden decision to take your son's life with him at all?

What were his views on the subject?

There was no need for any discussion.

A mother knows, Mr. Rumpole-- a mother always knows.

Will you please answer my first question, yes or no?

Have you reached a verdict on which you are all agreeing?

Yes, my Lord.

Do you find Perdita May Derwent guilty or not guilty of murder?

Not guilty, my Lord.

That is the verdict of you all.

My Lord, might my client be discharged?

Yes, Mr. Ballard.

Sorry you were away from us so long.

Silence in court.

Be upstanding.

This court is now adjourned.

God save the Queen.

[courtroom chatter] Lady Derwent, I'm so very glad we managed to pull it off for you.

It's a wonderful victory for Sam, isn't it, Mr. Rumpole?

Considering he was away so much of the time.

Do you know, Rumpole, that Matron was a ministering angel to me?

She practically camped out in the hospital.

In fact, she wouldn't let me come back here until she was quite sure I was out of danger.

Ah, we should all be grateful for that.

Goodbye, Lady Derwent.

Mr. Rumpole, how can I thank you?

Oh, I don't know.

Just go on living.

You've got a lot of that left to do.

Come on, Ms. Probert.

I daresay, I can manage another coffee.

Hi.

Well, I met your Claude Erskine-Brown.

Good.

He's going to move your admission at the Chambers meeting.

Well, that's fine, but-- But?

Well, is there anything strange about Erskine-Brown?

Strange?

Mm.

At our meeting, he said one or two things that seemed a little, well, strange.

I mean, I haven't the slightest prejudice against blokes like that, but-- well, tell me, quite honestly, Liz.

You don't think he fancies me?

[scoffs] I don't think it's you he's after.

We don't really need anyone else to share our work.

I speak as a man with daughters.

Daughters.

Daughters.

I just think it'd be jolly bad if this Chambers got the reputation for any sort of discrimination.

I'm with you there, Claude-- entirely with you.

Which is why I'm particularly keen on the admission of young David-- Dave.

He prefers the style, Dave Inchcape.

Is Inchcape Black?

No, Uncle Tom.

Dave is not Black.

Pity.

They had a little Black chap in old Fatty Jackson's chambers.

Let him in after a good deal of soul searching, after which he went off and became Prime Minister of Limpopo Land or whatever.

Made old Fatty Lord Chief Justice.

Other fellows in Chambers got Attorney General and all sorts of rich pickings.

Would you like to go to Limpopo Land, Horace?

Oh, anywhere, Uncle Tom, as long as there aren't any Chambers meeting.

As I say, I've met Dave, and he's been extremely frank with me-- out of the closet, as we would say.

Out of what closet?

Oh, never mind, Uncle Tom.

Is this Black chap in the closet?

I really wouldn't worry about it, if I were you.

There should be no problem, accommodation wise, if Liz Probert would be so kind as to share a room with Dave.

Is that all right, Probert?

I think I might be so kind.

Oh, good.

That's settled, then.

Now, I have an announcement to make of a purely private and personal nature.

You will all know Mrs. Marguerite Plumstead, Matron down at the Old Bailey-- respected and, may I say, loved by so many bachelors-- barristers?

Yes, a formidable lady.

Yes.

Well, during my recent indisposition, Matron-- or Matey, as I shall always think of her-- was a ministering angel to me.

She was at my bedside in my stay in hospital.

She saw me through my convalescence.

We had been thrown together as the result of my accident.

I am now happy to tell you that I shall no longer be living a bachelor existence in Waltham Cross.

Mrs. Plumstead has consented to become my wife.

Have-- have you-- have you consulted Mr. Plumstead about this at all?

No.

No, Mr. Plumstead, after long service with the Department of the Environment, has, I regret to say, passed over.

Oh, gone across the river, has he?

Precisely, yes.

Of course, you will all be invited to the celebrations with your wives and-- In the case of Dave Inchcape, no doubt, live-in companions.

[cork pops] [fizzing] [applause] Good luck.

I never thought Sam Ballard would have taken a shine to Matey.

Mrs. Rumpole.

Mrs. Rumpole, won't you have just a tiny slice of cake, as it's such a special occasion?

Well, yes, of course I will.

Why ever not?

Oh, I thought you might be watching that naughty tummy, like your husband.

Rumpole and I are both perfectly fit.

Thank you, Matron.

Oh, I know.

Sam says your husband was such a help to him in the big murder.

I am so glad old Rumpole can still lend a hand as a junior barrister.

Old Rumpole, as you call him, seems to have done the big murder largely on his own, as indeed he did the Penge Bungalow Murders.

You must have heard of that case.

I'm not sure I have.

Yeah.

Well, Matron, how I envy you, with so much to learn about the law.

[party chatter] Mr. Rumpole?

Yes?

It's happened.

What?

My wife-- her turn has come.

She's no longer just a chair.

Oh, well, what now?

Well, my year has begun.

I'm now the Lady Mayoress of Bexley Heath.

Oh, Henry, my heart bleeds for you.

Diane is being extremely brave about it.

Ah, Rumpole!

Yeah?

Terribly sad, isn't it?

Oh, I don't know.

If you want to live forever, I don't suppose you've got any alternative but to marry Matey.

No.

No, no, sad about Dr. McAndrew.

He was your doctor, too, wasn't he?

Yes, why?

What's up?

Dropped dead.

What?

He must have been considerably younger than you.

Oh, poor Dr. McAndrew.

Oh, I am sorry.

How sad.

I say, Rumpole, look-- look over there.

Yes.

Oh, where?

Just look!

I've been greatly deceived.

The fellow's a raving heterosexual.

You're sure you don't mind sharing a room with me?

I think I could bear it.

- [laughs] - Excuse me.

Horace, is that chap Inchcape remarkably fair-skinned for an African Prime Minister?

Do you think we've been led up the garden?

Wouldn't be at all surprised, Uncle Tom.

[party chatter] That Matron gave me the smallest sliver of cake, Rumpole.

I could hardly see it on my plate.

Never mind, Hilda.

Fill up on Bollard's bubbly.

[glass breaking] [laughter] WOMAN: Well done, well done.

Silence in court.

That's a good way to start.

It's my pleasure to wish the happy couple health-- Not too much health, though, love.

What'd you say, Rumpole?

Just enough to get to one's feet in court, Hilda, or raise a glass to the lips.

It's the quality of life that counts, Hilda, the quality of life.

And to Hell with Thin-o-vite.

[theme music] As Ballard's best man and as one who's practiced many years in the courts of matrimony-- And lost most of his cases.

--I can only advise my learned leader to avoid a fight, plead guilty on all possible occasions, and rely on a moving speech in mitigation.

As we see him off to what I'm sure will be a sentence for life-- Well, really!

I think that could have been better put.

--we know that it will be served under humane conditions, in an open prison, and with the best possible medical attention.

Now, will you all raise your glasses to Sam Ballard and his lovely bride, that favorite Old Bailey character Marguerite, known to us all affectionately as Matey.

A toast, the bride and groom.

ALL: The bride and groom!