All language subtitles for Rumpole s05e01 tation.eng

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(Sniffs)

Hilda, are you coming down with a cold?

- It's touching, Rumpole.
- Oh, I'm so sorry.

No, Rumpole. The book.
The book is very touching.

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

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

Lord Simon Stingo.
He comes from Donegal.

We thought it as a bit of a rake,
he's turned out quite differently.

- Sad, is it?
- No, it's all ending quite happily.

He vowed he'd never marry. But Lady
Sophia's made him swallow his words.

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

Any chance of putting
the light out, Hilda?

Erm... No, no yet.
I've got another three chapters to go.

(Rumpole sighs)

(Female voice) Beautiful
and carefree though she was,

tireless of the waltz
and a fearless rider to hounds,

Lucy Lockhampton was resolved
not to lightly squander

her most precious possession
before her marriage night.

She loved Harry Sexton
too much for that.

- Miss Nettleship.
- Yes, Hetty? I am working, you know.

- Miss Nettleship, it's... the "Beacon".
- I've no idea what you're talking about.

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

- Harmless?
- I wouldn't say exactly harmless.

Well, come on, Hetty.

It says,
"Miss Amelia Nettleship is..."

Really, Miss Nettleship, I can't!

(Miss Nettleship) Miss Amelia Nettleship
is a bit of a puzzle.

The girls in her historical novels
always keep their legs crossed

until they've got a ring on their finger.

But whatever lucky man leads Amelia
to the altar, will inherit a torrid past

that makes Mae West
sound like Florence Nightingale.

Her latest lothario,
so far unnamed,

is said to be a married man who's been
seen leaving in the wee small hours.

Really, how can they say such things?
About you, of all people!

Don't just stand there, Hetty.
Get onto the lawyers!

(Indistinct chatter)

(Laughter)

Oh, what can ail thee, Erskine-Brown?
Alone and palely loitering?

Hmm... It's my practice, Rumpole.

Still practising? I thought you might
have got the hang of it by now.

I used to do a decent class of work.
I once had a brief in a libel action.

- Huh!
- You were never in a libel, Rumpole.

Who cares about the bubble reputation?

Give me a murder,
some well-placed blood stains.

- Now, guess what I've got coming up.
- A large claret for me!

- Actual bodily harm, an affray.
- All right.

In the Kitten-A-Go-Go Club, Soho.

Two unsavoury characters
in earrings and leather jackets.

- Duelling with Coca-Cola bottles.
- Sounds like my line o' country.

Exactly. I'm scraping
the bottom of your barrel.

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

Oh, thank you, Erskine-Brown.

A large Ch�teau Thames Embankment,
please Jack. Er, on the slate.

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

- Visit the locus in quo.
- The what?

Go to the scene of the crime,
inspect the geography of the place.

The geography of the Kitten-A-Go-Go?
Do I have to?

Of course! Then you can suggest that
it was too dark to identify anyone.

The witness couldn't see round a pillar.

- Mr Rumpole
- A piece of him.

Ted Sleaman. Deputy Editor.
The "Daily Beacon".

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

You do do libel, don't you?

Good heavens, yeah! The law
of defamation is mother's milk to me.

I cut my teeth on hatred,
ridicule and contempt.

- Slimy Sleaman?
- Collywobbles Erskine-Brown?

- We were at school together.
- Yes, obviously.

Er... Look, would you care to join
my editor? Glass of Bolly...

- What?
- Bolinger.

Thank you, Slimy. I'd love to.

Yes, you too, Colly.
Well, come on then.

Oh, golly, Colly, Bolly.

Jack! This horse was unfit for work!

Mr Rumpole. Morry Machin,
editor of the "Beacon".

- Connie, my Features Editor.
- Hello.

- Hello.
- I have admired you often from afar.

They say you're a fighter, Mr Rumpole.
You're a terrier after a legal rabbit.

Oh, I do my best.
Is that what we're drinking?

Ted, a bit of pouring for Mr Rumpole.
Oh, and for... er...

My learned friend, Claude Erskine-Brown
specialises in Common Assault.

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

Mr Rumpole, we were thinking
of bringing you in.

We have a er... spot of trouble over
a libel. Connie, do you have the cutting?

- Rumpole, tell him you can't do libel.
- How do I know that? I've never tried.

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

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

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

Well, little scraps in Soho clubs?
Oh, sordid stuff. Don't care for it.

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

Ah, you think that's important?

"Who steals my purse steals trash;
'tis something, nothing;

"'Twas mine, 'tis his
and has been slave to thousands.

"But he that filches from
me my good name,

"robs me of that which not enriches him,
and makes me poor indeed."

- One of your speeches, Mr Rumpole?
- Er, Shakespeare.

- (Chuckling)
- Oh, I see.

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

Who's bonking who, and who pays.
Our readers love it.

Thank you, Connie.

You'd have no hesitation
in acting for the "Beacon", would you?

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

That's the fine tradition or our trade.

It is my sacred duty, Mr Machin,
to take on anyone in trouble,

however repellent
I might personally find them.

Yes, we are dedicated to exposing
hypocrisy in our society.

Wherever it exists, high or low.

So when we find this lady pretending
to be such a force for purity,

and parading her morality in front
of the Great British public...

Being all for saving your cherry
'til the honeymoon.

Thank you again, Connie. Or, as I
would put it, denouncing pre-marital sex.

She's even against the normal stuff.

Whereas her own private life
is apparently extremely steamy,

we feel it our duty to inform our public.

"The Private Life of Amelia Nettleship,

"by 'The Beacon Girl on the Spot',
Stella January."

Are we talking of the Amelia Nettleship,

the expert bottler of pure historical
bilge water?

- The lady novelist.
- And hypocrite, so it seems.

Mind you, I have never met the woman.

She robs me of my sleep.
Don't know about her morality,

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

We need a statement
from the girl who wrote this.

Ah, small problem.
Stella left us a couple of months ago.

Oh! And went where?

Pass. Overseas, probably.
You know what these girls are like.

We'll have to find her. We shall fight,
Mr Machin. And we shall conquer!

First rate, Mr Rumpole.
I knew we could rely on you.

Of course you can.
I never plead guilty.

There speaks a man
who knows damn all about libel.

(Photo camera clicking)

(Erskine-Brown) It's been my invariable
rule in affray cases, Mr Thrower.

Always inspect the locus.

- The what?
- The scene of the crime.

To cross-examine
the witnesses on the geography.

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

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

(Peppiatt) Do you know my junior,
Dick Garsington?

(Rumpole) No.

I forget, you come from another world.
You're one of the criminal boys.

Oh, just a juvenile delinquent really.

Dick and I act for the proprietors
of the "Daily Beacon".

Melbury Publication Limited.

(Peppiatt) And Mr Cuxham,
as Melbury's solicitor is instructing us.

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

- (Chuckles)
- Are we playing cricket, old chap?

(Cuxham) Rather an expensive
game for Melbury.

The proprietors are liable
to indemnify the editor

for any loss occasioned
by a libel action.

I insisted on that when I took the job.

Very sensible of you,
Mr Machin, no doubt.

Now, it's obvious, Rumpole,
we mustn't seek to justify

these serious charges
against Miss Nettleship's honour.

Oh, wouldn't that be cricket?

If we try to prove
she's some sort amateur tart,

the jury could bump the damages
up to three hundred grand.

- Or four.
- (Peppiatt) Thank you.

- Even more.
- The mind boggles, Mr Cuxham.

But look here,
this defence you've filed.

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

- Our bargaining counter.
- What?

Something to give away
in the course of negotiations.

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

- Gracefully.
- We put our hands up.

There is no evidence
Miss Nettleship did any of these things.

Then we'll have to find some.
Isn't that what solicitors are for?

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

Couldn't we find Mr Rumpole
an ashtray?

(Disco music plays)

(Henry chuckles)

(Rumpole) Morning, Mrs Slattery.

Oh dear, dear!

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

- What's this?
- Your brief, Mr Rumpole.

In Amelia Nettleship versus
the "Daily Beacon" and Maurice Machin.

What's that?
The fee I agreed for you, Mr Rumpole.

I understand the paper
is paying for Mr Machin's defence.

- Not bad, Henry.
- It's reasonable, Mr Rumpole.

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

- How much?
- Five hundred a day.

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

Make it last? Henry, I will stretch it out
until the trump of doom.

We have serious and lengthy
allegations to make, Henry.

Allegations that may take
days and days with a bit of luck.

For the first time after a long career
at the bar, I begin to see something.

- See what, Mr Rumpole?
- A way of providing for my old age.

Oh, here comes
our poor criminal lawyer.

Any more problems
with your affray, Claude?

All under control, Rumpole,
thank you very much.

- Good.
- Morning, Henry. Morning, Dianne.

Morning, Mr Erskine-Brown.

Is that your "Beacon", Dianne?
May I have a glance?

Who's the beauty today, I wonder.

Oh, yes. A fine crusading newspaper.
Prints the truth without fear or favour.

- Ooh-hoo!
- Are you feeling all right, Claude?

Rumpole...

My dear fellow, you've gone quite pale.

- You told me to go there?
- Oh, go where?

- (Phone rings)
- The locus in quo.

- That's not what it's called, Claude.
- No.

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

It's Mr Ballard.
He'd like to see you in his room, sir.

(Henry) Without delay.

(Knock on door)

- Erskine-Brown.
- You wanted to see me, Ballard?

You're looking well, in wonderful form.

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

- Erskine-Brown!
- Yes, well, nice to chat.

- I've got a summons across the road.
- Just a minute!

- I don't really read the "Daily Beacon".
- Don't you? Neither do I. Terrible rag.

Half clad young women on page four,
so they tell me. And no law reports.

But coming out
of the Temple tube station,

Mr Justice Fischwick
pushed this in my face.

He's just remarried and his new wife
takes in the "Daily Beacon".

- How odd.
- What's odd?

- A judge's wife reading "The Beacon".
- Hugh Fishwick married his cook.

Really? I didn't know.
Well, that explains it.

I still don't see
why he should push it in your face.

Because he thought I ought to see it.

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

- Something is.
- What?

- You.
- Oh, really?

Good heavens! Is that me?

Unless you have a twin brother
masquerading as yourself.

You feature in an article
on London's square mile of sin.

- It's a misunderstanding.
- I'm glad to hear it.

- I can explain it.
- I hope so.

You see, I got involved in this affray.

- You got involved in what?
- This fight. In the Kitten-A-Go-Go.

I ought to warn you, you needn't answer
incriminating questions.

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

No, no, no. I... I... I'm doing
a case about a fight. An affray.

Er... with Coca-Cola bottles. And
Rumpole advised me to visit this club.

Horace Rumpole is an habitu�
of this house of ill repute? At his age?

No, not at all. Don't be stupid, Ballard.

Er... he said I ought to take a view.
Of the scene of the crime.

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

If that is so,
and I will make no further comment

while the matter is sub judice,

you will no doubt be suing
the "Daily Beacon" for libel.

- Do you think I should?
- It is quite clearly your duty.

To protect your reputation
and the reputation of these chambers.

Wouldn't it be rather expensive?

What is money compared
to the hitherto unsullied

name of Number 3 Equity Court?

(Birds twitter)

- Your secretary said you'd be here.
- Can't stop. Got to do my mileage.

I've been advised to issue a writ.

Oh, good. My editor seems to enjoy
a libel action. Glad you liked your pic.

Of course I didn't like it.
It will ruin my career.

Nonsense, Collywobbles,
you'll be briefed by all the clubs.

You'll become the strippers' QC.

- However did they get my name?
- Oh, I recognised you at once.

- Bit of luck, wasn't it?
- (Shouts) Slimy!

We were at school together.

(Rumpole) Do I address
Ferdinand Isaac Gerald Newton,

known in the trade as 'Fig' Newton,
private investigator to the quality?

- How's business, Mr Rumpole?
- Never better, Fig old love.

I'm doing civil work now.
Just got a big brief in a libel action.

Should provide a bit of comfort
for the old age.

But my solicitor,
instructing solicitor, is er...

Well, he could be described, using
pure legal terms, as a bit of a wally.

So I've come direct to you. Send him
your bill, by the way, when we win.

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

Keep your eye on a lady.

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

This one's a novelist. Amelia Nettleship.
Do you know her works?

No, I can't say I do, sir.
You on a winner?

With a little help from you,
Fig, perhaps.

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

- Oh. What's that, sir?
- The client. Back in a minute.

Ah, Mr Rumpole...
Ted, glass for Mr Rumpole.

No, thanks.

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

The barrister that goes
to funny places in the afternoon.

(Chuckles)

What are you asking me to do,
Mr Rumpole?

Well, apologise of course.
Print the facts.

Claude Erskine-Brown
was in the Kitten-A-Go-Go

purely in pursuit of his legal business.

I love it!
There speaks the great defender.

You'd put up any story, however
improbable, just to get your client off.

It happens to be true.

As far as we are concerned,

we published a pic of a gentleman in
a suit examining the goods on display.

- No reason to apologise for that.
- No reason at all, Morry.

- (Marchin) What's your view Ted?
- No reason at all.

- So you're going to do nothing about it?
- Nothing we can do.

Mr Machin, I told you
that it was a legal rule

that a British barrister is in duty bound
to take on any client, however repellent.

I do remember you saying
something of the sort.

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

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

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

(AII laugh)

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

- I'll do my duty.
- He's going through rather a rough time.

- Oh?
- The proprietors want to sack him.

- Because of this case?
- Not exactly.

The circulation's dropping.
Tits and bums, you see.

Going out of fashion.
Wives don't like it.

- Who'll be the next Editor?
- Well, I'm the Deputy now.

I see. Look, would you help me
on the case?

- In strictest confidence.
- What?

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

Find out how her article came in,
get hold of the original.

There might be an address,
some clue.

Yes, I'll er... have a try, Mr Rumpole.

Anything I can do to help old Morry.

Oh, yes, of course.

(Birds twitter)

Sorry, Claude.

- There you are, Rumpole.
- Yes.

Thank you. I'm so grateful
for your wonderful advice.

- Claude, I'm doing all I can to help.
- Oh, please.

Don't try to do anything else to help.

"Visit the scene of the crime", you said.
"Inspect the locus in quo'.

So where has your kind assistance
landed me, hmm? My name's mud!

Ballard's threatened
to kick me out of chambers.

I have to spend my life savings
on a speculative libel action.

And my marriage is on the rocks.

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

Your clients must be everlastingly
grateful to you.

- Marriage on the rocks, you say?
- Oh, yes, yes.

Phylli was ever so reasonable about it.

She said she didn't care
what I did in the afternoons.

But we should live apart for a while
for the sake of the children.

She didn't want Tristan and Isolde
to associate with a father

dedicated to the exploitation of women.

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

So thank you very much, Rumpole.
I'm enormously grateful to you.

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

Claude. You're shaving.

Wonderful to witness the workings
of a keen legal mind.

You're sleeping in chambers! Bollard
nearly got rid of me for a similar offence.

Where else do you expect me to go?

- Phyllida's having the locks changed.
- Claude, have you no friends?

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

Oh...

I don't exactly want to advertise the fact
amongst my immediate circle, so...

(Sighs)

I seem to remember when you fell out
with Hilda, you planted yourself on us.

Ah, yes. Ersk... Claude...

I cannot tell you how grateful I was for
your hospitality on that occasion, but...

Easy run in on the underground
from Gloucester Road.

Of course.
My door is always open.

I'd be happy to put you up
until this matter is settled, but...

Thank you, Horace. The least you
could do, under the circumstances.

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

Shoulder the burden of daily life
with She Who Must Be Obeyed?

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

Somewhere cosy
near the British Museum.

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

(Chuckles)

- Hilda!
- (Shouts) Is that you, Rumpole?

No, it's Father Christmas.

- What on earth have you got there?
- All the fruits of the earth.

Or rather, the fruits of the first cheque
from the libel case.

The first of many if we can spin the
proceedings out for a week or two.

Here we are - Champagne,
Ch�teau Fleet Street Premier Cru.

A stilton cheese.

Flowers gathered
from Temple Tube Station.

Jumbo box of cheroots.

Lavender water.

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

Finish it, Hilda.

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

You're doing that awful case.

That awful case, Hilda,
will bring us in

five hundred smackeroons a day
in refreshers.

Helping that squalid newspaper insult
Amelia Nettleship.

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

That's not a duty. It's a way of making
money out of the most terrible people.

Like the Editor of the "Daily Beacon".
My mind is quite made up, Rumpole.

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

(Male voice singing opera)

What in God's name...
Claude! How did you get here?

Claude telephoned me and told me
his troubles. I invited him to stay.

- He's got my dressing gown on.
- Yes, I had to pack in a hurry.

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

- How was your bath, Claude?
- Absolutely delightful, thank you.

Oh, what a relief.
The geyser can be quite temperamental.

- Oh, I say, is this your chair, Horace?
- Yes.

Stay where you are, Claude. We mustn't
have you catching cold after your bath.

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

(Sneezes)

(Door closes)

(Footsteps)

(Car door closes)

(Engine starts)

- There's no bacon and eggs, Hilda?
- Claude doesn't like a cooked breakfast.

But there's plenty of muesli.
I got it in for him especially.

What's that?
Sawdust and bird droppings?

- Claude won't mind you having some.
- How generous of him...

(Claude sings opera)

Morning, Hilda.
Rumpole, I hope you slept well.

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

I always find a little Wagner
settles me down for the night.

- Is there any goat's milk, Hilda?
- Of course.

- Goat's milk?
- I got it in for you especially.

- You rushing off to work, Horace?
- Some of us have to.

Well, I've got nothing special on today.
I might look into chambers later on.

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

So much better for you than sugar.

Organic honey.

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

- How do they know?
- What?

Do the other bees tell them?

"Oh, don't sip from that pansy, old chap,
it's been grown with chemical fertilisers."

(Hilda) Leave your "Times",
will you, Rumpole?

Why?

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

Go on. Don't be so selfish, Rumpole.

Don't you dare touch that crossword!

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

After all the publicity my...

...my lady couldn't take less
than fifty thousand.

Forty.
And a full and grovelling apology.

We could wrap it up
and lunch at the Sheridan.

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

- Forty five?
- All right, then.

Forty five and an apology.
You happy with that, Mr Cuxham?

- If you advise it.
- We'll chat to the Editor.

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

Miss Nettleship,
we've talked with the opposition.

I saw that.
What's the rat's lawyer got to say?

You only have to join in the apology.

Melbury Publications pay the costs
and the forty five grand.

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

- If that's what we're fighting about!
- Of course it is!

It may not be a very good name.

He may edit a rather disgusting
little newspaper.

But you want him to make a statement
saying he's printed lies!

Well, Mr Rumpole's right.
It's my good name.

I looked up the quotation.
It is the "immediate jewel of my soul".

Oh, steady on, old fellow.

(Cuxham) Here comes
Mr Landseer now, sir.

(Cuxham) Perry,
are we in business?

Sorry, Robin. There's no shifting my girl.
She wants to fight for every penny.

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

(Rumpole)
'At five hundred smackers a day.

'Oh, well played,
Miss Amelia Nettleship! '

(Landseer) Members of the Jury,
in this case,

I appear with my learned friend
Mr Thistle for the plaintiff,

Miss Amelia Nettleship, in her
action against the "Daily Beacon".

The newspaper's proprietors,
Melbury Publications Limited,

are represented by my learned friends
Mr Robin Peppiatt and Mr Garsington.

Mr Maurice Machin,
the Editor of the "Beacon",

is separately represented by
my learned friend, Mr Horace Rumbold.

Ahem!
Rumpole!

Oh, I do beg his pardon.

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

Members of the jury, Miss Nettleship is
the authoress of some historical novels,

which some
of you may have read and enjoyed.

Rattling good yarns,
members of the jury.

I beg your Lordship' s pardon?

I said "rattling good yarns",
Mr Peregrine Landseer.

And the sort your wife might pick up
without embarrassment.

Unlike the distasteful material
one finds between hard covers today.

Ahem!
My Lord.

- Yes, Mr er...
- Rumpole, my Lord.

Yes?

Might it not be better to let the jury

come to their own conclusions
about Miss Nettleship?

Well, yes, of course.
I quite agree.

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

(Laughter)

(Rumpole)
'Mr Justice Teasdale. Unmarried.

'Lives with a Persian cat in Wimbledon.

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

'President of the Boys' Brigade.

'Once an unsuccessful Tory candidate
in Weston-Super-Mare North.

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

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

(Whispering)
About that Stella January article.

I bought a drink
for the Systems Manager.

The copy's still in the system.
There's one rather odd thing.

Well, tell me.

The logon. That's the identification
on the word processor.

It came from the Editor's office.

Oh, you mean it was written there?

- No one writes things any more.
- Oh, course not. How stupid of me.

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

That is very interesting.

If Mr Rumpole has quite finished
his conversation...

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

It's such a rattling good yarn.

- Henry. My brief tray.
- Yes, Mr Erskine-Brown.

Put that away, Dianne.

- (Erskine-Brown) It's got no briefs in it.
- It's quiet time.

(Phone rings)
Same all round the Temple.

Erskine-Brown, could you
put me up for your club?

Oh, please, Uncle Tom.

Chap I knew who was in the RAF

said they used to have
places like that in Port Said.

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

My sister and I always stuck
to Bournemouth.

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

That's right.
We can always reach you at home.

Er, well, no.
Er, not exactly.

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

You're at Mr Rumpole's.
Very good, sir.

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

- By the way, where is Rumpole today?
- Oh, he's in court, sir. Doing his libel.

Quality work for Rumpole.
What is the world coming to?

- You did get the number of the car?
- Alas no, sir.

Visibility was poor and weather
conditions were appalling.

Oh, Fig.
And you didn't even see the driver?

Alas, no again, sir.

However, when Miss Nettleship closed
the door and extinguished the lights,

presumably
in order to return to her bed,

I proceeded to the track in front of the
house where the vehicle was standing.

And I retrieved an article which I thought
might have been dropped by the driver

in getting in or out of the motor
vehic... vehicle.

(Sneezes)

What was it?
For God's sake, show it to me!

Mr Rumpole. The judge is back.
He's asking for you.

Miss Nettleship, is there any truth in this
article about you in the "Daily Beacon"?

Not one word, my Lord.

"Not one word of truth."

- Thank you, Miss Nettleship.
- Thank you, Miss Nettleship.

Please, keep on writing
those rattling good books.

Yes, my Lord.
I mean to.

(Landseer) Miss Nettleship.

This er... unfortunate article has not
affected your output?

No, I still do my work.

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

(Miss Nettleship)
Thank you.

(Rumpole) 'Come on, old darling. Give
her the Victoria Cross, why don't you? '

- And your sales haven't been affected?
- No, I don't think so.

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

Thank you, Miss Nettleship.

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

That is so, my Lord.

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

I am not, my Lord.

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

(Judge) That's what one would expect
from counsel of your experience.

My Lord.

Have you questions for this lady,
Mr Rumpole?

Just a few my Lord, yes.

Ahem! Miss Nettleship,
are you a truthful woman?

I try to be.

And you, er, call yourself
an historical novelist.

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

(Rumpole) Let's forget the morality
and concentrate on the history.

Very well.

May I read a... short extract from
a so-called historical novel of yours

entitled "Lord Stingo's Fancy".

Ah, yes.
Isn't that the one which ends happily?

Happily all of Miss Nettleship's novels
end, my Lord. Eventually.

(Laughter)

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

"Sophia had first set eyes
on Lord Stingo

"when she was a dewy eighteen year old

"and he had clattered up
to her father's castle,

"exhausted from the Battle of Naseby.

"Now at the ball to triumphantly
celebrate the gorgeous,

enthroning coronation
of King Charles the Second,

"they were to meet again.

"Sophia was now in her twenties,

"but in ways too numerous to completely
describe, still an unspoilt girl at heart."

You call that a historical novel?

- Certainly.
- Haven't you forgotten something?

- I don't think so. What?
- Oliver Cromwell.

I really don't know what you mean.

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

- Dewy, Mr Rumpole.
- Ah, yes, dewy.

I am grateful to your Lordship. I had
forgotten the full horror of the passage.

If this dew bespattered Sophie
was eighteen

at the time of the Battle of Naseby
in the reign of King Charles the First,

she would have been thirty three

in the coronation year
of King Charles the Second.

Because Oliver Cromwell
came in between.

- Ah! I am an artist, Mr Rumpole.
- What sort of an artist?

I think Miss Nettleship
means an artist in words.

Then your Lordship undoubtedly
noticed that in the passage I read out

there were two split infinitives
and a tautology.

- A what?
- Two words having the same meaning.

As in "enthroning coronation".
Tautology. T-A-U...

I can spell, Mr Rumpole.

Then your Lordship
has the advantage of the witness.

She spells Naseby with a 'Z'.

My Lord, I hesitate to interrupt.

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

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

Neither can I, Mr Landseer.
I must confess...

These questions go straight to the heart
of this witness's credibility.

I have to suggest,
Miss Nettleship,

that as an historical novelist
you are a complete fake.

My Lord, I have made my point.

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

I try to tell a story, Mr Rumpole.

And your evidence to this Court has
been, to use my Lord's vivid expression,

a rattling good yarn.

(Miss Nettleship)
I have sworn to tell the truth!

- (Rumpole) Remember that.
- He's getting worse.

The damages are going to hit the roof.

(Rumpole) Let us come to the last
matter dealt with in this article.

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

And I shall finish
a great deal sooner, My Lord,

if I'm allowed to proceed without further
interruption. If Your Lordship pleases.

"Her latest lothario, so far unnamed,
is said to be a married man

who's been seen leaving
in the wee small hours."

(Miss Nettleship) I read that.

You had somebody with you last night,

until what might be revoltingly referred to
as "the wee small hours".

- What are you suggesting?
- That someone was with you.

When he left,
you stood in the open doorway

waving goodbye and blowing kisses.

At half past five on a rainy morning.
Who was it, Miss Nettleship?

That is an absolutely
uncalled for suggestion.

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

- Do I have to answer?
- His Lordship will instruct you to.

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

That is absolutely untrue.

"Absolutely untrue."
Thank you, Miss Nettleship.

I think we might continue
with this tomorrow morning.

If you have any further questions,
Mr Rumpole?

Indeed I do, My Lord.

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

Huh, home, Jack, has lost whatever
attraction it had for me.

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

However.

No champagne?

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

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

- What?
- Bright, attractive reporter, was she?

- I don't know.
- You're the features editor.

- I never met her.
- Any idea how old she was?

Young, I should think. Knowing Morry,
I assume she'd be young.

- Ah!
- Just starting in the business.

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

Oh, it's my trade.
...about the love life of Mr Morry Machin.

Good God! Whose side are you on,
Mr Rumpole?

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

You've suggested he had some sort
of interest in Stella January.

- Short-lived, I'd say.
- Is he married?

Two or three times. Now he seems
to have some sort of steady girlfriend.

- Oh, do you know her?
- Not at all. He keeps her under wraps.

Does he indeed?

Thank you very much.
You've been a great help.

Who are you going to grill next?

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

(Classical music plays)

(Music volume increases)

We're coming to Act Three, Hilda.
Hilda!

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

Oh.
That'll be very nice, Claude.

- Not too long for you is it?
- Oh, good heavens, no.

(Yawns) No, I'm enjoying
every minute of it.

I wonder where Rumpole is.

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

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

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

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

- I just hope nothing's happened to him.
- Oh, nothing ever happens to Rumpole.

He just makes things happen
to other people.

(Classical music plays)

(Phone rings)

Working late, Mr Rumpole? I hope you'll
be able to do better for us tomorrow.

Yes, I hope so too.
I've come to see Stella January.

I told you. She's not here any more.
She went abroad.

I think she's here.

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

I'll be on the back bench.

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

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

She was only with us a short while,
but she was young, yes.

I quote from her article.

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

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

Mae West is as remote in history
as Messaline or Helen of Troy!

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

- Who?
- You.

(Chuckles) Have you been drinking
at all this evening?

Of course I've been drinking at all.

You don't think I'd come out
with these blinding flashes of deduction

when I'm completely sober.

Well hadn't you better go home to bed?

You wrote that article.
There's no argument about it.

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

(Rumpole) Careless, Mr Machin.
You clearly have no talent for crime.

Puzzling thing was,

why attack Miss Nettleship
when she's a good friend of yours?

Good friend? I've told you
I've never even met the woman.

That was a lie.
Like the rest of this pantomime law suit.

You were with her last night
till half past five in the morning.

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

What makes you say that?

In a hurry, were you?
This was dropped beside your car.

(Machin) Anyone can buy the "Beacon".

Not anyone can buy the first edition,

the one that fell on the Editor's desk
at ten o'clock that evening.

I'd say that was a rarity around
Godalming in the county of Surrey.

- Is that all?
- No. You were watched.

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

To use a legal expression,
pull the other one, it's got bells on it.

I don't know what you're suggesting.

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

What does that mean?

You're being sacked
from the "Beacon".

Sales are down
on Amelia's historical virgins,

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

- I wish I knew how!
- It's perfectly simple.

All you do is turn yourself into the
unknown girl reporter, Stella January,

for half an hour and libel Amelia.

She sues the paper and collects,

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

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

What's that?

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

An Old Bailey hack.

A stranger to the civilised world of libel.

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

You used me, Mr Morry Machin.

I thought you'd be accustomed to that.

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

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

But you haven't said anything to anyone.

- Not yet.
- And you won't, cos you're my lawyer.

Not any longer, Mr Machin.
I have just resigned.

I don't belong to you any more.

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

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

They told me in Pomeroy's
you never prosecute.

No, I don't, do I?

On this occasion,
I must say I'm sorely tempted.

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

What can I say?

Get the fair Amelia to drop her case,

which means you'll both be paying the
costs, including the fee of Fig Newton,

who's caught a nasty cold
in the course of these proceedings.

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

Print a full and abject apology
on the front page of the "Beacon",

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

- What is this going to cost me?
- I don't know.

But I know what it's cost me.

Two weeks at five hundred quid a day!
Provision for my old age.

Bah!
Good night, Stella.

(Phone rings)

Henry, Dianne.
Have you seen this morning's "Beacon"?

We don't read that publication,
Mr Erskine-Brown.

Not after the way they treated you, sir.

Just look how they treated me.
A grovelling apology, on the front page.

"'Daily Beacon' accepts
that the distinguished barrister,

"Claude Erskine-Brown,
distinguished barrister", that's me...

"went into the Kitten-A-Go-Go Club

"solely for the purpose
of preparing for a criminal case,

"and offers this full apology
together with substantial damages."

Substantial, Henry. And free of tax.
Where's Mr Rumpole?

Across the road,
on the second day of his libel.

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

- Oh, Mr Rumpole! Your refreshers.
- Gone with the wind.

Miss Amelia Nettleship
withdrew her case.

Everyone dropped
their allegations against her,

and my poor old client
was landed with the costs.

What's bitten you, Claude?

Have you won a weekend in Milan
with Dame Nellie Melba?

- (Phone rings)
- You've seen it? Substantial damages.

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

- So glad I won your case for you.
- You won?

- Er, it's your wife, sir.
- Oh. Phylli.

Yes.

You saw the paper then?

Yes of course.
I knew you never doubted my word.

Look, er, how about dinner tonight?
I'll book the Gavroche, shall I?

Yes, of course.

I love you.

Good Lord!
You're not going to leave us?

- I'm sorry. It's not that I'm ungrateful.
- Oh, no, of course not.

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

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

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

(Chuckles)

So, the libel's over, Mr Rumpole?

Yes, quite over, Henry. Look, isn't there
a little bit of burglary around?

Couldn't you find me a nice gentle
breaking and entering?

Something that shows human nature
in a better light than civil law?

Good heavens!

What's happening now, Hilda?

This young woman
is going to Paris for the weekend

with a man old enough to be her father!

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

It... seems he is her father.

At least you've gone off the works
of Miss Amelia Nettleship.

The way she dropped that libel action.

The woman's no better
than she should be.

Which of us is?

Any chance
of putting the light out Hilda?

No, not yet. You'll have to wait now
until I finish the chapter.

(Grunts)

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