Free Rumpole and the Angel of Death by John Mortimer Page A

their sandwiches, lowered their mugs of coffee and shouted out such complimentary remarks as ‘Murdering bastards,’, ‘Get your rocks off watching little furry animals pulled to pieces, do you?’ and ‘How would you like to be hunted and thrown to the dogs this afternoon, darling?’ – an invitation to Tricia.
    Then Dorothea came riding slowly, to find the Crimson Shirt was barring her path, his arms spread out as though prepared to meet his death under a ton of horseflesh. A dialogue then took place which I was to have occasion to remember.
    â€˜You love killing things, don’t you?’ from the Crimson Shirt.
    â€˜Not particularly. Mostly, I enjoy the ride.’
    â€˜Why do you kill animals?’
    â€˜Perhaps because they kill other animals.’
    â€˜Do you ever think that something might kill you one fine afternoon?’
    â€˜Quite often.’ Dorothea looked down at him. ‘A lot of people die, out hunting. A nice quick death. I hope I’ll be so lucky.’
    â€˜You might get killed this afternoon.’
    â€˜Anyone might.’
    â€˜It doesn’t worry you?’
    â€˜Not in the least.’
    â€˜It’s only what you deserve.’
    â€˜Do you think so?’ Looking down from her horse, I thought she suddenly seemed thin and insubstantial as a ghost, her lined face very pale. Then she pulled a silver flask from her jacket pocket, unscrewed it and leant down to offer the Crimson Shirt a drink.
    â€˜What have you got in there?’ he asked her.
    â€˜Fox’s blood, of course.’
    He looked up at her and said, ‘You cruel bitch!’
    â€˜It’s only whisky. You’re very welcome.’ He shook his head and the cobweb-faced lady took a long pull at the flask. Other riders had come up beside her and were listening, amused at first and then angry. There were shouts, conflicting protests, and the Crimson Shirt called out in the voice of doom, ‘One of you is going to die for all the dead animals. Justice is sure to be done!’
    I saw a whip raised at the back of the cavalcade but the Crimson Shirt had dropped his arm and moved to join his party by the van. Dorothea Eyles put away her flask, kicked her horse’s sides and trotted with the posse after her. They were chattering together cheerfully, after what had then seemed no more than a routine confrontation between the hunters and the sabs – rather enjoyed by both sides.
    The sound of the horn, the baying of the dogs and the clattering of horses had died away. The van, after a number of ineffectual coughs and splutters, started its engine and went. It was very quiet as Lancelot and I walked back down the drive to join Hilda who was enjoying a final glass of port. We went into the house to wait for the taxi which would take us back to the station.
    That evening we were at home at the mansion flat and I had been restored to my armchair. Lancelot, exhausted by the day’s excitement, was asleep on the sofa, breathing heavily and, no doubt, dreaming of imaginary hunts. The news item was on the television after a war in Africa and an earthquake in Japan. There were stock pictures of hunters and sabs. Then came the news that Dorothea Eyles, out hunting and galloping down a woodland track, had ridden into a high wire stretched tight between two trees. Her neck was broken and she was dead when some ramblers found her. An anti-hunt demonstrator named Dennis Pearson was helping the local police with their inquiries.
    Rollo Eyles had returned to my life, suffered a terrible tragedy and immediately disappeared again. Of course I telephoned but his recorded voice always told me he was not available. I left messages of sorrow and concern but the calls were never answered, and neither were the letters I wrote to him. Tragedy too often causes embarrassment and we didn’t visit Rollo in the Cotswolds. Tragedy vanishes quickly, swept on by the tide of horrible events in