Free Rumpole and the Penge Bungalow Murders by John Mortimer

lady. Was he married? What about girlfriends? He must have been alone on the night he was shot. I asked Bonny Bernard, ‘Will you find out?’
    â€˜Will I do it? Of course I’ll do it. I can’t leave that sort of thing to Mr Barnsley Gough.’ Then young Bernard gave me a small conspiratorial smile. ‘He’s fully occupied with his golf!’
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    â€˜I can understand, Rumpole, how your connection with an important case has led you astray. It has caused you to make an error of judgement.’
    â€˜I just thought you were probably too busy to visit the scene of the crime.’
    â€˜No, you didn’t think I was too busy.’ C. H. Wystan was in a surprisingly serene, even a forgiving, mood. ‘You wanted to do something on your own. Of course I understand that. The feeling was perfectly natural. And I’m sure it won’t happen again.’
    â€˜Of course not,’ I assured him. I had got what I wanted from the Penge bungalow.
    â€˜That’s understood, then. I don’t suppose your visit did us any harm. Or our client any particular good.’
    â€˜You’ve read my notes?’ I had written down my thoughts about, among other things, the position of the armchair.
    â€˜Of course I’ve read your notes, dear boy.’ It was the first time, positively the first time, that Hilda’s father had called me his ‘dear boy’ and the fact left me, I have to confess, gulping as he went on, ‘But there is one unfortunate fact that you seem to have overlooked. One question I would suggest that, for all your industry, you’ve failed to ask. If young Jerold didn’t shoot his father, or the person apparently known as “Tail-End” Charlie, then who on earth did?’

9
    A few days later, I got a call from Bonny Bernard, who said he’d found Harry Daniels’s address and had spoken to him on the telephone.
    â€˜Can he help us?’
    â€˜I’m not quite sure. He said he hoped young Simon would get off. And he said Jerry Jerold probably deserved what he got.’
    â€˜Did he mean for taunting his son?’
    â€˜I’m not sure.’
    â€˜I suppose he might have meant that. Did he say anything else?’
    â€˜Not then. But I’ve made a date to call on him and take a statement.’
    â€˜Oh, well done, Bonny Bernard, well done indeed! And Charlie Weston?’
    â€˜Simon gave me some more information. He had a wife, Katie, but it was an eventful kind of marriage.’
    â€˜How do you mean “eventful”?’
    â€˜Well, apparently the violence was mutual. Charlie sometimes appeared with a face covered in scratches and once a black eye.’
    â€˜Katie took a swing at him?’
    â€˜Something like that. Anyway, they’d split up for the umpteenth time a month before the night at the Palladium.’
    I thanked the industrious Bernard again and rang off. In all probability, Daniels’s evidence would do nothing to answer C. H. Wystan’s question. But it was encouraging to find someone who seemed to be on our side. For the next few days, as I waited for a new witness statement, I lived in a condition of vague hope.
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    It was while I was waiting for further news from this front that I got more words of warning from our clerk, Albert Handyside, in Pommeroy’s Wine Bar.
    â€˜The duty of the leader is to lead, Mr Rumpole. It’s for him to decide what witnesses to call and the general conduct of the case. It’s the duty of the junior -’
    â€˜I know,’ I told Albert, ‘it’s the junior’s duty to take a full note of the evidence. And occasionally buy his leader a cup of coffee.’
    â€˜You’ve got it, Mr Rumpole! Got it in one!’ Albert smiled and dipped his head towards the pint of Guinness I’d bought him. Encouraged by the investigation undertaken by Bonny Bernard and my good self, I took a swig of my glass of Château Fleet