Rumpole and the Primrose Path by John Mortimer Read Free Book Online

time, the door opened and Doctor Sydney Lucas stood in my way. He was looking at me in what I took to be a distinctly unfriendly fashion.
    ‘He’s mad!’ I heard Sister Sheila tell him. ‘He’s come back to us and he’s seriously insane. He’s been talking nonsense to me about poor Freddy.’
    Doctor Lucas filled the doorway, considerably younger, taller and a great deal stronger than I am.
    ‘Excuse me’ was all I could think of to say. ‘Detective Inspector Maundy of the local Force is waiting for me outside. He’ll be very worried if I don’t emerge. I did warn him that I might have some difficulty leaving ...’
    Whatever they had done to help a crooked businessman disappear from the face of the earth, however outrageous and reckless that plan had been, and however dishonest the doctor’s conduct, the mention of the local constabulary made him step away from the door. I walked past him and out into air no longer freshened by chemicals. A cloud had covered the sun, there was a stirring of wind and I felt heavy drops of rain. Wheelchairs were being hurriedly pushed into shelter. I walked away from the Primrose Path for the last time and towards the forces of law and order. I was prepared to make a statement.
     
    The University of North Sussex is not an old foundation. The main hall is a modern glass and concrete building, in front of which stands a large piece of abstract statuary built, so far as I could see, of flattened and twisted girders and bits and pieces of motionless machinery. But inside the steeply raked amphitheatre the Chancellor, professors and lecturers were decked out in pink and scarlet gowns with slung-back mediaeval hoods.
    I sat with Dotty among the parents, behind the rows of students. A cleric in a purple gown, the head of the theology department, was calling out names, and the Chairman of the local waste-disposal company, earlier granted an Honorary Doctorate of Literature, handed out the scrolls. Gavin, in his clean white shirt and rarely worn suit, looked younger than ever, hardly more than a schoolboy. As he waited his turn in the queue, his eyes were searching the audience. When he saw Dotty he gave her a small, grateful wave and a smile. Then his name was called and he stepped forward.
    ‘Look now,’ I gave Dotty an urgent instruction. ‘Look at the entrances.’
    She turned and I turned with her. High above us, at the top of the raked seats, there were three doorways. He was standing in the middle one. He must have just moved to where he could see his son, far below him, get his degree. He stood there, a small, broad-shouldered, square figure with a broken nose. It was a moment of pride he had not been able to resist and, as a great chancer, why shouldn’t he have taken this risk to see Gavin get what he had never had - a university degree? Gavin shook hands with the waste-disposal magnate and went off with his scroll. Freddy Fairweather turned away, meaning to disappear again into the world of the dead. But he was stopped by Fig Newton and DS Thorndike, who had been waiting for him at my suggestion.
     
    So the case of the Primrose Path never got me a brief. Neither Sister Sheila nor Doctor Sydney Lucas, when arraigned for their various offences, thought of employing Rumpole to defend them. Freddy Fairweather ended up in an open prison, from which he may expect an early release owing to the unexpected onset of Alzheimer’s disease. Gavin has taken Holy Orders and returned to Leeds. I still meet Dotty, from time to time, for tea in the Waldorf Hotel, where we sing, quietly but with pleasure, the old standards together.
    The day after Freddy Fairweather was arrested, Henry brought a brief into my room. ‘Good news at last, Mr Rumpole,’ he said. ‘R. v. Denis Timson. Receiving stolen DVDs. It should be interesting. You won’t get cases like that from our so-called Marketing Director.’ But I have to say, it was to the Marketing Director I owed my greatest debt of gratitude