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the conference was over.
    On my way back to the Temple I said to C. H. Wystan, ‘So you wanted him to say his father attacked him in the night?’ Suggesting this story hadn’t seemed, I had to admit, in strict accordance with the finest traditions of the bar.
    My leader, however, was unashamed. ‘He may remember that’s what happened in the fullness of time,’ he said.
    â€˜How does that fit in with Charlie Weston’s murder? Are we suggesting Simon went round to his bungalow and got attacked by him too?’
    â€˜He may remember more about that. You’ll have to rely on me to conduct this case in my own way, unless you can suggest a better sort of defence.’
    I had to confess that I couldn’t, although I made a silent vow to do so. In the fullness of time.

6
    â€˜You should sit, best part of the day, Mr Rumpole, with your leg elevated.’
    â€˜That’s quite impossible.’
    â€˜Of course it’s not impossible. Just get a low stool, put a cushion on it and elevate your leg. It doesn’t require great athletic skill.’
    I had visited Dr McClintock, our local quack, on my wife Hilda’s (known to me only as She Who Must Be Obeyed) often repeated insistence. Check-ups are, in my experience, a grave mistake; all they do is allow the quack of your choice to tell you that you have some sort of complaint that you were far happier not knowing about. Or else they prescribe some totally impossible course of conduct, as was the case with McClintock, who looked at me as though I might soon become a blank space on his National Health list.
    â€˜Why on earth should you want me to do that?’ I asked.
    â€˜Because,’ McClintock spoke very slowly as though explaining the secrets of the universe to a small halfwit, ‘it’ll be good for your circulation.’
    â€˜It may be good for my circulation, but it’ll be extremely bad for my practice at the bar.’
    â€˜I’m not sure I’m quite clear what you mean, Mr Rumpole.’ He was puzzled but tolerant, as though the halfwit had started to babble.
    â€˜Do you think I could address a jury with my leg elevated? Could I cross-examine with my foot in the air?’
    â€˜Mr Rumpole, I don’t think you quite understand . . .’
    â€˜You don’t think I understand?’ By now the quack had touched a nerve. He had challenged all I had learned from a lifetime’s experience ever since . . . well, ever since the case which confirmed me as a force to be reckoned with down the Old Bailey. ‘Do you imagine,’ I asked the final question that would blow his medical theories to the winds, ‘do you honestly imagine that I could have done the Penge Bungalow Murders, alone and without a leader, but with one leg cocked up on a joint stool?’
    â€˜I’m not concerned with how many murders you might have done in the suburbs of London, Mr Rumpole. I’m concerned about your circulation.’
    It was to escape the rule of the eccentric Dr McClintock, and to be able to write with both feet firmly planted on the ground, that I took my memoirs down to chambers and started to write in my room there. I was about to have another great remembrance of things past, when my sweet silent thoughts were interrupted by a brisk knock at the door and the entrance of a personable young lady carrying a mug which she put down carefully on the corner of my Archbold on Criminal Law and Procedure .
    â€˜Albert told me black with no sugar. Is that how you like it, Mr Rumpole?’
    â€˜That’s exactly how I like it. Do you work for any of our solicitors?’ I was hoping she might be bringing a brief to go with the coffee.
    â€˜Afraid not. I’m Lala Ingolsby, Liz Probert’s pupil. She told me you know more about the practice of the criminal law than anyone in the Temple.’
    â€˜That’s strictly true.’
    â€˜So she’s sure you can give me some