This is the third of the Rumpole Omnibuses, and while the writing remains of the highest quality, I’m knocking a star off for two reasons. Firstly, some of the stories in this volume feel a little predictable — still entertaining, but lacking the sharper twists and freshness of earlier collections. But the second reason is the real clincher: Rumpole and the Way Through the Woods. Having read a biography of John Mortimer, I’m aware of how strongly he supported blood sports, and that attitude is on full display here. There’s a smugness to the way it’s written — as if behaving badly is perfectly valid so long as you're enjoying yourself, and the real crime is having someone point it out. In the story, he tries to ameliorate things by having Rumpole bond with a couple of dogs — but it doesn’t wash. For someone who opposed the death penalty on the grounds that it was the mark of an uncivilised society, Mortimer should have recognised that blood sports, too, are deeply uncivilised and serve only to debase the society that permits them.
'Genuine beliefs seem to end up... stopping people living as they choose,' says Rumpole — a sentiment that sounds strikingly libertarian, and one Trump and his political cohort would no doubt endorse. It’s a curious stance for an author aligned with the political left. Of course, it's more defensible if grounded in the Golden Rule. But even then, it leads to thorny moral dilemmas. What if someone 'chooses' to torture animals? Should that be protected under personal liberty? Mortimer obviously thought, yes - fox hunting is a form of animal torture.
Mortimer was someone who loved applause and being feted — the sound of admiration, not dissent. However badly he behaved behind the scenes, public approval mattered. Booing, then, wasn’t just an intrusion — it was a rupture in the illusion, and possibly a reminder of what he preferred not to confront.
This said, the stories are brilliantly written. All that's left is to separate the man from the work.
And so ends a month of Rumpole. And what a joyous month it's been. The wit, the drama, the thrills, spills, trials and tears. All wrapped up in one (small) cigar-smoking, wine-quaffing, poetry-reciting, henpecked, white wig-wearing wordsmith. Genius.