Rumpole Rests His Case
After a hiatus of six years, Horace Rumpole emerges once again in a cloud of smoke, wiping butter from his chin after a cutthroat breakfast with She Who Must Be Obeyed at Froxbury Mansions, to wrestle with the forces of justice down at the Old Bailey. As he himself would be the first to admit, Rumpole is growing long in the tooth, but his wit has not deserted him; indeed, it seems to have cleaved onto his person, like his yellowing wig. Almost half the stories here involve the mayhem that ensues when elderly gentlemen succumb to the urging of their addled hearts. Not Rumple, though, who, as ever, sees through a glass of Château Thames Embankment darkly. Mortimer is in high form here. Is this to be the last of Rumpole? Perish the thought.Copyright © 2005The New Yorker