“It's just no good. He can't fight it. He tells the police he's guilty. The bloody knife's in the dustbin. He's identified by at least three witnesses at the tube station and he writes some spooky letter in his victim's blood. The case is as dead as mutton.” “Just the sort of case Rumpole would have enjoyed.” And where is Rumpole, that eccentric barrister famous for his knowledge of bloodstains, blood groups and forgery by typewriter? He is supposed, by one and all, to be enjoying his well-earned retirement in the Florida sunshine with his son Nick, daughter-in-law Erica and, of course, “She Who Must Be Obeyed.” But Rumpole is made of sterner stuff, and the nearest whiff of a complicated blood case and he quickly abandons the pleasure of Florida orange juice and descends upon the dear old Chambers to take command once again.