In my considerable years at the bar, I can honestly say that I've seen it all. Well, if not all, then a fair majority of what there is to see. Murders, robbery, fraud, GBH, B&E... and, I'm happy to say, it's been my bread and butter for most of my adult life. Not that I approve of such things as murder or GBH (although where a select group of my so-called learned friends are concerned, I'm willing to make an exception), but they have provided the grist for the mill that is Horace Rumpole, barrister.

But there are some cases that amaze even me. One of the most savage murders I was ever mixed up in involved the axing of a huge, six-foot-five sergeant-major in the Royal Marine Corp by a seventy year old teacher from Hampstead Heath, but even that paled next to what has been termed in the popular press as 'the Mutant Problem'.

To understand this case and my involvement in it more fully, it's necessary to understand what the so-called Mutant Problem actually is. Superhumans are nothing new, of course; even in the war, the likes of Captain America and the Invaders were a reasonably common sight both in England and the States. And of course, the exploits of the Avengers and the Fantastic Four in America are well documented. The majority of the English public, however, has had little contact or exposure to an actual superhuman, or mutant.

(To my mind, the difference between 'superhuman' and 'mutant' is practically negligible; mutants are born with their powers. So what? If a fellow is about to throw a Mercedes-Benz thirty feet through the air at you, the last thing on your mind should be whether or not he could do it at age seven).

It hasn't been until recent years that England has seen a resurgence of costumed men and women flying through the air and generally causing a lot of property damage in the course of saving the world. From time to time, American heroes such as Captain America or Spider-Man have been seen in London, but it wasn't until Captain Britain emerged that the United Kingdom could honestly say it had its own superhero for the first time since the late 1940s.

The good Captain's exploits were chronicled diligently in such publications as the Times or the News of the World, which my wife reads daily, much to my own hidden amusement. My wife Hilda (or She Who Must Be Obeyed, as she is known only to me) was becoming quite the amateur hero-watcher for about a year, until the Captain vanished. Six months later, he reappeared, clad in a new costume, and a few months later, he formed Excalibur with members of the mutant superheroes known as the X-Men. They were given semi-official status with the authorities and, apart from the odd monster showing up or aliens actually causing the sun to shine down on Brighton, things went just fine.

Lately, however, things have been rather strained between mutants and the rest of the population; again, while mutant-paranoia seems to be much more rampant in the States, it has been growing here in England. With disastrous results.

Three weeks ago, young Julie McBride was raped and killed at the tender age of fourteen by a gang of toughs calling themselves the League for Decency. Such groups, I'm sorry to say, are nothing new, but they do seem to pop up out of nowhere, and with alarming regularity. Young Julie, according to one of the young men involved, was attacked because she was a mutant; apparently, she was blessed with green hair and the ability to manipulate liquids. The police report states that she was showing her power to her friends one day, and was killed the next. The police had already apprehended Julie's killers, and they were gaoled pending their day in court.

Had that been all, this wouldn't have even been mentioned in these diaries of mine. The young men were being defended by Owen Hardcastle, QC, and Annabella Chopra, two barristers known for their high profile cases. It had nothing to do with me or any of the other barristers in my Chambers. No, my involvement came later.

Hugh Sanson, the leader of the so-called League, had somehow managed to raise bail money and get out, purportedly due to the fact that he had not actually done any of the foul deeds, only directed his friends to do so. (It's also my opinion that 'Hardcase' Hardcastle somehow managed to wheedle bail out of the presiding judge). Almost immediately, Sanson had been killed, reputedly with a sword (or swords), by a figure in blue with glowing eyes. Regular newspaper readers or television viewers will see where this is going: the killer's description, although circumstantial, is a close match for the mutant known as Nightcrawler, one of Excalibur.
 
 

And so it came to pass that, one fine April morning, I found several costumed heroes waiting for me in Henry's office, along with a British Army Brigadier and one Mike Watford, whom I hadn't seen since doing a court-martial in West Germany several years ago. Mike had been an articled clerk years ago, and then joined the army, attaining the rank of Lieutenant Colonel in their Legal Affairs division.

I smiled warmly at Mike, then turned to Henry. "Henry, does this mean what I think it means?" I asked, my voice fairly glowing at the thought of this new case. Work had been on the down side of late; all the best villains seemd to vacationing in Majorca at the moment.

Henry smiled nervously. "Yes, sir, Mr Rumpole. And Mr Ballard wants to see you immediately after the conference," he added somewhat less nervously. Henry had no great love of Mr Ballard; it was an area on which we were both in complete agreement.

"Oh, for the love of... I assume it has to do with our illustrious visitors?"

"Nail right on the head, Mr R."

"Oh, well. Can't have everything, I suppose. Mike!" I turned to greet my old friend. "It's been too long, far too long. Finally out of Germany, are you?"

Mike nodded. "Well, with the base closures, I decided to come home, as it were." Mike turned to the Brigadier next to him. "Mr Rumpole, this is Brigadier Alysande Stuart, head of Weird Happenings Organisation." The Brigadier, an attractive woman in her late thrities, smiled crisply at me. "That's W.H.O., for short," she added in a husky contralto voice.

"Very acronymical. And I believe I know who your friends are. But let's conduct this in my office. I have a feeling this is going to be quite a conference." I turned to Henry. "Tell Soapy Sam that I may be quite a while, Henry."

As I led my visitors through the hallway to my room, Claude Erskine-Brown passed me in the hall. "I say, Rumpole. A bit early for Hallowe'en, isn't it?" he asked, grinning. It wasn't until he got a closer look at my blue-furred visitor that he realised what was happening, at which point he coughed nervously and made a beeline for the downstairs loo.

The youngest hero, a brownhaired girl who couldn't have been more than eighteen, looked over her shoulder. "What's with him?" she asked.

I smiled a winning smile. "Oh, Erskine-Brown? Just a mild case of foot-in-mouth."

Once seated, I asked the assembled heroes to introduce themselves. Nightcrawler introduced himself as Kurt Wagner. Despite his admittedly demonic appearance, young Kurt is one of the nicest people I had ever had the good fortune to meet, and it was right then and there that I resolved to prove him innocent, even if I had to use every trick in the book.

"Herr Rumpole, I greatly appreciate what you are doing for me. It is a man of great bravery, these days, who is willing to defend a mutant in such a case. "

I smiled at my blue-skinned German client. "Mr Wagner, whether or not it is a brave thing or not that I do, I do it for much different reasons."

"Vas?"

"Oh, yes. You seem to me to be a most pleasant young man. I know a little bit about your exploits, both with Excalibur and the X-Men, and I must say, you are the brave one. All of you, in fact, are the brave ones in the room. Old legal hacks like myself, on the other hand, just make damned sure that the wrong man doesn't get sent up because of a case of mistaken identity, that's all."

"Oh, but surely that isn't the case!" The young woman with a flowing mane of blonde hair that seemed to constantly shimmer spoke to me in a tone of what I could only describe as abject disbelief. Meggan, as she intoduced herself, went on at some length about how all the lawyers she had ever seen on television were nothing but true-blue, dyed-in-the-wool legal heroes.

"Now, Meggan, you're embarrassing Mr Rumpole!" I looked up and up at the huge man that all of England knew as Captain Britain. I had to resist the urge to ask him if he felt a complete wally dressed as he was in his red, white and blue uniform, his helmet emblazoned with the Union Jack. But somehow, after meeting his eyes, I decided not to. Although nothing but polite and pleasant, in a Conservative manner, he looked like a man who had seen and done too much to question in such a manner. "I'm sorry, sir. I'm afraid Meggan had a rather isolated upbringing. She's gotten rather too much of her education from television."

"Think nothing of it, Captain. And Meggan, for what it's worth, I do wish that sometimes life was like television. If only to actually see your name in the credits, I suppose."

"Oh, Br-uh, Captain, don't be so hard on her. I grew up on TV too, and I didn't turn out too badly." The young brunette smiled mischievously. "Or did I?"

"My dear Shadowcat, you give me hope for the future generations! Assuming I live long enough to see them." Shadowcat was an American, another transplant from the X-Men. An infectiously cheerful young woman, she had the ability to pass through objects like a ghost. Like the Captain (in fact like all of them), she also had the same look in her eyes; fortunately for her, it didn't seem to affect her spirits. "Although, I would ask a favour."

"Yes, Mr Rumpole?"

"Could you get your... pet to stop stealing my small cigars?" Her 'pet' was a small purple dragon, about the size of a housecat. She called him Lockheed, and the little beast clearly did not like smoking in his presence. "I did agree not to light up during this conference, after all."

"Lockheed!" She turned to the dragon, who I could have sworn looked ashamedly guilty. "Give 'em back! Now."

Lockheed grinned at me, and flew over my desk, landed in front of me, and deposited my cigars on the brief.

"Thank you. Not just for anyone would I refrain from induldging in a small cigar, but--"

"But we are rather unique clients, aren't we?" This final voice came from the young woman who called herself Phoenix. I wasn't quite sure what her powers were, but I daresay it involved the ability to paint her costume on her naked body; to put a none-too-fine point on it, her red uniform seemed to cover her from nack to toe, and as far as I could tell, it didn't have zippers or buttons of any kind.

"You are indeed, my dear. Which is one of the reasons why Mr Wagner is not in gaol at the moment, but free on bail." I turned to Mike and Brigadier Stuart. "Your doing, I assume?"

Mike looked at Stuart, who nodded crisply. "This is just as well," I continued, "because I have a feeling I will need your help in clearing Mr Wagner's good name."

"Anything we can do, Mr Rumpole," rumbled the Captain. "Anything at all."

"Well, first off, who would have a grudge against you, Mr Wagner, or against any of your team?" Such a simple question, and yet it elicited such laughter from all of the heroes, even (I swear it!) from the dragon. "I should hardly think a charge of murder is a laughing matter," I said sternly, trying to regain control of the proceedings.

Wagner calmed down, wiping a tear from his eye. "Please, Herr Rumpole. We meant no offence. It's just that in this game, you tend to lose track of who would love to see you dead or disgraced."

"That many, eh?" I harrumphed. "Well, let's try and narrow it down to just you, Mr Wagner, and keep it local."

"To this planet?" he asked, perfectly seriously.

"Ahem... I meant to England."

"Ah! Well, let's see... to go alphabetically, Arcade would be the first. He would do this just for the sheer hell of it."

"Arcade?" The name was vaguely familiar to me.

"An assassin for hire," answered the Captain. "I first encountered him in the States, alongside Spider-Man. He then attempted to kill the X-Men, and later Excalibur."

"He does get around, doesn't he?" I said, wishing for a small cigar. "Is he likely, then, to be a culprit?"

"He has the technology," spoke Shadowcat. "But he would just have to let us know it was him somehow. To rub our faces in it."

"I agree. I've seen his mind." Phoenix winced as she spoke. "He's too much of a glory hound to not let us know."

"Well, that's Arcade off the list. Next?"

Nightcrawler rattled off a number of names and organisations, some familiar to me, some not. And one by one, they were each discounted by means of death, imprisonment, or apparently being 'dimensionally displaced', whatever that meant. Finally, I stood up.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I have a suggestion. It's called lunch. I propose we meet back here at, say, two o'clock? Anyone who wishes to join me down at Pommeroy's WineBar is welcome to do so."

Captain Britain grimaced slightly. "I won't, thanks all the same. Meggan, care for some lunch?"

"Wimpy's?" she asked excitedly. The Captain grinned, held his stomach melodramatically, and said yes.

"Actually, Phoenix and I were going to do a little snooping around." Shadowcat began, but Brigadier Stuart cut her off.

"Only if we accompany you. Any evidence you gather in Lieutenant Colonel Watford's presence would be then considered admissible in court."

"Quite right," I said, then turned to Nightcrawler. "And you, young Kurt?"

He grinned. "First round is on me."
 
 

Nightcrawler caused a slight stir inside Pommeroy's but, after being seen with me, the rest of the crowd caught on. After getting a half bottle of Chateau Thames Enbankment (a disservice to Pommeroy's red plonk, which has served me well for many years), Kurt and I took a table in a rear corner. He took a gulp, winced slightly, then drank again.

"You take to Pommeroy's like a fish to water, young man! Not a feat to be performed by just anyone."

He grinned, fangs showing slightly. "After drinking with Wolverine, this is nothing. To justice, Herr Rumpole."

"To justice, Mr Wagner," I said, wondering briefly who Wolverine was, then deciding that I was probably better off not knowing. We raised our glasses and drank. "So. Any further ideas as to who could be behind this frame?"

Kurt sighed. "Alas, the possibilities are endless. Not just including those we have already discounted, there are also the ones we don't know about. People like Zero Tolerance, for example."

"Bastion's group?" Nightcrawler looked surprised that I would know about him. "Don't looked so shocked, Kurt. We do read and watch the news over here too. Not to mention all the legal aspects of such an operation as Zero Tolerance to be examined. We've been aware of Bastion since he first showed up in the States publicly."

"Forgive me, Herr Rumpole, but you do not strike me as a man who is overly concerned with the minutiae of the legal system." He couldn't quite keep the humour from his voice.

"You're quite right; I'm not. But many of my learned and not so learned friends are. Believe me, in some cases, you can't help but learn about such 'minutiae', as you put it." I lit a small cigar. "But back to our ever growing list of suspects. Does it necessarily have to be someone with a grudge against you or Excalibur, or even mutants in general?"

"I don't follow."

"Well," I began, pouring myself another glass, "It's no secret that there are several people... or beings, I guess, with the ability to change their appearance. And while I have no doubts that your abilities are unique in many ways, who's to say they can't be duplicated, or at least approximated?"

"Hmm... I see your point, Herr Rumpole. And it leads me to at least one rather disturbing conclusion."

"Which is?"

Nightcrawler steadied himself. "There is a mutant by the name of Mystique. She is a shapeshifter; she could easily pull off this sort of deception. I had thought she was in America..."

"Airfare is getting cheaper all the time, my boy."

"Yes, but... well, there really is no easy way to put this. She's my mother."

"Ah." From his tone, it was clear that Kurt did not wish to discuss this matter, and who could blame him? "Well, let's assume she is not a party to this. Anyone else with this sort of capability? Mutant or not."

"Well, there's the Chameleon."

"Don't think I've heard of him."

"He's based primarily in the States, has fought Spider-Man a number of times, and has had his head handed to him each time. It's possible that he could have relocated here, I suppose."

"Does this sound like something he would do, though?"

"Who knows? He once kept a newspaper publisher prisoner in his own home while he assumed his identity for almost a month. He's also slightly insane, from what Spider-Man has told me."

"Well, let's have your Brigadier check him out." It was a slim hope, but it was better than nothing at all.

We ate a quick sandwich in Pommeroy's after that, then Kurt rejoined the rest of his team while I went back to Chambers to look over the case in more detail.
 
 

I have never been a great believer in the minutiae and details of the legal system, as Nightcrawler had correctly guessed. Yet in this case, I wanted to find out everything that I could about what could happen in this case, specifically in terms of Kurt being a mutant, and the possible ramifications on a military front. I knew that WHO was connected to Excalibur, and I wanted to be damned sure that we weren't going to be contradicting any of the Official Secrets Acts or other such nonsensical laws currently enforced.

Such work is, in its own way, backbreaking, and I was on my fourth small cigar and leaning back in my chair when Bollard came in unannounced.

"Rumpole," he began, squinting at the cloud of cigar smoke above my head, "I asked you to see me this morning, and here it is two in the afternoon. Would you care to explain yourself?"

As the preferred response was a bit too ribald to use on Head of Chambers, even a pious ass like Bollard, I opted for a more reasonable answer. "I was in conference with my latest client, Bollard. And an impromptu lunch, as well. I was just going over the case when you came in."

"Were you indeed?" His reply was not exactly believing at first, but upon seeing the brief itself scattered on my desk, various legal texts on top of it, his tone softened. "Rumpole, I don't have to tell you that many eyes will be on you, and therefore on these Chambers, as a result of this case"

"Ah, back in the public limelight! I remember when I was a regular fixture in the News of the World during the Penge Bungalow Murders. It makes the case a bit trickier, perhaps, but I don't see it changing anything to any great degree, really."

"No? Rumpole, in defending Mr Wagner, you are effectively defending mutants, indeed superhumans everywhere. Now, I do not wish to put pressure on you, but..."

I cut him off before he could finish. "Bollard, if you think I'm going to drop this case solely on the basis that Kurt Wagner is a mutant, then you're insane. The legal taxicab that is Horace Rumpole is freely available to anyone, regardless of age, creed, sex, or genetic background!"

"Rumpole! I was not going to ask you to drop the case."

"I beg your pardon, Bollard? You're not asking me to drop the case?" I had to admit it, I was stunned.

"My lord, no! I freely admit, my experience with the mutant community is negligible, but I see nothing criminal in merely being a mutant with blue fur and a tail, amongst other things. No, I am merely asking you to be careful, both in the case and outside of it."

"What are you getting at, Sam?"

He pulled a letter out of his jacket pocket. "I received this early today. No postmark, no return address."

"And?" I asked.

"Well, in a nutshell, it's warning us, or rather you, to throw the case. Or else." I didn't need a bomb to fall on me to figure out what 'or else' meant. "I'm serious, Rumpole. I've already discussed this with Brigadier Stuart, and she's agreed that it might be better for you and Hilda to have some armed protection."

In all my years at the Bar, I had rarely ever been the subject of someone's hatred. While I have had my share of defeats, it was unlikely for my client to harbour any ill feelings against me as a result. Against the presiding judge, perhaps, but not me.

"Armed? Are you sure that's entirely necessary, Ballard?"

Ballard drew himself up to his full height and sniffed. Even when he was showing concern, the man could be an absolute prig. "I would consider it vital, Rumpole. Not only for this case and these chambers, but for your own well-being. Brigadier Stuart has said that a couple of her best men would be available to you; just say the word."

I considered it. "I'll have to consult with Hilda, of course. It wouldn't be proper otherwise."

"Of course, Rumpole, of course. Just don't leave it too late." With that, Soapy Sam departed, leaving me to light another small cigar, and consider something that I hadn't given much thought to, in the past: my own safety in a court of law.
 
 

Excalibur returned a short while later, with little in the way of good news. "I scanned the entire area where Hugh Sanson's body was found. Nothing out of the ordinary could be found," said Phoenix, sitting down and rubbing her temples.

"When you say scanned, could you be a little more precise? Not that I doubt you, I just want to make sure that I'm not forgetting anything."

The red-haired beauty smiled. "Well, you asked for it..." In an instant, images flashed into my mind of Phoenix and Shadowcat in East London, Phoenix radiating some kind of energy wave around the area. I somehow understood this, even though it was out of my experience. The images faded, and I was facing Phoenix once again. "I figured a telepathic explanation would be easier, Mr Rumpole. I apologise if I've startled you."

"Incredible." I started to reach for a small cigar when the tiny dragon perked its head up and then flew on top of my cigar case to settle down for a good long nap. (I could've sworn that it said 'uh-uh'). Oh well. "I see what you mean, young lady. I think."

Shadowcat jumped in. "No dimensional rifts, no teleportation, no unconventional vehicle traces... I dunno, maybe it's exactly what it looks like. A simple case of murder."

"Which doesn't do your friend here much good, Shadowcat," I said, gesturing to Nigtcrawler. "There's nothing to prove that he wasn't there in the first place."

"Wait... Phoenix, there were no traces of teleportation, ja?"

"None... of course!" I was confused by this exchange, and so was Mike Watford. The heroes and Stuart, on the other hand, were smiling. I asked what was going on.

"Well, Herr Rumpole. The witnesses didn't see me enter the area or leave after Sanson's death. In the middle of the day, I tend to stand out in a crowd. And as for getting there unseen..." To prove his point, he disappeared in a puff of noxious smoke and reappeared on the other side of the room. "I tend to leave a bit of a smell when I teleport, as you can see... and smell."

"I see what you mean, now. However, it still doesn't point the way to who actually did it. And as remarkable as your abilities are, Phoenix, telepathic impressions aren't likely to be admissible in court." I stood up. "Have any of you had any more thoughts as to who could have done it? Forget those villains who are earthbound, I'm willing to listen to anything at this point."

"Sat-yr-9." The way Captain Britain said the name clearly spelled out his feelings for the person in question. "She would have done this, with great ease."

"And she is?" I prompted him.

"A vicious fascist from Earth 213 whom I've faced on a few occasions. She would do this just to get at me. And she has no love for the rest of the team, I'm sure." The Captain went on to tell me how she had generally massacred much of her planet's population. "Hmm... forgive me, Captain, but it doesn't sound like this person would commit murder in such a way. She would seem to be far too obvious about it."

"Perhaps we are looking too far away," said Kurt, his tail twitching slightly. "The answers may be right under our noses."

I waited for him to continue. "Well? Go on!"

"Captain," he began, turning to the huge man. "Would the people who took over your former residence be capable of anything like this?"

I had no idea what young Kurt was talking about, but clearly Captain Britain did. "RCX? It does stink of their work, doesn't it?" The Captain was fuming, and I asked him who or what RCX was. "The RCX are a semi-autonomous government agency, the Resources Control Executive. They were formed years ago from the ashes of STRIKE, a paramilitary organisation much like SHIELD. They took over the house where I used to live, and were raising Warpie children the last I heard."

"I know I'll probably regret asking this, but what are Warpie children?"

"Mutants, Mr Rumpole, born in the wake of the Jaspers Warp. Hence the name. The details aren't important, but the RCX were raising the children to no doubt be superhuman agents for them. It's not an entirely new idea; many groups in the past have done it: adopt children with no families and train them."

"But these children are capable of much more," added Phoenix. "Perhaps one of them could be responsible."

I picked up the brief. "According to the witnesses, the person who killed Sanson showed up without warning, hacked him to death, and then disappeared." I turned to Brigadier Stuart. "I know that no trace of superhuman energies were used in departure, Brigadier; but perhaps more conventional means were used? Mechanical or electronic aids, perhaps?"

"It's possible, sir. I'll have my group look into it. Mr Rumpole, regarding protection for you and your wife..."

"Ah, yes. I haven't actually talked to her about that as yet..." As if on cue, the phone rang, with Henry telling me that Hilda was on the line. "Hilda! Is everything all right?" I asked, concern in my voice

"Well of course it is! Rumpole, Henry told me that you've been meeting with Excalibur!"

"Yes, they are clients. Well, one of them, at any rate."

"Invite them for dinner." I sputtered out a 'what', and she repeated herself. "I said, invite them for dinner! And I'll need you to stop and get dinner rolls on the way home."

"Hilda, never in my entire career at the Bar have you ever asked me to bring home a client before."

Hilda snorted. "You've never had a national icon as your client before, either. And don't go trying to claim that members of the Timsons count!" She Who Must Be Obeyed was quite resolute on this matter, and I gave up and told her I would ask the assembled heroes whether or not they were available that evening. They all nodded their assent, and I told Hilda we would arrive home shortly.

I hung up the phone, and looked at them gloomily. "I hope you're all prepared. Fighting the hardiest supervillain will seem like a quick game of tiddlywinks compared to an evening with She Who Must Be Obeyed"
 
 

After procuring the requested dinner rolls, I wondered how Excalibur and I were going to make our way to the 'mansion flat' that Hilda and I occupied at 25 Froxbury Court in the Gloucester Road. "Ah, Herr Rumpole," said Nightcrawler with a decidedly devilish smile, that will be no problem!" He produced a small device about the size of an old calculator, pressed a button, and suddenly he looked like, well, like Errol Flynn, albeit in bluejeans and a sweater. "An image inducer, designed by Tony Stark. A useful gadget, ja?" I asked him why he didn't use it at Pommeroy's, and he told me that he preferred not to use it unless absolutely necessary. "When you blend in with the shadows, it's not usually necessary. But if we are to be traveling by Underground to your home, it seems prudent to use it."

"Do all of you have one of these devices?" I asked. They shook their heads, and I was treated to the sight of Phoenix gesturing, and suddenly the uniforms of the Captain, Shadowcat, Meggan and herself transformed into normal street attire. "Well, that solves that. I thought you superheroes had a rule against showing your true faces, though."

Phoenix smiled. "I think we can trust you, Mr Rumpole." Shadowcat giggled to herself, and Meggan and the Captain just nodded. Lockheed, I noticed, was in a carryall that Shadowcat held, and was sleeping contentedly. What a dinner party this will be, I thought to myself.
 
 

We arrived at Casa Rumpole in due course, where I smelled what I took to be nearly an entire rack of lamb roasting on a spit. "Hilda! I hath returned, and brought many an Aesir with me!" The heroes smiled at that, and Hilda came into the living room, wringing her hands. "Hilda, these are my new clients. Ladies and gentleman, meet the true ruler of the Rumpole House, my wife Hilda."

Kurt bowed, and took Hilda's hand and kissed it. "Enchante, madame. Thank you for having us in your home."

Hilda blushed slightly, then looked at him. "I'm sorry... you are all Excalibur?"

She sounded disappointed, and it took me a few seconds to catch on. "Yes, they're Excalibur, Hilda! They're in mufti, that's all."

"Oh. Well, please, do come in. I hope Rumpole didn't keep you waiting at Pommeroy's. He can be terribly thoughtless like that!" And with that, She sashayed our guests into our wellworn sofa and chairs, and asked if anyone would care for a drink.

"Danke, Mrs Rumpole..."

"Please, call me Hilda."

"...but I should like to make myself a little more comfortable first. With your permission, of course." Hilda looked at me uncertainly, and I just nodded my assent, knowing full well what Kurt was about to do. With a flourish, he deactivated the image inducer and reverted to his true self. Hilda gasped, and had to put the sherry down. "I apologise if that startled you, Hilda. But I somehow imagined you were rather expecting to see us in our costumes." He smiled. "And I could never fail to disappoint a hostess who is kind enough to make us dinner!" With that, I could see that Kurt had nothing to fear at his trial. Not even the most terrible of judges could hold a candle to the wrath that She Who Must Be Obeyed is capable of meting out. And Kurt practically had made her swoon!

With a nod, Phoenix changed everyone else's costumes back, and Hilda could barely contain her excitement at seeing her heroes in the flesh. "Oh, my!" She Who Must quickly regained her composure, and invited everyone to sit down for a drink before dinner. Shadowcat and the Captain had removed their masks, and Hilda asked them why.

"Well, it's just kind of impolite, I think, to eat while masked. Especially after all the trouble you've gone through." Shadowcat, who had now reintroduced herself to us as Katherine "Kitty" Pryde of Chicago, Illinois. "And since your husband is doing Kurt such a great service..."

Hilda smiled. "Well, that's just Rumpole all over, isn't it? Doing people great services." I grinned and poured myself a large glass of Pommeroy's plonk. "But aren't you worried about your secret identity?" Kitty explained to Hilda that unless she planned on telling the world, she wasn't too concerned about it.

Captain Britain looked familiar to me, and once his Christian name of Brian was mentioned, I completed the rest. Brian Braddock was reasonably well known in the business world as the head of Braddock Industries, and I could well see why he would need to conceal his identity.

"But why don't the rest of you wear masks?" Hilda asked. (My wife, despite her attentiveness to the world of superheroes, occasionally misses the point.)

"Well, Hilda," began Nigtcrawler, "looking like I do, I don't really need a mask."

"Oh, yes, of course..."

Phoenix, who had intoduced herself as Rachel Summers, jumped in at this point. "And then there's the fact that I don't have anyone to protect."

"Oh, surely that's not true!" Hilda cried.

"I'm afraid so," Rachel replied. "You see, I come from about twenty years in the future." Her eyes closed at this point and, when she opened them again, I saw the same look that I had seen in the Captain's eyes, and in Shadowcat's. "In my future, mutants have been wiped out by the Sentinels, and humanity is under their control." Rachel turned to me. "So you see why it's important, Mr Rumpole, that this trial is won. Not just for Kurt, but for the future as well." There were tears in her eyes, and Hilda put a comforting arm around her.

With far more confidence than I actually felt, I told her that we would win. After all, I was on the case! Rachel smiled a little at that, and replied, "I know."

Dinner, following the introductions, had been a quiet affair, with mostly Kitty, Meggan and myself doing the talking. Meggan had never been in an actual courtroom before, and was quizzing me on what to expect. "Twelve old darlings brought in from Newington Causeway, Charlie Hearthrug acting for the Prosecution, and, oh joy of joys, Mr Justice Featherstone presiding." I have written often of our former Head of Chambers, who, while possessing the unmatched ability to insert both feet in his mouth while sitting as a Red Judge, was nonetheless a decent sort who only wanted to do what was right. Guthrie had gotten better as a judge over the last few years, and the old rumour that I could twist him round my finger wasn't strictly true anymore. "Now, if Graves or Oliphant was trying, we would have a much more difficult time of it."

"Why is that, Mr Rumpole?" asked Meggan excitedly. I told her that Judge Gerald Graves had about as much humanity as a bag of frozen peas, and Ollie Oliphant was a North Country comedian who invariably acted as a super-leader for the Prosecution. "Guthrie, on the other hand... well, he may make a pig's breakfast of the whole thing in the press, but he will be fair."

"Rumpole!" This earned a mild rebuke from She. "Talking of a Red Judge like that!" She smiled slightly. "Even if it is true..."

Occasionally, even Hilda can see through the nonsensical ways of the British legal system and realise it for the somewhat humourous thing that it is. Would that more people could do such a thing!
 
 

The next few days passed quickly, with Excalibur chasing down leads as to who could have truly done the deed, and with me preparing for the trial. Ordinarily, I don't look at my brief in any great detail. However, with the publicity that this case would generate and with the possible consequences, I felt it prudent to do so.

Perhaps I was also motivated by a talk I had with young Rachel Summers. We lunched the day after dinner at Froxbury Mansions, and I asked her more about her past... or our possible future, as the case may be. What she told me chilled me to the bone. Most people are familiar with what the Nazis did during World War II, but even that paled to Rachel's experiences with the robotic Sentinels, and the camps that she was forced into.

So you have me poring over my brief with unusual detail, puffing on a small cigar, when Wilfred, Mr Justice Featherstone's clerk, called. The Judge would like a word with both Prosecuting and Defence counsel, and would I appear before him at 9.00 am the moring of the trial? I said yes, wondering what the devil Guthrie was going to screw up now.

As I have mentioned, Guthrie is an affable chap. Perhaps inclined to put his foot into his mouth, but overall a decent, and, I think, generally fair-minded judge. Which, quite frankly, I could have done without, but we were saddled with the old darling for the duration.

He greeted me with genuine warmth, inviting me to sit down, and would I like a cup of tea? After several seconds, he invited Charlie Hearthstoke to do the same, albeit with a tone several degrees cooler.

"Well, you chaps. Quite an unusual case we have for us today, wouldn't you say?" Guthrie positively purred.

"Oh, I don't know, Judge. A simple case of mistaken identity, I should've thought," I said genially.

"Mistaken identity? This is a trial of murder!" Hearthrug was clearly not going to be cooperative on this one. "Everyone saw the blueskinned freak disembellow Sanson!"

"Mr Hearthstoke!" Guthrie clearly was not going to have any sort of namecalling in his chambers. "I do hope counsel for the Prosecution isn't going to be using that sort of language in its case for the Crown." Hearthrug subsided, and Guthrie turned to me. "What I wanted to see you about, Horace -- and you too, Hearthstoke, was to ensure that this trial is conducted with absolute fairness."

I smiled. "Would you expect anything less of me, Judge?" Guthrie, of course, had known me for many years, and was not fooled by any pretence I might have of being a perfect angel in Court. He did, however, know that I wouldn't stoop to such things as blackmail... which Charlie Hearthrug had attempted to do to his Lordship not so long ago.

"I merely want to point out that this isn't... this mustn't be a case about mutants versus humans. As far as Wagner is concerned, he is to be judged fully and fairly by the law. This means he is to be prosecuted fairly," with a cold eye to Hearthrug, "and defended fairly." Guthrie smiled. "I'll see you chaps in court!" he said, rubbing his hands.

Hearthrug stood up to leave, and I was about to, when Guthrie stopped me. "A word before you go, Horace." Counsel for the Prosecution shot a dirty look in my direction, which I received with well-concealed good grace. "Horace, tread carefully here. The public's perceptions of mutants are, shall we say, not in the best light?"

"Translated, watch my back going home on the Underground? I've already received a threatening letter, Judge. Don't you worry about me." I stopped a minute. "You might do to worry about yourself, though."

Guthrie looked confused, so I went on. "Think about it. When we get the not guilty verdict," and I soldiered on before he could question my use of the word 'when', "you may find yourself in the hot seat as well."

"I must say, I hadn't considered that. But of course that will have no bearing on my judgement." Guthrie looked a bit nervous, and I wondered if I shouldn't have kept silent. Oh well, what's done is done.
 
 

The first day was moderately dull, being nothing more than opening statements by Hearthrug and myself, and preliminary bits of evidence, dealing mostly with Kurt's supposed presence in the Portobello Road where Sanson was killed. Most of the witnesses didn't see anything unusual until Sanson's killer appeared from out of nowhere and disemboweled him with a sword, then disappeared again.

The police evidence was much more interesting, describing how he was killed, with a dueling sword. Curiously enough, it resembled no dueling sword known to the Met. Such blades are not known for their sharpness, and certainly not in such an attack as this. The killer had left it behind when he disappeared, and the police couldn't make heads nor tails of it.

Regular readers will know that I am, unofficially at least, the expert on bloodstains, and to a lesser degree, gunshot wounds and typewriters. Bladed weapons are not my forte, but neither am I unfamiliar with them. So, in a reasonably expert hand, I held the sword up before me as I cross-examined DI Cochrane.

"Detective Inspector, would you say that this is a typical dueling sword?"

"No. It's much sharper, capable of cutting through paper quite finely."

"So, it wouldn't be available at a local sporting goods boutique, say?" This received a small tinkle of laughter from the jury.

"No, I'd say it was specially made." Cochrane was a very fair officer, but he wasn't going to give more away than he had to.

"Is such a weapon easily made? I mean, would the average manufacturer be capable of constructing it?"

Hearthstoke rose. "My lord, is my learned friend implying that the Detective Inspector is an expert on swordcraft?" I rose and said no, but he is a competent officer who could easily find out.

"No. None of the companies in England that make such weapons have any record of doing so."

"May it have been built by any other companies outside the country?"

"I can't say for certain. The impression I got from both our experts and the representatives of the firms we contacted indicates that this weapon is not easily built. At least not within the sporting goods industries."

"Thank you, Detective Inspector." Hearthrug rose and asked him if it was within the realm of any other company, and the Inspector answered with a non-committal "I suppose." He went on to say that it would have to be a very rich company with a lot of power behind it, such as Stark Enterprises or Roxxon, for example. This did not appear to make Hearthrug very happy, but it was an opaque enough answer for my own satisfaction.

The next question I asked was one that I was not comfortable with, but, if played right, would make the Prosecution's case against Nightcrawler even more unlikely. "One final question, Detective Inspector. My client is well-known as a swordsman, is he not?" The Inspector responded in the affirmative, no doubt wondering where I was going with this. "His skill with a sword is therefore not in any doubt, as far as the Police are concerned?" Another affirmative, if puzzled, answer. "Doesn't it strike you as odd, then, that the wounds Mr Sanson received are not of a neater variety?"

"I'm not sure I follow you, Mr Rumpole."

"Well, follow along down this path with me, Detective Inspector! Mr Wagner is a well known, highly skilled swordsman, who could easily kill a person with his weapon with the least amount of effort!" I placed emphasis on the last five words. "Whoever killed Mr Sanson clearly had no idea how to use a sword, as you can see from the forensic evidence! " I had been studying the morgue pictures, and the fatal wounds Sanson had received were jagged and slashed. "Even with this finely honed sword!"

Guthrie spoke from on high. "Mr Rumpole, where are you going with all this?"

I bowed and smiled. "The point my lord, is this. Mr Wagner couldn't have killed Mr Sanson, because if he had, the wounds would have been neater, straighter, and much, much faster. Would you agree with that assessment, Detective Inspector Cochrane?" The good DI had little choice but to agree with me. "Thaqnk you, Detective Inspector. Just stay there, a moment, in case my learned friend has any questions for you." Assuming he could think of any, that is.

From the dock, Kurt smiled. It must have been a maddening thing, pretending to be unable to leave. He could have easily teleported away in a puff of smoke, or merely leap onto a wall and climb down. And yet he remained, determined to stick it out.

Hearthrug had finished trying to get anything useful out of Cochrane, and Guthrie, in his infinite judicial wisdom, decreed that it was time for luncheon. I had just started on a cigar when a man in a well used mac called my name.

"Mr Rumpole?" I answered in the affirmative, forgetting for the moment that the rest of Excalibur had gone to visit Kurt in the cells below. "Could I have a brief word, sir?" It was curious; a cultured voice, definitely not something you'd normally associate with a man who looked about two meals from being homeless. But, flush with confidence in a case I was determined to win, I went to him.

He was standing in the rear of the telephone banks, right by the last phone. I began to ask him what he wanted when the world suddenly shifted around me.
 
 

Where was once the Old Bailey telephone banks was now a darkened, cavernous laboratory, filled with machines and apparatus whose function I could only begin to guess at. I turned to the man in the mac to find that he was gone, replaced by a much taller man in dark blue armor, a face of ghostly white, and red glowing eyes. It was a sinister effect, and I told him as much.

He laughed (not a pleasant sound, I assure you), and introduced himself as Mr Sinister.

"I apologise for my means of... transport, Mr Rumpole, but I felt that this would be the easiest way to talk to you."

"Well, you could have just made an appointment with my clerk," I began, and Sinister smiled at that. Two rows of sharpened teeth winked dully in the dim light. "...but then again, I suppose this isn't official legal business, is it?"

"Ah, but it is, Mr Rumpole, it is! You see, I'm going to give you Hugh Sanson's killer."

Well, at this point I began to calm down. I had regretted not having someone from Excalibur or WHO with me, but it was clear that Sinister was not out to do me any immediate harm. "Oh, are you? Have him on the premises, do you?" I took a better look around. "Where exactly are we, by the way? It seems rather farfetched that the Old Bailey has this interesting of a room, after all."

Sinister smiled. "You're not afraid, Mr Rumpole? Of me, or what you see around you?"

I smiled back. "If you had meant me harm, you would have done so by now. And quite frankly, what information you could pry out of an Old Bailey hack like myself is beyond me. So, that means I'm reasonably safe, for the moment at least."

"Mr Rumpole, I like you. You're one of the few humans who takes the time to think before he acts or speaks. Quite rare, really." He motioned for me to sit down on a chair that seemed to appear out of nowhere. "You are in one of my hidden labs, by the way, and here courtesy of directed matter transmission. I'd tell you where the lab actually is, but then it wouldn't be hidden anymore, would it?"

"No, I suppose not."

"At any rate, I wanted give you Hugh Sanson's true killer. Come with me, please." I began to stand up to follow him, when the chair rose off the floor of its own accord, taking me with it. "Please relax and enjoy the ride, Mr Rumpole. It won't be long."

Okay, Rumpole and all associated characters (Hilda, Guthrie Featherstone, et. al.) are all copyright to either John Mortimer or the BBC, I'm not quite sure which.  Excalibur, X-Men, and all related characters are copyright Marvel Enterprises.  Everything else is copyright 1999 Palle Madsen.  I make no money off this stuff, so you needn't bother suing me.