Lynda La Plante - The Legacy

‘So you saw the prisoner threatening to take revenge, could you elaborate?’

‘Oh yes, sir, he pointed like this, and his face was terrible fierce. He said he would get each man there, I took it to mean he would kill ‘em.’

‘Thank you Mr Jones, but the fight was over, was it not?’

‘Yes, Dai Thomas was lying out cold, had to be hospitalized, he did, they thought he had killed him he was so bad.’

Smethurst then asked Morgan if he knew anything of Dai Thomas’ present state of health. Morgan elaborated, his fist raised in a boxer’s stance, telling the court that ‘Hammer’ was alive and well and fighting in Brighton. Morgan beamed around the court, waved to his mother in the gallery.

‘Tell me, Mr Jones, why, in your opinion, was the defendant still fighting after the bout with Thomas was over?’

‘Ah well, there had been some hanky-panky with one of the gyppo girls, and a few of the lads …’

‘Hanky-panky …? What exactly do you mean by hanky-panky?’

‘Well there had been a lot of beer flowing.’

‘Are you saying there was a certain amount of drunkenness?’

‘Oh yes, I’d say so … a few of the lads had got a bit excited …’

‘Excited? … I am sorry Mr Jones, I am still not exactly clear … What were these lads doing?’

‘Well, there was one of the gypsy girls, you know what they’re like, she must have encouraged them. They were … having their way with her …’

The court buzzed. Smethurst sighed … ‘Ahhhhhh, having their way with her! What, all of them? How many lads did you see with this gypsy girl?’

Morgan Jones huffed and puffed, rubbed his head, and coughed with embarrassment. ‘Maybe it had got a bit out of hand, but those lads paid for it.’

Smethurst ignored the reference to the boys’ killings. He bellowed, making Jones gulp, ‘You call raping an innocent girl “getting a bit out of hand.’”?”

The court erupted in loud boos and hisses. The judge called an adjournment for lunch.

Evelyne sat on her bed while Miss Freda tried to relate all the day’s happenings. Suddenly Freda burst into tears.

‘What is it, Freda? … Oh, for goodness’ sake, tell me! Have you any idea what it’s like for me, sitting here day after day, not knowing … why are you crying?’

Miss Freda gulped and sniffed. ‘Because … because I feel so sorry for him — Oh Evie, they say he’ll hang.’

Evelyne wanted to shake Freda, but she fought for control, told her that she mustn’t even think like that.

‘I’ve not been on the stand yet, Freda, just wait until I get my ten penn’orth in …’

Freda calmed down and blew her nose, while Evelyne wished she felt as positive as she sounded. Freedom was to be called to the stand the following morning.

In the early hours she woke from a nightmare, a terrible nightmare of a man swinging on the end of a rope. The man was Freedom.

Smethurst kept his eyes on Freedom and his fingers crossed as he was sworn in. He knew he was going to have to handle the man carefully. He had told Freedom to concentrate on him, to answer clearly, and above all to take care not to incriminate himself. He must make no reference to the other murders; he was on trial for the killing of William Thomas, and Thomas only. The handcuffs were removed and Freedom rubbed his wrists before placing both hands on the rail of the dock. If he was nervous he didn’t show it, but stood, head high, and looked directly at Smethurst, as instructed.

In the gallery the women whispered and nudged one another, and a woman’s voice was heard gasping, ‘It’s Valentino.’

Smethurst’s voice silenced the court. ‘State your name and occupation.’

Freedom’s voice rang out, sounding somehow incongruous when he said the word ‘fighter’.

‘You have been brought before this court charged with the murder of William Thomas. Are you guilty or not guilty?’

Freedom’s ‘not guilty’ met with a low buzzing from the court as if a swarm of bees had been let loose. The judge lifted an eyebrow and the noise subsided.

‘You are a Romany gypsy, is that true, Mr Stubbs? And you have been working as a booth boxer and fairground boxer for the past eight years?’

Freedom answered every question firmly. Miss Freda, in the gallery, leaned forward to catch every single word. She noted his strange unfathomable eyes, his face like a mask, no one could tell what he was thinking. Not until Smethurst mentioned Evelyne did she see a strange reaction. His hands gripped the dock bar tighter for a second and then relaxed.

‘Would you tell the court how you met Miss Jones?’

‘She helped one of the girls from my clan. The girl had been raped and beaten, and Miss Jones helped her, cleaned her wounds, she was gentle and kind.’

Freedom took Smethurst by surprise by continuing, without any encouragement, ‘If I am to hang, even though I swear before God I did not kill the boy, I take this time to say that no woman could have behaved more kindly or with such good intentions. If there is any man in this court who says different, he is a liar.’

Smethurst could see that the judge was about to interrupt. Freedom’s speech was irrelevant, and he coughed loudly. ‘I am sure everyone understands. As you said, Miss Jones was very caring and …’

Freedom interrupted calmly, his voice as loud and clear as a bell. ‘No sir, she was different. We have a word for non-Romanies, we call them “palefaces”. We do not trust them, we do not want them near our camps or with our people. Because she showed us respect and was gentle to a girl that had been raped, it is not right for people to say the things I have heard outside in the streets. They are calling her a “gyppo woman” …’

This time the judge interrupted and told Smethurst to control his witness. Smethurst glared at Freedom. ‘Please, Mr Stubbs, in your own words, tell us what happened, to the very best of your recollection. How you met Miss Evelyne Jones, and exactly what occurred on the night of the murder of William Thomas.’

Freedom explained in detail exactly how he had met Evelyne, what had happened afterwards. How, months later, he had been to the valleys for the boxing match. The spectators listened attentively. Freedom continued uninterrupted right up until the night of his arrest. Smethurst nodded, keeping a watchful eye on him, encouraging him to speak freely. Freedom finished by saying how he had been brought to Cardiff. Smethurst raised his hand to pull at his wig, a signal he had told Freedom to watch for — he was to remain silent.

Smethurst left a long pause before he raised his voice. ‘Thank you, Mr Stubbs. Now, I ask you, in front of this court, knowing you have sworn on the Bible to tell the truth — did you, Freedom Stubbs, take the life of William Thomas?’

‘No sir, I did not.’

Smethurst looked at the judge. ‘No further questions, Your Honour.’

A low buzz went around the court as Henshaw, taking his time, stood up to begin his cross-examination. He looked with chilling eyes at Freedom. His voice was softer, quieter than Smethurst’s, and the spectators all leaned slightly forward, afraid to miss a word.

‘Mr Stubbs, would you please look at exhibit number four, a photograph, and tell me what the mark across the deceased’s forehead means?’

Smethurst chewed his lips. Freedom was handed the blown-up photograph of William Thomas. ‘Yes, sir, it’s a dukkerin’s sign.’

‘I’m sorry Mr Stubbs — dukkerin?’ ‘Romany sign, sir, a dukkerin is what you call a fortune-teller. It is a curse sign.’

The court murmured and hushed immediately. Smethurst sucked in his breath. His foot tapped, and he gave Freedom a hard glare. He had already said too much. Henshaw bided his time, the spectators giving him their rapt attention.