Lynda La Plante - The Legacy

‘Mr Stubbs, you say you did not kill William Thomas, a nineteen-year-old boy, a boy found with his hands tied behind his pitiful body, his throat slit, and a blood mark, a strange symbol daubed on his forehead, a Romany curse …’

The spectators murmured. Henshaw held up his hand for silence. Freedom appeared about to speak … but Henshaw continued. ‘You say you did not kill William Thomas, you swear this on the Holy Bible — tell me, as a Romany, are you a Christian?’

Smethurst swore under his breath. The buzzing grew loud again, and the judge hammered with his gavel to quieten the court room. He warned that, unless the spectators controlled themselves and behaved according to court rules, they would be removed. But the noise persisted, and shouts began from the gallery … ‘Liar — hang him — give him the rope … The rope, the rope …’

Two ushers approached the judge’s bench. He leaned down to listen for a moment, then gave a tight nod of his head as he agreed to the troublemakers being removed. Several men and three rowdy women were ejected. Their voices could still be heard arguing in the corridor. Henshaw raised an eyebrow to Smethurst as silence fell once more in the court.

‘I did not hear an answer to my question, Mr Stubbs. Are you a Christian?’

Freedom looked at Smethurst then back to Henshaw. ‘I believe in God, and the Devil, may he take my soul if I am lying.’

Henshaw stepped up the pressure. ‘Tell me, Mr Stubbs, are you or are you not the lover of Miss Evelyne Jones? Miss Jones, the only witness to give you an alibi for the night of the murder of William Thomas? Please reply to my question, Mr Stubbs. Is Miss Evelyne Jones your mistress?’

Freedom’s hands gripped the dock bar tightly. ‘No sir, she is not my woman.’

Henshaw turned round, shrugged his shoulders, tapped his pencil on the rail before him. This tapping was to become familiar, first the sharp end of the pencil, then the blunt end, tap-tap-tap …

‘So Miss Jones, a schoolteacher, is nothing more than a true friend to the gypsy people. Could you tell me why, if she was simply a friend, a woman you had met on only one occasion before, why, during a boxing match at Devil’s Pit three days after the brutal murder of William Thomas — I am referring, Mr Stubbs, to the night you were trying to avoid arrest — why did you … one moment…’ Henshaw perched a pair of half-moon glasses on the end of his nose. He picked up his notes. ‘If I may quote you, Mr Stubbs, “I drove my wagon through the crowd of people and helped Miss Jones up beside me” … end of quote. Do you recall saying that? So would you now please tell the court why you would take hold of a woman, by her waist I presume, and lift her into a moving wagon …?’

Freedom was nonplussed, unable to follow Henshaw’s train of thought, his complex questioning.

‘Perhaps I should refresh your memory again, Mr Stubbs. We are talking, are we not, of the night the police arrested you. If she was not your “woman”, not your mistress, why did you take hold of her in what I can only describe as a very familiar, if not barbaric, way?’ A woman waved from the gallery and screeched, ‘He could get hold of my waist any time he likes, ducks!’

Henshaw stared at the blonde woman leaning over the gallery. The court broke into laughter and the judge again rapped his gavel sharply and called for silence. Henshaw pursed his lips, removed his glasses, and sighed. ‘Again, Mr Stubbs, I have to ask you please to reply to my question. We are not here — although I must say, some appear to think so — we are not here for our own amusement. This is a court of law. I am waiting, Mr Stubbs.’

Smethurst carefully unwrapped a toffee. Henshaw had learned some of Smethurst’s personal tricks, he was playing to the gallery, condoning their behaviour. It was obvious that Freedom was at a loss. He gazed helplessly at Smethurst.

Tapping his pencil with an air of martyred patience, Henshaw repeated ‘Well, Mr Stubbs, we are waiting.’

‘She stood by me again, sir, she said they were out to kill me because they — the villagers — believed I had done the killing. There were many men trying to push the wagon over, I took her aboard the wagon because I was afeared for her life.’

‘Are you saying Miss Jones’ own people were turning against her?’

‘Yes, sir, they knew she’d been with me, and that lad was dead, and in the Romany way …’

Smethurst closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. The court was in an uproar.

The judge called for a lunch break, and everyone filed out of the room. Freedom was led down to the cells. When he was brought back after lunch, Henshaw cross-examined him for the rest of the afternoon.

That evening Evelyne waited for Freda’s usual visit. She came into the hotel room and promptly burst into tears. ‘Oh, I feel so sorry’for him, Evie, he looks so alone, so alone … And that Mr Henshaw twisted him so, made everything he said sound so bad … he asks one question and leads it into another, and gets Freedom confused.’

Evelyne grew more and more nervous as Miss Freda described how cold and arrogant Mr Henshaw was. They both jumped with fright as someone pounded on the door, and they heard Sir Charles’ voice demanding admission.

‘Now look here, this isn’t on. You know you mustn’t talk to the witness, Miss Freda. Now please leave instantly … go along, out, out — and make sure no one sees you as you leave.’

With a fearful look at Evelyne, Freda hurried out. Sir Charles closed the door after her. ‘I shouldn’t be here either.’

‘How do you think it’s going, sir?’ ‘Not good, not good at all — they’re making him look like an oaf. Er … look here, gel, you and this fellow … er, you have been telling us the truth, haven’t you?’ ‘About what, sir?’

‘Well, this chap Henshaw’s pretty sharp, and he’s picked up that perhaps there’s more to your so-called “friendship” with this fella than meets the eye.’

Evelyne’s hands tightened in her lap. She swallowed hard. ‘If I had lied to you, I would not get on to that witness stand and swear on the Holy Bible to a lie. Everything I said to you, and Mr Smethurst, was God’s truth.’

‘Ah, yes, quite … well, I think you’ll be called soon. I suppose Smethurst will talk to you before then. I’d best be off… Goodnight.’ ‘Goodnight, Sir Charles.’

Evelyne lay down, hardly able to believe that after all she had been through Sir Charles had to ask her again. Her heart pounded and she began to worry. Mr Henshaw sounded even more threatening than Miss Freda had made out. He had obviously sown a seed of doubt in Sir Charles’ mind.

In the morning Freedom was led, handcuffed, from the jail to the waiting police wagon. A small crowd outside hurled rotting vegetables and abuse, and spat in Freedom’s face as he stared at them between the wagon’s bars. They raised their fists and gave chase as it moved off. Most of them then went to join the dole queues, satisfied that they were at least better off than the gyppo. Poor they may be, but they were free.

Freedom touched a slight swelling on his right cheek.

He had been taunted so much at breakfast — not by the prisoners but by the warders — that he had lost his temper and hurled his porridge at a particularly unpleasant warder who took delight in needling him constantly. He had made lewd gestures and implied that Freedom and his kind were up to no good. Freedom was beaten as he was dragged back to his cell. The warder, still dripping cold porridge, shouted, ‘They’ll hang you sure as I’m standing here, and, by Christ, I’ll pull the rope meself, you bastard!’

The wagon bounced and rocked over the cobbled side streets on the way to court. Freedom closed his eyes, breathed the fresh air into his lungs. As they drove through the back gates of the court yet another small group of people pelted the wagon. But a few girls stood by the gates waving flowers, calling his name. One blew him a kiss, and got a severe wallop from a man for behaving like a ‘gyppo bitch’.