Lynda La Plante - The Legacy

There was a sudden commotion as Freedom tried to get out of the dock, pushing at the guards. He shouted, ‘Leave her alone! Leave her beV

He was dragged from the court. A scuffle broke out on the way to the cells. The judge broke off the day’s session.

Evelyne was driven back to the hotel in the Rolls. She knew it had not gone well. She was unable to talk to Sir Charles, who appeared more concerned about Freddy and David’s names having been, as he put it, ‘bandied about’.

After bathing and dressing, Sir Charles swept out of the hotel to dine with the Carltons. Evelyne watched from her window as he left. She felt drained, totally exhausted. Miss Freda could sense that she didn’t want company, and tried to cheer her up by saying she’d done well, but Evelyne knew she hadn’t.

‘Oh God, Freda, I was just dreadful. I went to pieces, I said things I was not to say … If he hangs, it’s my fault, my fault.’

Miss Freda shook her finger at Evelyne. ‘I watched, all through the trial. He sits with his head bowed, his eyes down … but for you, he held his head high, he didn’t seem afraid. So, you have faith too.’

‘I wish it was over, dear God how I wish it was over.’

Freda hugged her, kissed the top of her head and whispered that if it was bad for them, think what poor Freedom must be going through.

Freedom lay on his bunk. He could hear the other prisoners singing, ‘Swing me just a little bit higher, la-de-la, de-la…’ He pulled his pillow over his head. It wasn’t the rope he was afraid of, he didn’t think of it, all he wanted was for the night to come down, for the silence. Only then, when it was quiet, when all was calm, could he believe that she had stood by him. He wrapped his arms around the pillow and whispered her name. The pillow stank of prison. A month ago he had been able to dream, even wonder what she would feel like, smell like, close to him in bed. This night he could not dream, could not even hope.

The following morning the papers were full of the society names connected with the murder case. There was a large photograph of Sir Charles Wheeler and Evelyne pushing through the crowds.

Today was to be the summing-up, and Evelyne sat with Sir Charles on one side of her and Freda and Ed on the other. The court was packed to capacity.

Everyone rose as the judge took his seat and declared the session open. Henshaw gathered his meticulous notes, rose to his feet, his face stern. His voice rang out, ‘I ask you, ladies and gentlemen, to look closely at the man standing in the dock. The defendant, a man known for his prowess in the boxing ring, a Romany gypsy, a booth boxer, a fairground fighter. William Thomas was nineteen years old, a young boy ready to start out in life. His life was brutally cut off, as brutal a killing as I have ever known. His hands tied behind his back, his throat slit, and to add insult to injury he was marked with a sign of a cross, a cross of his own blood smeared on his forehead. That mark, as we have heard in this court, is the symbol of a Romany curse. The accused man was heard, by witnesses, men brought before you in this court, to threaten — threaten revenge for an attack on one of his own people. This girl has not come forward, and we cannot ask William Thomas whether or not he did in fact rape this gypsy girl. So what do we have? We have, gentlemen of the jury, a defendant who wanted revenge. Freedom Stubbs was in the village, seen close to the picture house where this unfortunate boy was slain — seen on the actual night of the murder, and recognized by Miss Evelyne Jones, a woman with whom he was already on familiar terms, a woman we are expected to believe tried to persuade him to leave because she knew, knew, there would be trouble …’

Evelyne’s heart was pounding. She gripped Freda’s hand tightly. She could see the row of witnesses for the prosecution nodding their heads in agreement with everything Henshaw said. She looked only once at Freedom, and it was as if he sensed she was looking — he lifted his head and gave her the faintest glimmer of a smile. She bit her lips and stared at the floor.

Henshaw continued. ‘I beg you, consider the evidence that has been heard in this courtroom. This man is guilty, and he must pay the penalty. This is no Romany court, no eye for an eye or tooth for a tooth. I ask for nothing more than justice, and it is in your hands. You, the jury, must find this man guilty of murder in the first degree.’

Smethurst tossed his toffee-paper aside and began his speech in a low voice. ‘Oh, my learned friend is very persuasive and, looking around this court now, right now, I feel many people have already made up their minds that the man standing there, the man in the dock, is guilty.’ He swung his big, domed head from side to side, and gradually turned to look up into the gallery, not once directing his gaze at the jury. Instead, he looked over the assembled people with a faint look of disgust on his face.

‘Freedom Stubbs is accused of killing Willie Thomas, a boy who, as you have heard, raped and beat one of his people. Looking around this court right now I would say that any man here, any man confronted with someone they loved in the state that young girl was in, would threaten revenge. That is not to say that any person would actually go through with the threatened act. The defendant was not alone when this girl was discovered. There were at least forty other gypsy men at the boxing fair that evening — perhaps one of those men did take revenge, but we have a witness to prove that this man did not — could not, because at the time Willie Thomas was murdered she was with the accused.

‘My learned friend has taken pains to point out that the witness for the defence, Miss Evelyne Jones, was more than familiar with the accused man. Is there a woman here today who would not have gone to the aid of a raped girl? Who would not have felt a certain amount of disgust that William Thomas was not punished for this crime? We know he was scared, we know he went to the Cardiff police, terrified the gypsy people would take some kind of revenge. You have heard a statement made by William Thomas to the Cardiff Constabulary stating that he did indeed play some part in that poor girl’s rape. Miss Jones saw this girl, and has said, under oath, that she was raped and beaten. And what is the outcome? Her name has been blackened, she has been accused of being this man’s mistress, he her lover, and both have sworn on oath that this is not true … I say she is a woman who showed nothing more than simple, decent kindness to a group of travellers. Miss Evelyne Jones should be held up as an example to us all, instead of being belittled, her education sneered at because, as my learned friend pointed out, she had not the qualifications to teach at the school. We have had a witness stand in front of you and give glowing reports of her ability — a qualified man, a man with examinations, the present headmaster of that same school … But more, her character is without blemish, she is a Christian, a deeply religious, honest woman. She has not lied to this court, and her evidence is of the utmost importance. She has stated on oath that on the night of the killing of William Thomas she talked with the accused, that at no time could he have returned to the village, to the picture house, and committed murder.’

Smethurst was building up steam, facing the jury, his voice growing louder and louder as he swung his arms around. His black gown billowed like a bird, a big, dangerous bird. ‘Where is the witness to say the accused was at the picture house? Look at him, look at his face, the size of him — do you think you would forget that face? If this man paid over money for a ticket, don’t you think one person would remember? Come forward?’

Evelyne swallowed hard, and took a sneaky look around the court. All the faces showed rapt attention. ‘Dear God,’ she prayed, ‘let no one mention the back door, the other entrance to poor Billy’s picture house, always better used than the main door.’