by Jason De'Ath
The morning session was taken up with the process of both sides presenting the details of their additional evidence (relating to the new alibi) for the purpose of judicial evaluation of its respective admissibility. The afternoon began with the swearing-in of the jurors: eight men and four women – there were no objections to any of them by either side. Arthur Jameson was then marched into court to make his plea before the jury. There were three counts to answer: the murder of Gregg Mason, the attempted murder of Vera Fable, and their joint abduction – the rape charge had been dropped so as to spare Vera cross-examination on this count, particularly as it was unlikely to increase the overall tariff; the count of attempted murder was retained just in case Jameson decided to enter a manslaughter plea for the death of Gregg.
Jameson looked nervous as he stood in the dock; his natural dark-blonde hair colour now evident, his face sullen and pallid. He was wearing a dark blue suit with waistcoat and a plain sliver-grey tie. Glancing at the jury, he noted that there were a greater proportion of men, which he considered may be to his advantage. The female jurors consisted of two women in their fifties and early sixties, the other two were in their mid-twenties: this seemed to offer little in the way of advantage or disadvantage, but one of the younger women was rather attractive, which he supposed would be a welcome distraction from the drudgery of the court business. The judge read out the charges against him and asked him how he pleaded, to which the predictable utterance of “not guilty” was returned in Jameson’s prototypical cockney vernacular. By this point, it was just after 4 PM and Judge Ravensdale was already contemplating his dinner arrangements; nonetheless, he was duty bound to allow Carmichael the opportunity to make his opening address to the court. Following a short preamble, Carmichael set out the gory details of the crime in explicit detail starting from the abduction at 9.35 PM in Cherrydean (on the 30th July 1965) and leading through (with the aid of road maps and photographs of various scenes) to the cruel and horripilation inducing conclusion at approximately 2 AM in the foreboding depths of Marsholm Wood (on the 31st July 1965). At which point, Judge Ravensdale promptly, and with not entirely inconspicuous relief on the part of Jameson, adjourned until 9.45 AM the next morning.
Wednesday morning found Jameson sitting anxiously in a waiting-room attached to the cell-block of the Old Bailey. It contained three cold steel chairs and a metal table, screwed to the floor. He was expecting a visit from his legal counsel, Norcroft and Robeson, who were to brief him in preparation for the days’ mental labours ahead. Robeson entered the room first and greeted Arthur with a friendly handshake; Norcroft followed behind, already gowned and wigged-up for their imminent courtroom appearance: he acknowledged Jameson more formally and did not offer his hand, regarding him as unworthy – this case was just another step on his career ladder; ordinarily, he would consider someone of Jameson’s social standing as contemptible.
“How are you this morning?” asked Robeson with a genuine concern for Arthur’s welfare.
“So-so.” answered Arthur, slightly on edge.
“Arthur, we believe that Vera Fable will be put on the stand today – probably first thing.” started Norcroft, “It is critical that you do not react adversely towards her.”
“Don’t get angry or stare at her, whatever you do.” interjected Robeson.
“Yes, indeed. It is imperative that we persuade the jury to our side of the argument. You need to appear concerned for her plight, but perplexed as to why she has identified you as her attacker. Remember, this trial is not about what happened: the crime is not in dispute and neither are most of the details; the only issue here is the erroneous identification of you as the gunman. That is what we want to display to the judge and jury. How you present yourself may be decisive in whether or not the court believes your story.”
“Just stay relaxed, Arthur. Try to show your belief that the truth will win out.” added Robeson reassuringly.
“Now, Arthur, I have a useful ace to show today, which I hope will sew the seed of doubt in the minds of the jury in regard to Vera’s identification... You must endure her evidence with dignity – today will be difficult. But, remember, our day will come.” Norcroft turned to Robeson, “I believe our PI friend has some good news from his activities in Rhyl?”
“Er, yes, our investigator has turned-up a witness who spoke to you in Rhyl High Street and he says that he can confirm that it was early on the Saturday morning, making it practically impossible for you to be in Felstave at 2 AM.” Jameson had an odd look of surprised glee in his tired eyes; Robeson continued: “He’s still searching for this B and B you stayed at, but we’ve still got time for him to come up trumps there.”
“Don’t worry, Arthur, we have a few surprises for the prosecution. I intend to decimate their case before this trial’s finished.” stated Norcroft with supreme confidence.
As the lawyers rose to leave, Arthur grabbed Robeson’s arm and cryptically asked: “Did y’u do that fing I said about?”
Robeson glanced apprehensively at Norcroft, who appeared puzzled, before hesitantly giving his reply: “Um, I’m afraid the young lady doesn’t want to have anything further to do with you.” Arthur looked very dismayed; “You do mean Miss Gardener?” Robeson proceeded to clarify, referring to Jameson’s former “steady” girlfriend, Marion.
“Oh, no... No, I mean Carol.”
“Carol Paris?” enquired Norcroft, somewhat perturbed.
“Yes. Did y’u give ‘er me note?” Arthur continued to persist.
“Well, I couldn’t...” started Robeson.
Norcroft stepped in to alleviate Robeson’s obvious difficulty: “Arthur, I’m afraid that is impossible – she is a prosecution witness.” Arthur released Robeson’s arm and slumped back into his seat.
“I’m sorry, Arthur.” commiserated Robeson. The lawyers then swiftly left the room.
Vera Fable made a dignified entrance to a hushed courtroom; using crutches and assisted by a nurse, she slowly made her way to the witness box, where she was provided with a chair. She was dressed in a grey and white chequered top and matching dark grey skirt and jacket – it was subtle, yet eye-catching. Her red hair was in a rather short, almost masculine style. After swearing-in, the judge addressed her with kindness and assured her that she could ask to take a rest at any time. Carmichael gave her a comforting smile before launching into his discourse. “You are Miss Vera Fable of 6 Connaught House, Maidenhead?”
“Yes.”
“Do you recall the events of the 30th and 31st of July 1965?”
“Yes – vividly.”
“Would you please tell the court where you went on the evening of the 30th of July?”
“I left my flat at about eight o’clock and met Gregg in the car park...”
“That would be Gregg Mason of 16 Fern Drive, also in Maidenhead?” “Yes.”
“Please continue, Miss Fable.”
“He drove us to the Bowman Arms in Tapton.”
“The Bowman Arms is a public house, my Lord.” Carmichael felt obliged to explain to the judge; “Tapton is a small village about two miles outside Maidenhead. Please continue Miss Fable.” “We arrived at the Bowman at about eight thirty...” “Eight thirty?” quizzed Norcroft.
“Yes.”
“What is your point Mr Norcroft?” asked the judge irritably.
“My Lordship, I was just wondering why it took half an hour to drive two miles.” clarified Norcroft.
“Can you explain that, Miss Fable?” directed the judge.
“It didn’t... We chatted for a while before leaving the car park.”
“Thank you. Please carry on.” the judge instructed, giving Norcroft a disapproving glance.
Vera was wrong-footed for a moment, but quickly regained her composure: “We stayed at the pub for about an hour or so.”
“What was the purpose of your liaison with Mr Mason?” asked Carmichael purely for the benefit of the court, wanting to avoid the jury’s drawing of any scandalous conclusions on t
heir own part.
“We... Well, Gregg is...was a member of a motor club; we had a shared interest, so we sometimes organised rallies for the club.”
“For the court, could you please describe what your relationship was with Gregg Mason?”
“We were work colleagues...and friends.”
“With a shared interest.” reminded Carmichael for absolute clarity.
“Yes.” agreed Vera positively.
“Were you regulars at the Bowman Arms?” Carmichael deliberately probed, aware that this question would be on the mind of the defence and eager to douse any potential flames they might seek to kindle. However, Norcroft remained impassive.
“No – not normally. But we had been there about three...four times over a couple of weeks.”
“I see, and this was in relation to planning a particular rally?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Objection.” groaned Norcroft getting to his feet.
“What is the problem, Mr Norcroft?” the judge asked knowingly – it was all part of the court theatrics and a way to test the temperament of the judge.
“My learned friend seems to be making a habit of leading the witness, my Lord.” explained Norcroft smugly.
“Yes. Please allow the lady to tell her story without prompting, Mr Carmichael.” ordered the judge blandly.
“Yes, of course, my Lordship – forgive me. Now, Vera... What time did you leave the public house?”
“I think it was about nine, nine-fifteen.”
“Where did you go, then?”
“We drove to...”
Norcroft interrupted: “I have one question, my Lord, relating to the public house: were you ever aware of anyone watching you?”
“Well, no. I mean, the barman did mention one time that a man seemed to be taking an interest in us.”
“Did you see this man?”
“Briefly.”
“Would you recognise him, if you saw him again?”
“Possibly.”
“Do you see that man in court, today?”
“No. I don’t think so.”
“Thank you, Miss Fable.” Norcroft sat back down with a mysterious look of satisfaction upon his face, which slightly worried Carmichael.
“Vera,” recommenced Carmichael, mildly riled, “please continue from when you left the Bowman Arms.”
“We drove to Cherrydean... It’s about two miles from the pub. We decided to stop in the entrance to a field to look at the map... After about ten or fifteen minutes we were disturbed by someone tapping on the driver-side window.” “Did you see this person approach the car?” enquired Carmichael.
“No. It was getting dark and we were...pre-occupied.”
“Studying the map?” asked the judge for verification, though the inference was obvious.
“Yes...M’Lord.” she replied hesitantly; Ravensdale gave Vera a gentle smile.
“What happened next?” continued Carmichael, somewhat ungrateful for the judge’s interjection.
“Gregg wound down the window. We thought it was the farmer... But it wasn’t; it was a man with a gun.” “Do recall what this gun looked like?”
“Yes. It was a revolver, like they have in western movies.”
“If my Lord pleases, I would like to present exhibit number 32.” The judge indicated to go ahead. “Is this the type of weapon that the gunman used?” he asked Vera as the exhibit was displayed to her.
“Yes, that looks like the one.”
“For the record, this is the Enfield .38 calibre service revolver which has been forensically identified as the murder weapon, and the weapon used to shoot Miss Fable... What did the gunman do next, Vera?”
“He said he was ‘a desperate man’ and that it was ‘a stick-up’. He ordered Gregg to give him the car keys. Then he got into the back of the car.”
“Was there anything distinctive about this man?”
“He was wearing a hanky over his nose and mouth – like cowboys do... He spoke like a cockney?” “Can you be more specific?” interrupted the judge.
Vera was initially baffled by this question, giving Carmichael a bewildered look – but he was reticent to help in case Norcroft accused him of leading the witness again. Vera attempted to elaborate: “He had a London accent; East London?
It was a distinctively a lower class London accent: he said ‘a’n’t’ and ‘fink’ a lot, and ‘kip’.”
“For the record, m’Lord, the defendant, Arthur Jameson has a distinctive London accent.”
Norcroft immediately leapt to his feet: “My Lord, there are millions of Londoners, all with distinctive London accents:
my client’s accent is not unusual. I intend to present a linguistics expert-witness to corroborate this.”
“Thank you Mr Norcroft for your learned instruction. Carry on Mr Carmichael.” directed Ravensdale.
“My Lordship, I was merely informing the court that the defendant’s accent is homologous with the gunman’s, as opposed to be being notably different.”
“Granted Mr Carmichael.”
“Thank you, my Lord... Please continue, Vera.”
“We offered him money, which he took. But he didn’t seem to be that interested in robbing us, although he did take our watches.”
“What do you mean by not being interested in robbing you?” pressed Carmichael.
“Well, after we gave him our money and watches, he seemed to want to chat. We suggested he take the car and go, but he said he was too tired because he’d escaped from prison and been sleeping rough. That didn’t ring true, though.”
“Why was that?”
“Because he was too clean – quite smart, in fact. And he smelt of aftershave.” “You said he wanted to chat?” noted Carmichael.
“Yes. He kept asking odd personal questions too. Sometimes he would threaten us if we did or said something he didn’t like... After a bit, he told Gregg to drive further into the field. Then he started questioning us, again.”
“What kind of questions?”
“Like, were we married and what we did for a living – that sort of thing. Then he mentioned that he was doing five years, and that he had done ‘the lot’.” “The lot?” the judge enquired.
“My Lord, ‘the lot’ is a criminal’s expression which relates to having served all of the various types of sentence – it’s very unusual. This would seem to have been a lie, though, because of the few who have done ‘the lot’, none have been considered as suspects in this case.”
“I see... Please continue, Mr Carmichael.”
“How long were you stopped in the field?”
“I’m not sure – probably about twenty minutes. He kept chatting with us; asking personal questions and talking about movies... Then all of a sudden he said he was hungry and wanted to get some food. That was when things really got worrying. He said he needed to tie me up and put Gregg in the boot of the car. That idea scared me a lot, so I said that there was a leak in the exhaust, which could kill Gregg. He accepted that and agreed to let Gregg drive; so we all got back in the car.”
Carmichael briefly glanced at Norcroft, half-expecting an interjection, but he was occupied studying his notes.
“Did he tell you to go somewhere specific?”
“Sort of. He wanted to know where the right-hand turn led; I told him it led to the A308 Windsor road. He said to go that way.”
“So, he was unfamiliar with that area?”
“He seemed to be, but I think once we got to Windsor, he knew more or less where we were...and where he wanted to go.” Vera then went on to describe the journey into Staines.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
(12 January 1966)
Sitting patiently in the dock, a burly dock officer ominously in attendance behind him, Arthur surveyed the small courtroom which seemed terribly cramped in order to accommodate all of the various participants required to conduct a criminal trial. In the gallery, along with numerous journalists and members of the public, were Arthur
’s parents – who were not to be required as witnesses – there to show faith in their son’s innocence; and unbeknown to them, Vera’s parents were a few seats away, providing moral support for their daughter.
Thus far, Arthur’s presence had been largely that of a detached bystander, but he knew that soon the evidence would turn attention fully upon the accused.
“After passing London Airport and joining the A4 into Brentford, what happened next?” prompted Carmichael.
“Well, we thought he’d gone to sleep, but then he suddenly seemed to wake up and said there was a chip shop just up the road...and there was, just under the flyover.”
“That would be the M4 flyover, my Lordship.” Carmichael informed the judge, who duly nodded in gratitude.
“Yes, I think so...” said Vera, momentarily confused, “He told Gregg to go in with him – that’s when he took his mask, hanky, off.”
“Did you get a look at his face at this time?”
“Not fully; just from the side. I was too scared to look into the shop; I thought about running.” “Why didn’t you, Miss Fable?” asked Ravensdale.
Vera looked up at the old judge with a sorrowful expression. “I was too scared, my Lord. I was worried that he might start shooting... Shooting Gregg – and the woman in the shop.” choked Vera, a tear running down her cheek.
“You were in fear of your life?” added Ravensdale.
“Yes... He threatened to shoot us and other people if we didn’t do as he said... I believed him.”
“Thank you, my Lordship.” interjected Carmichael, “Did Gregg get a good look at the gunman?”
