The Legacy (1987)

by Plante, Lynda La

  He dwarfed the prison officers on each side of him. He wore a neat, single-breasted suit, white shirt and tie, courtesy of Sir Charles. His long hair, as Smethurst had instructed, was tied back off his face in a thong. He was handcuffed, and he kept his head bowed, looking neither right nor left. The clerk of the court stepped forward.

  Henshaw began his opening speech for the prosecution. The court listened attentively. No reference was made to any of the previous murder counts. Henshaw made a blistering verbal attack on the accused man. He then proceeded to call his witnesses; miners who had seen Freedom’s fight with Dai ‘Hammer’ Thomas, men who had heard him threaten to take revenge. Evan Evans gave a stuttering, nervous statement regarding the arrest of the accused man. Smethurst didn’t let a single thing slip by him. He was in and out of his seat like a bobbing buoy, consistently attacking Henshaw for leading his witnesses, particularly in Evan Evans’ case. The man was so nervous he even had a problem remembering his own address. When it was time for Smethurst to cross-question Evan Evans he bellowed, and the poor man actually jumped.

  ‘When you arrested Freedom Stubbs did you find anything?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘When the prisoner was arrested, did you find anything on his person?’

  ‘No sir, we did not, but we had a damned good look. We also searched the gypsy camp, found nothing.’

  ‘And could you tell us how the prisoner behaved? When arrested?’

  ‘He came along quiet like, after we’d got him.’

  Smethurst smiled his thanks and resumed his seat.

  The next witness was yet another miner who had witnessed Freedom Stubbs’ threatening behaviour after the fight at Highbury Fair. Morgan Jones revelled in the fact he had been called to the witness stand. He gave lurid details of Freedom’s prowess in the ring, drawing murmurs from the gallery as he lifted his voice theatrically. When Smethurst began his cross-questioning, he kept his voice low, hardly audible, to make the witness more attentive.

  ‘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 o
f 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.

  ‘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 a-feared 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 bes
t 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’.

  Smethurst was very angry. Freedom was looking rough, his suit crumpled, and there was a bruise forming on his cheek. He handed Freedom his own greasy comb and told him to do something with his hair. Clean it might be, but long strands hung loose from the leather thong. Smethurst felt sorry for losing his temper. ‘The women in the gallery are on your side, lad. I wish we had a few on the jury. They’ll be tossing flowers at you before the trial’s over. Apparently you resemble that film actor chappie, Valentino.’