The Legacy l-1

by Lynda La Plante

  Sir Charles had underestimated his old friend. Even Henshaw was slightly taken aback at the amount of paperwork and obvious private detection Smethurst had managed to do. Henshaw, of course, had access to the statements, but still he was impressed, and still slightly in awe of the man he had learned so much from.

  Smethurst held forth, resting his elbow on top of a mound of papers. More and more were produced and waved around. The row of magistrates listened intently as Smethurst proved without a doubt that Freedom Stubbs could not have committed the three murders that occurred in Cardiff. Statements from witnesses proved that Freedom Stubbs was not even in the vicinity of Cardiff when the killings took place. A humorous throwaway line clarified his point.

  ‘Unless my client had an aeroplane, which I assure you he did not have, it would have been physically impossible for him to have been in Cardiff on the days in question. I therefore submit that there is no case against Freedom Stubbs on the first three counts of murder, and ask for those counts to be dismissed in view of the evidence I have laid before you. There is no case to answer, sir.’

  Smethurst burst out of the court. Henshaw, close on his heels, held the door open to allow his colleague to exit without getting either his briefcase or coat caught. ‘Round one to you, old chap … but I guarantee your man will swing.’

  Smethurst hailed a taxi and offered Henshaw a lift, but it was refused. The taxi passed him as he walked briskly down the street swinging his immaculate briefcase. Smethurst leaned back, patted his own bulging case and smiled. He had done his work for the dismissal of the first three counts, but Henshaw had established a prima facie case for the fourth murder. He was pleased with the dismissal and knew he had done well. He sucked in his breath. The contest between himself and Henshaw would certainly be interesting.

  Sir Charles received the news of the dismissal by telephone. He wasn’t elated, more relieved. Smethurst assured him he was confident the trial would prove Stubbs not guilty of the fourth murder, and confirmed that he was well ahead with his preparations. They discussed expenses — Smethurst did not come cheap. There was no question of it all being done on an ‘old friends’ basis, Smethurst was one of the best barristers in Wales, and his fees reflected the fact … perhaps they were just a little higher a149than usual but it was, after all, a difficult case.

  As Smethurst replaced the receiver he rested his feet on his untidy desk. The first three young miners had all been found with their hands tied behind their backs, their throats slit from right to left. In all three cases they had been marked with a cross on their foreheads made with their own blood. Willie Thomas had been killed in exactly the same way, the blood mark on his forehead. Smethurst chewed his lower lip. He had been able to prove without a doubt that Stubbs could not have committed the first three killings … but Willie Thomas was different. Smethurst prowled his office’s worn carpet, ruffled his hair. Freedom Stubbs had been there, in the village. He knew how very important a witness Evelyne Jones was. Maybe Freedom didn’t knife Willie Thomas, but it was going to be a hell of a job proving he hadn’t had any part at all in the horrific murder. Smethurst’s strong evidence, Freedom’s alibi, depended on the jury believing he was actually with Evelyne at the time of the boy’s death. Miss Jones had a lot on her shoulders.

  Evelyne tried to understand, but Sir Charles had to repeat himself twice and was losing patience. The first three charges of murder had been dropped, he explained. ‘Quite simply, Smethurst was able to prove there was no case against him. But he has been committed for the murder of William Thomas.’

  ‘When? Will it be soon? How long will he have to wait in gaol?’

  ‘Until the trial, gel, until the trial. Now we don’t want you going to see him, you must have no contact with him, is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You are a very important witness, and you must behave impeccably until the trial. You can spend the time getting yourself some nice dresses, subdued, nothing too flashy, gloves and what have you, perhaps a hat…’

  Evelyne accepted the money His Lordship gave her, money to pay her hotel bill, and for her clothes. Left alone, she couldn’t stop her hands shaking, she repeated over and over to herself that the charges had been dropped. What she couldn’t understand was why, if they believed her evidence, was Freedom still having to go on trial at all.

  Freedom was as confused as Evelyne. Smethurst spoke very slowly, sometimes repeating himself two or three times. By now he had discovered his client was illiterate.

  ‘But I never killed the last lad, sir.’

  About to leave, Smethurst gestured to the gaoler. He looked back as the strange, unfathomable eyes searched his face. Freedom seemed childlike in his confusion.

  ‘I’ll come in to see you again — until then, keep your chin up.’

  ‘Thank you, sir, thank you for everything you’re doing.’

  The police officers and warders assigned to Freedom had nicknamed him the ‘Queer Fish’ because he was always so silent and unapproachable. They had segregated him very early on from the other prisoners awaiting trial. Many of the men were striking miners who had resorted to stealing and poaching to make ends meet. They knew he was being charged with the murders of their fellows and they constantly jeered and catcalled in the direction of Freedom’s cell. Every officer had to agree that he was a model prisoner — too good — he said neither ‘thank you’ nor ‘good morning’. He said nothing. His black eyes frightened some of the officers, and they had drawn lots to see who would be the ones to take him back and forth to court when the day came. No one wanted to start a fight with him. Even though he was handcuffed, he still looked as if he could be dangerous.

  The exercise yard was cleared for Freedom’s solitary morning walk. Only he didn’t walk, he ran round and round and round, running until he was sweating and exhausted. He would then be taken back to solitary for a shower. One of the warders supervising him whispered that the man was ‘built like a brick shit-house with muscles standing out all over his body like a marble statue’.

  Freedom knew they watched him, talked about him, and like an animal he stared back with his dark brooding eyes, and said nothing. Here, silence was his only defence against the world. No one could understand what the cell, the high brick walls and the key turning in the lock, were doing to Freedom’s mind. The cell closed in on him until his only relief was to pound his fists against the walls. He wrapped them in his blankets to muffle the sound. His morning run reminded him of his stallion, the way he used to toss his head and run round and round on the training rope. He was like a roped gry, an animal.

  When the news leaked out that three charges of murder had been dropped, the prisoners banged on their cell doors with their tin mugs, screaming at the injustice. ‘You bastard, you’ll hang … They should hang yer, you gyppo scum!’

  The press also got to hear of the murder charges being withdrawn and a small article appeared in the paper. They mentioned Freedom Stubbs by name as the gypsy being held in custody, and that he was now only being charged with the murder of William Thomas. Smethurst was furious, knowing the damage this information could cause to a jury. They could be prejudiced against Freedom before the trial began.

  Tension mounted as the date of the trial grew closer. Sir Charles had spent the time staying with friends or out shooting. Ed Meadows was courting Miss Freda and they held hands like two teenagers, gazing into each other’s eyes and sighing. Ed was thinking about popping the question. Miss Freda was reeling in her fish, and had already made up her mind to accept if he proposed.

  Evelyne spent her days wandering around the museums and art galleries. The trial was ever-present in her mind.

  Smethurst worked on in preparation for the trial. This big, scruffy man was totally dedicated to his work. His scrupulous attention to every single detail was impressive. He knew he held a man’s life in his hands and, although he appeared almost buffoonish, he was an exceptionally intelligent and honourable man. He was also a kind man,
and very patient.

  The trial was to begin the following morning. Smethurst found a brief moment to explain everything to Evelyne.

  ‘We begin tomorrow morning. You must not be seen talking to anyone associated with the trial. You’ll be called to the stand when I am ready … but we’ll talk again before then, just remember all I’ve told you and don’t let him ruffle you. Answer clearly and concisely …’

  ‘How’s he holding up, sir? Is he all right?’

  ‘Well he’s getting a lot of stick from the other inmates, naturally, and he’ll more than likely have to take a lot more. Don’t you worry yourself about him … I take it you’ve not seen him, made no contact?’

  ‘No sir, His Lordship forbade it.’

  ‘Quite right … well dearie, I’ll take my weary body to bed, be refreshed for the battle.’

  ‘Will it be a battle, sir?’

  Smethurst gave her a small pat on her shoulder, and one of his lopsided smiles. ‘Trust me … Goodnight.’

  Evelyne tossed and turned all night long. Early the following morning, the first day of the trial, Miss Freda and Ed peeked round her door on their way to court.

  ‘I’ll come to see you later, tell you all about it,’ whispered Freda.

  ‘Now, now, Freda, yer know that’s not legal. She’s a witness, you gotta stay away — maybe I’ll just pop in though, eh! Ta-ta, gel.’

  Left alone, Evelyne tried to read, but she couldn’t concentrate for wondering how the trial was going. She prayed it would be over soon. She ordered lunch but couldn’t eat anything, and eventually she sat by the window, waiting for them all to return.

  The gallery was packed with spectators. They were rowdy and jocular. As the court began to fill, Smethurst swept in, his wig already at a precarious angle. Henshaw, immaculate as ever, took his position at the bar, waiting for the judge to be seated. The courtroom became hushed. There was a silent moment while both defence and prosecuting counsels took out their papers. The tension could be felt by all as they heard the sounds of keys turning in locks, and Freedom Stubbs was led up from the cells.

  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 g
uilty 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.’