‘Listen, you old devil, you know what these committal proceedings are like, ruddy magistrates dither around and I’ve got a very busy day, so get those flat feet on the trot.’ He gave Sir Charles a stiff bow and strode off among the tables.
‘What was all that about?’ asked Sir Charles.
Smethurst picked up his battered briefcase. As he placed it on the table a cheese cracker crumbled under the weight.
‘I got him out of a very sticky situation with one of his clients, a Miss Patterson — very naughty lady. Well, old chap, this is it, I’ll call you soon as I have a result.’ Suddenly his manner was more subdued.
‘You sure you don’t want me along?’ asked Sir Charles.
‘Good God no, it could take hours. There’s a hellish lot of statements to be read and witnesses to call — no, no, I’ll be in touch soon as I have any news. I’m confident, we’ll get the lad off, be no problem … unless Henshaw plays a double hand, but I have a feeling he won’t. He wants the rope for Stubbs, but has to concede there’s no evidence on the first three charges. Won’t be as easy on the fourth murder rap, you can take my word for that… He’s got a long list of prosecution witnesses. Well, I’m off, thanks for a splendid lunch.’
Sir Charles watched Smethurst stride off, dropping his napkin on the floor as he squeezed among the diners. He wished he could feel as positive as his friend. Smethurst’s bulging briefcase, stuffed with what he had described as ‘hard evidence, old bean’, did not, in Sir Charles’ opinion, sound good enough to get Freedom Stubbs off three of the four murder charges filed against him.
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.
