Lastly let me say this, very simply but sincerely. You are the only person with whom I have ever been in love – I still am, and shall remain so until the end. Nothing can change that. It is just an established fact which in recent months has given rise to a great deal of wishful thinking, but even now, that very simple fact, has given me a sense of happiness, and it is just about the one thing nobody can take away. That is the reason why, although pressed to do so by several doctors, I have never discussed you or our marriage in any way.
Goodbye now, my dear, and I wish you the very best of luck and all the happiness in the world.
I’ll end this letter with the familiar style which may help to bring back a few of those memories for you.
With all my love, darling, always,
Forever your own,
Jimmy
Should your mother commandeer this letter I ask her to pass it on without comment, with respect for my last wishes, if nothing else.1
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The Old Bailey
24–26 SEPTEMBER 1946
Nowadays the thrill has gone out of most murder trials . . . The normal cut and thrust of advocacy takes on an added significance when one knows that a man’s life is at stake.
J. D. Casswell, A Lance for Liberty, 1961
In spite of warnings from the police that all-night queues were banned, crowds gathered outside the Old Bailey at 8 p.m. on the evening of Monday 23 September in order to get a chance of sitting in one of the thirty seats in the public gallery of Court No. 1 the next day.1 Many brought blankets to keep out the autumnal chill and slept outside the building overnight. One smartly dressed woman from Bristol refused to give her name to the press: ‘I wouldn’t want my friends to know I was doing such a silly thing.’2 Extra police were on duty overnight to deal with the anticipated crowds for the opening day of the trial. The next morning, a young couple, both students at London University, successfully secured seats in the gallery of the oak-panelled and glass-roofed courtroom. Once settled in their seats the girl took out twelve rounds of toast, marmalade, a knife and a teapot from a shopping basket. The young man took the teapot, pushing his way through the crowds and asked a court usher, ‘Can I get some boiling water in the building?’3
At 10.32 a.m., Heath made his appearance into the glass-panelled dock, smartly dressed in his new chalk-stripe grey suit, a shirt, pullover, brown suede shoes and his RAF tie – a new white handkerchief in his breast pocket. His blond hair was pomaded and his nails were said to have been manicured for the occasion.
The judge, Mr Justice Morris, wore a grey wig and scarlet robe finished with a black sash. He sat in a chair to the left of the Sword of State which pointed upwards on the wall behind him. Morris was fifty years old and this was his first big murder trial, having only been appointed as a high court judge the previous December.4 A Welshman by birth, he had been educated at the Liverpool Institute and Cambridge. During the First World War he had served as an officer in the Royal Welsh Fusiliers and had been awarded the Military Cross for bravery.5 When he spoke, he had a soft, ‘almost apologetic’ voice.6 The jury of ten men and two women – Rosemary Tyndale-Briscoe and Emma Selling – were then sworn in.
Given the extremity of the evidence in the case and the dramatic countrywide hunt for Heath, the three-day trial was very considered – as if deliberately distanced from the violent and emotive material. In meticulous longhand, ‘which slowed the pace of the proceeding almost to dullness’,7 Mr Justice Morris took precise notes of the evidence. One newspaper reported that ‘only the facts – the bruised, slashed, beaten, suffocated body of the girl – defied the scrupulous understatement of the presentation’.8 On this first day, Anthony Hawke opened with one of the shortest speeches on record for a major trial. For thirty minutes, Hawke addressed the court conversationally, as if he was ‘leaning over a garden fence explaining how to bud a rose’. He was precise, quiet and clear, quickly establishing that he intended to dismiss any possible defence of ‘partial insanity’.
Hawke then called the witnesses for the prosecution, including several police officers who had investigated the Notting Hill murder. Harold Harter, Solomon Joseph and Dr Keith Simpson were also called. Tension mounted in the courtroom on only a couple of occasions – when the leather riding whip was held aloft by the court usher and again when a grimy pillowcase, spotted with dried blood, was presented to the jury. The dramatic highlight of the day was the appearance of Yvonne Symonds, who had come to court accompanied by her father. She wore a dark pin-striped suit and close-fitting multi-coloured hat, carrying with her a brown leather handbag. When she was called, there was a sudden hush in the courtroom.9 Anthony Hawke said he would have liked to spare her the ordeal of reliving her experiences with Heath so publicly, but her evidence was crucial to the case. Throughout the questioning, she spoke with long pauses between her muted replies. Concerned that she might be feeling unwell, Mr Justice Morris gallantly offered her a chair and a glass of water.10 She looked at Heath only once. ‘You have met this man, here?’ Hawke asked her, with a gesture towards the dock. Yvonne raised her eyes to the man whom she had introduced to her parents as her future husband. ‘Yes,’ she murmured and turned her head away.11
After being cross-examined, Yvonne was released from the courtroom. She didn’t give any interviews to the press, though a couple of snatched photographs of her were taken. Her family left their home in Warren Road in 1947. Yvonne left the country, not wanting her association with Heath to colour the rest of her life. She settled abroad and never returned to England again.
The first day of the trial ended with Detective Inspector Gates of Bournemouth police telling of the discovery of Heath’s suitcase at Bournemouth West Station and how he told Heath that he was to be detained for the murder of Margery Gardner. He confirmed Heath’s casual, careless answer, ‘Oh, all right.’
On Wednesday 25 September, Casswell opened the case for the defence. He began by telling the jury that a few days earlier he had received an anonymous letter from a woman who had noted that three ‘gentlemen’ (she had stressed the inverted commas) were prepared to defend ‘that inhuman monster Heath’. She placed Casswell and the defence team in the same category as Hitler and hoped that their consciences would haunt them for the rest of their lives. Casswell discussed the letter because he wanted to draw attention to the fact that despite the many ‘unusual, disgusting [and] morbid details’ of the case that had been discussed in the press at great length and in great detail, Heath was entitled to a defence and was entitled to be tried on the evidence put before the jury and not what they had read in the newspapers.12 Many of the jurors, if not all of them, would already have read of the details of both murders in the newspapers in the preceding two months and must surely have already formed preconceived ideas about the case.
Why have the press taken such an interest in [this case]? They have taken an interest in it because they think it will appeal to the public who are their readers. Why then have the public taken such an interest in this case? Why? Is not it because two terrible and apparently motiveless crimes have been committed by the same man within the short space of a fortnight? Not a man, you know, who is unintelligent, but a man who has seen a good deal of the world, a man who has been commissioned three times. That is the sort of man with whom you have to deal; and yet you find that within the short space of a fortnight, these two astonishing and apparently motiveless crimes have been committed by him . . . Is it not almost unimaginable?13
Casswell explained to the jury that he would not be calling Heath to give evidence, as they would not believe a word he said. He was concerned that Heath might seem too intelligent and that he seemed so composed that the jury would never believe that he could be the victim of a mental disease.
Casswell’s personal view was that Heath had committed both murders as the result of an irresistible sexually inspired impulse to kill, but he could not concede that in court, as to do so would have automatically taken Heath out of th
e protection of the M’Naghten14 rules, the statute that was to dominate the debate at the trial.
In 1843 Daniel M’Naghten had attempted to assassinate the prime minister, Sir Robert Peel, but by mistake, shot dead Peel’s secretary, Edward Drummond. M’Naghten was clearly mentally unstable, but was his mental condition such that he was not responsible in law for his actions? Lord Chief Justice Tindal directed the jury that if M’Naghten was in such a mental state as to have been incapable of knowing the difference between right and wrong, then he was not culpable for his actions. Guided by Tindal, the jury brought a verdict of ‘Not Guilty’. As there was no provision for mentally ill criminals, such as Broadmoor, in this period, M’Naghten was released.
The notion of a murderer being set free caused a public outcry, so the House of Lords asked a panel of judges what they felt about the Lord Chief Justice’s directive. In essence the judges agreed that in order to establish a defence on the ground of insanity it must be proved that at the time of the act, the accused was labouring under such a defect of reason that he did not know the nature and quality of the act he was doing, or if he did know it, he did not know what he was doing was wrong. Despite advances in the study of psychology since the turn of the century, the M’Naghten Rules remained the statute by which all insanity cases were assessed.
Casswell was to call only four witnesses. Usually the defence would be at pains to prevent the jury from hearing about any other crimes relating to the accused, but in a departure from normal practice, Casswell referred to Heath’s chequered history in some detail – his thefts, frauds and court martials as well as introducing the details of the murder of Doreen Marshall. Casswell stated that the case for the defence was that of ‘partial insanity’ and suggested that in view of the fact that the injuries inflicted on the second victim were far more severe than those inflicted on Margery Gardner, Heath’s was a case of ‘progressive mania’. He tried to make clear that there would be no inconsistency in the jury finding that the charming and self-possessed young man in the dock was capable of insane behaviour at the time of the two murders when normal restraints had given way. He called Dr Crichton McGaffey to discuss the nature of the injuries to Doreen Marshall and requested that the jury examine the distressing scene-of-crime photographs: ‘Rather unpleasant, I’m afraid.’
Casswell also called Frederick Wilkinson, the night porter from the Tollard Royal, to indicate how normally Heath had behaved after committing the murder, climbing into bed and falling asleep. The onus was on the defence to prove that Heath was insane, rather than for the prosecution to prove that he was not. Though he felt that his case was weak as far as the law went, Casswell believed that he might be able to persuade the jury of Heath’s partial insanity, if their star medical witness could convince them from the witness box.
Dr William Henry de Bargue Hubert was a major authority in the world of psychiatric medicine and seemed an extremely credible witness. It was to be on his evidence that the case for the defence – and Heath’s life – would rest. In discussion with Casswell in preparation for the trial, Hubert said that he was prepared to say that Heath ought to have been diagnosed as a mental defective from an early age and that at the time of the murders he probably knew what he was doing, but was so mentally abnormal that he didn’t know that what he was doing was wrong. From 1934 to 1939 Dr Hubert had worked as psychotherapist at Wormwood Scrubs and had collaborated with the respected Dr Norwood East in a psychological study of the prevention of crime for the Home Office in 1938.15 Hubert was also the assistant psychiatrist to St Thomas’ Hospital for Children and had previously been psychotherapist at Feltham Prison and Broadmoor. During the war, he had served in the army as a specialist in psychological medicine and latterly as adviser in psychiatry to the Middle East with the rank of lieutenant colonel. He seemed the ideal expert witness and was certainly more experienced and better respected than the two doctors that the prosecution were to call.
However, what was not known at the time was that Hubert was a drug addict. This affliction was to prove disastrous. When he arrived at the Old Bailey that day, Hubert told Casswell that he had been involved in a taxi accident, so was in an extremely nervous state. But shortly afterwards, having taken the drugs to which he was addicted, Hubert appeared confident, happy and on ‘a cloud of drug-induced euphoria’. He was then ready to enter the witness box.
Initially questioned by Casswell, Hubert stated that he had interviewed Heath several times and that he was, in his view, certifiably insane. Throughout his evidence, which was to last an hour and thirty-three minutes, Hubert was hesitant in manner and paused frequently, ‘sometimes for quite a long time’, already giving the jury the impression that he was unsure of his own opinion. But it was his confused and inconsistent performance under cross-examination that Casswell thought ‘quite ghastly’.
Anthony Hawke, with his ‘customary bland courtesy and softly spoken voice’, dramatically undermined Hubert’s testimony with biting irony, alerting the jury to the weaknesses in Hubert’s testimony by the repeated use of the killer phrase ‘with great respect’.
‘I take it from your evidence that at the time Heath murdered Margery Gardner he knew that he was doing something that was wrong?’
‘No.’
‘May I take it that he knew what he was doing?’
‘Yes.’
‘That he knew that he had bound and tied a young woman lying on a bed?’
‘Yes.’
‘That he knew when he inflicted seventeen lashes on her with a thong that he was inflicting seventeen lashes with a thong?’
‘Yes.’
‘He knew all those things?’
‘Yes.’
‘But he did not know that they were wrong?’
‘He knew the consequences.’
‘I did not ask that, you know, with great respect.’
‘He did not consider it wrong, no.’
‘Did not consider is not the question I asked, with great respect. I asked you whether he knew.’
‘No.’16
Hubert argued that Heath felt that his sadism was an expression of his sexuality and that he therefore felt it right to practise it.
‘Are you saying, with your responsibility, standing there, that a person in that frame of mind is free from criminal responsibility if what he does causes grievous bodily harm or death?’
‘At the time, yes.’
‘His criminal responsibility does not arise at a particular time. I asked whether, with your responsibility, you say that a perverted sadist who knows perfectly well what he is doing when he satisfies his perverted instinct is free from criminal responsibility because he finds the necessity to satisfy it?’
‘My answer is “yes”, because on questioning sexual perverts they appear to show no regret or remorse quite frequently.’
‘Would it be your view that a person who finds it convenient at the moment to forge a cheque in order to free himself from financial responsibility is entitled to say that he thought it was right, and therefore he is free from the responsibility of what he does?’
‘He may think so, yes.’
‘Do you say that the person who has been proved to commit forgery for the purpose of improving his financial stability is entitled to claim insanity within the M’Naghten Rules as a defence?’
‘I think he does it because he has no strong sense of right and wrong at all.’
‘With great respect, Dr Hubert, I did not ask you what he thought. I asked you whether you thought he was entitled to claim exemption from responsibility on the ground of insanity?’
‘Yes, I do.’17
Hubert had fallen straight into the trap that Hawke had carefully laid for him. He had forgotten that he was supposed to be arguing that Heath didn’t know what he was doing was wrong. In the end he had admitted that Heath could just not help himself, the doctrine of ‘irresistible impulse’ that was completely unacceptable in law. This point was not lost on Heath himself. Throughout the trial
he had been sending notes to Casswell (twenty-two in all), observations and questions about the witnesses. At this point he sent a note to Casswell via the court usher:
It may be of interest to know that in my discussions with Hubert, I have never suggested that I should be excused or that I told him I felt I should because of insanity. This evidence is Hubert’s opinion – not what I have suggested he say on my behalf.18
Hubert had posited an indiscriminate licence to commit crime. If the criminal thought his acts were right – however modest or extreme – then they must be so. Years later, in his memoirs, Casswell detected a note of special pleading in Hubert’s testimony. In seeking to justify Heath’s behaviour in this way, perhaps he was attempting to exonerate himself for his own sins? Less than a year after the trial, Hubert was found dead in the bathroom of his house in Old Church Street in Chelsea. He had taken a lethal cocktail of barbituric acid and chloral hydrate. Whether his suicide was related to his performance at Heath’s trial was never confirmed.
Under further cross-examination, Hubert suggested that Heath might be suffering from ‘moral deficiency’ or ‘moral insanity’. The prosecution was quick to pick him up on this. Was he saying that Heath was a ‘moral defective’? Hawke was keen to push this line of questioning as he was about to bring up a point of law. In the Mental Deficiency Act of 1927, a ‘moral defective’ must have exhibited criminal propensities before the age of eighteen. Asked if Hubert knew of any evidence from Heath’s youth in which he had displayed vicious or criminal traits, Hubert said he had none. Hawke concluded that in that case, Heath could not possibly be a moral defective as outlined in the law. Outmanoeuvred, Hubert was stumped, admitting, ‘It is difficult to prove.’19
Casswell was relying on Hubert to introduce evidence from Heath’s past that might have relevance to the indictment. If Hubert raised the incident with Pauline Brees at the Strand Palace Hotel, the jury could be made aware that Heath had previously practised consensual sado-masochistic sex with no serious consequences. By doing so, he might also have raised the issue that the incident with Margery Gardner might have been consensual, too. When Hawke asked Hubert if he had any evidence that Heath had exhibited any cruelty in the past, Hubert said that there was.
Handsome Brute: The True Story of a Ladykiller Page 33