I do not intend to go into the details of the opening procedures. I regard them rather as stage directions, technical instructions that could hold up the drama of the plot. Rebecca read the arraignment; to wit that the appellant had been charged with the murder of George Henry Tilbury. I relished my new name. I was no longer ‘the prisoner’. I was less in other people’s hands.
I looked at the Crown prosecutor, that same old swiveller as before. But he looked different. He seemed already tired, dejected, and he bore the face of a loser. He had clearly been apprised of all the new evidence and he regarded his appearance in the chamber as a mere formality.
‘May it please you, My Lords,’ he said, turning to the judges, ‘I am instructed by the Crown.’ His face fell as if he rather wished the Crown had not so instructed. Then very quietly, and with infinite sorrow, he dropped his bombshell.
‘The Crown does not oppose this appeal,’ he said.
There was a gasp of astonishment around the chamber, and a murmur too of disquiet. For were they not to be told why the charge had been dropped, and informed of the evidence for my clearing? Justice had to be seen to be done, and the judges knew the rules of their office.
‘I take note of your opinion,’ the Lord Chief Justice said. ‘But the decision to grant or to deny the appeal is our responsibility and ours alone. And to that end we will hear the evidence.’
Rumours about the strange turn of events at the Court of Appeal had already hit the headlines of the lunch-time press. The chamber was crowded and it took a while to achieve an overall silence. Then Rebecca rose and addressed the judges.
‘During the course of my submissions, My Lords,’ she said, ‘there will emerge palpable evidence of perjury and no doubt that evidence will be referred to the Director of Public Prosecutions. But my first witness is not subject to that charge. Two years ago, as a witness for the prosecution, he was not yet eighteen years of age and the judge did not oblige him to take the oath. He is now twenty years old and will give evidence that is sworn. I call James Turncastle.’
I watched him take the oath, and once again I felt that surge of affection that I had held for the boy when he was at school. Despite the years that had passed, I found him little changed in his appearance. Thinner, perhaps, but still with that look of eagerness and curiosity that had so endeared him to me in his innocent days.
‘Mr Turncastle,’ Rebecca said, ‘you will have heard of the sudden death of your history master Mr Eccles.’
‘His suicide you mean,’ James said.
‘Would you tell the court,’ Rebecca went on, ‘of your relationship with Mr Eccles?’
‘There was a club,’ James began. ‘The Iron Circle. That’s what it was called.’
‘Tell us about this club,’ Rebecca said. ‘Who started it? What was its purpose?’
‘It’s worldwide,’ James said. But it was started in England about twenty-five years ago by a man who called himself John Coleman. He was sent over from Vienna to found an English branch. His cover was that of an engineer in an industrial plant near Canterbury. He lived in the same village as Sir.’
My heart leapt. I was a headmaster again, and a wave of nostalgia overcame me.
‘He recruited members from all over England,’ James was saying.
Was Mr Eccles one of these members?’ Rebecca asked. ‘Yes,’ James said. ‘He was a leading member.’
‘What was his function?’
‘To recruit others into the Iron Circle. Young recruits.’
‘What was the purpose of this circle?’
James hesitated. ‘It was extreme right-wing.’ Then in a louder voice, ‘It was fascist. It worshipped the German model. Hitler was its hero.’
I delighted in the gasp around the court. I knew there was more of the like to come and they were a good audience.
‘Could you be more specific about its activities?’ Rebecca asked.
‘Well, they were against immigration. Whites were all right. But not blacks. The Iron Circle was behind race riots and the murders of Asian immigrants. They burnt their houses and mosques. Not just in England, but all over Europe. And they hate the Jews. They burn down their synagogues and desecrate their cemeteries. They want to make Europe Jew-free. Black-free too. They want a pure race.’
‘Did you personally take part in any of these activities?’
‘No,’ James said. ‘I was being trained for leadership. We all were. All of us in Mr Eccles’s group at the school. He called us the elite.’
‘The elite,’ Rebecca repeated and gave pause. ‘Tell the court about the skiing trips to Austria.’
‘Mr Eccles took our group every Easter. We stayed in a hostel, but Mr Eccles stayed with a family called the Müllers. They were members of the new Nazi party and after skiing we all used to meet in their house and listen to lectures and look at films of Hitler and the Hitler Youth. Mr Eccles sent me to stay with them when I took a term off from school.’
‘And what did you do during that term?’
‘I spent most of it in Münich with the Müllers’ son, going to party meetings.’
‘How did you feel about the party?’ Rebecca asked.
‘At first I was in love with it, its marches and its songs, but I don’t think I would have stayed in the Circle for long.’
‘Now perhaps you could tell us about George Tilbury,’ Rebecca said.
‘That was when all the trouble started,’ James said. ‘One Easter George wanted to go skiing with us. Mr Eccles didn’t want to take him. He was afraid that George would learn too much and tell his father, the cabinet minister. George was too big a risk. But there was no reason why he shouldn’t go, at least no reason that Mr Eccles could give Sir. So George had to come. We all tried to hide our secrets from him. He had to stay by himself when we went to the Müllers, but by his second trip he’d sussed it all out. He didn’t enjoy that holiday and we were all worried that he might spill the beans. Especially Mr Eccles. And when we got back to school, he told me to keep an eye on him. George told me he was going to tell Sir, and one day I saw him waiting outside Sir’s office and I pulled him away. And I went straight to Mr Eccles and I told him that George could get us all into trouble. And Mr Eccles said, "Leave it to me". Then the next day, I heard that George had disappeared and Mr Eccles called me to his study. He told me that there was nothing to worry about. "George has been seen to," he said. Those were his words. "George has been seen to."’
Rebecca turned to face the judges. "George had been seen to,"’ she said. Then she turned once more to James.
‘Did you ask him what he meant by that?’ she asked.
‘No,’ James said. ‘I feared the worst and I was afraid to be told. He told me to join in the search and to do it thoroughly. I went to join the search party in the field and on the way I saw David Solomon sitting on the wall and he was crying. I went over to him and he said, "George told me all about those skiing trips." He was frightened. "Frightened of what?" I asked. "Just frightened," he said. When I next saw Mr Eccles on the search, I told him about David and he just laughed.’
‘Mr Eccles laughed,’ Rebecca repeated to the judges. ‘George had been seen to, and Mr Eccles laughed.’
None of James’s testimony was new to me. Rebecca had read me his statement before the appeal. But I marvelled at his courage. Since his appearance in the court he had not yet given me a glance. But I knew that there would come a time when he would look me in the eye and perhaps even smile. For my smile was ready enough for him.
‘Would you now tell the court,’ Rebecca urged, ‘what happened next. While the search was in progress.’
‘It was before George’s body was found in Sir’s garden in Kent. Mr Eccles asked me to come to his room that evening. When I arrived there were a number of people already there. At the time I didn’t know who they were. But I know now since they were all witnesses at the trial.’
‘Would you tell the court the names of those present?’ Rebecca said.
‘
There was PC Byrd from the local village, Mr Clerk, the verger from Canterbury Cathedral, Mr Cassidy from London who owned the hardware store and another policeman from the Kent Constabulary.’
‘PC Byrd, Mr Clerk, Mr Cassidy and another policeman,’ Rebecca repeated slowly. She turned to the judges. ‘My Lords,’ she said, ‘they have all been subpoenaed to appear.’ Then once more addressing James, she said, ‘Apart from Mr Eccles and yourself, is that the complete list?’
‘There was one other,’ James said. ‘I had not seen him before. But he seemed to be in charge of everything. They called him John.’
‘John Coleman.’ Rebecca explained to the judges. ‘He was subpoenaed, My Lords, but he has disappeared.’
I noticed a small smile flit across the judges’ faces and for some reason, I took it as a sign of my acquittal. I sought out Lucy’s face in the body of the court. She was smiling too. Matthew sat at her side along with Peter and Jeannie. My family. Those I was soon to go home to.
‘Tell the court what happened at this meeting,’ Rebecca said. ‘And you may take your time.’ She knew that what James was about to reveal was the core of the conspiracy against me and she wanted an eager and silent audience.
‘Well, this John said that George’s body had been hidden. I was stunned. Mr Eccles had told me that George had been seen to but I’d never thought that that meant he’d been murdered. I asked this John man who had killed him. Your leader, he said. He was only obeying orders. It was obvious to me that John had given those orders and that Mr Eccles had been a true disciple. I remember I felt sick. I wanted to leave. I wanted nothing more to do with it. I tried to go but they stopped me. "You are a member of the Circle," John said, "You have your duties." "And what are they?" I asked. He handed me two sheets of paper, and on them were written the testimony I had to give at the trial. I scanned the pages and, to my horror, I understood that Sir was being named as the killer and that they had buried George in Sir’s garden in Kent. "I can’t do it," I said. "Then you will go the same way as George," John told me. I had to stay there and listen to them. They were all given papers to learn by heart. All except Eccles. He was ordered to defend Sir in the witness-box. That would be his cover. It was all so unbelievable.’
Then, for the first time since he had entered the court, James turned to look at me. ‘I’m so very sorry,’ he whispered.
I reserved my smile. I didn’t think James could deal with it at that time.
‘Did you meet again?’ Rebecca asked.
‘Yes,’ James said. ‘John said we all needed to rehearse. And that night before Sir was arrested, we had a read-through of our parts.’
I remembered that evening well. I was with Matthew and we were returning from the village pub. I recalled seeing the light in Eccles’s window and the moving shadows behind the curtains. The rehearsal, as James called it. The first act of my fall.
‘What happened at that read-through?’ Rebecca asked.
‘John played the part of the prosecutor,’ James said, ‘and we read out our words to him. PC Byrd read an invented story about seeing Sir in a car at night. And the verger read about seeing a hole in Sir’s garden and then the hole was covered. And Mr Cassidy read of Sir buying the knife and the Kent constable read about the fingerprints and the button that was found in the car. All the parts had been written by John and I think he enjoyed being the director. All John had to do was to ring the police and inform on Sir and he had already done that in the morning. We stayed up most of the night and watched Sir being arrested. Then they all drank the champagne that John had brought, and they toasted the memory of Adolf Hitler.’ Another sigh from the body of the court and Rebecca allowed its echo.
‘Were there any more meetings?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ James said. ‘We met almost every night until the trial. Until we were all word perfect. I knew that Sir would be convicted,’ he said. ‘We had left no loopholes for the defence.’
‘One last question, Mr Turncastle,’ Rebecca said. ‘Why after all this time did you decide to tell the truth?’
‘I couldn’t live with it,’ James said. ‘Shortly after the trial I had a mental breakdown. I attempted suicide. I felt so guilty. Then I was admitted to a psychiatric clinic. After treatment I decided to tell the truth. And tell it aloud for everyone to hear. Because Sir was innocent. He would never have laid a finger on anybody.’
He turned to look at me again and this time I gave him that smile that I had been keeping.
‘Thank you, Mr Turncastle,’ Rebecca said.
James stepped down. I saw that he was trembling. His gait was unsteady, racked by his long and brave testimony. He clutched at a rail as he walked out of the court and once outside I imagined he slumped on to the nearest chair and wept with his freedom.
The court was then adjourned until the following morning. I was taken down once more, and unblanketed, I slipped into the van. Once in my cell, I sat on my cot and let the tears flow. All those tears from the long months and years had come to the brink of my eyes, all those tears I had firmly sent back to where they came from, now I gave them release. I wept for the years I had forfeited, for the faith of my family, for my future freedom. And I wept for James. But above all I wept for young George Tilbury.
Chapter 33
Rebecca had wanted to apply for bail. She assured me that in the light of the day’s revelations it would be granted. ‘You could go home,’ she said. But I dissuaded her. For in truth I didn’t want to go home. I was frightened. Suddenly I needed the safety of my cell. I felt at home there. I would have been nervous to sit at a table with a white linen cloth and manoeuvre the silver cutlery and bone china. I would have been shy of company, unused to social graces, afraid of questions that I couldn’t answer or irritated by those that weren’t asked. Above all I feared that there was nowhere else but in my cell that I could write. That my little cot, my barred window, my wooden desk in the fifty-four or so square feet of my little nest orchestrated my every word, framed each phrase, prompted each image, drove my often unwilling pen. I could not envisage writing in freedom but I knew it was the one joy that I would forfeit willingly and I wondered whether all writers had to dwell in a prison of their own making.
That evening, the governor himself brought my supper tray. He had followed the appeal as eagerly as any press reporter. He expressed his pleasure with its progress but he was careful not to discuss it. He left me his copy of the evening paper.
The front page bore a picture of James. Its caption read ‘Conspirator Comes Clean’. I was faintly offended by the title. Offended on James’s behalf. It made him seem a criminal, but in many ways James had been as innocent as I, misled, gullible, frightened, but innocent still. Page two of the paper carried a picture of Rebecca. Her features were on the edge of a smile that hinted of triumph. I looked at the picture for a while and I tried to recall Susan’s face but it was an exiled blur. Half of page three was devoted to a photograph of myself. I don’t know where it was taken for no background was visible to provide a clue. I am not by any means a handsome man. My face lacks true proportion. My forehead is too broad, and does not match the length of my face. My ears assume an arrogant prominence and my chin is far too proud. There was a time when I hated my nose, but now as I view it, the length of it, the plain Jew of it, I find it almost beautiful. I looked at the paper and I sensed that I had seen that picture before and I realised it was exactly the same portrait that had appeared on the day of that iniquitous verdict. But now they had retouched it. They had smudged that look of gross guilt it had borne, and feathered it into one of innocence. They had given me a look of incorruptible integrity, and blameless I sang off the page. I did not read the appeal report. Every word of James’s testimony still clogged my ears and once again I marvelled at his courage. I hoped that Peter would befriend him. I hoped, I hoped. I wanted it all as it was, but I knew that was impossible.
I lay down on my cot and I allowed myself to think of going home. In my mind I practised my ma
nners; I practised the answers to the questions they would ask. I sat at the head of the dining-room table, my erstwhile place, and I carved the roast and poured the wine. I dwelt on Lucy’s face at the end of the table, then on Peter’s and Jean’s on either side of me. And painfully I must confess that I did not feel at home. I must have sat at that dining-table till the lights dimmed in my cell. I sat there while I slept, and in the morning I remained there still, Alfred Dreyfus, head of household, husband of Lucy, brother of Matthew, father of Peter and Jean. I looked around my cell, at the growing light through the barred window and I knew that when, in time, I would relinquish it, I would be leaving home. God help me, I thought. I have been too long confined.
Chapter 34
The first witness on the following day was David Solomon. I had last seen him in the public gallery on the first day of my trial. Young David, one of the token Jews in the school. He was grown now, an adult, and after he took the oath, insisting on the Old Testament, he turned to smile at me.
‘Mr Solomon,’ Rebecca said, ‘we have heard from Mr Turncastle that the late George Tilbury told you of his suspicions regarding the Eccles group.’
‘Yes,’ David said. ‘It was after they had come back from the skiing holiday.’
‘What exactly did he tell you?’
‘He told me that the group were all part of a fascist organisation. And that the group was being trained for leadership. He told me about the evening meetings at the Müllers’ that he was not allowed to attend. He didn’t know exactly what went on there, but from things he picked up he was suspicious. I told him he ought to tell Sir, and he said that he would.’
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