The Heirs of Owain Glyndwr E-Book

Peter Murphy

• Herausgeber: No Exit Press
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Serie: A Ben Schroeder legal thriller
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 648

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Beschreibung

The Fourth Ben Schroeder Novel 1 July 1969. The Investiture of the new Prince of Wales. When Arianwen Hughes is arrested driving with a home-made bomb near Caernarfon Castle, her case seems hopeless. Her brother Caradog, her husband Trevor, and their friend Dafydd are implicated in the plot, the evidence against them damning. Ben Schroeder's reputation as a barrister is riding high after the cases of Billy Cottage (A Matter for the Jury) and Sir James Digby (And is there Honey Still for Tea?). But defending Arianwen will be his greatest challenge yet. Trevor may hold the only key to her defence, but he is nowhere to be found...

Leseprobe

THE HEIRS OF OWAIN GLYNDŴR

July the first 1969. The Investiture of the Prince of Wales.

When Arianwen Hughes is arrested driving with a home-made bomb near Caernarfon Castle, her case seems hopeless. Her brother Caradog, her husband Trevor, and their friend Dafydd are implicated in the plot, the evidence against them damning.

Ben Schroeder’s reputation as a barrister is riding high after the cases of Billy Cottage (A Matter for the Jury) and Sir James Digby (And is there Honey Still for Tea?). But defending Arianwen will be his greatest challenge yet. Trevor may hold the only key to her defence, but he is nowhere to be found…

About the Author

After graduating from Cambridge University Peter Murphy spent a career in the law, as an advocate and teacher, both in England and the United States. His legal work included a number of years in The Hague as defence counsel at the Yugoslavian War Crimes Tribunal. He lives with his wife, Chris, in Cambridgeshire.

CRITICAL ACCLAIM FOR PETER MURPHY

REMOVAL

‘Weighty and impressive’ – Crime Time

‘A gripping page-turner. A compelling and disturbing tale of English law courts, lawyers, and their clients, told with the authenticity that only an insider like Murphy can deliver. The best read I’ve come across in a long time’ – David Ambrose

‘A brilliant thriller by a striking new talent. Murphy cracks open the US Constitution like a walnut. This is Seven Days in May for the twenty-first century’ – Clem Chambers, author of the Jim Evans thrillers

‘Peter Murphy’s debut Removal introduces an exciting talent in the thriller genre. Murphy skilfully builds tension in sharp prose. When murder threatens the security of the most powerful nation in the world, the stakes are high!’ – Leigh Russell, author of the Geraldine Steel mysteries

A HIGHER DUTY

‘A very satisfying read’ – Fiction is Stranger than Fact

‘His racy legal thrillers lift the lid on sex and racial prejudice at the bar’ – Guardian

‘If anyone’s looking for the next big courtroom drama… look no further. Murphy is your man’ – ICLR

‘Peter Murphy’s novel is an excellent read from start to finish and highly recommended’ – Historical Novel Review

‘This beautifully-written book had me captivated from start to finish’ – Old Dogs – New Tricks

‘engrossing’ – Literary Review

‘An absorbing read, and one which will make you think, and consider yourself fortunate to be living in a world which has moved on’– Mystery People

A MATTER FOR THE JURY

An utterly compelling and harrowing tale of life and death – David Ambrose

‘One of the subplots… delivers a huge and unexpected twist towards the end of the novel, for which I was totally unprepared’ – Fiction Is Stranger than Fact

‘In A Higher Duty Peter Murphy wrote more about the barristers themselves. Here the spotlight is on the defendants, the witnesses, the judges, and even the hangman since this is 1964 and capital murder means what it says’–Counsel Magazine

‘A Matter for the Jury is a page-turner’– Historical Novel Society

‘gripping courtroom drama’ – ICLR

‘a rich and absorbing read’ – Mrs Peabody Investigates

AND IS THERE HONEY STILL FOR TEA?

‘An intelligent amalgam of spy story and legal drama’ – Times

‘a story that captures the zeitgeist of a turbulent time in British history’ – Publishers Weekly

‘A gripping, enjoyable and informative read…Promoting Crime Fiction loves Peter Murphy’s And is there Honey Still for Tea?’ – Promoting Crime Fiction

‘Murphy’s clever legal thriller revels in the chicanery of the English law courts of the period’ – The Independent

‘The ability of an author to create living characters is always dependent on his knowledge of what they would do and say in any given circumstances – a talent that Peter Murphy possesses in abundance…Arnold Taylor loves And Is There Honey Still for Tea?’ – Crime Review UK

‘There’s tradecraft of the John le Carré kind, but also a steely authenticity in the legal scenes… gripping’ – ICLR

‘Digby, the real protagonist, will keep you guessing until the very end’ – Kirkus Reviews

TEST OF RESOLVE

‘Peter Murphy presents us with a truly original premise and a set of intriguing characters then ramps up the pressure on them all. Test of Resolve is an aptly named, compelling read with a nail biting conclusion’ – Howard Linskey

‘a gripping political thriller’ – ICLR

For my brother, Paul Murphy: scholar, explorer, genealogist of our Cymric family, a lover of Cymru.

I fy mrawd Paul Murphy: ysgolhaig, fforiwr, achydd o’n teulu Cymreig, cariad o Gymru

Contents

PROLOGUE

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Author’s Note

Glendower:

Three times hath Henry Bolingbroke made head

Against my power; thrice from the banks of Wye

And sandy-bottom’d Severn have I sent him

Bootless home and weather-beaten back.

Henry IV, Part One

Act 3, Scene 1

PROLOGUE

PROLOG

1

Monday 4 May 1970

It was the kind of morning all police officers had from time to time, but even so, PC Hywel Watkins of London’s Metropolitan Police was feeling a bit hard done by. For one thing, he was short of sleep. He had worked a busy night shift and, even before he went on nights, his new baby, Gaynor, had made sure that he wasn’t getting enough rest. Not that he begrudged her the attention – he loved her to death – but it all took its toll. Then, this morning, when his shift had ended and he was looking forward to breakfast, followed by a nice long lie-in while his wife Mary looked after Gaynor for a few hours, his desk sergeant had had other ideas. Sergeant Lees had ordered him to take himself off home at the double, change out of uniform into his best suit and tie, and present himself at the Old Bailey in time for a trial set to begin at 10.30.

It wasn’t the first time this had happened, just one of the more inconvenient. PC Watkins had a skill the Met and the courts in London had need of from time to time. He was a native Welsh speaker. Welsh speakers who had dealings with the police or the courts in England were generally quite capable of speaking English, but they sometimes chose not to – usually without giving advance warning. On such occasions, PC Watkins would find himself in demand at short notice, and this morning was such an occasion. To make matters worse, he was going to be late.

When he arrived in the Old Bailey’s famous court one, just after 11 o’clock and slightly out of breath, he was surprised to see a scuffle taking place in the dock, to the accompaniment of loud shouting, some in Welsh, some in English. He was even more surprised to see that court was fully assembled: a High Court judge, resplendent in his wig and red robes, on the bench; barristers in their wigs and gowns; a jury of twelve citizens, ten men and two women, in the jury box; an array of clerks, ushers and other court staff; and one or two men in suits who, to Watkins’ practised eye, looked like plain clothes police officers. But none of them seemed inclined to lift a finger to intervene in the fracas in the dock; they all seemed somehow resigned to watching from a safe distance, and there was an almost eerie silence in the courtroom.

The scuffle appeared to involve one of three defendants, a male, and two male uniformed prison officers. The two other defendants, one male, one female, and a female prison officer were trying to stay out of it, huddled against the bullet-proof glass in the right-hand corner of the dock. Sergeant Lees had not told him what case he would be dealing with, but as soon as he heard that a Welsh interpreter was needed in court one at the Bailey, he knew. He considered briefly what to do, whether to report to someone, or just make his way forward. He could see no point in standing back. He would be needed in the dock eventually, if he was to interpret, and if there was a scuffle to sort out before he could interpret anything, he might as well take himself there sooner rather than later.

‘PC Watkins, Welsh interpreter,’ he said loudly, holding his warrant card up high in his right hand, and making his way forward from the courtroom entrance to the dock, as quickly as he could without actually running. He repeated what he had said, in English and Welsh, several times, and saw that he had the attention of those in the dock. Some conversation began at last among those in court, and some semblance of normality was restored. The female prison officer quickly unlocked the door of the dock, opened it just wide enough to allow him to enter, then closed and locked it again hurriedly. The scuffle was winding down as a result of his appearance. The two prison officers released the defendant with rough final shoves and all three of them started to adjust their clothing and tentatively feel the places where blows had landed. All three men had red marks on their faces, where bruises would begin to show before long. Watkins stepped between the defendant and the prison officers, to ensure that it did not kick off again. He touched the defendant’s left arm and guided him to the left-hand wall, where he stood still. He turned towards the front of the court to address the judge.

‘My Lord, I am PC Hywel Watkins, Welsh interpreter. May I have a few moments to introduce myself to the defendants?’ He repeated what he had said in Welsh.

The judge nodded. ‘You should take the oath first, please, Officer.’

It was all Watkins could do not to laugh out loud. This was getting surreal. He had just broken up a fight in the dock in court one at the Old Bailey when an entire courtroom of people seemed willing to let it take its course, and the only thing the judge could think of before resuming proceedings was to ask him to take the oath. He quickly reminded himself of where he was, and what Sergeant Lees would have to say about it if he were to be reported for undue levity in court.

‘Yes, my Lord.’

A female usher was making her way to the dock carrying the card with the words of the oath inscribed on it. She held it up to the glass for him to read.

‘I swear by Almighty God that I will faithfully interpret and true explanation make of all such things as may be required of me to the best of my skill and understanding.’

He turned to face the judge again. ‘My Lord, I am Police Constable 246 Hywel Watkins, attached to Holborn Police Station. The language is Welsh. It would assist me if I could speak briefly with the defendants to introduce myself and explain my function to them.’

‘Yes, very well,’ the judge replied. ‘As quickly as you can, please, Officer. I and the jury are waiting.’

Watkins looked down at his feet and took a deep breath. It would be much easier if the judge left the bench and gave the jury a coffee break, just long enough to allow him some chance to assess the situation. He had no idea what was going on, what had led to the strange scene he had witnessed when he entered court. He did not even know how many of the defendants had requested his services, or whether their lawyers spoke any Welsh. It would help if he could have a few minutes to establish some such basic facts, but apparently the judge saw no need for that. He would have to do what he could.

‘Yes, my Lord.’

Watkins decided to start with the defendant involved in the scuffle. For the first time, he looked at the man closely. He was a strangely imposing figure, rather over six feet in height; a slim build; age hard to read, late thirties perhaps, Watkins thought; black hair, beginning to turn grey and worn long, tied in a small knot behind his head; a moustache and beard, short and tidily trimmed. He wore an open-necked shirt and dark trousers and, around his head, a thin white bandana, with a small image of the Y Ddraig Goch – the Red Dragon of Wales – in the middle of his forehead. His eyes were blue. Watkins felt their suspicious scrutiny of his face.

‘I am going to speak quietly to you in Welsh,’ he began. ‘I don’t know how long we will have before the judge orders me to translate what is being said. But I want to explain my role as interpreter. What is your name?’

The defendant looked at him in silence for some seconds, before replying in Welsh.

‘Why should I talk to you? You’re a police officer – one of them.’

‘I have no connection with this case,’ Watkins replied. ‘I was called in this morning when I finished night duty because they needed someone to interpret. I am here to help you, but I can’t do that unless you cooperate with me. What is your name?’

Another searching silence.

‘Where are you from?’ the defendant asked.

‘Bridgend,’ Watkins replied. His patience was fraying at the edges. Being cross-examined by a Welsh nationalist on trial for conspiracy to cause explosions was not something he was going to put up with for long. But the court needed him to do what he could to establish contact. ‘I grew up in South Wales. I moved to England because I wanted to join the Met – and also because of a girlfriend at the time, as a matter of fact – but Wales is still home.’

Why Watkins had volunteered this information about himself, he was not sure, but to his surprise, it drew a smile.

‘Porthcawl, in the summer, was it?’ the defendant asked.

‘And Barry Island,’ Watkins replied, returning the smile.

‘The fish and chips are better in Porthcawl.’

‘No comparison, man.’

‘My name is Caradog Prys-Jones.’

‘Thank you. Was it you who asked for an interpreter?’

Prys-Jones laughed. ‘None of us asked for an interpreter,’ he replied. ‘All I did was to tell my gaolers that I intended to speak in Welsh, which is my language. It was the judge who decided I needed an interpreter.’

‘Which of the barristers is yours?’

‘I haven’t got one. There’s very little I want to say to this court. What I have to say I can say myself. I don’t need a barrister to say it for me.’

‘What about the other two defendants?’

‘They won’t need you. My sister Arianwen and Dai Bach have decided to recognise the court, and they will speak English. The barristers are for them. Good luck to them.’

Watkins nodded. ‘All right. I will interpret what you say, and what the court says to you. But it would help if I knew what was going on. Has the trial started? Why were you fighting with the prison officers?’

‘The so-called trial is about to start. As you see, they have a jury of English people ready to convict me. The judge and the lawyers were talking among themselves before these goons attacked me, but I played no part in it. When the judge asked me something, I told him that I refused to recognise the court. I was speaking in Welsh, so he didn’t understand me. That is not my fault. We have an English judge who doesn’t speak Welsh, even though we have any number of judges in Wales who do. He’s a bad-tempered bastard, too. He shouted at me for a while, and then these prison officers took it upon themselves to try to persuade me to speak English, which I refused to do. Eventually one of them assaulted me and I defended myself – which was where you came in.’

‘All right,’ Watkins said. ‘Are you ready?’

Prys-Jones renewed his searching scrutiny of Watkins’ face.

‘I want you to interpret exactly what I say.’

‘You heard me take the oath,’ Watkins replied. ‘Besides, you understand English just as well as I do. You’ll know whether I’m interpreting properly or not.’

‘It could get loud again,’ Prys-Jones said. ‘It might even lead to those monkeys jumping on me again, too. Just so you are warned.’

‘Just so you are warned,’ Watkins replied, ‘I am a police officer, and I’ve already had a long day. You kick off again, boyo, and you’ll have me jumping on you as well as them.’

He turned back to the judge.

‘We are ready, my Lord.’

2

Mr Justice Overton had been on the bench less than a year, and the last thing he had expected was to be sitting at the Central Criminal Court to try such a high profile case. Even the press seemed bemused that the Lord Chief Justice had not chosen to try the case himself or, at the very least, assigned it to a very senior High Court judge. Most of Overton’s friends, over dinner at his club, had suggested smilingly that he had been chosen as a sacrificial offering, the prospective scape-goat to bear the guilt if, God forbid, such an important case were to go wrong – and God knew that if this case went wrong, it would go spectacularly wrong. One or two kinder souls tried to reassure him that it was a sign that those higher up had confidence in him, and that if all went well, as it surely would, a seat in the Court of Appeal would be in his future. Overton was not reassured.

The case against the defendants looked strong enough on paper. But he had Evan Roberts prosecuting, a selection made, presumably, because of the man’s Welsh origins. Evan Roberts had made his career as Civil Treasury Counsel. No one doubted his ability as a lawyer, but he had hardly ever set foot in a criminal courtroom before. True, he had a very able Welsh junior, Jamie Broderick, to assist him, and Broderick was making quite a name for himself in crime in Cardiff. But this was not a case for beginners, and Roberts would have formidable opposition to contend with.

All three defence counsel came from the chambers formerly headed by his long-time rival Bernard Wesley, a guarantee of high quality in itself. Gareth Morgan-Davies QC and his junior Donald Weston represented Dafydd Prosser. Gareth had been in Silk for only three years, but he was known as one of the best criminal advocates in London. He was now Head of Chambers at 2 Wessex Buildings, because Bernard Wesley had been appointed a High Court judge at about the same time as Overton. Gareth was also the only barrister involved in the case who was a native Welsh-speaker. Ben Schroeder, who represented Arianwen Hughes, was a junior of some seven years’ experience, who had already built a reputation as a skilful and determined fighter for his clients. Overton had learned a lot about Ben when they had been on opposing sides in the case of Sir James Digby, a leading Silk who had been unmasked as a long-term Soviet spy, and had fled to Moscow on the eve of the libel trial which was supposed to clear his name. Ben had worked tirelessly for his client while it still seemed that he had been falsely accused, but when the truth began to emerge, he had not hesitated to secure and reveal the evidence which exposed his client for what he really was. Overton had a high opinion of him and had wondered, sometimes aloud, whether Evan Roberts could survive in this company in a criminal case. He was about to find out.

Overton had been warned that Caradog Prys-Jones was likely to cause trouble, but that was something that did not trouble him in the slightest. In the course of a professional lifetime spent arguing, and usually winning, the most challenging of cases, Overton was well used to litigants throwing tantrums to get what they wanted. Caradog Prys-Jones was nothing new. If he insisted on speaking Welsh, he would have an interpreter. If he continued to disrupt the proceedings, Mr Justice Overton, after giving him every chance to change his mind, would reluctantly have him sent down to the cells. He would then be brought back up to court at key moments of the trial and again invited to participate, and would be taken back down when he refused. If he refused to have counsel to represent him, Mr Justice Overton would bend over backwards to make sure that the jury heard everything that could be said on his behalf. And the jury would be present to see and hear it all for themselves. They had to judge Caradog Prys-Jones, and they would see for themselves what kind of character he was. It would all be perfectly fair.

‘Mr Prys-Jones,’ the judge began, ‘you have an interpreter, and you may speak in Welsh if you wish. We are about to begin the trial. Do I understand that you still wish to represent yourself?’

Standing next to Prys-Jones, PC Watkins watched the man raise himself to his full height, which, by the sheer force of his presence, he somehow managed to make appear even greater than it was. He started to speak quite slowly.

‘I refuse to recognise this court. I demand to be tried in Wales, under Welsh law, by a court conducting its proceedings in Welsh. I demand to be tried by a Welsh judge and a Welsh jury.’

Mr Justice Overton waited patiently for Watkins to finish his translation.

‘Mr Prys-Jones, whether or not you recognise the court is irrelevant. The Central Criminal Court has jurisdiction to try you, and you have been properly indicted. That, I am afraid, is a fact, whether you like it or not. You will be tried under the law of England and Wales, which is the law to which we are all subject. The proceedings will be conducted in English because that is the language which everyone in this court understands but, as I have said, you may speak Welsh if you wish.’

Prys-Jones began to speak again before Watkins had the chance to finish his translation of the judge’s reply. He reached out a hand to touch Prys-Jones’s arm to ask him to wait, but the defendant pulled away. He was speaking quickly now, and the pace was increasing. It took every ounce of concentration for Watkins to keep up with him.

‘This is just another chapter in the subjugation of Wales by the English, and the cultural genocide being committed against the Welsh people. Ever since the days of Edward I, you have assumed the right to do what you like in our country. You have killed our people. You have replaced the true princes of Wales with your imported Saxon royalty, and you demand that we recognise them as our rulers. You threaten our language…’

By now, the defendant and his interpreter were shouting at the same time, and Watkins was struggling to make himself heard. Watkins held up his hands to the judge to indicate that he was doing his best.

‘Mr Prys-Jones,’ the judge was saying, ‘all this has nothing to do with the case. You must confine yourself to speaking about the case.’

‘You flood our valleys, you take our money, you take our coal, and then you throw our miners out of work when your English bankers decide that the mines are no longer profitable enough for them.’

‘Mr Prys-Jones, you will stop this immediately, or I shall have you taken down to the cells.’

‘You have sown the wind, and you shall reap the whirlwind. The people of Wales will rise up as one and drive you out of Wales.’

‘That’s enough,’ the judge said. ‘Take him down.’

The two prison officers once again approached Prys-Jones, who lunged at them violently, catching one officer on an already red cheek. His colleague punched Prys-Jones in retaliation. Watkins intervened to prevent further violence and, with his assistance, the officers soon pinioned Prys-Jones’s arms behind his back, and began to drag him towards the door leading down to the cells. He had to be dragged every inch of the way, as he continued to rant.

‘I am a member of a legitimate military force. We are freedom fighters. I am a prisoner of war. This is an illegal tribunal. I demand my rights under the Geneva Conventions. I do not recognise this court. I demand to be taken back to Wales.’

By now, two more prison officers had made their way upstairs from the cells, and the four officers finally subdued him. As he disappeared from the dock, he gave one piercing final scream.

‘We are the Heirs of Owain Glyndŵr!’

Suddenly, there was silence in court. Watkins turned round to check on the others in the dock. Dafydd Prosser, the second male defendant, was sitting with his head in his hands, looking down at the floor. The female officer was standing by his side, looking thoroughly shaken. Arianwen Hughes, the female defendant, was sitting next to Dafydd. She seemed composed, but there were tears in her eyes.

‘Everyone all right?’ Watkins asked in English, then, out of habit, in Welsh.

All three nodded.

‘Mae’nddrwg gennyf i,’ Arianwen whispered. ‘I am sorry.’

He shook his head. ‘No, don’t worry. Not a problem.’

As if it had been a perfectly normal morning and nothing untoward had happened, Mr Justice Overton turned towards the jury. Glancing in their direction from the dock, Watkins thought they were looking a bit shell-shocked. If the judge noticed the same thing, he did not acknowledge it at all.

‘Well, there we are, members of the jury. These things happen. Nothing for you to worry about. Let me just say this. It is my duty, and yours, to treat Mr Prys-Jones fairly, and he will receive a fair trial despite his absence. I will ensure that all the points that can be made in his favour as the trial proceeds are brought to your attention, and it will be your task to give his case the same fair consideration you would if he were in court, and had someone representing him. It is his choice to absent himself, but I will give him a further chance to participate in the trial, and we will see what happens then. We are now ready to begin the trial.’

He looked towards the dock.

‘PC Watkins, even though the two remaining defendants have not asked for an interpreter, I think it would be advisable for you to remain throughout the trial. There may be a need for a Welsh speaker to interpret or to translate documents as we go along. I will make sure that your senior officers are informed, of course, so you needn’t worry about your other duties. You may leave the dock and sit behind prosecuting counsel for now.’

Watkins bowed to the inevitable. Well, at least he would be on days for a while, now, which would make things easier for Mary and Gaynor.

‘Yes, my Lord.’

Gareth Morgan-Davies stood.

‘My Lord, my learned friend Mr Schroeder and I are concerned that the jury have witnessed this display by Mr Prys-Jones, and that they may hold it against our clients. It would be a natural enough reaction. I am sure your Lordship will direct them not to do so in the summing-up, but I would like the opportunity to make it clear now that neither Mr Prosser nor Mrs Hughes had anything to do with Mr Prys-Jones’s outburst, neither do they agree with what he said.’

The judge paused, and Gareth saw him fight to keep his temper in check.

‘Very well, Mr Morgan-Davies,’ he replied. ‘Members of the jury, of course, this has nothing to do with Mr Prosser or Mrs Hughes. You will consider the case of each defendant separately. The fact that Mr Prys-Jones has chosen to behave in this manner does not affect the case of Mr Prosser or Mrs Hughes in any way. You will bear that in mind.’

Gareth was smiling reassuringly at the jury, and they nodded in return.

‘You may begin, Mr Roberts,’ the judge said.

Gareth leaned across to Ben.

‘God, this is going to be a long trial,’ he whispered.

3

‘May it please your Lordship, members of the jury, my name is Evan Roberts, and I appear to prosecute in this case with my learned friend Mr Jamie Broderick. As you have just heard, the defendant Caradog Prys-Jones has chosen to represent himself. The defendant Dafydd Prosser is represented by my learned friends Mr Morgan-Davies QC and Mr Weston. The defendant Arianwen Hughes is represented by my learned friend Mr Schroeder. With the usher’s kind assistance I am going to give you four documents.’

Geoffrey, the black-gowned usher, a tall, silver-haired man wearing a dark suit and a tie emblazoned with the coat of arms of the City of London, quickly took the documents from the prosecutor’s outstretched hand, and distributed them to the jury.

‘The first document is a plan of the centre of the town of Caernarfon in North Wales. The second is a plan of Caernarfon Castle. The third is a floor plan of a book shop in Caernarfon called, in English, the Prince Book Shop. My Lord, I understand there is no objection…’

‘That is correct,’ Gareth said.

‘I am obliged. In that case, my Lord, may these become Exhibits 1, 2 and 3?’

‘Yes, very well,’ the judge replied.

‘We will come to those when the evidence gets underway. The fourth document is a copy of the indictment, which you have already heard read to you by the learned Clerk. It has one count, which is in these terms. The statement of the offence is conspiracy to cause explosions. The particulars of the offence are that:

Between a date unknown and 1 July 1969, Caradog Prys-Jones, Dafydd Prosser, Trevor Hughes and Arianwen Hughes conspired together and with others unknown to cause explosions.

‘Members of the jury, you will hear that the four defendants plotted together to commit as grave and as heinous an offence as could possibly be imagined. They plotted to plant an explosive device in Caernarfon Castle on the morning of the 1 July 1969. That was the day on which Her Majesty the Queen performed the ceremony of Investiture of her son, His Royal Highness Prince Charles, as Prince of Wales. You will hear evidence that, if the defendants’ plan had succeeded, it might well have resulted in death or serious injury to a large number of people gathered together that afternoon in the Castle for the Investiture, perhaps even, in certain circumstances, the Queen or the Prince of Wales.’

Roberts paused to allow this to sink in before continuing.

‘You will have noticed, members of the jury, that although four defendants are named in the indictment, we only have two in the dock. You know why Caradog Prys-Jones is not here. But another defendant is missing from the dock. That is Trevor Hughes. Trevor Hughes is the husband of Arianwen Hughes, and the prosecution say that he played a full part in the conspiracy, together with his wife. But when the other three defendants were arrested in the early hours of the 1st of July, Trevor Hughes somehow managed to evade arrest. When police officers went to his home and his place of work shortly after the arrest of his wife, they fully expected to find him at one or the other of those places. He was not at either.

‘The prosecution assume that in some manner he found out that the plot had been uncovered and that his fellow conspirators either had been, or were about to be arrested, and that he seized the chance to make good his escape. He has not been seen since. There were reports at the time that he had fled to Ireland, but whether or not that is true, his whereabouts are not known at present. We have every confidence that he will be arrested in due course, and when that happens, he will be brought before the court to answer this charge. But he is not here today, and he will play no part in this case.’

Roberts paused for a sip of water.

‘Who are these defendants?’ he asked, suddenly raising his voice. ‘Who are these people who planned such a heinous crime designed to cause such mayhem and havoc on a day of national celebration, a crime which so callously and viciously threatened the safety of our reigning Monarch and of the Heir to the Throne, and which represented an attack on the very foundations of our country?’

Ben looked at Gareth, his eyebrows raised. Gareth shook his head, briefly. He knew what Ben was asking. Roberts’ rhetoric would have been more suited to the Old Bailey of 1890 or 1910 than to the court of 1970; it betrayed his lack of experience of criminal cases. It would have been quite proper to object to such an attempt to play on the jury’s emotions. Some judges would have intervened even without an objection, would have told Roberts to stop it and get on with what he should be doing – which was to provide the jury with an overview of the evidence they were about to hear. But Gareth could not see Miles Overton doing that; he had heard Overton use some pretty robust language himself during his days at the Bar. Besides, Roberts was entitled to make the gravity of the case clear to the jury. There was no point in picking a fight about it unless it got out of hand.

‘Caradog Prys-Jones is a graduate of the University of Bangor,’ Roberts continued. ‘He graduated in 1955. His degree was in Welsh literature and history. After graduation, he based himself in Caernarfon, living in what, until their deaths, was his parents’ home in Pretoria Terrace. He had a conventional job as a senior administrative officer in the Office of the Inspector of Ancient Monuments for Wales. Outwardly, there was nothing to suggest that he was anything other than a young man beginning to make his way in the world. He had been known as a radical spirit as a student at Bangor, attending a few demonstrations in support of the Welsh language. But once he had graduated, he avoided the public gaze completely and seemed to lead a quiet life. He performed his work well, and he aroused no suspicion. He did not express any extreme views publicly. But he did have such views, and they seem to have evolved in his mind over a period of several years until they became an obsessive hatred of all things English.

‘Caradog Prys-Jones, members of the jury, as he told you himself this morning, regards the English as the invaders and occupiers of Wales, and he is willing to resort to force to drive them out. He was the intellectual and moral leader of the conspiracy, and its ideological guru. He was the man who conceived the idea of planting an explosive device at Caernarfon Castle on the day of the Investiture, and he it was who recruited the others, and persuaded them to join the conspiracy.

‘It was Caradog Prys-Jones who gave this group of conspirators its name, the Heirs of Owain Glyndŵr. Members of the jury, you will hear that Owain Glyndŵr was a Welsh prince, regarded by many nationalists as the last true Prince of Wales. He was born in the period 1349 to 1359 and was believed to have the blood of the two great Welsh princedoms of Gwynedd and Powys running through his veins. In September 1400, Glyndŵr led a revolt against King Henry IV, which continued spasmodically for several years, but which was ultimately unsuccessful. He died in 1415. From the nineteenth century onwards, Welsh nationalist organisations have regarded Glyndŵr as an iconic figure and the Father of Welsh nationalism. You will hear that the Queen’s decision to make Prince Charles Prince of Wales, and to hold the Investiture at Caernarfon Castle, was regarded by many as an affront to the people of Wales, and the prosecution say that it was the trigger for the plot with which you are concerned in this case.

‘This may be a convenient moment, members of the jury, to mention that this was not the only plot of its kind. Some of you may know that a number of bombs were found in and around Caernarfon in the day or two before the Investiture. Only one device was successfully detonated, and that device was in a place where it posed no threat to the Royal Family, although tragically it caused terrible injuries to a young boy who was on holiday in the area. Some of you may also know that, just last month, in April of this year, a man called John Jenkins was convicted of a number of offences involving explosive devices committed during the same time period, and that he was sentenced to a term of imprisonment. Members of the jury, it is not suggested that the defendants in this case had any connection with Jenkins, or indeed with any others who may have committed other such offences. I want to make that clear here and now. The Heirs of Owain Glyndŵr acted on their own, with no known connection to any other individual or group. But they were no less dangerous for that.

‘Dafydd Prosser, known to the others as Dai Bach – members of the jury, I am told that Dai Bach, meaning “Little David”, is an affectionate form of address in Welsh – is an expert in chemistry. He studied for his degree in chemistry at the National University of Wales at Aberystwyth, and graduated in 1956. After graduation, he accepted a job teaching chemistry at the Menai Strait Grammar School in Bangor, where he became a popular and well-respected teacher. Like Caradog Prys-Jones, Dafydd Prosser used a respectable position to conceal his extremist beliefs. Neither his colleagues nor his pupils had any idea that this well-liked teacher had another side to him, and indeed was leading a double life. But in fact, Dafydd Prosser is also a nationalist extremist, and a member of the Heirs of Owain Glyndŵr. He played a vital role in the conspiracy.

‘We come next to Arianwen Hughes, the younger sister of Caradog Prys-Jones. Like her brother, Arianwen Hughes graduated from Bangor University, but in 1957 and with a degree in Welsh and music. Until her marriage to Trevor Hughes in 1963, she lived with her brother in the house in Pretoria Terrace in Caernarfon. She was a private music teacher, and taught piano and cello to local children, and indeed, adults. After their marriage, Trevor and Arianwen Hughes lived together above the Prince Book Shop until their son Harri was born in 1965. They then moved to larger premises in a street called Penrallt Isaf.

‘The prosecution say that Arianwen Hughes agreed with her brother’s nationalist views, and was fully prepared to play her part in the conspiracy. As an indication of her dedication to the cause, members of the jury, you will hear that at a crucial moment, when it came time to carry out the plan to plant the explosive device, she had her four-year-old son Harri with her, strapped in his car seat in the back of her car, giving the impression of a perfectly innocent mother driving her child for some perfectly innocent purpose through the streets of Caernafon. No doubt this was intended to deflect the attention of any police officer who might be suspicious about what she was doing. Apparently she had given no thought to the safety of her young son, or, for that matter, her own.

‘Lastly, members of the jury, we come to Trevor Hughes. Trevor Hughes was the owner of the book shop I have already referred to, the Prince Book Shop in Palace Street, in the heart of Caernarfon. Its name in Welsh is the Siop Llyfrau’r Tywysog. Trevor Hughes arrived in Caernarfon and took the shop over in October 1961. The Prince is quite a large shop, covering two floors, with a third-floor flat above which came with the shop, and in which Hughes lived until after his marriage and the birth of his son. The Prince stocked a large selection of books, in Welsh and English, on a large number of subjects, both fiction and non-fiction. But there was also a basement room which the vast majority of customers never saw, and probably never knew about.

‘In the basement, more controversial items could be purchased. Some of these were books, magazines, and other materials of interest to Welsh nationalists, and some of these were of a violent, and even a terroristic nature. The basement room also served as a meeting place where nationalists of various hues could get together and discuss their plans without fear of being overheard or interrupted. Trevor Hughes provided such people with sanctuary in the basement. We say that it was in the Prince Book Shop that Trevor Hughes first met Caradog Prys-Jones and Arianwen Prys-Jones, his future wife; where he became their friend and a member of their family; and where he eventually became a member of the Heirs of Owain Glyndŵr, and joined the conspiracy. When the police visited the book shop on the morning of the 1st of July, Trevor Hughes, as I said before, was gone.

‘I hope not to take too long, members of the jury, but I must now outline the history of the conspiracy as far as we know it, until the moment of the arrest of the three defendants who are before you. The story begins in Caernarfon in late October 1961.’

PART 1

RHAN 1

4

October 1961

After some forty years, it was not easy for Madog to hand the shop over to anyone else, especially to someone about whom he knew so little. The Siop Llyfrau’r Tywysog had been his life for so long that he could hardly imagine any other, including the life of retirement he was about to embark on. Throughout those long years, on six days of every week, barring Christmas, New Year and short family holidays, he opened religiously at 9 o’clock in the morning. He chatted with delivery drivers, the postman, and customers, ate a sandwich for lunch at his desk, and sometimes even sold a few books. Once or twice a week, he took the contents of the till to the bank, barring a few pounds and some change for a float. When he closed the shop at 6 o’clock, he climbed the stairs to the flat above the shop, where he lived. When he looked back over those years, much of the time was a blur. There were special days which stood out. But there were also so many days, spent in the same way, of which he had no memory at all, which ran together and merged into each other without differentiation, like paints on a watercolour left out in the rain.

Nonetheless, he could boast of a life’s work well done. The shop was a modest enough establishment. The faded brown sign above the front window offered only the most basic information – the name of the Tywysog itself, Madog’s name as the proprietor, and a telephone number. But in an age of struggling independent book shops, the Tywysog was alive and well, and known far and wide, even to many outside Wales. Even after all those years, his spirit willed him to carry on. But he was getting older, and his arthritis was making it more difficult to get around, especially to climb the steep flight of stairs up to the flat. If Rhiannon had still been with him, he might have managed for longer, but she had been gone for almost ten years now. His daughter and son-in-law had more than enough space for him in their house in Cardigan, and they had been trying to persuade him to sell up and come to live with them there ever since Rhiannon had passed. He had resisted for as long as he could, but he had always known that, eventually, the time for resistance would end, and now it had.

The speed with which the sale went through came as a surprise, though, if he was honest, not a wholly welcome one; a stubborn part of him secretly hoped that the process of sale would drag on and allow him to linger for a little while longer. Still, the ease with which the sale was accomplished, and the absence of any haggling over the asking price, came as a relief and seemed to him to be some vindication of the work he had put into the shop over so many years.

When he first met Trevor Hughes, Madog was not sure whether he was the man the Tywysog needed. He certainly had the credentials. He had worked for many years at Foyles in London, and his knowledge of books and the book trade could, therefore, be taken for granted. He spoke Welsh, of course. That was essential. Welsh was the language of everyday discourse at the Tywysog. English was tolerated politely when spoken by tourists, and even when spoken by transplanted newcomers to Caernarfon; and with commendable broad-mindedness, the shop sold books in both languages. But Welsh was the heart and soul of the Tywysog, and Madog would never have sold the shop to anyone who was a non-speaker. Trevor’s Welsh was not the best or the most fluent Madog had ever heard, and he had a South Wales accent, which sometimes meant you had to concentrate on what he was saying if you were a native of the North. But you couldn’t blame him for that. His parents were from Cardiff and they had been moved away from Wales during the War, when his father worked for the Home Office. Trevor had spent most of his life in England and, given that history, his Welsh was by no means bad. After a few weeks, he would be speaking as though he had lived his whole life in Caernarfon. The locals would see to that.

All the same, Madog had a doubt at the back of his mind. It was a doubt which concerned, not Trevor’s ability to run a book shop, but his commitment to what the Tywysog stood for: its willingness to provide a platform for voices raised in support of controversial and uncomfortable causes, voices outside the political mainstream, even voices raised in support of the grail of independence. It was a commitment which had always been low key and understated and which mainly inhabited the shop’s basement. But it was real, and if that commitment left the Tywysog with Madog, there would be some who would not forgive him for selling to the wrong buyer. It was a doubt he could not raise with Trevor directly, and one he certainly could not raise with his agent, who was absurdly pleased with himself for landing a buyer who wanted to complete as soon as possible and who did not even need a loan to fund the purchase. Madog reassured himself with the thought that Trevor could not possibly be ignorant of what the Tywysog stood for. He was knowledgeable about the shop and he was obviously very keen to take it on. That would have to be a sufficient guarantee.

When it came to the painful procedure of moving out, Trevor put no pressure on Madog at all. He had travelled to Caernarfon a week before he was due to take possession, and had installed himself at the Black Boy Inn, just a couple of hundred yards along Stryd y Plas – Palace Street – from the Tywysog. He told Madog to take all the time he needed. He allowed Madog to give him his personal tour of the shop, even though he had seen all there was to see when the agent had showed it to him; and he listened attentively to Madog’s stories of the special days, days when Welsh politicians, writers, international rugby players, and celebrities such as Richard Burton, had visited him to buy a book, or simply to hear Welsh well spoken. He even offered to help with the packing, if needed, but Madog had his daughter to help him, and he preferred to keep that last intimacy within the family. When the day came, Madog took one last look, remembering the day when he had first entered the shop with Rhiannon, then turned his back and walked away.

5

After 5 o’clock on the afternoon when Madog left, when it was already dark and there were storm clouds moving in from the Menai Strait, Trevor Hughes walked unhurriedly along Stryd y Plas from the Black Boy Inn to the Siop Llyfrau’r Tywysog. He took his new set of keys from his coat pocket, the key ring still bearing the agent’s tag with the address written on it, opened the door of the shop, switched on the lights, then turned and locked the door. He looked around him. The shelves were still fully stocked, and the notice board by the door was still filled with notices advertising local events, from theatrical productions and concerts to readings of Welsh poetry and harp recitals. Others advertised Welsh lessons and rented accommodation. As promised, Madog had left his directory of phone numbers, suppliers, other book shops, publishers, and important customers. The space at the back of the shop for making tea was still fully equipped. But there was an emptiness, a profound silence, about the place, and he wished very much that it was already 9 o’clock the following morning, when there would be daylight and when the Tywysog would have people browsing and chatting again.

He began at the top, with the flat. As he had expected, there was no trace of Madog left, but there was a card with red roses on the front, in which someone, the daughter, he suspected – the hand was too young for Madog, and in any case did not match the phone directory – had written a warm message of welcome in Welsh. Standing beside it was a bottle of white wine. He put the card up on the mantelpiece in the living room, and the wine in the small fridge in the kitchen, a recent acquisition Madog had made at his daughter’s insistence and against his better judgment, he having lived without such a contraption for most of his life. The living room and bedroom were just about large enough for Trevor’s needs. The kitchen and bathroom were small, but functional. There was a very small storage area off the bedroom. Trevor had made no decision about how long he would occupy the flat. Nowhere near as long as Madog had: that was certain. It was a pleasant enough flat, and obviously convenient, but he would lose his mind eventually. He could not comprehend how the old man could have endured being cooped up in such a small place for so many years, with no home away from work. Inertia, perhaps? Being there so long that moving somehow seemed impossible? He would not fall into the same trap. But there was time enough to think about that.

Locking the door of the flat, he walked downstairs to the upper floor of the shop. This, according to Madog, was where the more serious books were kept. A large section was devoted to Welsh historical and literary works, with dictionaries, grammar books, and books about topics of cultural interest, such as national monuments, the National University of Wales, and Welsh music, including a history of the National Anthem. Another section contained poetry and novels in Welsh. But there was also a decent-size English section with English and American literary classics from Dickens to Scott Fitzgerald, and a smaller collection of philosophical works, translations of Plato and Aristotle, works by Locke, Hobbes and John Stuart Mill. In the middle of the room stood a large rectangular table and several chairs, where customers could sit and read a variety of Welsh and English periodicals.

On the ground floor was a wide variety of books of general interest, including travel books, biographies and autobiographies of well-known personalities, books about sports and hobbies, cooking and diets, and crime and espionage novels of every kind. Opposite the desk at the front of the shop was a selection of records featuring Welsh music, from traditional choirs to brass bands, operatic soloists to contemporary rock groups.

A door at the rear, which was kept locked, led down to the basement.

Madog had taken him down to the basement, but he had seemed reluctant to talk about it in any detail, almost as if he assumed that Trevor already knew what was to be found there. To some extent, in a general sense, he did. It was no secret that the Tywysog catered for those with nationalist views, including some at the extreme end of the spectrum. Trevor was aware that it was a favourite haunt of activists, some of whom had interests that went beyond conventional politics. So, somewhere, there had to be some books, periodicals and pamphlets which would be of interest to this kind of customer, the kind of stuff Madog presumably thought was better locked away in the basement – and certainly there had been no sign of any such materials on the two floors above. That made sense. You wouldn’t want to risk upsetting the more conventional customers, he reflected. It was rather like having a stash of pornography. You would keep it hidden away in a discreet place, to be revealed only on request.

Madog had whisked him around at such a speed that he had not been able to study the contents of the basement to confirm his assumptions. Now, he took his time, going slowly from bookcase to bookcase. The basement was less organised than the two above-ground floors. It had no signs to divide it into sections, or to provide a customer looking for something specific with a hint about where it might be found. Trevor speculated that those interested in the materials in the basement had to ask Madog to show them. In any case, there was no access to the basement unless Madog unlocked the door.

Two large bookcases held books and privately printed pamphlets about Welsh nationalism dating from the nineteenth century and going forward. Many were in a poor condition, some even bearing traces of mildew, and looked as though they had been stored in the slightly damp atmosphere of the basement for rather too long. In two more bookcases were treatises dealing with historical subjects. A number concerned the historic princes of Wales – fair enough, given the shop’s name, Trevor thought – and the princely houses of Gwynedd and Powys. There were biographies of Owain Glyndŵr, some professionally published, and others which might have been someone’s doctoral thesis, or papers published by a private society. Several volumes were diatribes against Edward I for his military invasion of Wales, his use of the castles at Caernarfon and elsewhere in North Wales as bastions of English power, and his blatant treachery in foisting his new-born infant son on the Welsh as their prince. A quick glance inside suggested that the authors’ opinion of the British monarchy since Edward I was not a great deal better than their opinion of the invader himself. A number railed against the Investiture of the future Edward VIII at Caernarfon Castle in 1911 as a further violation of the integrity of the Welsh nation.

A handsome wooden cabinet stood against the back wall of the basement. It had three drawers, all of which were locked. Trevor examined his key ring again. He had wondered what the smallest of the four keys he had been given was for but, despite reminding himself several times, he had somehow forgotten to ask either Madog or the agent. Now he knew. He opened the cabinet gingerly and began to sift through the contents. These contents did not exactly come as a surprise, but they were disturbing, nonetheless. The cabinet contained a number of military-issue technical documents for weapons, mostly high-velocity rifles and side-arms, but also one or two devoted to hand grenades. There were also some items, quite obviously not military-issue, privately and badly typed on cheap paper, which contained some very specific instructions for making your own explosive devices. They were mostly in English, although one or two were in German. He spent a few minutes flicking through them. Trevor was no expert on such things, but even to his eye the diagrams seemed crude and simplistic, the kind of thing which would be at least as dangerous to someone making or activating the device, as to anyone against whom the maker might try to use it. Yet there they were, in a cabinet in what was now his basement. He locked the cabinet before making his way back upstairs.

6

He did not actually see her come in. He was dealing with a telephone inquiry at the time, and he had turned his swivel-chair away from the door. But he noticed her as soon as he had replaced the receiver and turned back. She was scanning a small stand which featured books by local authors. She was tall, with long black hair, beginning to turn grey, though she did not look at all old enough for that to happen. She wore a blue blouse, an ankle-length black skirt, and a thick grey woollen shawl around her shoulders. She had picked up a book from the stand, and had turned in his direction; at which point he saw her soft blue eyes, and his mind stood still.