The Heirs of Owain Glyndwr

THE HEIRS OF OWAIN GLYNDÅ´R

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

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.'