Diary

Philip Horne

In October 1922 a young man called Freddy Bywaters lurked in the dark front garden of a corner house in Ilford. When his mistress and her husband came along, he emerged from the garden and, with or without premeditation, stabbed Percy Thompson 16 times. Thompson died, and so, after being sent for trial at the Old Bailey, did Bywaters and Mrs Thompson, at the end of a rope.

Last year my friend and colleague René Weis wrote a book about the Thompson-Bywaters case, a book whose title, Criminal Justice, sufficiently indicates his persuasive view that the trial was a miscarriage of justice and that Edith Thompson was innocent of the charge of conspiracy to murder – that she was unprepared for her lover’s rash act. René and I have been putting our hands to a screen treatment of the story. On a bright mild Saturday morning in January we drove East to Manor Park in order to go over the ground: to see where Edith Thompson lived before marrying; where Bywaters, eight years her junior, lived with his family; and where, in a roomy, now-yellowing public house, Bywaters had spent the evening with Mrs Thompson’s sister Avis before walking up to Ilford and bringing about three deaths.

Over a lunchtime drink in this pub, we found ourselves again puzzled by Bywaters’s motives and frame of mind. As a ‘writer’ and laundry steward on various steamships from the age of 15, he had presumably learned to look after himself among sailors in far-flung ports, in the real worlds of which Conrad and Kipling have left grimly romantic records, so that carrying a knife, and readily using it in a scrap, may just have been what all tough sailors do. Even so, we had a problem. The explanation that the twenty-year-old killer had knocked about where life was cheap didn’t quite bring his action into focus: our experience of fights, aggro, rumbles, of the serious desire to hurt people, was negligible.

In the afternoon we went to East Ham Station; to Percy Thomson’s family house; to rambling Wanstead Park, where on a fine Saturday morning at the end of September 1922 Mrs Thompson seems after quite a few adulterous encounters with Bywaters to have had her first orgasm in his embraces; and to the nearby house in Kensington Gardens, Ilford, where the Thompsons lived and Bywaters briefly lodged. At dusk we walked along the route from Ilford station towards Kensington Gardens, to the point where Bywaters emerged from the shadows and acted with such ferocity. We paced over the site on which the struggle had been played out; and stood by the garden wall where Percy Thompson had collapsed.

We then drove back to René’s flat in South London for an evening of work on the script, on the sequence of events leading up to the consummation of the love-affair. These scenes were tricky, the balance of effect crucial: it was nearly three before we sorted out a satisfactory way to do the sequence. René offered me a lift home. We emerged into the dark suburban street in a state of weariness, but with pleasure in the dynamics of the action as we had imagined it. René’s car was parked beyond the corner, some thirty yards from his door, and we strolled towards it, past a passerby who was opening the gate of a front garden.

As we reached the car I looked back. Going into a front garden implied entering a front door, and in the silent street that would have been audible. Silence, and René’s voice, were all I had heard. I mentioned that I thought whoever it was was still standing in the front garden of the house, and had not gone inside. The previous day René’s neighbours had been burgled for the third time.

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