Dickie (Feeney Family Sagas Book 4)

by Sheelagh Kelly

  Belle did not contradict her, though she had not meant to imply that she had forgotten her father, for she often thought about him; it was merely the date of his death that did not hold the same poignancy as it did for her mother. ‘I should have known … I’ll have to go and find her.’ The maid came in and was told to move the cat’s deposit. Belle waited for her to go, then asked, ‘Nan, do you think I’ve been neglectful of the children?’

  ‘I do.’ It was her aunt. After all these months of being afraid of Belle whose hand controlled her future, Dusty decided it was time to speak out. ‘And your mother’s right. You sit in judgement of us, but when it comes to your responsibilities it’s, “Oh, but that’s justified!” It’s justified to leave the children because it’s all in a good cause. Can’t you see how hypocritical you are? I’ve spent more time with those children this month than you have in three!’

  ‘Ah! So this is where it was leading.’ Belle nodded sourly. ‘All this, “I don’t mind, I enjoy being with the children” rubbish – it was just ammunition for your gun.’

  ‘No it damn-well wasn’t!’ Dusty was furious. ‘I genuinely love Freddie and his sisters, Belle.’

  Belle studied her indignant face, and acquiesced. ‘Yes, well … I know you do, otherwise I’d never have drawn up those contracts. But you can’t say that his prospects have improved in that sphere.’ She jabbed a thumb at Dickie.

  ‘You’re a fine one to talk! It’s you who’s been encouraging him to join in your activities – when would he find the time to show parental responsibility? I’m getting a bit sick of your dog in the manger attitude, Belle. It’s spiteful and cruel…’

  ‘Spiteful? What reason have I for spite?’

  Dusty held her eye. ‘You know that best. But I can vouch for the cruelty, not just to me and Dickie but the children. They don’t know where they stand. Either you want them or you don’t, and if you don’t here’s someone who does!’ Dusty stormed out, her husband following close behind.

  Belle tried to involve her grandmother in the argument, but Thomasin said she was feeling tired and so Belle left.

  When the door closed so, too, did Thomasin’s eyes, but she did not sleep. She thought of her sons who might soon be in prison, she thought of her daughter-in-law desperate for children, she thought of the baby she herself had lost forty years ago. And all these thoughts led to Patrick.

  15

  ‘Looking forward to your retirement, sir?’ Detective Sergeant George Palmer laid a newspaper on his superior’s desk; it was folded in such a manner as to display an article about a recent acquittal, one which had cost the force months of hard work. Both the article and the remark were intended to sting.

  Detective Chief Inspector Scholes Nettleton of the West Yorkshire Police raised penetrating eyes. It rankled with Nettleton that the sergeant couldn’t wait to get rid of him. He himself detested the thought of retirement, had turned down the chance to quit after twenty-five years’ service on a third pension, and had done the same after thirty years. Many of his colleagues had taken the opportunity to set themselves up as private investigators, but second-rate detective work was not for him. Alas, now he had reached the age of sixty there was no choice, he was classed as an old man, past his best, ready for the knacker. He studied the newspaper article with venom. ‘I’d’ve preferred to have had this one under my belt before I dear my desk out… all that bloody evidence. I felt sure we’d got him, George.’

  The sergeant placed a cup of tea on the desk and left the other to peruse the print. While he drank, Nettleton shook his grizzled head over the page. He was a whippet of a man with shrewd pale-blue eyes. His face had the purplish-red colouring of one with a heart complaint, and was deeply lined. At this moment, the lines around his mouth were especially pronounced, emphasising the disappointment he felt at leaving his post on such a note. Thirty-five years in the force, and to be outsmarted by a devious little tyke like that… One of his hands came up to pull distractedly at an ear that had been badly managled in a fight when he was a copper on the beat; most of the lobe had been ripped off by someone’s teeth. That same person’s teeth had left an imprint on his ankle before being smashed out by a truncheon. During his long career he had suffered an impressive collection of disfigurements, some of which had nearly killed him: a nine-inch scar near his groin, a small puncture mark under his left breast, a dent in his skull from a hammer which had left a legacy of headaches. He should be glad to be out of it – would have been, had this most recent villain been tucked away in Wakefield Gaol… sickening it was, sickening. And this heatwave didn’t help matters. Nettleton ran a finger round his collar, his upper lip and brow dappled with sweat.

  Once he had read the offending article, he tried to keep his eyes from it, turning the pages back to proper sequence. Taking another gulp of his tea, he set upon reading the rest of the paper, starting at the left-hand column and working his way across to the right, before turning onto the next page. Here were several crimes to interest him, some on which he had worked himself, others from the surrounding area. After shaking his head over grossly dramatised ‘facts’ of a murder, his eyes roamed on to read of the latest appearances at the York Summer Assizes. There were only two cases: one, a charge of murder; the other an insurance fraud. The Grand Jury had returned true bills against both. In the following column was a fuller account of the murder trial. The case of fraud would be heard tomorrow. Neither held any personal interest. After Nettleton had browsed idly through the passage he took another sip of tea and moved on to the next paragraph.

  However, something lured his sharp eyes back to the previous section – a name. Admittedly it was a very common name, but it provoked him into reading the article more thoroughly. Some minutes later, after racking his brain for yet another name, an excited Chief Inspector was giving his sergeant orders to seek out a file. The sergeant, on learning that the file in demand was more than twenty-five years old, put a young constable to work in the archives. Much later, an exhausted, dust-covered constable staggered from the record vaults and held aloft the desired file for the sergeant’s praise.

  ‘Took your time, didn’t you, SlaithwaiteP’

  The constable grimaced and stuck two fingers up at the sergeant’s back.

  ‘No, it’s three o’clock actually, constable.’ Without turning, Sergeant Palmer went into his superior’s office, leaving the constable to gawp. ‘And get smartened up, you look as if you’ve been down a cellar.’

  At his entry, Nettleton seized the aged file and studied it at length. That evening, when he dropped his belongings into a paper bag and said goodbye to his colleagues, he did not feel the anticipated depression. There was a pair of handcuffs in his pocket which should have been surrendered, but he still had use for them. Packing an overnight bag he took a train to York, in order to be bright and early for the next day’s sitting at the Assize Courts. And then just let them tell me I’m bloody past it, thought Nettleton delightedly.

  * * *

  ‘Court rise for the Lord Chief Justice, Lord Alverstone!’ Flanked by prison officers, Dickie stood as the judge entered the courtroom. He looked very respectable today, having thought it politic to return to mourning wear. At his sister’s dictum, he had visited the barber; the back of his neck was now visible above his white collar and his hair neatly groomed. He cast a glance at his fellow accused, then with casual eye examined the room: much of its lower half was panelled in oak, but overhead was an elaborately plastered dome supported by eight gilded columns. In front of Dickie was his solicitor, Sutcliffe, who was most fortunate not to have been called to the stand himself. The police had questioned him, but had been unable to produce anything untoward in his dealings with Feeney. It had been mutually agreed amongst the family, that nothing would be mentioned of Sonny’s visit to the solicitor in 1888; as far as the Court was concerned, until their recent acquaintance, neither he nor the family had seen Sutcliffe since the latter had read them the contents of the will. Thomasin felt uneasy at h
aving to lie, but if Sonny were to change his statement now it would be even more damning.

  In front of Sutcliffe was Defence Counsel, John Haig. Dickie’s heart had sunk on meeting the barrister for the first time – he didn’t look old enough to be tackling the school bullies, let alone these heavyweights representing the Crown. Dickie had remonstrated with Sutcliffe over not hiring a KC, but the solicitor had told him that the silk gown did not necessarily mean the Prosecution was any cleverer. ‘Don’t be misled by that freshness of face, Mr Haig is a very competent lawyer.’

  ‘Competent?’ Dickie had brayed. ‘Dammit, for the fee he’ll be charging I expect something more than a snot-nosed kid.’

  Thomasin and Sonny shared counsel, a man named Fox who had had many years of experience at the Bar. She hoped he lived up to his name.

  The Judge settled himself beneath the royal arms next to his Judge’s Clerk and the black-velveted High Sheriff of Yorkshire. On the front row of one of the three galleries that flanked the courtroom sat Belle with her mother, her two aunts and Francis. Nick had seen no point in coming – his presence would be of little help – and anyway, someone had to see the business didn’t collapse. Dickie had surprised Erin by forbidding his barrister to put his wife on the stand, so saving her distress.

  The atmosphere in Court was sultry and pervaded by sweat. Those bewigged suffered most, their faces pink and glistening. Occasionally a handkerchief would come out to mop quickly at a brow. Ladies’ fans wafted constantly, bringing the gallery alive with butterflies. The Clerk of Court was announcing the names of the Jury, while nearby a shorthand writer was scribbling on a pad. After much rigmarole, the case began. After the charges had been read out there were pleas of Not Guilty. The judge looked at Prosecuting Counsel and said, ‘Yes, Mr Lindley.’

  The barrister for the Crown rose and bowed to the judge. He was a stocky man with harsh lines to his face and a broken nose, sustained during his rugby-playing days. Belle had just decided he would look more at home in the dock, when he began to speak in beautiful English, his calm and precise manner holding everyone’s attention. ‘May it please Your Lordship, Members of the Jury. In this case I appear to prosecute with my learned friend Mr Bertrand Hilton. Mr Clive Fox appears for Thomasin and John Feeney, and Mr John Haig appears for Richard Feeney …’ He went on to explain what was expected of the jury, then outlined the facts of the charges.

  ‘The prisoners are charged with conspiracy to defraud the Yorkshire Insurance Company, that is, they concocted a plan to fictionalise Richard Feeney’s death in order to benefit from his life assurance policy …’ He spent a further period giving details of the alleged crime, saying that on the date in question it had been presumed that three people were in the burning house: two small children and their mother, Margaret Feeney, and that one of the prisoners, Richard Feeney, went into the blaze to try and save them. The children were rescued and Richard Feeney went back into the house for Margaret Feeney who was purported to be unconscious. Shortly after he had entered the house there was an eruption of flame and the roof collapsed, supposedly trapping Richard Feeney inside. In addition to the reimbursement for her house and contents, a sum of eight hundred pounds was later paid by the Yorkshire Insurance Company to Thomasin Feeney, who had taken out a policy on her son’s life.

  ‘We now know that Richard Feeney did not die in that fire; he stands before you in the dock along with his co-accused. For the past twenty-six years he has been living in the United States of America …’

  The Court heard technical details of the fire. A gaspipe had ruptured due to the intense heat and the ensuing explosion scattered evidence of how the fire might have originated, but as the main body of destruction was in the hall, underneath the staircase, this suggested that a small fire must have smouldered for some time in the area of an understairs cupboard where the main gaspipe was situated. The fire assessors had found no evidence of a combustion agent in the debris and it was not the Crown’s suggestion that the fire was started deliberately; the charge related solely to the falsification of Richard Feeney’s death.

  What no one in that courtroom would ever know was that a three year old child was responsible for her father, uncle and grandmother being in the dock today. Rosanna, an inquisitive and extrovert child left to an afternoon of boredom, had played ‘houses’ with her brother Nick in the cupboard under the stairs. A real house needed a fire. Rosanna had provided one with the box of matches so carelessly left within her reach. The resulting flames had scared them. Shutting the cupboard door they had run upstairs, hoping that the fire would go away. But instead it had almost killed them. Mercifully, the incident had been blotted from their infant memories. Right up to her own death, Rosanna had been ignorant that she was responsible for the death of her mother.

  The Court then heard statements made to police by the three prisoners. Among those giving evidence was Peter Rufforth, whose occupation was given as ‘Life Inspector for the Yorkshire Insurance Company’. He had obviously gained a further promotion since the last time Thomasin had spoken to him. She glared at him now – you little Judas, coming into my house, accepting my hospitality then betraying me to further your own career. For a brief moment, Rufforth met her antagonistic eyes and looked away shamefully. Thomasin felt sorry at once. The lad was only doing what she herself would have done. Good luck to him if he got his promotion. In the eyes of the insurance company she was a criminal. She was just going to have to prove them wrong.

  Rufforth told the Prosecution of his connection with Thomasin Feeney, that he had been visiting her house for twenty-six years in order to collect the premiums on her insurance policies, and how he had been introduced to Richard Feeney on one of these visits.

  ‘And what was it about Richard Feeney that provoked your investigation?’ asked Lindley.

  ‘Mrs Feeney introduced him as her nephew, sir.’

  ‘Why did that make you suspicious?’

  ‘Not that in itself – he could have been her nephew as far as I knew – it was the sudden change in her behaviour when he entered the room.’ Rufforth was asked to elaborate. ‘She grew very agitated when she was halfway through introducing him to me. She started to say, “This is my …” then stopped and went all white as though with shock. After she recovered she resumed the introduction and said, “This is my nephew,” but it seemed to me as if she had meant to say, “This is …”’

  ‘Objection, M’Lud!’ Thomasin’s defence lawyer, Fox, ejected himself from his chair.

  ‘Sustained.’ The Judge turned to address Rufforth. ‘Witness must confine himself to the facts. You cannot speculate as to what was on the mind of the accused.’

  Rufforth was chastened. ‘Sorry, My Lord.’

  He was then asked by the Prosecution what occurred after he had been introduced to the man, and then what had led him to the conclusion that this was Richard Feeney on whose supposed death Thomasin Feeney had received compensation. ‘On my way out, I mentioned Mrs Feeney’s nephew to the maid. She looked confused at first, then she said, “Oh, you mean Mr Richard.” Up until that point I had only known the man as Mr Feeney. I just had the feeling that something was amiss. You get a nose for such things after years of experience. Going through old files I discovered that Mrs Feeney’s son had been called Richard, too. On my next visit to the house I looked to see if there were any photographs of Richard Feeney, but there didn’t seem to be. So I visited several houses in Monkgate where the Feeneys had previously lived, hoping to speak to anyone who might have known Richard Feeney and could give me a description. I was given a very good description by one of the residents and it matched that of the accused – oh, allowing for age of course.’

  ‘Quite,’ said Lindley. ‘Thank you, Mr Rufforth.’

  When the Prosecution had finished it was the turn of the defending barristers to cross-examine. Fox stood briefly, ‘No questions, My Lord.’

  Dickie’s barrister echoed him. This response was repeated with the next of the prosecution wi
tnesses, a woman from Monkgate who testified as to Dickie’s identity. Dickie leaned forward and hissed at his solicitor, ‘Christ, what’s the silly little twat playing at? All that money he’s charging – give him a poke an’ tell him to get some questions asked.’

  Sutcliffe found his client’s use of improper language offensive at the best of times, but even more so upon this hallowed ground. ‘For pity’s sake, be quiet!’

  But Dickie was not alone in wondering when the barristers were going to start earning their money; his mother was growing increasingly nerve-racked by their tactics. The Judge, too, seemed taken aback at the lack of questioning and, after the prosecution had finished with the current witness, he asked, ‘Are you certain you do not wish to cross-examine, Mr Haig?’

  Haig stood and said pleasantly, ‘My Lord, it appears from my learned friend’s examination of the witnesses that it is the Crown’s intention simply to prove that one of the accused is Richard William Feeney and by that definition he must be guilty. May I put it to the Court that the identity of my client is not in dispute. Therefore I see no need to waste the Court’s valuable time by cross-examining this witness.’ ‘Bloody hell,’ grumbled Dickie. ‘We might as well’ve saved some money an’ only had the one lawyer, the amount mine’s doing.’

  Thomasin looked hopefully at her own Counsel but he, too, declined to cross-examine. It was most unnerving. The next witness for the Crown was called to the stand: Dr William Sayner, the pathologist responsible for the autopsies on the two bodies retrieved from the fire. He was an elderly man, but of upright appearance, wearing a black frockcoat and winged collar.

  Lindley asked, ‘Doctor Sayner, can you tell the Court exactly what your examinations revealed?’

  The doctor’s steady gaze bespoke authority. ‘I am afraid I could not recall the case from memory, but I do have the official notes here. Shall I read the findings?’ Sayner looked at the Judge and was told, ‘Please do.’