Dickie (Feeney Family Sagas Book 4)

by Sheelagh Kelly

  Abigail donned a face of woe. ‘I recall it very vividly. They were all there together in their grief. Poor Mr John, he was heartbroken.’

  ‘Over his wife?’

  ‘Well, yes, he must’ve been upset about her. Even if she did cause him a lot of pain it’s no way to go, is it? But he was very upset about his brother too. He kept going on about how he couldn’t believe he wouldn’t see Mr Richard again.’

  After a few more enquiries, Fox smiled. ‘Thank you, Mrs Pfeffer, for coming all this way. Your evidence has been most useful.’

  No brow-beating from Lindley could elicit the slightest hint that Sonny had known his wife had had a man in the house. ‘Mr John is a good, kind man,’ Abigail told the barrister in no uncertain terms. ‘You have no idea what he had to put up with from that wife of his – most men would never have stood it – but he never showed any malice towards her and I won’t have you insinuating that he did.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Pfeffer,’ said the Judge, po-faced. ‘Now that you have put our learned friend in his place you may step down.’

  ‘Oh… I’m ever so sorry…’ Abigail looked flustered, but nevertheless cast an impudent smile at her former mistress as she left the witness box. All that remained now was for Counsel to sum up.

  Fox had the disadvantage of being first to lay out his case. He stood and appraised the jurors with dark compassionate eyes. ‘Gendemen of the Jury, you have listened to all the evidence for the Prosecution and now you will hear my final word in defence of Thomasin and John Feeney – for which you will not require half so much patience: the facts being very simple I shall therefore be brief. My clients are accused of conspiring to defraud the Yorkshire Insurance Company – that is the basis of this case; you have been sidetracked by various other suppositions, but the only relevant fact among them is the question of conspiracy. So, we have to ask ourselves for what gain Thomasin Feeney – an extremely wealthy woman – would have sanctioned the deception? There was not the slightest need for her to resort to such drastic methods for a sum of money that would seem insignificant beside the amount which she has already donated to charity.

  ‘Apart from the accusation of financial gain, the Prosecution would have you believe that Thomasin Feeney took part in the conspiracy in order that her son would appear a hero and therefore redress the harm he had done to her public standing, and also to cover up his emigration to America. I ask you, why should she bother to do this? Had she wanted to be rid of him to America could she not have, far more easily, given him a sum of money to persuade him to go? Did she detest him that much? No! On the contrary, despite the hurt his previously boyish behaviour had caused her she did not hate him at all. Throughout the evidence one particular word has cropped up several times – the word love. Despite their petty conflicts, the Feeneys are a very close, loving family – their loyal servant of fifteen years has testified to this. In spite of the hurt that Richard Feeney brought them with his supposed death, they still love him and welcomed him back …’

  ‘Did we indeed,’ growled Erin. She examined each juror’s face as the defence lawyer spent several more minutes emoting his case.

  ‘ … We have heard from diverse witnesses the magnitude of the family’s grief when they thought he had died in that fire. Mrs Feeney’s doctor has testified that not only did he have to sedate her on the evening of the fire, but had to continue that treatment for many weeks, so acute was her distress.’ Fox lyricised of the magnificent work done for the city by Thomasin in saving historical monuments which might otherwise have been destroyed, her numerous acts of charity. ‘The Prosecution has shown not one tittle of evidence to prove that here was a conspiracy between my clients and Richard Feeney.

  ‘Gentlemen of the Jury, I trust that your implicit good sense will triumph over the absurdity of this charge. There can only be one possible verdict, and that is – not guilty.’

  Dickie’s barrister stood before the Jury and began his case, scarcely moving from that spot during the entire time he spoke. It had not always been so. When first called to the Bar he had displayed many a grand manner, marching up and down, flourishing his hands to compound a point. Only after he had lost several cases had he learned that this style could jeopardise all the reasoned argument that had gone before. ‘You want the Jury to listen to what you have to say,’ an old hand had instructed him. ‘Direct all your energy into your voice. Stand still!’

  This was difficult for one who used his hands so much, but Haig wound his thumbs into his stuff gown and set upon his task of convincing the Jury of Dick’s innocence, repeating much of the evidence cited by Fox, not only the technical details, but the emotional ones. After orating with gusto for some minutes, he stared at each man in turn, dropped the pitch of his voice and said gently, ‘Members of the Jury, I am about to repeat a dirty word used by my learned friend, Mr Fox. I make no apology for it and the more sensitive amongst you may wish to cover their ears. That word is love. Yes! To the Prosecuting Counsel with his talk about money, fraud and adultery the word love does seem to have been treated with contempt. And yet Richard Feeney himself knows what that word means. For the sake of the mother he loves, he has actually admitted under oath that he did fake his death – but that decision was made on the spur of the moment and only then done out of the same love and respect for his family. He was in total ignorance of the insurance policy taken out by his mother on his life, he had never had any dealings with insurance himself. I beg you to remember that, in effect, you are not trying the mature man who stands before you, but a mere youth of twenty-one, afraid and ashamed. All he saw was a way to right the wrongs he had inflicted on his mother. This Court has heard his own valiant defence of her. He did not grasp the opportunity to speak for himself – as one might expect from the immoral ne’er-do-well that some have made him out to be – but pleaded for his mother.

  ‘Once again, I ask you to remember that the prime consideration in this case is that of monetary gain. How, then, could Richard Feeney gain by faking his death when several months earlier he had made out a will that disposed of all his assets? He could not. He could only lose – lose everything save his self-respect. And now, twenty-six years after the self-sacrificial act, he has been put on trial upon the flimsiest of evidence, has risked his life to rescue two small children only to hear himself branded as callous for failing in his attempts to rescue the adulterer of his brother’s wife! I ask you this, if Richard Feeney had thought himself to be guilty of any crime would he have come back to England? Would it not be the first act of a guilty man to assume an alias? And once the finger of accusation had been pointed could he not, being now an American citizen, have escaped all this by returning to America at the first intimation of danger, putting this Court to a great deal of inconvenience to have him extradited?’

  Haig’s dramatic crescendo plunged to little more than a whisper. ‘But he did not. He acted responsibly, and in the confidence that he was totally innocent, remained in England to answer all charges. He did this also because he does not wish to be separated from his family. I trust, Members of the Jury, that you will permit mother and son to retrieve these lost, lonely years by finding my client not guilty.’ He continued to gaze at the rapt faces for some seconds, before appending in grave murmur, ‘Thank you, M’Lord,’ and sitting down.

  Lindley rose. ‘Gentlemen of the Jury, after listening to my learned friends’ most eloquent speeches, you may be forgiven for thinking that we are dealing not with a crime, but an act of love. You have heard Richard Feeney’s claim that his faked death was done out of a sense of remorse for the wrongs he had inflicted on his family, and you may like to believe this most touching concept. However, you must not allow any sentimentality to override certain important facts.’ He counted these off on his fingers. ‘Thomasin Feeney did lie to the insurance representative about her son, claiming him to be her nephew. She continued to lie when questioned by the police, as did John Feeney. Only when a witness had identified Richard Feeney did both chan
ge their declarations.

  ‘John Feeney was aware that his wife had a man friend and has admitted that he intended to divorce her. Had he not wished to put himself through the sordid process of divorce then the fire would have provided admirable camouflage. We have heard that the two Feeney brothers were very close. Indeed, Counsel for the Defence says it is preposterous to think that anyone so close could gain from the fire in question. I would dispute this view. Indeed, both brothers stood to benefit from the fictionalisation of Richard Feeney’s death – John for the reasons I have just stated; Richard, because he had suffered financial and personal damage by the closure of his “lodging house”.’ The latter was said with great affectation.

  ‘And what of Thomasin Feeney? How might she benefit, you may ask, from a fire which destroyed her home and killed her daughter-in-law? I can think of two ways she might benefit: the first is similar in reason to that of her son John, namely that if it were assumed her elder son had died in that fire then no questions would be raised as to the identity of the second body and therefore a scandal would be avoided; secondly, her son Richard had brought her nothing but pain and embarrassment. If he were to appear to die a hero he would not only redress the balance but his emigration to America would rid her of his constant humiliations – have we not heard that he had been banished from the family home for his actions? The report from the eminent pathologist who testified as to the similarity between Richard Feeney and the dead man adds even more weight to the charge: when Richard saw that man unconscious, saw how similar in build he was to himself, he made no effort to rescue him, but left him there to die, knowing that the body would be assumed to be his.

  ‘What you must decide is, did he share this information with Thomasin and John Feeney, either on that day or shortly afterwards? Is it possible to believe that this man – who professes to love his family so much – would have allowed them to continue to think that he had died in that fire, or would he somehow let them know he was alive? And then there is the Will …’ He reiterated the inconsistencies of this. ‘But the two indisputable facts of this case are that Thomasin Feeney accepted eight hundred pounds to which she was not entitled, and Richard Feeney did not die in that fire. I submit, Members of the Jury, that there can be no other verdict than guilty.’ Lindley flicked out his robe and sat down.

  Lord Alverstone laced his fingers and leaned forwards. ‘Members of the Jury, you have heard all the evidence for and against the accused. What it is now your duty to do is weigh all that evidence carefully and decide whether or not there was a conspiracy to defraud …’

  Dusty hugged herself nervously, urging him to get on with it. Lindley had done enough to counteract the good impression of the Defence’s speeches without this silly old fool adding to that. She looked at each juror’s face, trying to guess what lay behind those eyes.

  The Judge droned on for a good many minutes, before coming to his close. ‘… Members of the Jury, I will leave you to consider your verdict.’

  * * *

  The Jury was out for thirty minutes, during which time Erin twittered and twitched until Dusty thought she might throttle her. She herself began to count the plaster marigolds on the frieze that encircled the dome. It was still oppressively close. Her underclothes were sticking to her back. She kept losing count of the marigolds and went back to the beginning – then suddenly the Jury was filing back in and Court reconvened.

  The Foreman was asked to stand. ‘Have you reached a verdict on which you are all agreed?’

  ‘We have.’ All in the gallery tensed and leaned forward.

  ‘On the charge of conspiring to defraud the Yorkshire Insurance Company, how do you find the accused John Patrick Feeney?’

  Thomasin swallowed. Oh please, please …

  ‘Not guilty.’

  A great ‘Oh!’ of relief went up from the gallery and Erin hugged Belle. Thomasin chanced a tremulous smile but still held her breath for the verdict on herself.

  ‘… how do you find the accused Thomasin Feeney?’

  Thomasin bit her lip.

  ‘Not guilty.’

  Once again, there was a brief but enthusiastic surge of relief from the gallery. But there was soon hush.

  ‘… how do you find the accused Richard William Feeney?’

  To Dickie and his tortured wife there seemed to be a longer pause than with the others …

  ‘Not guilty.’

  Thomasin was so surprised she could not stop a little exclamation. The gallery erupted, people started to pour from their seats. Dusty threw her arms around Josie, while Erin shook her head. ‘Christ, he’s got the luck o’ the devil that boy.’ The Judge banged sharply on his gavel attempting to bring order while before him Thomasin and her two sons hugged and congratulated each other, Thomasin in tears of joy. There was no lessening of high spirits when the Judge declined to award them costs, nor did they even notice his departure from the courtroom, far too euphoric at the verdict.

  After kissing and embracing Thomasin, Sonny pumped his brother’s hand. Dickie hauled him into a bearhug, face oozing mischief, ‘How did I do, Son? Bloody great, wasn’t I? They’ll have me on the bill at the Theatre Royal next week.’ His brother clipped him round the ear and told him not to push his luck. Then, Dickie spotted Rufforth who had come back to the Court to hear the outcome.

  ‘Hey, d’you think Mr Rufforth would be upset if I told him I want to take out an insurance policy?’

  ‘For God’s sake, let’s get this man out of Court, before he has us hanged!’ Sonny shoved his brother forwards.

  ‘We’ll stop at the off-licence for a celebratory bottle,’ laughed Dickie and leaned over to deliver a hefty pat to Haig’s shoulder.

  After saluting her own barrister, Thomasin paid homage to the younger man and told him she could not thank him enough for defending her son so ably. Sonny, too, performed strenuous handshakes with both lawyers.

  ‘Don’t overdo it,’ urged Dickie as they moved in a huddle to the exit. ‘It was my performance that got us off.’

  His mother gave a sound of exasperation. ‘Whatever you do, don’t say anything like that in front of Erin.’ She was smiling at her daughter who was fighting her way from the gallery, but her tone was stern. ‘You might’ve escaped a prison sentence but your sister’s capable of much worse. I want a peaceful house from now on.’

  Dickie smiled up at his sister too. ‘Don’t worry, Mam. I’ll buy us a bottle of champagne that’ll sweeten her up – oh, damn! I left all me money at home …’

  ‘Any excuse,’ sighed his brother, but smiled happily.

  ‘No, honest I have! I thought I was going down for a few years, I wasn’t going to fetch money for some gaoler to pinch. Can you buy it, Son? I’ll pay ye back when …’

  ‘Never mind!’ Sonny laughed and urged him on to the entrance hall. Here they met up with the rest of the family and surged out through the double doors to the sun-warmed portico where they spent some further time kissing and chattering.

  ‘Now for that holiday!’ Sonny curled his arms round his fleshy wife.

  There had been little celebration for Thomasin’s recent birthday, nor Erin’s, nor Belle’s, but now there could be.

  ‘Remember your promise, Dickie!’ said his overjoyed mother. ‘You’re here to stay now.’

  Dickie fell against an Ionic column and uttered a laughing groan. ‘Oh, Dusty … can we bear it d’ye think?’ Then he lifted her off her feet again and squeezed her. His wife made a grab for her black straw hat which threatened to become dislodged, her face wearing the same joyous expression as the others. Dickie threw back his head and laughed again. ‘Christ, the amount o’ times he was waving that will around an’ never once caught on! The sucker.’

  ‘Mr Feeney.’

  All heads turned in expectation of more good wishes. ‘Richard William Feeney?’ asked the short, dour-faced individual.

  Dickie set his wife back on her feet and answered with caution. ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m arre
sting you for the murders of Victoria Hughes and …’

  Dickie grabbed his brother and hurled him at the man, the collision knocking both off their feet. With his wife and mother’s cries echoing in his ears he sped away.

  17

  ‘What’re you doing coming in the back way?’ Sally shouted to Belle from her position at the sink where she was rinsing a pair of child’s knickers. ‘You must… oh!’ A soapy hand left bubbles on the breast of her pinafore as Dickie came around the door. ‘Mr Feeney, you did give me a start! I thought it was Belle back from Court.’

  ‘Wasn’t sure who’d be here so I snuck in the back!’ Dickie, still breathing heavily, closed the door and leaned on it. Hearing his name mentioned, the children had come to crowd around him, Freddie asking, ‘Where’s me mother? Are we going to America yet?’

  Dickie ignored him and, regaining his wind, moved on to the inner room and threw his hat on the table, raking agitated fingers through his hair. Sally followed. ‘How did the case go, sir?’

  ‘They found us not guilty.’

  Sally beamed and wiped her hands with the towel she carried. ‘Oh, I’m so glad! Belle must be relieved – where is she, then?’

  ‘Probably gone for a celebration at Peasholme. I had to leave rather abruptly.’

  She frowned. ‘Has there been some trouble?’

  He answered with a request. ‘Look, can I ask ye to do something for me, Sally? If anyone comes knockin’ at the door will ye say ye haven’t seen me?’

  ‘Oh, Lord … just anyone, sir?’

  ‘Anyone, especially the p-o-l-i-c-e.’

  Freddie was reciting the letters thoughtfully. ‘Is a policeman chasing you?’

  Dickie scowled and addressed himself to Sally. ‘He’s a very sharp lad, isn’t he? He’ll have to be careful his tongue doesn’t slip and cut his throat.’ Bending down, he said to Fred sternly, ‘You’re not to say anything about me bein’ here, right? Any of ye. Otherwise I might get put into prison.’ Faith started to howl. ‘Oh, my big gob – I didn’t mean it, honey!’ He pulled out his handkerchief. ‘Don’t you worry now. They’ll never catch me. We’ll soon be on our way to America, the five of us.’ Fred elbowed his sister out of the way to ask if his father knew what a bastion was. The man looked down at him, muttering, ‘It’s a little boy who asks silly questions when his father’s up to his neck in it.’