Frankie's Manor

by Frankie's Manor (retail) (epub)

  The climax to the whole sordid affair came when a major newspaper offered a substantial reward for information leading to the conviction of Frank Buchannon.

  They began to crawl out of the woodwork.

  * * *

  ‘Is Papa coming home with you today, Mamma?’

  Rose was seated at her dressing table, getting ready for her journey to the Old Bailey for the fifth day of the trial, when the heartfelt plea came from the pretty, copper-haired girl who had crept unnoticed into the bedroom with her little brother. Rose laid down her gilt hairbrush and faced her children. What she saw brought fresh waves of anguish to her already heavy heart. Ever since the night when Frankie hadn’t come home, the children had been unnaturally quiet. They didn’t play any more, or argue or laugh, they simply existed from one day to the next, waiting for their father to return. The only time they spoke was to ask when he was coming home, when she was going to fetch him. Rose held out her arms, and little Ben immediately ran into them, laying his dark head in her lap, but Vicky remained at arm’s length. As she stroked Ben’s soft curls, Rose said softly, ‘We’ve been over this before, Vicky, darling. I can’t bring him home, not until… well, not until I’m allowed to. You know that. Now be a good girl and—’

  Tears of blind frustration welled up in the child’s eyes. ‘If you were in prison, he would get you out. He wouldn’t let you stay there. My papa’s not afraid of anyone. He’d just go into the prison and get you out. He would! He would! He wouldn’t let anyone hurt you, or me and Ben, or Auntie Mary. He’d rescue us. Even if there was hundreds of policemen keeping us prisoners, he would fight them all and bring us home. Why don’t you do something, mamma? Please. I want my papa to come home. I want my papa.’

  The tearful plea, coupled with the fierce accusation, was too much for Rose. Again, she put out her hand in mute appeal, but the wilful child, her daughter, flounced away.

  Rose let her hand fall back helplessly to Ben’s head as her daughter ran sobbing from the room. It had always been this way between them, and in the midst of her own fear and grief, Rose pondered on the vicissitudes of life. Vicky was of her own flesh, yet she was Frankie’s daughter and always had been. Her first smile had been for Frankie, her first tottering step had been towards Frankie’s open arms. Her first word had been Papa. Her child loved the man she knew as her father with a passion that bordered on worship. And while she loved her mother too, it was her father who made the world turn for her, and her days bright. When Frankie walked into a room, Vicky lit up with love, overshadowing her little brother and often stealing his share of their father’s attention. Rose had often wondered if Frankie, in his efforts to accept Vicky as his own, had somehow overcompensated in his endeavours. Poor little Ben had frequently been pushed aside by his exuberant, strong-willed sister, although it had to be said that Frankie had never shown any marked favouritism for her.

  Cuddling the small body of her weeping son, Rose stared vacantly over his dark head. What was she going to do if Frankie was convicted? She desperately needed to talk about her fears, but there was no one she could turn to. Mary stoutly refused even to consider the possibility that her Frankie would be found guilty of murder, especially of a worthless trollop like Sally Higgins. Rose had had to endure countless hours of Mary’s ranting against the unfortunate murdered woman, her aunt laying the blame for all their current misfortunes squarely at Sally’s door. And Rose herself had come in for condemnation. Her aunt hadn’t actually blamed Rose for Frankie’s imprisonment, but Rose knew that Mary thought that if she hadn’t given in to Sally’s blackmail, he would still be at home with his family.

  She blinked back tears. Maybe her aunt was right.

  Maybe it was all her fault. She had tried to stop him from going after Sally, that night, but even if she had succeeded Rose knew he would have gone another time. There was no way he would have let the matter rest, not Frank. Once he made up his mind to do something, nothing and no one could change it.

  This was all her fault. If she hadn’t become pregnant, if she hadn’t asked Rita to find someone to abort her child… if… if… if…

  Ben stirred in her lap, jerking Rose out of her self-recriminations. Gathering her son into her arms she laid her cheek against his. There was no point in going over and over the whole sorry business. It had happened. Frankie had killed Sally. He had admitted it, but only to his wife. He hadn’t intended to, he said, he had only meant to give her a scare but it had all gone horribly wrong. To everyone else concerned, Frankie and his men maintained their innocence. They were sticking to their not-guilty plea. As Frankie said, if the law wanted to pin a murder charge on him they would have to prove it. He wasn’t going to make it easy for them.

  Rose had been surprised to find she felt no repugnance for what her husband had done. Maybe, she told herself, it was because she had experienced the same murderous urge the night Sally had threatened to tell Jack about Vicky. Oh, yes, she had. How could she condemn Frankie for what he had done in a moment of madness? In different circumstances it might have been her on trial.

  ‘Mamma, when’s Papa coming home?’

  Rose pulled her son gently around on her lap so that he was facing her, then, gazing down into the dark eyes filled with shimmering tears, she said softly, ‘It’ll be all right, darling, it’ll be all right.’

  As more tears threatened to fall, Rose swept the fretful child into her arms and went in search of Mary.

  * * *

  Two hours later Rose and Mary were sitting side by side in the gallery of the Old Bailey, avoiding curious stares by keeping their eyes firmly on the well-dressed man in the dock. The two women were surrounded on all sides by stony-faced men in suits, their one aim to keep reporters and members of the public from harassing the governor’s family.

  New witnesses were brought in, each with an eager tale to tell in the hope that their testimony would be the vital key to convicting Frankie Buchannon, and that they would earn the newspaper’s substantial reward. But even the lure of the hundred pounds on offer wasn’t enough to stifle the fear that Frankie Buchannon was still able to instil. One glance at the public gallery was enough to show that the man in the dock had a formidable army to carry out his bidding. Yet still they came, pitiful wretches, spinning out tales of grievance nurtured for years, each one nervously avoiding eye contact with the man who stood accused of murder.

  The prosecution made much of these witnesses, encouraging them to make the prisoner’s violent character known to the court. It was a cleverly staged manipulation of these uneducated wretches, as the learned gentleman egged them on in his blatant assassination of Frankie’s character. Then the defence counsel would take the floor, contemptuously taking these witnesses’ testimonies apart with his clever tongue and eloquent wit. Other men in the past had been found guilty and hanged on much less evidence than that against Frankie Buchannon, but none had had Sir Timothy Rhys-Jones as their counsel. A man of whom it was said that he ‘could get Judas off’.

  Rose let all their words wash over her. She simply didn’t listen as the court was regaled with lurid tales of violence, blackmail and extortion by witnesses and the prosecution. It was as if some part of her brain had shut down protectively whenever an accusation was levelled against the man in the dock. Her mind repeated what Frankie had told her of that night. He had meant only to frighten Sally, not to kill her. It had been an accident, that was all. Yet even as his name was dragged deeper and deeper into the mud, the prosecution could still find no new link or motive to tie him to Sally Higgins’s murder, without which the case was surely doomed to flounder. For, as the defence argued daily, the accused wasn’t on trial for his past misdemeanours. Indeed, the barrister extolled his virtues, pointing out the good he had achieved over the intervening years.

  When the court adjourned for lunch Rose was allowed to visit her husband in the holding cell. Leaving her aunt in the protection of his men, she followed a police officer through a maze of gloomy corridors to a row of
cells in the basement.

  Frankie was standing by a barred window, a desolate look in his dark eyes as he gazed on to the world he was denied. He turned as the door opened, the look vanishing at the sight of his beloved wife. ‘Hello, Princess.’

  The presence of the guard prevented Rose from throwing herself into his arms, so instead she replied softly, ‘Hello, darling,’ as she sat down at the small wooden table in the centre of the cramped cell. Then, her composure crumbling, she cried, ‘Oh, Frank. Frank!’

  Immediately he was sitting opposite her, his strong hands clasping hers tightly. ‘Give over, Princess,’ he chided her. ‘You know what we agreed. No tears and no giving up. It’ll be all right, you’ll see.’ The optimism in his voice brought a wavering smile to Rose’s lips and he grinned. ‘That’s better. Now, then, how’s the kids? They bearing up all right? No one’s giving you or Mary any grief, are they? ’Cos if they are, you just—’

  A strained laugh escaped Rose. ‘No. No one’s getting at us. They wouldn’t dare. The reporters are a pest, but the boys keep them at bay.’ As she spoke, Rose realised that boys was an odd word to describe the thug-like men who guarded her. Yet it was how Frank had always referred to them, and she felt that if she questioned his term it would diminish him somehow. Patting at her eyes with a lace-edged handkerchief, Rose gave herself a mental shake. It was hard enough for him to be in here without her adding to his worries. Trying to keep her tone even, she told Frankie about Vicky’s earlier outburst. She ended, ‘Honestly, if she was a bit older, I swear she’d order the boys to come and break you out of here, and she’d be right up the front leading them.’

  Frankie’s whole face lit up. ‘They’d follow her an’ all.’ He chuckled. ‘She’s a chip off the old block, ain’t she, Rosie?’

  Sadness came into Rose’s eyes, and when she spoke there was a trace of censure in her voice. ‘Ben’s missing you too, Frank. I hear him crying at night and he’s started to wet the bed again. He’s suffering too. He – he loves you so much. They both do, Frank, and it breaks my heart to see their little faces every time I leave them to come here. The minute I get back, they both rush to meet me waiting to hear when you’ll be corning home. I – I don’t know what to say any more, Frank. I don’t know what to tell them…’

  With a gentleness born of love, Frankie tilted Rose’s chin up until he was staring into her eyes. His gaze intense, he said urgently, ‘Just tell them to hang on a while longer. That’s all you’ve gotta say, Princess. Just to hang on a while longer.’

  The guard by the cell door cleared his throat reluctantly. ‘Sorry, Frankie, time’s up.’

  ‘But I’ve only been here five minutes,’ Rose wailed.

  ‘Sorry, Mrs Buchannon. You’ll have to go, it’s the rules.’

  Frankie stood up and pulled Rose to her feet. ‘It’s all right, Princess,’ he said, as cheerful and optimistic as he always was with her. ‘Look, don’t hang around here all day, Rosie, it ain’t worth it. You get off back to the kids and give them a hug from me.’ He stroked her cheek lovingly, wishing he could take her into his arms, but it wasn’t allowed. And though he himself didn’t give a fig for rules and regulations, he didn’t want Rose to suffer the indignity of being wrenched away from him.

  ‘I’d rather stay, Frank. I mean, you never know what…’ Rose’s voice trailed off weakly under his understanding gaze.

  ‘Yeah, I know, Princess… I know.’

  When the guard showed Rose out of the cell, Frankie called after her, ‘Give the kids my love, won’t you, Princess? And tell Ben I haven’t forgotten about our trip to the zoo when Vicky’s at school. Just the two of us. Tell him that from me, Princess.’

  Rose lowered her head in shame at the love shining in Frankie’s eyes as he spoke of his son. How could she have ever doubted it?

  Mary was waiting in the visitors’ area. ‘How is he, Rose? How’s my Frankie?’ Lumbering to her feet, Mary waited anxiously for Rose to join her, her cheeks wobbling in agitation.

  ‘He’s fine, Auntie. You know Frank, nothing gets him down.’ Rose tried to smile and failed dismally.

  It was getting harder and harder to keep up the pretence of normality on which he insisted. The only way she could cope was to take one day at a time and, above all, not to dwell on the outcome of the trial – not to think the unthinkable.

  Rose led her aunt out of the grim building and across the road to the small tea-room they had been frequenting during the trial. As Mary fretfully consumed a large portion of chocolate cake, Rose gazed out of the window at the steady stream of sightseers, all hoping for a seat in the gallery at Frankie Buchannon’s trial. Sickened by the public display of morbid curiosity, Rose finished her tea and paid the bill.

  Once out in the street, someone recognised the two women and shouted eagerly, “That’s Buchannon’s missus. Over there. There she is. Oy, Mrs Buchannon, how’s Frankie doing?’

  Her head held high, Rose ignored the crowd, her expression almost scornful, while Mary, never one to ignore an insult, immediately gave the heckler a sound tongue-lashing that sent the man scurrying off in embarrassment.

  Mary and Rose were flanked on either side by Frankie’s men, though as one had remarked to his wife the previous evening, ‘I feel sorry for the Guv’nor’s wife. But that old battleaxe don’t need no looking after. Bleeding hell, she scares the life outta me.’

  All the way to the public gallery, Mary rambled on. Rose knew the ceaseless talk reflected her aunt’s anxiety, and her mind was elsewhere. Settling back into her seat she sought to allay her own fears. The trial was going well so far. Plenty of people, some of whom were on the jury, didn’t care what Frankie had done in the past and were clearly sympathetic to the man in the dock. As the judge re-entered, there was a rustle of movement in the court below. Then Sir Timothy Rhys-Jones was on his feet once more, his cultured voice ringing out clearly. ‘The accused is a man of considerable standing in the local community, who had had no contact with the deceased for a good number of years until a few weeks before Christmas. At that time, the court has been told, the former barmaid and friend of the Buchannons had fallen on hard times and asked them for help. As a good Christian, Mrs Buchannon, who incidentally gives a great deal of her time in helping those less fortunate in Stoke Newington, had welcomed the deceased into her home and freely given her a gift of money in a gesture of friendship and compassion – all with her husband’s knowledge and blessing. On the night in question, however, Mrs Buchannon had found herself temporarily short of funds and had informed Miss Higgins that her husband would drop by later with a small gift to tide her over the festive season. Mr Buchannon freely admits he visited the deceased on the night in question, and that she was alive and well when he left. This version of events is corroborated by his companions, Joseph Perkins and Frederick

  Green, both respectable business associates of Mr Buchannon. Furthermore…’

  Rose glanced absently around the court. She had heard all this before. According to Sir Timothy, there were only a few more prosecution witnesses to take the stand. Well, Rose played with her gloves, if that was true, then surely it couldn’t last much longer. The nightmare that had invaded their lives must soon be over. Something Mary had said earlier came to her mind and she had to bite her lip to stop herself laughing.

  It had been the day before yesterday when a steady stream of witnesses, including a cabby who swore that he had driven Frankie, two men and a drunken woman to the Prince of Wales public house on the night in question, had eagerly taken the stand. The defence counsel had torn the man’s story to shreds, accusing him of concocting it in an effort to obtain the newspaper’s reward. Why else, the white-wigged man had asked scornfully of the court, would the cab driver have waited so long to come forward, if indeed he was the honest man he purported to be?

  The same had happened to Nobby Summers, the tramp who was supposed to have heard Frank planning to dump Sally’s body in the river. The shivering wreck of a man had collapsed under t
he skilful questioning, and even though, as he left the witness box, he had loudly declared himself to be telling the truth, his credibility had been destroyed.

  After Nobby had come a stream of Sally’s neighbours, all embellishing their stories of the mystery man who had shouted abuse through the closed door to Sally’s room before kicking in the door, who had then, with the aid of another man, carried the unprotesting Sally down the stairs never to be seen again. Then a portly man had taken the stand, declaring himself to be a butcher from Stoke Newington. Here, Mary, her face suffused with rage, her massive body trembling with indignation, had stood up and roared derisively, ‘Bleeding hell! They’ll be bringing in Uncle Tom Cobbley an’ all at this rate.’

  The court had collapsed in uproar, and the judge had ordered it to be cleared for the remainder of the day.

  Rose’s eyes roamed the packed court-room, and she pursed her lips as she recognised Henry Dixon, her former employer, sitting at the far end of the second row of seats in the gallery. Sensing her scrutiny, Dixon looked up. When he smiled at her Rose sensed that he was on her side and returned the smile gratefully, before retreating back inside the protective shell she had built around herself during the trial.

  Lost in a little world of her own, Rose jumped when Mary nudged her sharply in the ribs saying, ‘You all right, girl? That feller’s just said this is the last witness for today, thank Gawd. Bleeding hell! Where they all coming from, that’s what I’d like to know? I’ll bet Frankie don’t even know half of ’em.’

  But Rose had seen something down in the court.

  In a matter of seconds, her world had begun to crumble.

  At that moment, Jack looked up into the public gallery, thinking wryly that, with all Buchannon’s henchmen gathered in one place, it looked more like a rogue’s gallery than anything else. Then his eyes, as usual, alighted on the elegant figure seated at the front. The unmistakable terror on Rose’s lovely face shocked him. What on earth…?