Frankie's Manor

by Frankie's Manor (retail) (epub)

  He looked towards the witness stand and the woman who was now taking the oath in a quavering voice. His head swivelled back to Rose as he wondered what it was about this woman that could cause her such terror.

  As Rita Watkins had climbed into the witness box and taken the Bible in a trembling hand, Rose had leaned forward in her seat, her eyes wide with fright. She had never told anyone, not even Mary, about Rita’s involvement with the botched abortion and she cast a feverish glance at Frankie. As usual, he was watching the proceedings with veiled amusement, probably wondering what grievance Rita Watkins would air about him. As Rose watched in helpless despair, she saw Frank’s expression change to one of incredulity as Rita told of her life in exile: she had been afraid to come back to London in case Frank Buchannon did her in for helping his wife try to get rid of her unwanted child.

  In an instant Frankie was on his feet demanding that he be allowed to speak, and the court descended once more into uproar as two officers tried to restrain him. Hitting out wildly, Frankie continued to shout to be heard.

  Near fainting now, Rose heard him cry out, ‘All right, I did it. I killed Sally Higgins. I’m putting me hands up. Now get that stinking, lying bitch off the stand, before I do for her an’ all.’

  And, in that instant, the veneer Frankie Buchannon had maintained throughout the trial slipped to reveal a savagery that brought startled gasps of fear from several women present, not least Rita Watkins, who screamed for help to all and sundry.

  As if in a dream Rose saw Jack coming towards her, growing awareness glinting in his eyes, but Rose no longer cared what happened.

  It was over. It was all over.

  Frank was going to hang.

  Then everything became a blur as she was helped by unknown hands from the court.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  ‘Here’s the post-mortem report, sir, on Sally Higgins. The doctor says he’s sorry it’s taken so long to get to you, but he’s been swamped with work.’ The young constable stood by the Inspector’s desk, a slim folder held out in front of him. ‘It’s always the same before Christmas, he says. Everyone seems to either do themselves or each other in. So much for the Christmas spirit, eh, sir?’

  Jack glanced up irritably. Today was the day Frankie Buchannon would be sentenced to death. It was the day he had been waiting for for years. So why did he feel so bloody awful? As if he didn’t know.

  Rita Watkins’s testimony had rocked Jack to the core. It had explained the hasty marriage between Rose and Buchannon. Rose had been pregnant, and in a moment’s desperation had tried to abort the child. His child! But the abortion had failed, and Rose had nearly died as a result. He still couldn’t quite take it all in. He had a child, a daughter. A child that Buchannon had raised as his own for the past nine years. And, according to all Jack had heard, Buchannon doted on her. The pair had been inseparable. Jack’s first reaction had been to confront Rose, but when he had looked into those anguished blue eyes that day in the court, he hadn’t had the heart to cause any more pain for the woman he still loved. Nor would he ever bring up the subject. As much as it hurt him to deny himself his daughter, Jack knew that any action he took to lay claim to the child would bring only suffering to all concerned. And Rose had suffered enough. Jack also knew he owed Buchannon a debt of gratitude. Not many men would have brought another’s child up as their own, especially if the men in question had been bitter enemies, as he and Buchannon had always been. Not that Jack kidded himself that Buchannon had done it for him. Oh, no! If it had been anyone but Rose, Jack knew Buchannon wouldn’t have been so charitable. Still, he conceded, it had been good of Buchannon, and even though Jack would never be able to thank him personally, he was grateful.

  Then he remembered the constable’s presence. ‘Eh? Well, it’s a bit late, isn’t it? Buchannon’s being sentenced this afternoon.’

  The constable flushed. ‘Yes, sir, sorry, sir. The doctor said to tell you his examination was carried out soon after the body was delivered to him, but then it got so busy down at the morgue that his notes were mislaid, and this is the first time he’s had the chance to sort himself out.’

  Seeing the nervous expression on the constable’s face, Jack relented. It wasn’t the boy’s fault, after all. If anything the lateness of the report was down to him. As the officer in charge of the case, he should have chased up the post-mortem findings. But there hadn’t been any point. It hadn’t taken a genius in poor Sally’s case to determine the cause of death. Taking the folder he dismissed the constable and laid it on the desk with a wry grimace. It was lucky the Buchannon case hadn’t rested on this evidence or he would still be waiting for the trial to start. Jack returned to his paperwork, and for the next hour he was immersed in his task. At eleven thirty he stretched, yawned and leaned back in the comfortable desk chair, his hands clasped behind his head.

  Sentencing had been set for three o’clock, so he had plenty of time to get to the Old Bailey. Lowering his arms, Jack stared gloomily across the office. He wasn’t looking forward to this one little bit. Not with Rose and Mary sitting in the gallery, hearing someone they loved being sentenced to hang. At the thought a shudder rippled through his broad body. It was going to be grim, very grim, and he couldn’t even offer support to the two women, not in the circumstances. Jack picked up the folder containing the post-mortem report on Sally. With nothing better to do for the moment he glanced idly through the doctor’s sprawling, uneven handwriting, his eyes screwed up in concentration as he tried to decipher the almost unintelligible squiggles. You’d think, with all the education these doctors had, someone would have taught them to write properly.

  Then his attention was caught by one small paragraph. Jack sat bolt upright, his eyes rapidly scanning the page. When he had finished reading, he lay back in the chair, stunned. He reached out for the telephone, and within minutes he was talking to the doctor concerned. What he heard only increased his bewilderment. Gripping the earpiece tighter, he bellowed, ‘What d’yer mean, she was already dead when the injuries to her face were administered? How on earth could you possibly know that? What… Oh, look, I’m sorry, Doctor… No, no, you’re quite right, I’m not a pathologist, but…’ Jack listened intently as the doctor talked about the blood in a person’s body settling in one place after death. According to the doctor’s findings, Sally had died while lying down and had remained in that position for some time before she went into the river. Also, no blood or bruising consistent with the injuries to Sally’s face and temple had been found. At this point Jack interrupted, ‘But she’d been in the river! Surely that would account for no blood being found and—’ Again, Jack lapsed into silence as the doctor continued, rather waspishly, to explain how he had come to his conclusions. As the doctor continued his narration about blood vessels, skin tissue and lividity, none of which made any sense to Jack, his puzzlement increased. Finally, and with growing alarm, he asked, ‘So the cause of death was the wound to the back of the victim’s head? How long had she been dead before? Oh, I see, you can’t tell the time of death, but it was definitely before she went into the river and before the injuries to the face were inflicted. What? Oh, no. No, it doesn’t make any difference to the case. I just wanted to know for my own benefit.’ The voice at the other end of the line spoke again, and Jack forced a shaky laugh. ‘Yes, it might help me with future cases. Thank you, Doctor. Yes, that’s all right. Yes, thank you again, goodbye.’

  Jack hung up the earpiece. Something was wrong here, horribly wrong. From the very beginning, Jack had wondered about the method employed to murder Sally Higgins. It just hadn’t seemed to tie in with what he knew of Frankie Buchannon. Maybe he had killed Sally earlier, then gone back later with his men to dispose of the body. That would account for the doctor’s findings. The mutilation to the face had obviously been carried out to prevent identification. But still… Something rankled in Jack’s mind and, try as he might, he couldn’t shake it off. Cursing beneath his breath, he rose to his feet. What did it matter
when Sally had died? Frankie had murdered the woman – he’d put his hands up to it in open court. And he wouldn’t put his neck in the hangman’s noose for—

  Jack came to a standstill. His mouth dropped open in fear as the germ of an idea slowly came to him.

  Oh, Christ, no!

  Frantically now, he began to pace the floor, his mind in a whirl. Unbeknown to Jack, his tortured thoughts mirrored those of Frankie on the night he had found Sally dead. And, like Frankie, Jack’s fevered brain sprang to something Mary Miller had said.

  When asked to make a statement about the night in question, Mary Miller had launched into a vituperative attack against Jack. He hadn’t taken much notice at the time, his attention caught up in Rose’s distress, but now snatches of the angry abuse came flooding back to haunt him. As if hearing Mary’s words from a long distance, Jack vaguely remembered her mumbling something about ‘If it had been down to me, I’d’ve given that trollop a lot more than just a push. And if she’d bashed her head when she fell, then it was her own stupid fault, not my Rosie’s.’

  Oh, my God!

  Jack trod back and forth across the thin carpet before he sank back into his chair, his eyes closing as he tried to block out the images now crowding his mind. If what he thought was true, then it all began to make sense. Why else, if not to protect Rose, would Buchannon have let Rita Watkins’s testimony force him into admitting to the murder? Because if Frankie had done it, he would have fought to the bitter end to save his neck.

  More to the point, if his suspicions were correct, then he couldn’t let Buchannon hang.

  Jack’s head drooped in despair.

  If the doctor in question had been anyone else, Jack would have taken the startling new evidence with a pinch of salt, but James Beecham was highly respected, renowned in the field of pathology. But before Jack did anything rash, he had to make sure. Snatching up his coat, he raced from the building.

  * * *

  Frank was sitting on a narrow bunk in the holding cell. As Jack entered he rose indolently to his feet and came towards him, walking with the easy swagger that Jack had always hated. ‘Bleeding hell! I might have known you’d be in at the death, Adams.’

  Jack stared into the handsome face, trying to keep his hatred for this man alive, for if he could do that then maybe he could turn round and walk away, forget what he knew. But Jack was a policeman, first and foremost, and his instincts were to see justice done, whatever his own feelings.

  ‘Hello, Frank.’

  Frank’s dark eyebrows rose in mock astonishment. ‘Well, well, on first-name terms now, are we, Adams? Still, I think I’ll stick to calling you by your surname. It’s a bit late for us to start acting pally, ain’t it… Inspector?’

  Jack blinked rapidly. He had wrestled with his conscience on the journey to the Old Bailey, still undecided whether or not to let the matter drop. But now that he was here, face to face with the man he had always hated, he couldn’t do it. He had to give Buchannon the chance to save himself. He had intended to lead up to it. To ask certain questions and see how Buchannon reacted. Instead he said simply, ‘You didn’t do it, did you, Frank? You didn’t murder Sally Higgins. You were covering up for Rose, weren’t you? She got into a fight with Sally that night and Sally fell and smashed her head. I know she seemed all right when she left your place, but that bang on the head is what killed her, not you.’

  Frank’s mocking expression changed to one of horror. And that was all the proof Jack needed.

  Frankie glanced quickly to the open cell door, then darted forward and thrust his face close to Jack’s. He hissed frantically, ‘Keep your bleeding voice down, Adams. What you trying to do. Get Rosie hanged an’ all?’

  Jack gazed into the contorted face, and felt a great weariness seize him. He walked slowly over to the small, barred window, his expression bleak.

  So it was true. Buchannon hadn’t killed Sally. Jack had been hoping against hope that he would be proved wrong, but now he knew beyond all doubt. Oh, he had smashed Sally’s face in and thrown the body into the river, but he hadn’t killed her. Rose had. And she wasn’t even aware of it. Of that Jack was certain. There was no way on earth that Rose would let someone else take the blame for something she had done. Especially something as serious as murder. What was he going to do? Dear God, what was he going to do?

  Frankie watched the silent policeman, his fingers clenched into fists, and fought to regain his composure. Then he gave a harsh, grating laugh. ‘What are you playing at, Adams? I mean, bleeding hell, I’m gonna hang, ain’t that enough for you? Or d’yer want to make me suffer more by making up this load of old bollocks about Rosie being involved—’

  ‘Save it, Frank. I’m telling you I know. I wish to God I didn’t, but I do. The post-mortem report landed on my desk an hour ago. There’s no mistake. I checked. Sally was dead long before you got your hands on her… Jesus, Frank!’ Jack’s face was filled with misery. ‘D’yer think this is easy for me? D’yer think I ain’t falling apart inside, knowing what I know – and knowing what I’ve got to do now?’

  Frank grabbed him by the throat. ‘Listen to me, Adams. Whatever you think you know, you’re wrong. D’yer hear me? You’re wrong. And I’ll stand up in any court and swear it was me that killed Sally. I’ll send for the newspapers, too, if I have to. They love that sort of thing. I’ll give ’em an exclusive story. Kind of like an insight into the mind of a murderer. Yeah, they’ll lap that up!’

  Jack stared into the dark eyes and shook his head in pity. ‘You’re really willing to hang, ain’t you, Frank? You’re gonna let them put a noose around your neck to save Rose, ain’t you? My God, Frank, what are we gonna do?’

  At the helplessness in Jack’s voice, Frankie relaxed his grip and breathed a little easier. He stood back a pace and looked squarely into Jack’s eyes. ‘We ain’t gonna do anything, Jack. We’re just gonna leave everything as it is and keep our mouths shut. And not just for now either, but for the rest of our lives. Which is easy enough for me, seeing as how I ain’t got long to go. But it’ll be down to you to keep what you know quiet. It should be easy enough. After all, it ain’t as if it’s some poor innocent bastard going to the gallows, is it?’

  Jack walked slowly to the bunk and let himself drop on to the hard mattress before his legs gave out on him. All Buchannon was saying was true. He couldn’t for the life of him understand why he was here. Why should he care if the man swung? If it was a choice between him and Rose, there was no contest, was there? So why did he feel such overwhelming guilt? As Buchannon said himself, it wasn’t as if he was as pure as the driven snow, and if he was willing to hang in place of his wife, who was he to stand in the way? Yet Rose wouldn’t hang. What had happened had been an accident. But would the law see it that way? Oh, Lord. He didn’t know what to do for the best.

  Seeing Jack waver, Frankie moved in quickly. Keeping his voice low, he sat on the bunk beside the policeman and whispered urgently, ‘Listen, Jack, you know what the law’s like. We know what happened was an accident, but that won’t stop your lot from arresting Rose if the truth comes out. D’yer really want to put her through all that? Ain’t she been through enough? She’s already been splashed all over the newspapers on account of that old cow Rita Watkins opening her big mouth about Rosie going to that old butcher…’ He trailed off, realising that Jack must have guessed about the baby Rose had tried to abort.

  Jack’s mind was working furiously. Could he do it? Could he stand by and let an innocent man hang? And the answer, to his shame, came back at him in a blinding flash. Yes, he could. If, by turning a blind eye, he could save Rose, then he would keep what he knew to himself. And it would haunt him to the end of his days.

  Feeling old and tired, Jack rose to his feet. Looking straight ahead across the small, gloomy cell, he said quietly, ‘Rose was lucky you were there to help her with the baby. It would have been hard for her to manage by herself.’ He put his hat back on, and looked down at Frankie. He saw fear in the dark eyes
, fear that had nothing to do with the sentence that was about to be pronounced. He rearranged his hat more comfortably, and swallowed hard before he added, ‘You’ve been luckier than me in that department, Frank. You’ve got two lovely kids. I haven’t got any.’

  Jack watched the fear fade and felt a measure of comfort. Then the old Buchannon was back in evidence, who said slowly, ‘Just to put your mind at rest – about me being topped, I mean – I did kill someone once, and got away with it. That old quack, the one that nearly killed Rosie. Well, I tracked him down an’ stuck a knife into the miserable old bastard’s guts. You can check if you don’t believe me. I left the body in a derelict building off Stamford Hill high street. No one was ever caught for his murder. So, really, you could say I’m hanging for what I did to him. It all amounts to the same thing in the long run, don’t it?’

  Jack nodded tiredly. There was nothing else to say. He turned to leave, then stopped at the cell door. When he spoke, his voice contained a tremor of emotion. ‘I’ll see you in court, Frank.’

  And Frankie, limp with relief, answered cheerfully, ‘Yeah, see you in court… Jack.’

  * * *

  The sentencing of Frankie Buchannon was a formality. Everyone knew what the judge was going to say, long before he placed the black cap on his wig. Yet still there was a hushed expectancy in the crowded court-room, as if some last-minute evidence might bring about a reprieve.

  Rose had no such illusions. She had begun to prepare herself for this day ever since Jack had first arrived at her door with the news that Frankie had been arrested. Now she sat alone, dressed defiantly in a bright red dress and matching coat and hat, her eyes fixed solidly on the relaxed, smiling man in the dock. Mary had refused to come today, and Rose hadn’t tried to persuade her. Indeed, Mary had aged so much over the past months she looked like a woman in her seventies. Gone, too, was the aggressive, strident woman who, to put it in Frankie’s words, ‘could make a strong man cry and a weak man shit himself’. In its place was a weeping, lethargic woman Rose barely recognised.