Below Rose sat Jack, his strong features set and grim as his conscience waged a war of words inside his head. An innocent man was about to be sentenced to death, and he, Jack Adams, could put a stop to it. But a niggling voice in the far corner of his mind said mockingly, ‘Innocent! That’s a laugh. All right, so he might not have killed Sally, but he has blood on his hands. He killed that doctor, he admitted it, so don’t go wasting any pity on him. He’s only getting what he deserves.’ But the demons wouldn’t go away.
Jack’s head jerked back as the judge began his sentencing.
‘Frances Albert Buchannon, you have been found guilty of murder. It is the sentence of this court…’
Rose’s hands clenched in her lap, her face betraying no emotion to the hungry crowd of morbid sightseers.
‘…be taken from this court to a place of execution…’
Jack’s mouth moved as if to speak, but he stayed silent, his growing guilt weighing heavier and heavier with each word the judge spoke.
‘…hanged by the neck until you are dead.’
His eyes darted to the figure in the dock, and the warning shake of Frankie’s head, followed by a slow wink, only compounded the heavy blanket of guilt enveloping him.
‘And may God have mercy on your soul.’
As Frankie was led away, he glanced up at the gallery where Rose sat and gave a cheerful wave and the lop-sided grin Rose knew so well.
Deathly pale, but composed and steady, Rose left the court-room, her eyes staring straight ahead, which deterred anyone from asking questions or offering false condolences.
Jack watched the slim figure leave, his grey eyes sombre and ashamed. All around him, his fellow officers were jubilant at seeing their hated adversary finally brought to book, but Jack found he had no stomach for celebration. To the astonishment, and outrage, of his colleagues, he ignored their exultant cries and backslapping, and strode away without a backward glance.
* * *
It was the final visit allowed to Frankie before his execution, and as Rose watched the children, almost sick with excitement at seeing their father again, run into his outstretched arms, she wondered dully how much more she could take before she broke down. In the three months since he had been sentenced, she had been in a daze, her shattered mind refusing to accept the horror of what was to come. By her side, a hobbling Mary was assisted by the strong arm of Jack, into the small, rapidly crowding cell.
That was something else she was finding it hard to come to terms with. This new friendship that had sprung up between Frankie and Jack. Not that she was complaining. Lord, no. Anything that would make life a little more bearable was a godsend to Rose. For with Frankie’s blessing, Jack had become a frequent visitor to their home these last few agonising months, and Rose didn’t know what she would have done without him. Even Mary had buried her animosity towards the hated police force and had accepted Jack’s kindness and assistance during this troubled time. Though whether the elderly woman would have been so amenable towards Jack if Frankie hadn’t insisted that both she and Rose should lean on him for moral support was another matter. Neither woman had queried his unexpected request. Indeed, it was taking all of their courage and strength just to get through each day. Little Ben had become quite friendly towards Jack, reaching out and clutching at the kindly policeman as a comfort in the absence of his desperately missed father.
Vicky, though, was a different matter altogether. From the moment she had learned who Jack was, she had made it clear she blamed him for her father’s predicament, and was openly hostile to him every time he showed his face at the house. It was strange, Rose mused, how she herself hadn’t once thought of Jack as Vicky’s father. She wondered also why Jack hadn’t mentioned it. After all, he knew now that she was his daughter. Rose’s eyelids fluttered tiredly. Maybe the truth was that Jack wasn’t interested in taking on the role of parenthood at this late date. If so, it was just as well, for Vicky was, and always had been, Frankie’s child. In every way that mattered, she was his daughter, and no matter what happened in the future, Rose was adamant that her child would never learn the truth.
Keeping a tight rein on her emotions, Rose took in the poignant scene being played out before her eyes, wondering if she was in the throes of a breakdown. She hadn’t cried since that last day in court. In fact, nothing seemed to have registered since then: it was as if part of her brain had shut down to save her from insanity, and to enable her to remain strong for her family’s sake.
She felt as she had when she had been taking the pills Dr Maitland had prescribed during her pregnancy with Vicky. This time, though, no drugs were blunting her senses. The anaesthesia was coming from within herself, and she was glad of it, oh, God, how grateful she was.
When the warder announced that the visit was at an end, Rose jolted as if she had awoken from a heavy dream. She could hear Mary’s pitiful weeping and the plaintive cries of her children as Frankie, his face strained and tired-looking, relinquished the near-hysterical girl and the wailing boy. Jack, more taut and sad than Rose had ever seen him, was trying to guide Mary and the children from the cell. Then bedlam broke out.
Vicky, her tear-stained face ugly in her childish grief, tore wildly at Jack’s hands and face. Kicking and screaming, her shrill voice echoed down the corridor as her terrified young soul tried to comprehend what was happening. ‘Don’t worry, Papa, I’ll save you. I’ll get help and come back and rescue you. Don’t you worry, Papa, I won’t let them hang you. I’ll save you, Papa, I’ll save you…’
Screwing up her eyes against the raw pain in her daughter’s voice, Rose staggered forward then stopped, while all around her pandemonium reigned. Unable to bear any more, Frankie yelled, ‘Get them out, Jack. For Christ’s sake, get them out of here.’
The urgency in his voice impelled Jack to greater efforts. Picking up the little boy he then tried to take the frantic girl from the hands of the harassed warder, but she turned in fury and spat, ‘Get your hands off me, you lousy copper! I hate you. I wish it was you that was going to hang. I hate you! I hate you!’
Then she was scooped up into the arms of the warder and carried from the cell.
Through blurred eyes Rose stared at Frankie’s back as he stared out of the tiny barred window. Her lips stiff as if through neglect Rose whispered, ‘Goodbye, Frank. You’ll never know how much I love you. Goodbye, my darling… God bless.’
If Frankie heard her heartfelt words he made no sign, and when he was finally alone, the cell door firmly closed once more, he sank down on the narrow bunk, his face in his hands. But he couldn’t shut out the screams of his daughter.
‘I’ll come back for you, Papa. I’ll save you… I’ll save you, Papa…’
His shoulders began to shake then heave as great sobs ripped through his body.
* * *
It was a cold, grey morning in early April when Frankie Buchannon, flanked on all sides by a priest, the warder, and several prison officers, made the short journey from the condemned cell to the courtyard. On the way he joked and made light talk with his guards, determined not to show any fear and to die with dignity.
It was as the small group entered the courtyard that another man came into view. When Frankie saw who it was he said, flippantly, ‘Come to make sure they do a good job, Jack?’
And Jack, his eyes holding those of the man he had hated and despised for years, but who now had his respect, asked quietly, ‘Would you mind if I kept you company, Frank?’
His dark eyes growing dim, Frankie replied, ‘Yeah, okay. I’d appreciate that. It’s always nice to have a friendly face about when you’re going somewhere you’re not sure of. Thanks, Jack.’
No more was said on the grim walk. But as the priest dolefully intoned his prayers, Jack, his eyes suspiciously bright, stuck out his hand and, in a voice choked with emotion, said, ‘Goodbye, Frank.’
Frankie looked down at the hand and shrugged. Clasping the strong fingers firmly he grinned. ‘Yeah, ’bye, Jack. Stay lu
cky.’
When the hood was placed over the dark head, Jack dropped his eyes, and when one of the prison officers murmured mockingly, ‘Not so bleeding cocky now, is he?’ Jack turned on him with such savagery that the startled man fell back in fright.
It was over in seconds, and as Jack walked back into the prison on that dismal, cold morning, he had never felt so alone in his entire life.
* * *
Mary and the children were fast asleep, their heavy slumber induced by a sleeping draught prescribed by the family doctor. He had prescribed for Rose, too, but she had stubbornly refused to take the white powder last night. She had sat all through the dark, lonely hours waiting for the dawn to break, her eyes fixed as if she was in a trance.
At seven o’clock, a red-eyed Myrtle had brought in a breakfast tray, before she ran weeping from the room. The tray remained untouched.
At five minutes to eight o’clock, Rose got unsteadily to her feet and sat down at the dressing table, looking in the mirror at the clock on the mantelpiece behind her. As the seconds ticked by she wondered how grief could be measured, or the pain that seemed to go on and on with no sign of relief. A pain that filled every pore, every inch of you. A pain that throbbed and pulsed with a rawness that was physical in its intensity. When the clock struck eight, Rose’s eyes flew open. Slowly, very, very slowly, a chill began to spread through her, spreading its tentacles wider and wider until her throat seized up and her nose, eyes and ears seemed filled to bursting point with sorrow. It was choking her, blinding her. And when the dam finally broke within her, a great torrent of tears burst from her eyes, rained down her cheeks and on to her heaving breasts. Sliding down from the stool, she stretched out on the carpet and gave herself up to the wrenching, tearing agony of grief.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The funeral of Frankie Buchannon was talked about for many years to come. Over forty carriages followed the funeral cortège on its journey to Abney Park Cemetery. The route from Dalston Junction along Stoke Newington high street was thronged with spectators, all eager for a last look at the coffin bearing the infamous Frankie Buchannon, the one time self-proclaimed Lord of the Manor of the East End. Rose and Mary sat in the carriage following the hearse, both dry-eyed and pale, determined to maintain a dignified presence for the sake of Frankie’s memory.
Rose even managed a tremulous smile as she recalled his words about the funeral. ‘For Gawd’s sake, Princess, watch what you put on me headstone, will you? Every time I’ve seen something like “My dearly beloved husband who fell asleep on 4th May”, I’ve thought to meself, Blimey, he must have got a bleeding shock when he woke up, then. So promise, you’ll just have me name and… well, you know, when I was born and died. That’s all I want. Promise me, Princess.’
And Rose had carried out his wishes. He had also asked that she make sure Joe and Fred received the services of Sir Timothy Rhys-Jones as their counsel when they came to trial next month. This request, also, she planned to keep. It would give her something to do in the lonely months ahead. She could have taken over the many businesses Frank had left, but had decided to leave things as they stood. If Frankie had trusted his boys to manage his affairs, then so would she.
As the coffin was laid in the ground, Rose was aware of someone taking photographs. She was filled with fierce rage at the intrusion. But she remained composed. There was nothing the newspapers would like more than a photo of Frankie Buchannon’s widow attacking their staff.
As the first lump of dirt fell on the exposed coffin, Rose felt her nose prickle and her throat tighten. She glanced up and saw Jack, his head bent in respect, a few feet away. Then she turned to the frail, weeping woman by her side, and said softly, ‘Come along, Auntie. Frankie’s gone. It’s time to go home to the children.’
With great dignity, the two women left the cemetery, surrounded as always by Frankie’s men, many of whom were openly weeping. And, for a brief, shame-filled moment, Rose wished Jack could be by her side to comfort her.
Safely back inside the carriage, Rose pulled down the blinds to shut out the prying eyes of the morbid crowd. Once hidden from view, she threw herself into Mary’s large, comforting arms.
* * *
Surrounded by suitcases, Rose looked around the hallway as if she was searching for something, then she pulled on her gloves. If she had forgotten anything then they would just have to do without.
It was the end of September. Frankie had been dead for over six months, yet each day when she awoke the pain was still there to greet her, and she wouldn’t have had it any other way.
Joe Perkins and Fred Green had been sentenced to ten years each for their part in the murder of Sally Higgins, and many people thought they had got off lightly, considering their crime. It just went to show, it was said, you could get away with murder if you had the money for expensive lawyers. Then they would remember Frankie Buchannon and fall silent.
One of Frankie’s last wishes had been for Rose to take the children out of the country for a long holiday. He had thought a change of scenery, and a bit of sun on their faces, might help them get over his death. At the time Rose had protested that it would take more than a bit of sun and sand to put him from his children’s minds. But now, looking at the doleful faces at the carriage window, Rose knew he had been right, as always. Nothing would ever wipe out the memory of their father, he had been too deeply loved, but a long holiday, away from the house, which was filled with memories, could surely do the children some good.
At present she had no definite plans on how long they would be away. She would take it, as she was taking her life, one day at a time. Pausing at the door, she said to Myrtle, ‘You have the address of the hotel where we’ll be staying. Not that I suppose you’ll need to get in touch, but you never know.’ Adjusting a brown felt hat trimmed with bright green ribbon, Rose added earnestly, ‘Now, are you sure you wouldn’t like to come with us, Myrtle? Goodness knows, I could do with some help with the children as Mary’s still not herself.’
The middle-aged woman looked horrified. ‘Oh, Gawd, no, madam. Thanks all the same, but you won’t get me going to no foreign place. Southend’s good enough for me… if you don’t mind me saying so, madam.’
Rose sighed and looked out to where the carriage was waiting with her children and Mary inside. When the suitcases had been put on board, she stood in the doorway as if waiting for something or someone. Then she gave a slight shrug and climbed into the carriage.
Arriving at Victoria Station, Rose handed the responsibility for the luggage to the porters and climbed aboard the train. With first-class tickets, the small party had the luxury of a compartment to themselves. As the train sped on its way to Dover, from where they would board a ferry for France, Rose rested her head against the plush seat next to the window and closed her eyes. At any other time, the children would have been raising Cain in their excitement and Mary would have shouted at them to keep quiet. But today, as with all the days since Frankie’s death, her family sat subdued in their seats, each one feeding off the others’ grief.
Dispiritedly Rose planned ahead. A few weeks in the sun might be just the tonic the children needed. Also, the change of scenery would do them good. Mary had accused her of running away, and at one point Rose had been afraid her aunt would dig her heels in and stay behind, but thankfully she hadn’t. Rose didn’t know if she could have managed on her own just now. Lulled by the rocking motion of the train, she wondered what Jack was doing. She had thought he would at least have come to the house to see them off, and his neglect bothered Rose more than she would dared to admit. Mary, too, had querulously remarked on Jack’s absence. It was strange how she had come to depend on him being around. Though maybe not so strange. After all, Mary and Jack had known each other a long time, and Rose understood that her aunt had never really hated Jack – just his profession. Not that it made any difference now, she told herself sternly, as the train raced through the countryside. Yet, try as she might, Rose couldn’t help the feeling
s that had been rekindled over the past months. She had loved Frank, truly loved him, but she had loved Jack, too. And, deep down, she knew she still did. The knowledge shamed her: it was as if, even by thinking such a thing, she was somehow desecrating her husband’s memory.
The rocking of the train lulled Rose into a fitful sleep, from which she was rudely awakened by voices protesting that they were hungry. Rose stood up and led the children to the dining car, a grumbling Mary close on their heels.
It was as she was finishing her coffee that Rose glanced up. The sight that met her eyes caused her fingers to shake so wildly that the coffee dregs splashed over the white tablecloth.
Seeing the startled look on her niece’s face, Mary said, ‘What’s up with you, girl? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.’
But before Rose could reply, Ben, who was sitting beside his mother also looked up, a wide grin almost splitting his small face in two. ‘Mr Adams,’ he yelled, in boyish glee. Then, digging Rose sharply in the ribs, he shouted excitedly, ‘Look, Mamma. It’s Mr Adams.’ Before either woman could stop him, the little boy had clambered into the rocking aisle, his sturdy legs racing towards the red-faced, awkward-looking man lurching in the corridor.
Stooping down Jack lifted the boy up into his arms, then, hesitantly, as if unsure of his reception, he walked towards the rest of the family. When Vicky saw him she set her face stubbornly against the window and stared out.
Rose gulped as he approached, but she couldn’t stop the sudden joy that leaped into her heart. Then he was standing by the table, the little figure clasped in his arms. He had to clear his throat twice before he could get his words out, and when he did all he could say hoarsely was, ‘D’yer mind if I sit down, Rose?’
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