Frankie's Manor

by Frankie's Manor (retail) (epub)

  It was the man in the market, the pickpocket Jack had gone after. Bending down she grabbed her basket and pulled aside the length of material she had purchased earlier. She searched frantically for her purse. It was nowhere to be seen. She looked around wildly and saw the culprit running back into the market. Her heart sank: it would be virtually impossible to catch him in that crowd – but she was going to have a bloody good try.

  ‘Rose! Rose! Where’re you going?’ Jack had reappeared and his police training had come instantly to the fore. ‘What’s happened, love?’ He slammed the drinks down on the table, spilling a mixture of lemonade and beer. Rose spun round, her face etched with worry. ‘That man, the one you stopped earlier! He’s taken my purse, Jack! It’s all the money I have to get me through the week! I’m going after him, he can’t have—’

  ‘Oh, no, you don’t,’ Jack said, grabbing her and depositing her back on the bench. ‘I’ll take care of it. You stay here until I come back. Promise me, Rose.’ He shook her urgently before he set off at a run. Stunned by what had happened, Rose slumped miserably against the hard edge of the table, unaware of the inquisitive glances of the other customers, and waited anxiously for his return.

  Chapter Five

  Nobby Summers strolled through the crowd at his ease. He was a dab hand at this game: he’d already lifted three wallets and two purses this morning. It would take more than a bleeding copper to put him off his trade. Grinning gleefully he ducked down a side alley, took a furtive look around to make sure he wasn’t being watched then pulled the wallets from his inside pocket and began to check the contents. His grin broadened at the sight of the folded banknotes. Stuffing the wad into his pocket, he was about to look in the purses when a shadow fell over him. Straight away he was on his guard, ready to defend his pickings, his aggressive stance faltering as four men loomed into view.

  ‘Well, well, well. You’ve had a busy day, by the looks of it, Nobby. I’ll have to be careful you don’t run me out of business.’ Frankie Buchannon looked down at the grubby pickpocket with good-natured amusement. He’d had a profitable morning and was feeling amiable. Three new shops had opened on his patch, which meant more money for him. Two of the owners had agreed to pay him immediately; the third, however, a burly Irishman, had refused – until he had been shown the error of his ways. It was so easy it was boring. All Frankie had to do was express concern over the likelihood of their premises being robbed or smashed up in such a crime-ridden area, or if that tack failed, he reminded them of the shops that had mysteriously burned down overnight, destroying the owners’ livelihood and often their homes. They paid up quickly enough. He had collected nearly fifty pounds already this morning: he preferred to make his rounds at the weekend, to give his clients time to accumulate their takings – and his cut of the profits. In the past a few men had been foolish enough to go to the police, which they had lived to regret.

  It was true that Frankie had been brought to book on many occasions, but the police had never been able to make a serious charge stick. Witnesses suddenly disappeared or became reluctant to give evidence, which left the frustrated officers having to charge the elusive racketeer with lesser crimes that carried only short sentences. And while Frankie was incarcerated, his men made sure that those law-abiding citizens who had helped put their governor behind bars were made to suffer the consequences. But Frankie’s last sojourn in the Scrubs had been different. The man he had attacked had been of sterner mettle, had refused to be intimidated by threats, determined to see his assailant behind bars.

  When the judge had passed sentence, Frank had remained impassive, but beneath his calm façade he had been thoroughly shaken. The most he had been expecting was a couple of months – after all, he hadn’t seriously injured the man, just given him a few slaps to show he meant business. But the judge had taken the opportunity to get the well-known racketeer off the streets for as long as he could.

  Two months later, the plaintiff had unexpectedly confessed that he had lied about Frankie’s involvement in the beating he had suffered. His retraction was prompted by the sudden disappearance of his only daughter while playing in the park. The six-year-old child had been found some hours later, distraught but unharmed, clasping a snippet from the local newspaper regarding Frankie Buchannon’s arrest and subsequent imprisonment. The message hadn’t been lost on the frantic father.

  But the powers-that-be weren’t going to let their quarry get off that easily: the new evidence was kept from the newspapers, and months of legal wrangling followed, during which Frankie had been forced to dig deep into his pocket to effect his release. And that after paying a fortune to a supposedly first-class defence lawyer who had been less than useless.

  Well, he was out now, and he had no intention of ever going back inside. The days of ducking and diving one step ahead of the law were finished. From now on, things were going to be different. He, Frankie Buchannon, was about to become a legitimate businessman – at least, on the outside. To this end he had acquired a factory sweatshop in Stoke Newington, its previous owner having lost his lucrative business to Frankie in a rigged game of cards, just a week after his release, Now he had his eye on a similar venture in Dalston. Oh, yes, he was coming up in the world. Soon, in the eyes of the law he would be above board… with the help of an enterprising book-keeper he had just hired, and he would keep his other activities flourishing. He owed it to his men, who knew no other way to earn a living; without their loyalty and endeavours to keep his nefarious dealings thriving in his absence, he would have had nothing to come out to.

  So Frankie beamed benevolently on the wretched creature before him. He, too, had started out in much the same way but Frankie Buchannon hadn’t been content to remain a petty thief. He had always dreamed of becoming Someone, a man to whom others looked up, a man of importance away from the criminal element. Men like Nobby Summers had no such ambitions, and even if he had this man, like many others of his ilk, lacked the intelligence and guile to achieve his goals.

  Frankie gave the other man a condescending slap on the back. ‘Be lucky, Nobby.’ he said.

  Slumping back with relief, the shabby man brightened.

  Anxious to stay on good terms with the legendary Frankie Buchannon, he fumbled in his pocket, took out the leather purse he had recently stolen and held it up to his idol. ‘’Ere yer are, Mr Buchannon, a little present fer one of yer ladyfriends.’

  Frankie raised a conspiratorial eyebrow at his men. ‘Thanks, Nobby, but I think I can afford to buy me own presents, thanks all the…’ Frankie stiffened and the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as he looked down at the expensive leather purse. He recognised it at once. He’d had it made especially for Rose’s eighteenth birthday. Now he ripped it from the man’s hand and stepped closer to him. Nobby cringed in terror at the change in the man standing menacingly over him. ‘Where did you get this from? Answer me, you miserable little bastard! C’mon, speak up! Where d’yer get it?’

  ‘It was just some young tart, Mr Buchannon. Outside the pub down the end of the market, I didn’t mean—’

  Frankie gripped him by the throat and hissed, ‘The young tart is a good friend of mine, a very good friend of mine, you stinking little thief, an’ you know what happens to people who hurt me friends, don’t yer?’

  ‘Please, Mr Buchannon, sir, I didn’t know. ’Ere, I’ll take it back to ’er. Just let me…’

  Frankie threw the man against the wall and stepped back, his eyes cold. Snapping his fingers, he said quietly, to the men waiting behind him, ‘Break his hands.’

  Nobby’s eyes bulged in fear. ‘No, no, Mr Buchannon, please. Give me another chance. Oh, p-please, Mr Buchannon – No, no – noooo!’

  The three men moved in silently on their prey. One held him down, forcing his own filthy scarf into his gaping mouth to stifle his screams. Then there was a sickening sound of breaking bones, followed by the man’s muffled, agonised sobs.

  Frankie stood back in the shadows, his face impassive.
He gained no pleasure from such tasks, but men like Nobby Summers had to be taught a lesson. He would tell others of his ordeal, and the reason behind it. It would serve as a warning to others, and in time the entire East End would know that Rose Kennedy was under his protection. It would also remind people that this was Frankie Buchannon’s manor, and anyone caught stepping out of line would be dealt with severely.

  Frankie turned on his heel and walked quickly away. Like trained dogs, the three men hurried after him.

  * * *

  ‘I’m sorry, Rose, I couldn’t find him. But don’t worry, I know where he hangs about and I’ll get your purse back for you. You have my word.’ Jack, crestfallen at having failed to catch the thief, looked apologetically at Rose. ‘Look, let me get you a drink, it’ll help calm you down.’

  ‘I don’t need calming down, thank you. What I need is to get my purse back.’ Rose struggled to hold back the tears. The rent man was due tomorrow and the larder at home was practically empty. She normally did the shopping on a Monday before going to work. It didn’t matter so much as far as she was concerned; although meals weren’t included in her wages Mr Dixon didn’t mind his staff having the odd sandwich now and then. And there were often sausage rolls and meat pasties left over at the end of the day. Rose had no fear of going hungry until her next pay day. But there was still the rent to find and food for her aunt – and her aunt Mary did like her food.

  Oh, dear Lord, what was she going to do?

  Jack was furious with himself for having failed to catch Nobby. Oh, he’d find the miserable wretch, but whether he would be able to recover Rose’s property was another matter.

  ‘It’s all right, Jack, it isn’t your fault. It’s just one of those things. I’ll manage somehow.’ Rose, her face pale, smiled up at him weakly. Her plight tugged at Jack’s heartstrings. Should he offer to loan her some money? He knew how fiercely proud she was, yet surely in these circumstances she wouldn’t refuse.

  He was about to make the offer when he saw the four men strolling towards them. ‘Hello, Princess.’ Frankie moved towards Rose, his hands enveloping hers, a genuine warm smile on his lips.

  Rose’s heart lightened at the sight of him. She beamed up into his handsome face, and as his strong arm went protectively around her shoulders, she felt her anxiety lift. Since she was a child, she had always felt this way whenever Frank was around; warm, safe and comforted. It was as if there was nothing and nobody in the world who could harm her. There was nothing so terrible that he couldn’t make it better; she trusted him implicitly and it showed in her eyes and the way her body relaxed against his. He was the father she had never known, the brother she had been denied.

  As Jack watched them together, he felt a terrible desolation steal over him. With it came a rush of anger. His face set in mulish lines, he stepped forward, only to find his way barred by the powerful trio accompanying Frank. With an oath he shouldered the men aside. ‘Don’t you ever go anywhere without your bodyguards, Buchannon? Are you too scared to go out by yourself?’

  Frankie grinned and hugged Rose closer to his side. He and Jack Adams had crossed paths frequently in the past, and Frankie had been mildly amused when Rose had first started seeing the young constable, before he had gone inside. He had hoped the friendship would have fizzled out by now. Maybe if he’d been around more at the beginning he might have been able to nip it in the bud, before it had had the chance to develop any further.

  He knew he had neglected both Mary and Rose over the past few years: he had gone round regularly to make sure they were all right until Rose had started work in the City, but then his visits had become infrequent; and for that he felt guilty. Mary Miller had been like a mother to him and he would never forget her kindness. But even the closest of families drift apart, and he knew Mary harboured no ill-feeling against him for his continued absences. Still, he should have been around more often. If he had kept a closer eye on the two women, Rose would never have landed up in the pub or with Adams. But things were going to be different from now on. Oh, yes, very different. He glanced at the glowering policeman. There was no way his Rose was going to end her days tied to a copper – not if he had anything to do with it.

  ‘Oh, I’m not scared, Constable. I just like a bit of company. Though, come to think of it, you might be better off with one of me boys following you about, ’cos you don’t seem to manage too well on your own, now, do you, Constable?’

  A deep flush suffused Jack’s face, but before he could reply, Frankie turned to Rose, took the soft leather purse from his pocket and said softly, ‘You ought ter be more careful, Princess. In future, don’t leave your purse lying around. There’s a lot of thieves about.’

  ‘And you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you, Buchannon?’ Jack interrupted.

  Heedless of the tension between the two men, Rose stared at the purse she thought she’d never see again and cried in delight, ‘Oh, Frankie! Where did you find it?’ She snatched the precious object from him, and hurriedly checked to see if the contents were still intact. Then she frowned. ‘I didn’t have this much, Frank. Why there’s…’ she was sorting deftly through the coins, her forehead creasing in bewilderment… goodness, there’s nearly ten pounds here. I only had a few sovereigns and some small change, there must be…’

  Frankie’s hand closed over her fingers. ‘Don’t worry about it, Princess. The bloke I got it from won’t be needing it. Look on it as… compensation for the shock he gave you.’

  Rose’s eyes widened in alarm. ‘Frank… you didn’t…’

  Jack caught Frankie’s arm and growled, ‘What have you done to Nobby, you vicious bastard? If any harm’s come to him I’ll—’

  Indolently arching one eyebrow, Frankie looked first at the hand grasping his arm and then at the angry face. ‘Know him by name, d’yer, Adams? He must be a friend of yours, then – but you needn’t worry, I didn’t lay a finger on him. You know, you should be more careful with the company you keep, Constable. It’s lucky for Rose I was in the neighbourhood, otherwise she wouldn’t have seen her purse again. Mind you, though, I’d’ve thought she’d be safe with a copper by her side. Still… just goes to show, don’t it?’

  Goaded beyond endurance Jack clenched his fists, sorely tempted to punch the self-satisfied grin off the hated face. It was with great restraint that he stifled the urge. That was exactly what Buchannon wanted him to do, and he wasn’t stupid enough to risk losing his job through his own personal vendetta.

  Rose had become uneasy at the chilly atmosphere between the two men and stepped between them. ‘That’s enough, the pair of you.’ Linking her arm through Jack’s, she said, ‘Thanks for finding my purse, Frank. I’ll sort out what I had, and give the rest in to the police station. I’m sure I wasn’t the only victim of that man this morning, and I wouldn’t like anyone else to go through what I have.’

  The surprised look that passed across Frankie’s face drew a loud chuckle from Jack, but before he could say anything else Rose dragged him out of the path of his antagonist. She wasn’t going to have them squabbling in the street like a pair of five-year-olds. Shooting Jack a warning glance to behave himself, she said to Frankie, ‘Try to pop round to see Aunt Mary, Frank. She doesn’t know you’re out yet, I thought I’d surprise her later. It’d be grand if you suddenly appeared at the door.’ If he did just that she might avoid Mary’s anger at not being told earlier. Rose had meant to break the news to her aunt that morning, but what with the rush to get ready when Jack turned up on the doorstep at the crack of dawn… she hated herself for wanting an easy way out of her problem, but nevertheless she asked hopefully, ‘Could you come round in the morning, Frank? If you make it before ten, I’ll be at home. I don’t start work until eleven tomorrow.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do, but I ain’t promising, all right?’

  Rose breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Thanks, Frank… Oh, and thanks for the purse. I’ll see you tomorrow… maybe.’

  Still clutching the furious Jack’s
arm, Rose strolled away happily. Frank wouldn’t let her down, she was sure. And once he turned up, her aunt would be so pleased to see him she’d forget her niece’s errant forgetfulness – with a bit of luck.

  Frankie watched them go, his face closed.

  Chapter Six

  ‘I told you it was a mistake, didn’t I, Rose? All along I said it was a mistake. Just those bleeding coppers out to make a name for themselves, and not worrying about sending an innocent man to prison.’ Mary was in her element, bustling around the large room that served as parlour and kitchen as fast as her swollen legs would allow, heedless of the pain she would endure later for this disregard of her infirmity. It would be a small price to pay for such a wonderful evening.

  Frankie was out of the nick, and his first port of call had been her house. Well, maybe not his first, but what difference did that make? He’d come round, hadn’t he? And him a busy man like he was. No wonder Rose had been a bit off last night: the poor girl must have been bursting to tell her about Frankie’s release but had decided to surprise her with a visit from the man himself.

  And what a surprise it had been when Frank had poked his head around the parlour door, his mischievous grin lighting up the room. And not just the room either. Seeing him standing in the doorway, as large as life, his handsome face beaming down at her in that familiar, loving way, she had been filled with such a surge of emotion that she had felt fit to burst. Thank goodness she’d had a good tidy-up this morning while Rose was out down Petticoat Lane. The mantelpiece, dotted with ornaments on either side of the old bronze clock, was shining, as was the glass-fronted cabinet by the wall. The double bed in the corner by the window was covered with a new patchwork quilt she’d made, adding a splash of gaiety to the room. The table was covered in her best white embroidered cloth, and the woven rugs that lay atop the scrubbed, faded oilcloth had been given a good beating that morning. She had even ironed her best antimacassars to cover the backs of the battered armchairs. It was as if she’d had a sixth sense about the impending visit. And it wasn’t just a five-minute visit either. Oh, no!