by Brenda Joyce
"Of course it is not," Lydia said, with a smile that seemed strained. She turned to the manservant at the door. "That will be all, Thomas. Please close the door as you go." As they waited for him to leave, Francesca felt guilty for not dealing with her client's problem. The moment Thomas was gone, the door solidly closed behind him, Lydia faced her. "Mr. Stuart is not at home," she said nervously. "I can imagine where he is, and with whom."
"Mrs. Stuart," Francesca began, feeling terrible for not having news to deliver.
"Please, you must call me Lydia!" she cried. "Did you find out if he is doing what I think he is?" she asked.
"No, I did not," Francesca began.
"What?" Her expression changed; she seemed stunned.
"I am so sorry, but two innocent young women have been brutally murdered, and I have been working with the police on solving the murders."
Lydia blinked at her. "Oh. I see."
"But I will not let you down," Francesca said firmly. "It is just that everything has happened so quickly."
Lydia nodded, seeming terribly upset. Suddenly she stiffened, her eyes widening. "Oh, dear!" she cried.
"What is it?" Francesca asked—as the door to the salon opened.
Lydia pasted an artificial smile on her face and turned. "Darling, I did not expect you back," she said brightly. But her tone was strained.
A gentleman of medium height with graying hair, a beard, and a mustache entered the room. His gaze moved from his wife to Francesca; he was smiling. "Hello, dear." He kissed her warmly and turned to Francesca.
"This is Miss Francesca Cahill," Lydia said. "She is a new friend; we met the other night at that music reception! I am so pleased she has called." She took Francesca's hands. "It has been difficult, you know, as I am sure I have told you, moving here just a few months ago from Philadelphia. My husband seems to know everybody, but I know no one."
Francesca hadn't realized they were newly arrived in the city.
Lincoln Stuart faced her. He was a pleasant-looking man of medium height and build. "I am pleased to find that my wife has made a friend here." Then he squinted at her. "Why is your name so familiar?"
"Perhaps you know my father," Francesca asked quickly, "Andrew Cahill?"
"No, I do not think that I do."
Francesca could imagine why he knew her name—he might have read Kurland's article in the Sun on Thursday. She smiled at him. "Perhaps we met at the reception? Although I confess I am good with faces and I do not quite recollect yours."
"The Haverford affair?" he asked.
Francesca hesitated, darting a glance at Lydia.
"No, darling, the Bledding music reception; remember that stunning trio from Saint Petersburg? That young man on the violin was so superb!" She was perspiring and it was obvious.
But Lincoln did not seem to realize how tense and uncomfortable his own wife was. He studied Francesca very closely. "How odd, that I cannot place you," he said.
"Well, I am sure we will both recall where it is that we have met," Francesca said lightly.
"Yes, I am sure." He smiled. Then he said to his wife, "Darling, I forgot my cigars. I am off now, but I shall be back for supper. Say, at seven or so?"
"That is perfect," Lydia said swiftly.
Lincoln bowed to Francesca and they exchanged goodbyes, and then he left the room.
A short silence reigned. "He knows," Lydia whispered. "He knows I have hired you to spy upon him."
She was frightened. Francesca gripped her hand. "Balderdash," she said. "But this is the perfect opportunity. You think he is off to Mrs. Hopper's?"
Lydia nodded fearfully.
Francesca squeezed her hand. "Then I am following him!" Francesca cried.
"Now?" Lydia gasped.
"Now," Francesca said.
It became obvious almost instantly that Lincoln Stuart was not going to Rebecca Hopper's. His coach traveled north, bewildering Francesca, especially once he had traveled past Central Park. She could not imagine where he was going; this far north of the city, the land was undeveloped, consisting mostly of pasture and cows. On 103d Street, his carriage turned onto an even more desolate stretch of avenue with an occasional farmhouse in evidence. Her cabbie dutifully followed, keeping a city block between Francesca and her quarry. And finally, well over an hour after leaving the Stuart home downtown, Lincoln Stuart's carriage cruised to a halt.
On the west side was a huge meadow that was unenclosed and dotted with oak trees. On the east side of the road, where his carriage had stopped, was a cemetery.
Her first reaction was disbelief, and as Lincoln alighted from the coach, her second was to wonder if Kathleen O'Donnell was buried there.
Francesca watched him walking slowly through a pair of wide iron gates. They had been closed but not locked, and he pushed them open. Her mind raced. There was simply no connection between Stuart and the murders, but arriving at a cemetery was so completely unexpected. Then she realized that her cab was slowing.
She pounded on the partition. "Do not stop," she ordered her cabbie. "Keep going. Go right past the coach, please!"
"Whatever you want, miss," the driver said, and the black cab and bay horse cruised past the Stuart carriage.
As it did so, Francesca ducked back against the seat where she sat so Stuart might not glimpse her inside the hansom, in case he turned to look at them, as they were the only other vehicle on the road. A moment later, she dared to peek out of her window, back toward the cemetery. He did not seem to be looking; he was slowly walking up a dirt path among a dozen headstones.
Francesca was thoroughly perplexed. But she had seen enough for now. "Driver! We are going back to the city, please."
The letter was waiting for her on her desk inside of her bedroom when she returned.
Francesca was actually very organized, although one would not think so to look at her desk, which was usually an indecipherable mass of books and papers. Now, however, it was very neatly organized; a maid had clearly cleaned it earlier that day. In fact, Francesca's books and notebooks were arranged in such a manner that the pristine white envelope was the first thing she saw upon entering her bedroom, as it sat propped up in the desk's center.
Her mind remained filled with questions about Lincoln Stuart; now she moved swiftly to her desk, curious, and realized the envelope was not marked. It had not been posted—someone had delivered it to her. In fact, it might not even be meant for her, as her name was not anywhere on the envelope.
She opened it and pulled out a sheet of paper.
A poem had been typed there in block letters. It read:
A SIGH
ONE WHISPER
A LIE
THREE LASSES
MUST DIE
ELEVEN
Sunday, February 9, 1902—6:00 P.M.
Peter answered the door—with Dot.
Francesca could hardly concentrate on the child, who shrieked with pleasure upon seeing her. "Frack, Frack, Frack!" she cried.
Somehow, she lifted the two-year-old into her arms, and of course instantly Dot began to struggle to get down.
"Where is he?" Francesca asked breathlessly. She had phoned police headquarters and had been told that Bragg was on his way home; upon telephoning his house, she found the line busy. Jennings had driven to Madison Square at a breakneck speed. Francesca thought they had managed the trip in ten or twelve minutes; fortunately, this hour on a Sunday did not have a lot of street traffic.
"He is in the study," Peter said.
Francesca shoved Dot into his arms and ran down the hall. She did not knock. He started when she raced into the small room, where a fire glowed in the hearth. Bragg was standing at his desk. "Francesca?"
She handed him the poem.
He looked at the page and paled. "Where did you find this?"
She was already closing his door. She leaned against it. "On my desk."
"On your desk?" His eyes widened.
"In my bedroom. I had just returned from following my client's husband�
��to a cemetery!" she cried. "Bragg, there is going to be another victim."
Bragg stared. It was a moment before he spoke. "The killer delivered his warning to you—not to me or to the police. I want you off of this case."
She cried out. "But that's impossible!"
"Is it? Do you have any more doubts that we are dealing with a madman?" He lifted the telephone. Francesca listened as he asked Inspector Murphy to meet him in his office. He then said, "Have we located Sam Carter yet? ... All right. Pick up Mike O'Donnell. Bring him to headquarters. Charge him with anything you can think of. I imagine a drunk and disorderly will do. I'll be down shortly." He hung up.
Francesca had folded her arms across her chest. "Did they find Sam Carter?"
"No."
"Now we must hope that Mike O'Donnell is our man. Bragg? I know this is unlikely, but is Kathleen buried at the Greenlawn Cemetery on One Hundred and Third Street?"
"No. She's buried downtown. Surely you do not have some reason to believe that Stuart is involved in these murders?"
"No." Relief did fill her. It crossed her mind that she must ask Lydia what her husband had been doing at that cemetery, but she would do so at another time. "How can I help?" she asked quietly. "Please, do not tell me I cannot!"
"Francesca." He put on his jacket. "Someone delivered this death threat to you. Carter, O'Donnell, and O'Connor all know you are working on this case. Who else knows?"
She hesitated. "My brother."
"Who else?"
"No one," she said. "Except for your officers." Suddenly she recalled Bartolla's presence last night at the house. "And Bartolla Benevente."
He clearly dismissed that. "Perhaps Maggie Kennedy has told a friend or friends about asking you for help?"
"I can ask her," she said thoughtfully.
"That is what you can do then," he said. "But not tonight. I imagine she will be at the funeral tomorrow. Which servant put the poem on your desk?" He took her arm and guided her to the door.
"I haven't had time to ask." Suddenly she froze, balking at leaving the room. "Bragg, my parents are at home. You cannot come round now and start asking questions."
"Unfortunately, I will have to do just that, unless you can learn which servant put the note on your desk. I must interview him or her, the sooner the better."
She was relieved. "I will inquire tonight. Shall I call you the moment I learn anything?"
"Leave Peter a message. I may not be home for some time," he said.
She followed him down the hall. "Do you expect O'Donnell to confess?"
"No. But I shall pressure him and watch him squirm." He eyed her but called, "Peter! I am off. Where is Katie?" He sounded suspicious and irritable now.
Peter had appeared in the doorway of the dining room, with Dot in hand. The little girl grinned at them. Francesca could not smile back. "She is in the kitchen, refusing to eat," he said.
To Francesca's amazement, Bragg stalked past Peter. Francesca followed him into the kitchen. He paused before the little girl, who glanced at him with a sullen expression. "Do you think to starve?" he demanded.
She didn't respond.
"Frankly, I could hardly care whether you eat or not," he said. "I am not a rich man, and that leaves more for myself."
She glowered at him.
"I did not ask to have you and your sister brought here. In fact, tomorrow you shall both be sent to another home."
The stare was unwavering. Or did she quickly blink?
"I look forward to the day. Why would I want to keep such a sullen child in my home, one who thinks to starve herself to death? Not to mention the fact that your sister is annoyingly messy. So do not eat. Go to your new foster parents tomorrow hungry. Perhaps they will be even poorer than myself." He looked at Peter. "Have them ready to leave this house at nine A.M."
"Bragg?" Francesca was disbelieving.
"I have had enough," he said, stalking out.
Francesca did not move, stunned and incredulous.
Tears filled Katie's eyes.
"It's all right," Francesca began soothingly.
Katie picked up her fork and stabbed at a piece of meat, then glared at the doorway where Bragg had disappeared.
Francesca started.
Katie glared at her and jammed the piece of beef into her mouth. Another glare followed with little or no apparent chewing action.
Peter caught Francesca's eye. She understood that he wanted her to leave. Francesca did so, but at the last moment she glanced over her shoulder and caught Katie swallowing. She grimaced as if she were ingesting medicine.
"That was a bit harsh, don't you think?" Francesca said to Bragg in the hallway.
"My mood is not a pleasant one," he responded. "Dot still dislikes me—now I suspect she is following her sister's lead. I have simply had enough. Is she eating?" They stepped outside. The temperature was dropping precipitously, and Francesca shivered.
"Yes, she is, or at least, she did take one bite."
His hand shot up to hail a cab, and she saw him hide a smile. Then, appearing stern and grim again, he said,
"She hasn't eaten for two days. I had Dr. Byrnes over."
"Oh, dear," Francesca said. "I didn't realize it was so serious."
"It is." The cab was approaching, the bay in its traces trotting down the icy cobbled street. "There was another poem, Francesca," he said.
"What?" she gasped, his abrupt statement so surprising her that she stumbled on a patch of blue ice, but righted herself by grabbing onto him.
He steadied her as the hansom halted at the curb. "There was a poem found in Mary O'Shaunessy's room—the room she slept in at the Jansons'."
For a heartbeat she could only stare. "Oh, dear God. What did it say?"
He smiled grimly at her. He said, " 'A sigh, one whisper, a lie. Two lasses, good-bye.' "
Monday, February 10, 1902—noon
In order to attend Mary O'Shaunessy's funeral, which had been arranged by her priest and Maggie Kennedy, Francesca would have to miss her afternoon class. There was no possible way she could return from St. Mary's downtown where the service was being held and make her class or even a part of it. The realization, as she traveled across town in a quickly hired cab, was sobering: she was so far behind now in all of her classes that she might have to take a leave of absence for the semester. It was either that, give up sleuthing, or fail.
But the semester had only just begun, and while Francesca was new to criminal investigations, her previous experience with both the Burton Abduction and the Randall Killing had shown her that cases could be solved swiftly. It took but one big lead. There was a chance that they might find the madman behind the Cross Murders at any time, and then she would be able to recover her grades.
As long as another case did not come her way.
As Francesca's cab pulled up at the curb in front of the gray stone church on East 16th Street, she pondered the fact that her own maid, Bessie, had found the envelope with the poem in it on the calling card tray in the front hall. Whoever had left it there—and Francesca assumed it was the killer—had simply walked into the house to do so. His audacity was frightening.
Two men were entering St. Mary's Chapel. She paid her cabbie and alighted; unlike the funeral she had been to only a week ago, these men were in rough wool coats and black wool caps, not dark suits and bowler hats.
Francesca entered the church. Inside, the mass had begun, and she quickly took a seat in the back on the aisle. She quickly scanned the crowd, which was thin. She did not see Mike O'Donnell, but perhaps he had been picked up last night and was already in custody. Bragg sat in the front pew, with Peter and the two girls. Francesca did not know why she was surprised to see them all there, but she was. Yet the girls had to attend their mother's funeral. So much had happened so quickly that somehow Francesca hadn't thought of it. And even from this distance, Francesca could see that Katie's tiny shoulders were ramrod straight. Was she crying? Had she cried at all since her mother had di
ed? Francesca's heart went out to them both, lurching hard, with incredible sadness.
The Jadvics were present as well. Mrs. Jadvic and her elderly mother sat in the second aisle, with a man Francesca assumed was Mrs. Jadvic's husband.
Francesca saw a number of young working women in the center aisles, and she assumed they were Mary's friends and co-workers. Then she squinted with suspicion at a man in black with a head of white hair. Was that Father O'Connor? She felt almost certain that it was. But why would he be present?
He claimed to have met Mary once.
Suddenly the woman in the black hat and veil in front of her turned. She smiled a little at Francesca. "Hello," she whispered.
It was Maggie Kennedy. Her eyes were red, as was the tip of her nose, and Francesca realized she had been crying. They briefly squeezed palms. "I need to speak with you before you leave, after the mass," Francesca said softly.
Maggie nodded and turned back to the front of the church.
Suddenly Francesca felt that she had attracted attention, possibly for whispering during the service. She looked around and saw a woman in a well-made navy blue coat, a matching hat pulled low over her face, its half-veil shielding her features, looking her way. The woman seemed familiar. Francesca stiffened. But the woman in navy blue instantly turned away.
Who was that? Francesca thought, disturbed and racking her brain. And whoever it was, she did not belong there, at the funeral, as her clothes were those of a gentlewoman.
Francesca and Maggie paused outside the church. It had begun to flurry; the news was calling for heavy snow later that night. "How are you?" Francesca asked as the fat white flakes drifted slowly about them.
"I am fine, thank you," Maggie said evenly, but she did not appear composed and her tone was hoarse. "Thank you for taking care of the girls," she added. "I was so worried about them."
"It was the least I could do. I only wish that I could have brought them home with me." She smiled a bit, but could not tell Maggie why that hadn't been possible. "Maggie, I do have a few questions for you, but I am a bit worried about Katie. Has she always been sullen and even hostile?"
