Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahil 03]

by Deadly Affairs

  “What is going on here? I have come to use the telephone,” he said. His gaze went from Bragg, to Francesca, to Maggie.

  Francesca stood. “Good morning. Or should I say, ‘Good afternoon’?” Her tone was cool. She hadn’t seen him since she had endured an hour of brandies with him and Bartolla Saturday night. She was not about to approve of his admiration for Sarah Channing’s cousin.

  “My, someone is snippy today.” He smiled, but at Maggie. “Hullo, Mrs. Kennedy. This is a rather pleasant surprise.”

  Maggie lowered her gaze. “Mr. Cahill.”

  Evan gave Bragg a cool look. “Surely this is not police business?”

  “It is,” Bragg said. “But we are almost through.”

  Evan stared at him, unsmiling. Then he said, “My sister is surely not involved in another case.”

  “Your sister has a mind and a will of her own,” Bragg said calmly.

  Evan looked at her. “Let’s have a word, Fran.”

  “Can’t it wait?” She was incredulous. But she knew what was really bothering Evan. It wasn’t her involvement in another investigation; now that he knew Bragg was married, Evan wished to keep them apart.

  “It cannot,” Evan said flatly.

  “I can’t leave now,” Francesca returned.

  Bragg made a sound of exasperation. “Mrs. Kennedy. I shall speak personally with your supervisor, but for the time being, you are not to go to work.”

  She faced him, wide-eyed and earnest and imploring. “Even if you speak with him, they will have to replace me, as we have quotas to fill every day!”

  He took her hands, sitting beside her. “You will not be able to feed your children if you meet the same fate as your friends,” he said quietly.

  She cried out.

  “What the hell is this?” Evan demanded.

  He was ignored. Maggie started to cry.

  Francesca came forward. “I shall go down to your flat and bring the children here. We certainly have enough rooms.”

  Maggie looked at her. “But your parents?”

  Bragg also regarded her. “Yes, Francesca. Your parents shall have to be told.”

  A headache began. “Very well,” she said rather testily. “In fact”—she turned to Evan—“you may help me present my case.”

  “And what case is that?” he asked with sheer suspicion.

  “Mrs. Kennedy may be the next target of the madman behind the Cross Murders. She must stay here, and she has four children.”

  Evan’s eyes were wide. He faced Maggie. “Of course you must stay with us. No murderer could possibly get in here.”

  She met his gaze for a fleeting second. “Thank you. You are kind.” Her tone was so low it was almost inaudible.

  “Fran? I can help you pick up her children if you want,” Evan said.

  Francesca softened. “You would do that?”

  “Of course I would. Even if you are entirely wrong about me and the contessa,” he said.

  She flushed. “If I am wrong, then I do apologize.”

  “Thank you,” he said.

  Bragg gave them both a look. “May I finish, please? With some privacy?”

  “I shall go have my carriage readied,” Evan said. He smiled at Maggie. “Have no fear, Mrs. Kennedy. Between us all, you are in good hands.”

  She nodded, not looking at him.

  He appeared a bit bewildered, but then he shrugged. “Meet me out front in ten minutes,” he told Francesca. He strode out.

  Bragg turned back to Maggie while Francesca sat down beside her. “What about your other friend, Lizzie O’Brien? You said the four of you were best friends?”

  Maggie nodded. “Very much so, for a good ten years. But Lizzie moved away about a year and a half ago. I think she lives in Philadelphia now, but she originally moved to Pittsburgh. Or maybe it is the other way around. I can’t remember. In any case, Mary was the last one to hear from her, and that was six months ago, or even longer.”

  Bragg absorbed that. Finally he asked, “Did Mike O’Donnell know her as well?”

  Maggie looked up, surprised. “Before he met Kathleen, they were childhood sweethearts,” she said.

  TWELVE

  MONDAY, FEBRUARY 10, 1902—3:00 P.M.

  Francesca was afraid that Lydia Stuart would be out to lunch as well, but fortunately she was home, and she received Francesca immediately in the same small salon as the day before. Francesca and Evan had already brought all the Kennedy children to the Cahill mansion, where Maggie had been given two adjoining rooms. She had been overwhelmed by the hospitality, and Francesca had left her instructing her children on how to behave, with Evan being poked and prodded by her youngest, her little dark-haired daughter, Lizzie.

  As they greeted each other now, Francesca noticed that fatigue had etched shadows beneath Lydia’s eyes. As she had yesterday, she seemed worried and anxious.

  “This is unexpected, Miss Cahill,” Lydia said, gesturing for Francesca to take a chair. She managed a tight smile.

  “I hope I am not disturbing you, but I do need to speak to you again,” Francesca said. “Is Mr. Stuart home?”

  Lydia appeared to consider her question. “No. He has a small lighting business, and I do not expect him until this evening.” She hesitated. “Although his hours have been odd of late. Miss Cahill, perhaps this is not a good idea!”

  Francesca started. “Do you mean you have no wish for me to continue this investigation?”

  Lydia seemed on the verge of tears. “Yes, that is what I mean. I must be wrong about Lincoln.”

  Francesca was so surprised, for a moment she could not speak. Then, “Perhaps you are wrong about him. Lydia, yesterday I followed your husband to a cemetery,” she said softly. “Not to Mrs. Hopper’s.”

  Lydia’s eyes widened. “What?”

  “The Greenlawn Cemetery, which is quite a bit north of the city. I was as surprised as you are. In any case, he did not visit Mrs. Hopper.”

  Lydia seemed overcome with relief, and she sank into the big yellow chair. “I am very pleased,” she finally said. “I just haven’t known what to think.”

  Francesca finally took an ottoman in red and white. On the day Lydia had first approached her, and that had been Thursday, she had been adamant in her belief that her husband was unfaithful. “Lydia? Whom did he pay his respects to?”

  “His mother. She died recently, four months ago. Just a month after our wedding.”

  “I am so sorry.” It crossed Francesca’s mind that something was off-kilter here, but she was tired and worried about Maggie and could not grasp what her mind was trying to tell her. “I hadn’t realized you were newlyweds.”

  “We were married in September.” Her smile was faint. “I know; it is rather old to be married for the first time at twenty-five. I am very lucky.” Her tone dropped as she finished her words.

  Clearly, Francesca thought, she was unhappy and disturbed. “Are you certain you wish for me to drop the case?” she asked.

  Again Lydia hesitated. “He will be upset if he ever learns of this,” she said quickly. “He caught you here yesterday. I think he is suspicious!”

  “But we have every right to be friends,” Francesca said.

  “Miss Cahill, we are well-to-do, but rather simple gentlefolk. You are a millionaire’s daughter; your sister is a baroness, your brother the heir to a huge fortune. Our paths will probably cross here and there in society, but not often. I am sure your friends are all more prominently placed than I.”

  “But I have never given a hoot about wealth or position or blue blood,” Francesca said with a smile. “And I do expect for us to become real friends.”

  Lydia started, and her eyes filled with tears. “That is so nice of you,” she whispered.

  “So why are you concerned about your husband’s affections?”

  She sighed. “He has become so distant from me—so quickly. And I have done nothing to change his feelings for me!” she added with anguish.

  “Perhaps he i
s mourning his mother’s passing. Perhaps it is nothing more than that.”

  Lydia finally nodded. “Perhaps that is the case. Lincoln adored his mother. I found her a rather difficult woman, but his feelings for her were appropriate.” She sighed again. “And Rebecca Hopper is very beautiful, and she is also very obvious. Clearly she wishes to entice my husband away from me. Of her intentions I have no doubt.” Lydia stood, suddenly angry as well as anxious. Her fists were clenched.

  Francesca also stood. “Give me another day or two,” she said gently, “before we drop the case.”

  “Of course,” Lydia said automatically. And the salon door opened, causing her to stiffen with surprise and then fear.

  For Lincoln poked his head inside, smiling. “Good afternoon, ladies,” he said.

  Francesca smiled, but she was looking from husband to wife. Lincoln seemed amused, and Lydia was frozen, and had they not just been discussing her husband, her expression might have been comical, but it was not.

  “Am I intruding?” he asked, opening the door fully and stepping into the room. He was carrying a gift-wrapped parcel. He kissed his wife’s cheek. If he had overheard them, he was hiding it, and well. “I see you are entertaining Miss Cahill once again. How wonderful, dear.”

  Lydia nodded. “Yes. Lincoln, are you not well? It is so early for you to come home.” Her lips barely moved as she spoke.

  “I just could not stay away, my dear,” he said. “Have you been out?”

  “No, no, I have a bit of a migraine, and I have been at home all day,” Lydia said in a rush. She was eerily white.

  “Miss Cahill, I am pleased to see my beautiful young wife making friends.” He smiled at Francesca.

  For the first time, Francesca noticed that his blue gaze was very sharp and incisive. In fact, it was a bit unsettling as it slid over her from head to toe. “Well, ladies do love to chat and gossip. I was hoping that Lydia might join me for a walk on the Ladies Mile.”

  “It is snowing,” he said lightly.

  Inwardly Francesca winced. In fact, he was right, and already an inch of new snow had accumulated on the streets. “Or perhaps a drive in the park? Central Park is always so magical after a snowstorm.”

  “I shall go another time,” Lydia said hoarsely. “Perhaps tomorrow? I have heard we shall have several inches overnight.”

  Francesca wondered how Lincoln Stuart could not notice. that his wife was stricken with anxiety and discomfort now.

  “Dear? This is for you,” Lincoln said, handing his wife the wrapped parcel. The paper was a bright red, tied with a darker red ribbon. Francesca found the choice of colors somber and even grim.

  “Oh, Lincoln, this is so thoughtful of you.”

  “Open it, and then I shall leave you ladies to your gossip.”

  Francesca was intending to leave, but she was curious as to what his gift contained, as the nature of it might very well indicate his feelings for his bride. So she did not remark that her departure was imminent. She watched Lydia remove the ribbon and wrapper, her hands trembling slightly. A leather-bound volume with a title engraved in gold was revealed.

  Her husband had bought her a book? Francesca sensed that Lydia was the kind of woman who would prefer jewels from Tiffany’s or French lingerie.

  She wondered what kind of book it was.

  “This volume was edited by a friend of mine who works at Harper’s Weekly. Lydia loves poetry. Don’t you, dear?” Lincoln looked from Francesca to his wife.

  Francesca stiffened with surprise. Lincoln was giving his wife a collection of poems? Of course, it meant nothing. It was a coincidence, and not at all related to the threatening poem she had received last night.

  Lydia clasped the book, appearing pale now, but with what emotion? Francesca could have sworn it was fright. “You have taught me so much,” she whispered.

  Lincoln seemed very pleased, and he turned to Francesca, his gaze sliding over her frankly. But he did not speak.

  Francesca found her voice. “What a wonderful gift,” she said. But she was filled with tension now, for nothing felt right in that room, nothing at all. Or was she imagining the hint of danger in the air? “I think I shall go, actually. As you are here to spend the afternoon with your wife.” She smiled at Lincoln. She realized that his pale blue eyes had been unwavering upon her for some time.

  “Am I chasing you away?” he asked, walking with her to the door. “That was not my intention.”

  “Oh, no,” she tried to reassure him. She smiled at Lydia. “Shall we lunch tomorrow? Or drive in the park?”

  Lydia nodded, but she was clearly speechless now, and she said not a word.

  “Henry, please escort Miss Cahill out!” Lincoln called. He smiled at Francesca one last time as a manservant appeared, and then he returned to the salon where his wife stood motionless in the center of the room, closing the door behind him.

  For one moment Francesca did not move, her mind spinning wildly. She tried to stop her nearly hysterical thoughts. It was a coincidence that Lincoln Stuart was giving his wife a book of poems.

  But now she wished to read some of those poems.

  Francesca was escorted across the hall and handed her coat. She wondered if she should have asked Lydia if she had ever met Lizzie O’Brien while in Philadelphia. But the odds of that were astronomically low.

  Jennings was waiting for her outside. Previously, when Francesca had arrived, the curb had been empty. Now a handsome carriage with a chestnut mare was parked beside the Cahill brougham. It was terribly familiar.

  Francesca stared.

  And a servant in tan trousers and a long black jacket appeared from the other side of the coach. Francesca did not move. It seared her mind that this coach and driver was the same vehicle and man she had seen outside St. Mary’s just a few hours ago.

  An image of the mysterious woman in navy blue, hurrying past her and Maggie Kennedy, her head down, filled Francesca’s astonished mind.

  An image of Lydia, standing frozen in the parlor in a pale yellow-and-white dress, followed.

  Lydia had been at Mary O’Shaunessy’s funeral.

  Francesca was almost certain. She ran over to the driver. “Wait! Young man! I must speak with you!”

  He was standing with his hands in his coat pockets, clearly waiting for his master or mistress to appear. He seemed startled. “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Who do you work for?”

  His confusion increased. “Mr. Stuart. Do you mind me asking why?”

  She wet her lips, feeling frantic. “Did you take Mrs. Stuart to the funeral at St. Mary’s earlier today?”

  He seemed to square his shoulders. His complexion was already impossibly fair, so it was hard to tell if he blanched or not. “I beg your pardon?” he said.

  “I must know if Mrs. Stuart was at that funeral!” Francesca cried.

  He hesitated. His gaze went to a point past Francesca—to a point that was behind her.

  She turned.

  Lincoln Stuart stood on the front steps of the house. “Tom!” he called. “You can put the coach away. We won’t be needing it until tonight.”

  “Yes, sir,” the driver said, instantly taking the mare by the bridle to lead her away.

  And across the distance separating them, a distance of twenty feet, no more, as the house had no grounds and no yard, Francesca locked gazes with Lincoln Stuart.

  “May I help you?” he asked, his stare unwavering.

  She shook her head and hurried to her own carriage.

  It simply made no sense. Why would Lydia have gone to Mary O’Shaunessy’s funeral?

  Her husband had given her a book of poems.

  What if her husband had been the one to go to the funeral?

  But a woman in navy blue had gotten into the coach. Could it have been someone else? Could someone have borrowed the Stuart coach? Could Rebecca Hopper have borrowed the coach? Had Stuart been in the coach when the woman had gotten into it?

  Lydia had said she had been ho
me all day with a migraine. Still, she was small and slim, just like the woman in navy blue.

  And Francesca finally realized what so bothered her about Lincoln Stuart. His eyes were so thoroughly dispassionate.

  “What are you doing now, Francesca?”

  Francesca started at the sound of her mother’s voice. She had been so preoccupied that she couldn’t even recall leaving the carriage and entering the house. But she still had her coat, hat, and gloves on.

  “You are standing there like a statue,” Julia said with some concern. She peered closely at her daughter.

  Francesca forced herself to think about her current predicament. “Has Evan spoken to you?”

  Julia smiled, not particularly pleasantly, and she put her hands on her trim hips. She was wearing a moss green silk jacket and a matching skirt. “Do you mean has he mentioned that you have a guest—a seamstress with four children? He gave me an absurd story, Francesca, that you have ordered a vast wardrobe and she will be staying here until it is completed.” Her expression indicated that she did not believe a word and that she was waiting for the truth.

  Francesca sighed. She was simply too stunned to lie. She handed a servant her coat and gloves. “Mama, Maggie Kennedy’s two best friends were brutally murdered. We are afraid for her life.”

  Julia paled. “I thought you had promised to give up sleuthing!”

  “And I meant it. And then Maggie came to me begging me to help her find the madman who killed Mary and, as it turned out, her other dear friend, Kathleen.”

  Julia looked around and Francesca realized she wished to sit. She was definitely pale. “Mama? Are you all right?”

  “No, I do believe my heart has stopped.”

  Francesca reached for her arm, but Julia shook it off. She entered the closest room, the largest of the three salons on the hall, and sat down in the nearest chair. She picked up a delicate silver ashtray and used it to fan herself.

  “We believe Maggie may be the madman’s next target,” Francesca said. “I offered her our hospitality.”

  “I think I preferred it when you were consoling prisoners on Blackman’s Island. This is too much, Francesca.”