“I am hardly surprised.” He smiled at her.
“The Stuarts are dining. The ball will go on well past midnight. I think we should go over to their house right now and see if we can turn up anything interesting.”
“It’s funny that you should say that. That is my intention precisely.”
Excitement flooded her. “We can walk right out without anyone but servants seeing us go.”
“Do you not have to make your excuses?”
“I will have a servant tell Evan that I have gone home with a terrible migraine.” She grinned at him.
The front door was locked, of course. But the back door was not.
No staff seemed present as they stepped into the kitchen pantry. Francesca glanced at Bragg, and she smiled. There was a half-moon out and several street lamps were on, so she knew he could just make out her expression. “You will be impressed,” she whispered.
He waited and she opened her small evening bag, removing a candle.
“I beg your pardon?” he said.
“I made a list of items I should always carry with me after the Burton Affair. But it was not until we solved the Randall Killing that I actually got round to keeping the items at hand. I also have a match.” She was somewhat gleeful.
“No. What the hell is this?” He pulled her tiny pistol out of the bag.
She blinked. “Why, it is a gun.”
“I do not like this, Francesca.” He had not kept his voice down.
“Bragg, it is for self-protection.”
“Self-protection!” He was incredulous. “The next time you met up with a real thug, someone like Gordino or Carter, he could rip this out of your hand! A bullet from this will hardly stop them—unless your aim is to kill.”
She winced. Now was not the time to tell him that she had recently encountered Gordino and that the midnight encounter with Carter had spurred her to carry her weapon at all times. “I hope to never have to use it,” she said.
“Balderdash,” he snapped.
He deposited the gun in her purse and took the matches from her. “Is it loaded?” he asked.
She nodded. She had figured out how to load it while en route to school yesterday. On her way home, she had purchased the necessary bullets.
“We shall discuss this later,” he said, lighting the candle. “But you are not carrying a gun, Francesca, and that is that.”
She led the way out of the pantry. “That is hardly a discussion.”
He ignored her as they quickly crossed the small kitchen. The Stuarts’ home was an older one, built perhaps fifty years ago. While it was not half of a larger residence, the rooms were small and the layout typical of Victorian homes. They went through a small dining room, also unlit. “The staff probably sleeps out. Which means no one is here, as their driver will be at the Channing affair.”
Francesca thought so, too. “That must be the library. I would like to go upstairs and through their personal rooms.”
“Those are my sentiments exactly,” Bragg said, but he paused at the library door, which was closed. “However, I shall do a brief search here. One never knows.”
Francesca met his gaze and nodded. As he slipped into the room, she turned, suddenly acutely aware of being alone in a house of shadows, guided by the small taper in her hand. Suddenly uneasy, she started up the stairs. She reminded herself that Bragg was but a shout away and would never let anything happen to her. She also reminded herself that Mike O’Donnell knew both victims, as well as Maggie and Lizzie, and he would probably prove to be their man. Still, Lizzie having used the Stuarts’ Philadelphia home as an address for her mail simply had to be explained.
The steps creaked underfoot. Francesca worried with each groan of wood, but reminded herself that the Stuarts would not be home for hours and hours. Still, she would not relish confronting Lincoln while alone in his home—not that that would ever occur.
There were two rooms upstairs. As Francesca stepped into one, she saw that it was a spare bedroom that was not used at all—sheets covered the furniture there. She quickly opened the adjacent door, and upon seeing the large four-poster bed she knew this was the master bedroom. She hesitated, glancing around.
There was a Chinese lacquer screen in one corner, and a large tufted chair and ottoman were in front of a small hearth, which was dark. An upholstered bench was at the foot of the bed, and two end tables were on its either side. There was a secretary in the room’s farthest corner. It was a dainty piece—Lydia would be the one to use it.
Francesca walked over to the mantel but saw nothing but two photos atop it, one a wedding photo, the other a picture of an older woman, who she guessed was Lincoln’s deceased mother. She moved to one end table by the bed.
A cross was there. Francesca hesitated, as it was a small and dainty pendant hanging on a delicate gold chain. It obviously belonged to Lydia, but a cross did not make her a murderess.
Francesca opened the bureau’s single drawer. There was a folded piece of paper there, and she quickly opened it. The letter was from Mary. Her stunned mind tried to comprehend why Lydia would be receiving a short note from Mary when she held up the candle and realized that the letter had been penned to her husband, Lincoln. It said:
Dear Sir,
I am writing to tell you that, as much as I have enjoyed meeting you, I simply cannot accept your invitation to dine. The reason speaks for itself. Were you an eligible man, I would be more than happy to further our acquaintance. In fact, my regrets are deep.
Sincerely,
Mary O’Shaunessy
Francesca sat down on the bed, stunned.
Lincoln and Mary?
Lincoln Stuart had been romantically pursuing Mary O’Shaunessy?
Which would explain why he had been at the funeral, if he had been, or maybe Lydia had gone to catch her husband grieving for another woman. She did not move. But did this mean that Lincoln had killed Mary?
No, it most certainly did not—although it could, as Mary had rejected him. Still, Francesca sensed that Mary had liked Lincoln—and only her strong sense of virtue had kept her away from him.
A killer was out there who had viciously murdered two young women who had been close friends, and two other friends of theirs remained as potential victims—if Lizzie was still alive. But this did explain the funeral. Surely Lincoln had been there in disguise and Lydia had gone to catch him mourning.
Francesca had smiled grimly, then heard a door closing downstairs.
She jumped to her feet. Then she tried to become calm, as the door surely had been closed by Bragg.
But it had sounded like the front door.
She folded the letter and tucked it into her bodice. She hesitated, then ran to the other side of the bed, quickly opening the table drawer there. She saw some loose change, some receipts, and a small Bible.
Was Lincoln a religious man? She had no doubt that this was his side of the bed.
She froze, straining to hear. She thought she had heard footsteps on the stairs. What if it was not Bragg?
Suddenly a man entered the room. She almost cried out, but he approached her too swiftly for her to do so, snuffing out the candle with his fingertips. It was Bragg. He grabbed her arm. “They have just returned.” He spoke in a whisper. “I found a poem downstairs. Innocent enough, although it mentions God’s master plan, and it is written in a man’s hand. Lincoln Stuart fancies himself a poet.”
“He was pursuing Mary, Bragg,” Francesca whispered. “And Lydia knew, as she had a note written by Mary to him. Is it at all possible that the two murders were not related? Perhaps she killed Mary out of jealousy.”
“No. We have a mad killer, Francesca, one who has threatened to strike again, or have you forgotten? But Lincoln lied. He claimed he did not know Mary.” He was grim. “The plot thickens. Let’s get out of here before we are discovered. Searching his home without a warrant is illegal. I shall have him brought downtown tonight for a thorough interrogation.”
Francesca had
not known that their night’s police work was illegal, and she was somewhat surprised. He took her arm when they heard footsteps on the stairs. She stiffened, her gaze going to his.
It quickly crossed her mind that if Lincoln was the killer, he had murdered two innocent women already, brutally, and he was about to murder a third. That is, he was a dangerous man, and they could be in jeopardy if he had a weapon.
She reminded herself that she had a gun. Was Bragg carrying one?
In their interlude in the study at the Channings’, she had not noticed any weapon. She doubted she would not have felt a gun if he had it tucked in his belt or elsewhere.
Francesca realized that a closet was behind them. She tugged his hand, moving her gaze significantly to it.
Bragg pulled himself free of her grasp, and he walked confidently to the door. “Hello, Stuart,” he said. “We have been hoping you would return.”
SEVENTEEN
TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 11, 1902—10:30 P.M.
Lincoln stood there with a grim and surprised expression, his wife behind him. She said, “What is this!”
“I am sorry to have intruded,” Bragg said swiftly. “Please, come inside.”
Lincoln did not move. “You can’t simply walk into my house as if you own it! How did you get in? The door was locked.”
“I am here on official police business,” Bragg said. “Unfortunately, the back door was unlocked.”
Lincoln gave Lydia an angry glance. She said, “I will speak to Giselle about this.”
He said, “I am not answering any more questions. It is late, and you have upset us both terribly—and enough for one night. This is hardly gentlemanly behavior, Commissioner.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that you knew Mary O’Shaunessy?” Bragg asked.
“What?” Lincoln turned white.
Lydia was also extremely pale. “What is this about?” she whispered.
Bragg looked at Francesca. “Why don’t you take Mrs. Stuart downstairs?”
Francesca started to reach for her, but Lydia shook her head. “I am not going anywhere!” she cried with some degree of hysteria. “What are you accusing my husband of?”
“Accusations have yet to be made.” Bragg faced Lincoln. “I should like for you to join me downtown for some questions.”
“Downtown?” he gasped.
“At police headquarters,” Bragg added.
Lincoln shook his head and then he gave a pleading look to his wife. “I don’t know Mary O’Shaunessy!” he cried. “And you cannot seize innocent citizens and drag them down to a police station.”
“Actually, you are right. However, Judge Kinney is a personal friend of mine, so if I go directly to his home, now, I can have a warrant for your arrest filled out. I can return in one hour with several police officers, and then it will be official.” He smiled. “I did forget to mention that if this scenario takes place, I will have to charge you with a crime. In this case, it would be murder.”
Lincoln did not seem to breathe. And then his eyes turned impossibly cold. He gave Francesca such a cool and chilling glance that she started and was afraid. He turned an identical glance on Bragg. “Fine. I shall go downtown with you of my own accord. But I warn you, Commissioner, you are making a mistake. A vast one.”
And Francesca thought, That is what they all seem to say.
As Francesca let herself into her own home—with a key, as the front door had been locked—she wondered if Bragg had managed to discover a link between Lincoln Stuart and all four friends. She also wondered if Maggie Kennedy was awake. Did she know Lincoln Stuart? Had she ever met him and would she recall him if she had?
And why did she now, after having left the Stuart home, have a strong feeling that Lincoln and Lydia were hiding something?
She kept thinking of a last glance that they had shared. Lincoln had remained cold and angry, Lydia had been pale and frightened, but there had been a silent communication there.
Suddenly Francesca stiffened in the act of removing her coat. Lydia had not said one word on the subject of her husband having an affair with Mary O’Shaunessy. But she had had Mary’s letter to him in her possession.
Francesca felt, in every fiber of her being, that something was terribly wrong. Of course, Lydia had come to her in the first place to hire her to discover if her husband was unfaithful. But she had pointed the finger at Rebecca Hopper, not the second murder victim. Perhaps Lydia had not discovered his actual affair with Mary until that day, and perhaps, sensing his involvement in something far more dastardly, she had decided to keep his liaison to herself, in order to protect him.
She had tried to dismiss Francesca yesterday, had she not?
Francesca hung up her coat, as no servant was in sight, which was a bit unusual. When the entire family was out for a big evening, usually a doorman or two remained to take coats and lock up the house. Of course, she was early—it was not yet eleven and Julia had specifically said that no one would be back before midnight, at the earliest.
Francesca continued to work through the puzzle. If Lydia knew her husband was a murderer, then she was an accomplice of sort to his crimes, and that was a chilling prospect. As Francesca started upstairs, she decided that she would wait to speak with Maggie in the morning, as she had been sewing round-the-clock, and that while under a terrible strain. But she felt certain that Maggie knew Lincoln. Perhaps by now Bragg had already gotten a confession from him.
Francesca pushed open her bedroom door and halted in her tracks. Why hadn’t a light been left on? No one had started a fire in the hearth, either. It was odd. More than odd. She did not move.
A tingle swept over her spine. Something wasn’t right.
And where was the staff?
Francesca reminded herself that Lincoln was on his way downtown and Mike O’Donnell remained in jail; still, she had an enemy now, and Gordino was out and about, perhaps plotting and planning revenge against her. And Sam Carter had once easily gotten into the house. No one knew where he was, even now.
Francesca opened her purse and slipped the tiny pistol into her palm. The five or six ounces of steel and pearl comforted her instantly as she strained to hear someone, something.
The house was stunningly silent.
Was it her imagination, or did her home always sound this way at the midnight hour—especially when everyone was out?
Francesca shivered. She could not recall it ever being this quiet, and everyone wasn’t out. There were four children in the house between the ages of three and eleven, for God’s sake. But they would have been sound asleep for hours and hours.
The hairs on her nape and arms stood up. She grew breathless.
Something wasn’t right. . . . Her every instinct told her that. She had better go check on Maggie.
Suddenly Francesca was afraid of finding Maggie stabbed to death with a cross carved into her throat.
She ran from her room, suddenly thinking that the hall was hardly illuminated, and the fact that Julia only kept two wall sconces lit every night and it had never bothered Francesca before no longer mattered.
The house was too dark and too silent. Why wasn’t a child crying out in his or her sleep? Why weren’t servants in the kitchen, taking one last sip of tea?
She halted, panting. The stairs leading to the next floor were in utter darkness—and how could this happen? It was as if someone had passed this way extinguishing the lights.
Above her head, she heard a door slam violently closed.
Or was it a window? What in God’s name was that?
Maggie and the children were on the third floor. Francesca ran up the stairs, clutching the gun, trying not to recall Bragg’s statement that it would be useless against a real thug. Lincoln was with Bragg; O’Donnell was also in custody. The litany was not reassuring. If Sam Carter was the murderer, he might very well be within the house, as he was brave and angry enough to do as he pleased.
Why hadn’t they left a guard with Maggie and the children?
/> She reached the third-floor landing, which was also cast in darkness, and she heard a bloodcurdling scream.
For one moment, Francesca did not know what to do. A woman had screamed—and she knew it was Maggie. An image of the redhead being stabbed assailed her, and the next thing she knew, she fired her pistol into the air, an instinctive act to create a diversion and stop the Cross Murderer from doing his deed.
The sound was shockingly loud.
Francesca cringed, afraid the bullet would ricochet down and hit her, but it did not. However, a painting fell to the floor, almost at her feet.
“Don’t move!” Lydia Stuart shouted from the open doorway of Maggie Kennedy’s room. “If you move I’ll cut her open the way we gutted fish when we were children!”
Francesca froze. Lydia had seized Maggie from behind and held a knife to her throat. Maggie was in her nightclothes; Lydia remained in her pale peach-colored evening gown. But there was nothing genteel about her now. In fact, even her speech was hard and guttural—as if she were someone else.
Maggie’s frightened gaze went to Francesca’s, and she saw the plea there even in the shadows of the hall. A banging began on another door down the hall, hard and angry.
“Don’t fuckin’ move,” Lydia snarled, tightening her hold on Maggie.
It clicked then. But first, she had to think of the children. “Where are the children?”
Lydia smiled coldly. “They’re locked in their room, Miz Cahill. You had to come along, didn’t you, an’ stick your little nose in the wrong place!”
Francesca inhaled, meeting Maggie’s terrified gaze again. “Are you all right?”
Maggie nodded.
“But she won’t be, for long, and now I have another problem, damn it,” Lydia said harshly.
Francesca swallowed hard, understanding what the other woman—the Cross Murderer—was saying, only too well. She, Francesca, knew her identity now. “You will never get away with this. Bragg will quickly realize that Lincoln has been framed—by you.”
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