by Brenda Joyce
She stood up, twisting her hands. “Please don’t make me promise that, Papa.”
He leaped to his feet. “But you must!”
“I cannot. I simply cannot.”
He was incredulous. “I do not know if I should ask this or not, but I shall. Is your refusal to make such a promise about justice, Francesca, or does it have something to do with Bragg as a man?”
She flushed, and opened her mouth to say that it was about justice, but no words came out.
“I see.” Andrew was grim.
“We are just friends, Papa,” she tried. “Truly.”
He nodded, for a moment silent. “I am a good friend of Rick’s. I truly admire him. I respect him. But he is not for you, Francesca.”
She stared, dismayed. Julia had declared the exact same thing. “Why? Because he is illegitimate?”
Andrew was surprised. “Your mother told you that?”
She nodded.
“Actually, that is a bit of a cloud, but no, that is not why. You will have to trust me on this. He is not for you, Francesca, so do not go losing your heart to a man who can never return it.”
His words were the most severe blow. “Why are you saying this to me?”
“Because I sense that I must.” He patted her shoulder. “I am sorry to upset you, dear.”
“Did Bragg say something about me? Has he indicated that he could never... become fond of me? Is there someone else?”
“Francesca, I know that you are not for him—and that he is not for you—and let us leave it at that.”
She wanted to cry but couldn’t. She didn’t. She was too stunned—and too upset.
“Now. I have a favor to ask of you,” Andrew said, changing the subject.
Francesca hardly heard him. She wished she knew why her father was being so adamant. But he was wrong—wasn’t he?
Still, as fond of her as Bragg sometimes seemed, he had canceled their outing for that day, in no uncertain terms. Taking her out at another time had not even seemed to be remotely on his mind.
Her spirits, already low due to her blunder with Calder Hart and having to tell Connie about Neil, sank even lower. “What is it, Papa?”
“It is about Evan,” Andrew said, now grim.
Francesca sat down on the edge of the sofa. “And?”
“He has not spoken to me since his engagement party. It has been a week now. He avoids me, and will do no more than nod in greeting or mutter a curt word. I know he is angry about the engagement and my refusal to pay his debts, but Francesca, he is my son. This cannot go on. You must speak with him. If anyone can make him see how he needs to change and mend his ways—and how Sarah Channing will help him to do so—it is you.” Andrew halted, his speech having been an impassioned one.
Evan was furious at being forced to marry Sarah Channing, a woman he did not love. Their father had told him that he would not pay the vast sum of Evan’s gambling debts if he did not marry Sarah. Francesca had been dismayed, of course; she wanted Evan to marry for love. She had even tried to champion his cause, but her father was adamant and he had refused to even consider changing his mind about the engagement. Now Evan was not speaking with Andrew. “Of course I will speak with him, Papa,” Francesca said.
Andrew brightened. “I knew that you would.”
“I will speak with him, but this once, I disagree with you completely. Sarah and Evan do not suit, and their engagement—and forthcoming marriage—is an utterly terrible mistake,” Francesca said.
Her father told her he would not need the second coach as he would spend the afternoon going over paperwork that he had not had a chance to do during the week at his downtown office.
What luck, Francesca thought as the coach fought the Saturday afternoon traffic on the Upper East Side. Electric trolleys, hansoms, and other elegant broughams fought for the right-of-way at every intersection. On 57th Street a police officer in his blue serge uniform was directing the traffic, but no one seemed to pay him any mind, with various gentlemen dashing about on foot through the coaches and the occasional motorcar. Bells sounded and a horn blared. Frankly, Francesca did not like using cabs and trolleys to get around the city when she was in the more unsavory and crime-ridden neighborhoods. On the Lower East Side, even when in disguise, somehow she stood out like a sore thumb. One terrible and frightening encounter during the Burton Affair had taught her that.
Georgette de Labouche’s neighborhood, however, did not distress her. Should she not find Joel, she would venture on by herself.
The traffic changed in the lower thirties, the fine coaches and carriages with their wealthy occupants disappearing, and by the time her driver was approaching 10th Street and Avenue A, most of the traffic belonged to carters, consisting of wagons filled with merchandise and wares. Vendors were hawking odd items like mittens and earmuffs, as well as toasted pretzels and spicy pigs’ ears, to the pedestrians swarming the streets, in spite of the cold. Those passing by were so bundled up it was hard to make out anyone’s gender, but Francesca knew that at this hour it was mostly poor immigrant women with too many children to look after to be able to go off to work in a factory or sweatshop.
There were one, two, or three saloons on every block now. All of the establishments were doing a brisk business indeed. Inebriated patrons, both male and female, lurched about the streets. Francesca couldn’t help recalling Bragg’s quandary. The high-minded citizens of the city, including the clergy, were adamantly opposed to the saloons operating in defiance of the Blue Laws on Sundays. Yet the police had a long history of looking the other way. Bragg was under some pressure to force closings on the Sabbath and uphold the city’s law against drinking on that day.
He had so much on his plate, but her anxiety now had little to do with his job. If only her father had explained why he insisted she stay away from Bragg romantically. Clearly Andrew knew something that she did not.
“Miss Cahill? We are here, Number Two-oh-one Avenue A,” her driver said, having opened the partition between them so he could speak to her.
“Oh! Thank you,” Francesca said, starting. She turned to get out of the carriage only to see Joel there, grinning at her.
“Where you been all day, lady?” he asked, shivering, his hands in the pockets of his baggy, ragged coat. “I been waitin’ an’ waitin’.”
Francesca beamed. “I should have known! Climb in. We are going to snoop around Miss de Labouche’s apartment and see if we can learn anything.”
Joel climbed into the carriage beside her while Francesca gave their driver the new address. “It’s two o’clock,” the boy complained.
“I know. I stopped at Calder Hart’s at noon.” Francesca told him a bit of what had happened.
Joel listened intently. “Miz Cahill, you got to avoid the commissioner. I seen how pissed he was last night. He don’t want you involved in this one.”
“I am aware of that, but it is too late, because I am already involved,” Francesca said firmly. “Have you heard anything, Joel? Is there any ‘word’ on the ‘street’?”
“Not down here, there wouldn’t be,” Joel said. “But I’ll sniff it out for you when we get to what’s-her-name’s house.”
“That would be wonderful,” Francesca said with a smile, and she patted his hand.
But Joel stiffened, his gaze directed out the window. “Hell,” he said. “Ain’t that your brother?”
“What?” Francesca peered past him.
They had turned onto Broadway and were traveling briskly uptown, following closely behind an omnibus. Francesca looked into a nearby carriage and she froze.
Evan was in the passenger seat, and so was a woman she recognized.
It was not his fiancée, Sarah Channing. It was his mistress, the gorgeous and renowned stage actress Grace Conway, and from the look of things, the affair was not over, oh no.
Francesca stared in absolute disbelief.
Georgette de Labouche’s house had become the scene of a criminal investigation, and a unifo
rmed policeman guarded the house to prevent intruders from entering and disturbing any evidence. There was no sign of any further activity at the house, which relieved Francesca.
Still, as they knocked upon the first of the neighbors’ doors, Francesca kept thinking about her brother. She adored him. He was one of her best friends. She respected him; she admired him—she did, in spite of the confession he had made to her so recently that he was astonishingly in debt, due to his penchant for gambling. Many men gambled, and Francesca knew that once this huge debt was paid off, Evan would mend his ways. Their father had promised to pay off the sum now that Evan was engaged.
How could he be out and about with his mistress? If he was now engaged, he owed Sarah Channing his loyalty as well as his heart. Francesca remained shocked at what she had seen.
And there had been no mistaking the fact that it was Evan and the stage actress, whom Francesca had glimpsed upon one other occasion, several months ago.
Suddenly, as she banged the door knocker again, a thought struck her. What if Evan was with Grace Conway simply to break things off?
Relief flooded Francesca. Her brother was a man of fine character indeed. Of course that was why he was with the gorgeous actress!
A tired-looking housemaid in an ill-fitting black dress opened the door.
Francesca smiled, handing her a calling card. “Is the master or mistress of the house in?”
The maid nodded and closed the door, not saying a word. Francesca fidgeted, glancing at Joel. He sighed. “Ain’t no real fun in bein’ off the crook,” he commented. “Sort of dull, ain’t it?”
Francesca did not know precisely what he meant by “off the crook.” “We have only just begun our investigation. Joel, have you ever heard of two sisters, Daisy and Rose Jones? They are women of ill repute.”
“Nope, but shady ladies are everywhere. Want me to make ‘em fer you?”
“Find out what you can today. I believe they reside somewhere on Forty-eighth Street and Third. If we have time, we shall pay the Randalls a visit after this, as long as no police are in sight, and tomorrow we can call on the two sisters.”
“Why?”
She grimaced a little. “Well, Bragg seems to think a certain gentleman is a possible suspect for his murder. His alibi consists of his having been with the two women I have just mentioned.” She did not want to tell Joel that Hart was a suspect.
Joel grinned. “Two, eh?”
Francesca did flush. That was a thought she had been trying to ignore. “I’m sure he was only visiting one of the sisters,” she said firmly.
Joel laughed and shook his head.
The front door of the house suddenly opened and her card was pressed into her gloved palm. “They be out,” the maid said, and she shut the door in Francesca’s face.
Francesca blinked. “How rude!” she exclaimed.
“Now what?”
Francesca didn’t even hear him. Using her fist, she banged sharply on the door again. This time, her several knocks were not answered.
Clearly the maid had no intention of answering, as clearly her employers had instructed her that they would not receive Francesca.
“Leatherhead is sure interested in us, or you,” Joel remarked.
“Bragg is here?” Francesca gasped, whirling.
“No, lady, I mean the copper on the stoop of the Labouche flat.”
Francesca realized that the police officer guarding Georgette’s house was studying them openly. She gave him what she hoped was an imperious glance, and she left Georgette’s closest neighbor. Unfortunately, the next two nearest neighbors also refused to speak with Francesca. Their servants returned her calling card, with murmurs of indisposition and regret.
Francesca was at a loss. “Surely someone has seen something!” she cried in exasperation.
“Plenty a’ folks saw plenty,” Joel said knowingly. “You wait here. I’ll be back in a spot.”
“Joel,” she began, about to ask him what he intended. But he flew around the corner of the house where they were standing, into the narrow foot of space between two brick buildings. Francesca knew tiny yards were out back, undoubtedly hung with clotheslines that were empty now, on such a cold winter day.
She shivered. Maybe she should give up for the rest of the day. Not only did she want to speak with Evan, but she knew she must go to Connie’s to see how her sister was faring. Francesca prayed she was somehow managing, and knew she could not be. Her own reaction to the knowledge of Montrose’s affair had been anguish and heartbreak. For her sister, it could only be much, much worse.
“Can I help you?”
Francesca started and turned. Her eyes widened—the obnoxious reporter from the Sun faced her, grinning. His name was Arthur Kurland, and he was a balding man in his thirties who had the best timing for appearing where he was not wanted.
“Miss Cahill, isn’t it?”
She had stiffened. “Hello, Mr. Kurland, and unless you have any new information on Randall’s murder, no, you cannot help me.”
He grinned at her. “Have I offended you in any way? By your tone, I take it that I have.”
She lifted her chin even higher. “I do not like being followed—or spied upon.”
“I only do my job.” He was sly. “Commissioner’s not far from here.”
She could not respond. She knew very well that Bragg lived only a few blocks away, and Kurland knew she knew, as well. After all, he had seen her entering Bragg’s residence—alone—at a rather unusual hour just a week or so ago. He had also seen her leaving it—in a very disheveled state. “I am sure Bragg is in his office at police headquarters,” she said coldly.
“His mistress is still missing,” Arthur Kurland commented. “But they found the gun. A small, pearl-handled derringer. The kind ladies use.”
“Or fancy gentlemen,” Francesca said.
He nodded. “Yeah, them, too.”
Francesca had to ask. “Are there any other developments?”
“I’ll trade,” he said. “There is, but you have to give me something, too.”
Francesca was aghast. “Why, that is blackmail!”
He chuckled. “You are so young, Miss Cahill, too young to be a sleuth.”
She blinked. “How-—how did you know?”
“It’s my job to know what happens on the street, as far as crime goes. And what I have suggested is not blackmail. It’s called trading information and it’s done all the time in my profession.”
Francesca considered that—but what could she tell him, and did he really have information to share with her? “Who goes first?”
“You do.”
“But what if this is a trick?”
“Then you shall learn a relatively painless lesson—but you will never trust me again, and that might not be in my better interest.”
She absorbed that. “Miss de Labouche is my client.”
He chuckled again. “Not good enough, Miss Cahill.”
“Miss de Labouche wanted to hide the body,” she said.
His expression did not change. “Not much better, Miss Cahill. Or may I call you Francesca?”
“You may not,” she said sharply. “I think it is your turn,” she said.
“Not until you give me something I do not know.”
Francesca was riddled with tension. She dared not say more. And Calder Hart was on her mind now.
“Why did Bragg—and you and your sister—-call on Calder Hart this morning? The Calder Hart of Hart Industries? One of the city’s wealthiest—and most infamous—citizens?”
Francesca gasped. “You are spying upon me!”
“Why? How is he involved in this?”
Francesca turned away. “Good day, Mr. Kurland.”
He gripped her arm and she cried out. “One of the neighbors here saw a dark, quite dangerous-looking man leaving this apartment before eight o’clock on the evening of the murder.”
Francesca stared. Dark and dangerous in appearance—the description fit Calder
Hart perfectly.
“It’s your turn,” Kurland said harshly.
“I...” she began, and stopped.
“How is Hart involved? What is his connection to Randall? I will find out, Miss Cahill, you do know that, but you owe me now.”
Her cheeks burned. Was it public information? Surely it had to be a matter of public record. She hesitated.
“Well?” the reporter demanded.
She sighed. “He is Randall’s son.”
EIGHT
Saturday, February 1, 1902—5:00 P.M.
Somehow, Francesca had to be wrong.
But she had seen them together. She had caught them in the act.
Or so she claimed.
Connie loved her husband’s study. Even when he was not in it, every inch of the masculine room, with its dark woods and green and gold appointments, reminded her of him. The books he loved to read—many of which he had brought with him from England—filled the floor-to-ceiling bookcase on one wall. Shakespeare and Chaucer vied with Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky. The two landscape paintings hanging over the mantel above the fireplace came from Neil’s ancestral home in Devon, and they were masterpieces. The large studded leather armchair behind the massive desk where he worked had been his father’s, and it hailed from sixteenth-century Spain. Recently Connie had taken to sitting there when Neil was not at home. There, in that huge throne-like chair, she could smell his cigars, his horses, his cologne, and she could even feel his presence.
She did not sit there now.
She had known something was very wrong. She had known it for some time now. But Francesca had to be wrong.
Her sister often was.
No one meant better, but no one, more often than not, leaped to the wrong conclusions or blundered into the wrong situation.
Connie turned away from Neil’s desk. She was trembling like a leaf. She was breathless, her lungs constricted, making the usual intake of air impossible. Francesca had to be wrong. She could not have actually seen what she had thought she had.
