If not a burglar, then what else had transpired?
Suddenly Mrs. Channing turned and placed her back against the door of Sarah’s studio, as if to bar the way. “Prepare yourself,” she warned rather theatrically. But her eyes were huge with dismay.
Francesca nodded, more than intrigued now—she was worried. Apprehension filled her. “Is Sarah all right?”
“Sarah has taken to her rooms, and she will not come out,” Mrs. Channing said.
Francesca stared.
Mrs. Channing gave her an abrupt nod as if to say, “Oh yes, this is grave indeed,” and she thrust open the door.
Francesca stepped inside. The room was all windows, a true artist’s studio, so it was brilliantly lit. She cried out.
Someone had been on a rampage in the large, airy room.
At a glance, it appeared to have been ransacked.
Canvases, palettes, paints, and jars were overturned. Two windows were broken, as if someone had smashed them with an ax or thrown an object through them. Glass covered the floor by them. Paint in the primary hues had been splattered across the floor and walls, the effect vivid, brilliant, disturbing. Because amid the yellows, blues, and greens there was dark, dark red and slashes of black. It was almost as if another artist had formed an abstract collage of colors upon the floor.
And for one instant, Francesca thought the red was blood.
She rushed forward, kneeling, dabbing her finger into one drying pool of dark red. It was paint, not blood. Relief flooded her instantly.
Then she saw the canvas lying faceup on the floor.
Whatever that canvas had once been, it was now unrecognizable. It had been saturated with the same dark red paint that looked exactly like blood, and then it had been slashed into ribbons.
Two
FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 14, 1902 — 11:00 A.M.
“Sarah! I cannot believe what happened!” Francesca cried. She had been pacing in a gilded salon, which was as overdone as the outside of the house. A bear rug with a growling head and vicious fangs competed with the Orientals on the floor; chairs had hooves and claws for feet, and one lamp had a tusk for a pull cord. Mr. Channing, God rest his soul, had been a hunter and a collector of strange and exotic objects. Apparently his widow was continuing his hobby.
Sarah had just entered the room. Today she was wearing a drab blue dress covered with splotches of paint. Francesca had never seen her with her dark hair down—today it rioted down her back to her waist in Pre-Raphaelite curls. It quite made Sarah appear ethereal—like a tiny angel. She appeared very pale, her nose and eyes red. Clearly she had been weeping. “Francesca? What are you doing here?” she asked softly—brokenly.
Francesca forgot all about her own problems. She rushed forward and embraced her friend. “You poor dear! Your mother sent for me. Who would do such a thing?”
Sarah trembled in her arms. “I told Mother not to call you! An inspector was already here. You have a badly burned hand and you are recuperating, and not just physically!”
Francesca took Sarah’s hand with her own good one. “How could you not call me? I am your friend! Sarah, we must catch this miserable culprit! Who could have done such a thing?”
“Yes, that is the question, is it not?” Sarah returned hoarsely. She had big brown eyes, the color of chocolate, now tear-filled. “I am so devastated, I cannot think clearly. Every time I try to consider who might have done such a thing, my mind becomes useless, racing in incoherent circles. I just found out this morning at five-fifteen, when I usually begin work,” Sarah said, and she was shaking visibly.
“I cannot even imagine how you must feel,” Francesca returned softly. And it was the truth. She tried to imagine how she would feel if someone had gone into her room and destroyed her notes, her journal, her books. It was an impossible stretch of the imagination, and she was not a brilliant artist, merely an intellectual woman. She knew it would be awful, but she did not think it would be the same as what Sarah was going through.
Besides, every instinct told her that there was a terrible symbolism to the blood-red paint.
Sarah turned her liquid brown eyes upon Francesca. She had a way of looking so directly at a person that one almost wished to run and hide. “Francesca, how can you take my case now—when you are hurt? Besides, didn’t you promise to cease all investigative work for a few weeks?”
Francesca had, and clearly she had mentioned her resolve to Sarah in the past two days—and just as clearly, she had been under the influence of laudanum when she had spoken. “Never you mind, my hand is healing very well; Finney said so himself. I would never let down a friend in need, Sarah. These are extenuating circumstances.”
Sarah seemed too distressed and miserable to debate. Francesca smiled and guided her to a couch, where they both sat down. She leaned forward eagerly. She had every intention of solving Sarah’s case and bringing the ruffian who had done this to justice. “Tell me everything about last night, Sarah.”
“We had an early evening last night, and I was at work—on your portrait, actually—around half past ten. At midnight I felt somewhat satisfied with several different compositions, and I left and went to bed. Actually, it was ten past midnight,” she added. Her face collapsed. “I was so excited to begin your portrait for Mr. Hart. Now, now …” She could not continue.
Francesca took Sarah’s hand, tensing terribly. Calder Hart was one of the city’s wealthiest and most infamous citizens. He was infamous because he did not follow any of society’s rules of etiquette; in fact, he openly flaunted his absolute disregard for polite society. Because he was so rich, he could get away with it, and he remained on everyone’s party list in spite of his shocking manners and his penchant for speaking as he pleased. He was also notorious for being a ladies’ man and would be the first to admit it.
But most important, he was also a fervent, if not fanatical, world-famous art collector. Francesca could commit murder herself for his insistence that Sarah paint her portrait. Of course, he would soon lose interest in her portrait, as he had only suggested it to annoy her when he had found her in a rather disheveled and sensual state at the Channing ball.
But then, that was Hart—he enjoyed shocking society, causing trouble, creating a sensation. And recently, there had been moments when they had been at odds. Francesca sighed. “As soon as the police are finished with the studio, which is now officially a crime scene, we can have it cleaned up and made as good as ever.” She then smiled brightly, encouragingly—not adding that the studio might be offlimits and in an investigative limbo for some time.
“This is my chance to become an artist of some repute,” Sarah whispered. “To have Mr. Hart commission your portrait was like having God whisper in my ear that I would be famous.”
Francesca was not surprised that Sarah would be sacrilegious, not since she had come to realize her soul was a bohemian one, even if she did appear conventional.
“Mr. Hart has asked for delivery as soon as possible—I assured him I would complete the portrait by April the first. And he assured me he would hang it in his front hall! I have heard he hangs his favorite, more irreplaceable pieces there!” Tears flooded her eyes. “How will I ever paint now? How?”
Francesca had already known that she would have to go through with the portrait, as it was Sarah’s chance to gain real recognition in the art world. “You need a few days to recover from what has happened, and I am sure Calder will understand if you deliver the painting at another, later date.” Hart’s dark, handsome image came to mind. “In fact, I know he will be very understanding, as there is nothing the man cares more about than his art.” That wasn’t quite true. Hart had once told her that his life was about wealth, art, and women, in that order. She had been shocked, but only briefly—he had grown up terribly poor, and had he not attained his wealth, he would not be the collector that he was … and he would not have the most beautiful women in the world as his lovers. In fact, every time she ran into him socially, he was with a different woman
, and they were all married ladies.
“I don’t know if he will understand. He is a very hard man. He frightens me,” Sarah said. Now she faced Francesca, wide-eyed and fervent. “He is very fond of you. Please tell him what has happened, Francesca. Make him understand there will be a delay.” Several tears slid down her cheeks.
“Sarah, I know Calder will be more than understanding, and you do not have to be frightened of him,” Francesca said, meaning it. “I will gladly speak with him, as soon as I can.” It had already crossed her mind that he might be able to help in this particular investigation, as he was so immersed in the city’s art world.
“Thank you,” Sarah whispered, collapsing on the couch.
Francesca stood, not really hearing Sarah’s frightened whisper. Then she decided she must dismiss Hart from her mind, as he had the knack of annoying her even when he was not present. It was his problem if he wished to waste his money on her portrait and hang it next to his sacrilegious Caravaggio. “We have a case to solve. In fact, I shall go home, fetch Joel, and see if there is any word out on the street about the who or the why of this. And then I shall go down to police headquarters to report this crime. It will be far better if I speak with Bragg directly instead of Mrs. Channing having to deal with a pair of roundsmen and then an inspector. First, however, I wish to interview Harris, the doorman.” She did want a head start on the case before the police became involved. She simply could not help herself—this was her case. Mrs. Channing had made that abundantly clear.
Sarah nodded. “I can see that, in spite of the unhappy circumstances, you are thrilled to be back at what you love most—sleuthing.”
Francesca smiled a little. “I cannot seem to help myself, I guess. We are very alike, Sarah, you and I.”
“I realize that. Although no one would ever know it to look at us, as you are so beautiful and so full of life, while I am drab and shy.”
“You are not drab! You are not shy!” Francesca rushed to her and hugged her. “In fact, with your hair down and your big brown eyes, you are beautiful, Sarah, but most important, you are so unique.”
“I do not mind being drab and I hardly care if everyone thinks me a timid little mouse. You know I do not care what others think. I only care about my art.” Her eyes changed, and suddenly there was the heat of anger within them. “Why, Francesca? Why?”
“I don’t know. But I shall find out. I will not let you down, Sarah.” And it was a vow.
Police headquarters was at 300 Mulberry Street. It was a slumlike neighborhood of hooks and crooks, pickpockets, whores, and thieves. Francesca was quite accustomed now to the sight of drunks loitering across the street from the police department’s front steps. She did not bat an eye as she walked past a young gentleman handing several silver dollars to a woman with a garishly rouged face and flaming red hair. Francesca did smile, though, as she passed Bragg’s very handsome black motorcar, which was parked right in front of the brownstone that housed police headquarters. Two roundsmen in their blue serge uniforms and leather helmets and carrying nightsticks were keeping an eye upon it. They did not bat an eye upon seeing her as she walked past, as she was now a familiar figure at police headquarters.
An undeniable tension filled her. And it had far less to do with the bloodlike red paint that had been spilled everywhere in Sarah’s studio than it did with the anticipation rising so strongly within her.
She and Bragg had spent days and days together, solving three gruesome crimes. They had traveled throughout the city, into some of its worst and most dangerous wards. There had been interrogations; there had been violent confrontations—and she had been with him through it all. They had engaged in hours of debate and problem-solving; and recently, there had been more than one earth-shattering kiss, including their last one, at the Channing ball.
Francesca shivered, pausing before going into the front lobby of headquarters. How could she have not fallen in love with Rick Bragg? she thought, but helplessly.
She had fallen in love with him the moment they had met, at her own home during a party. He had been resplendent in a tuxedo, with his darkly golden skin and eyes, his tawny, sun-streaked hair, and his high, high cheekbones. And she had recognized him instantly before any introductions, having seen his caricature in most of the city’s newspapers. His appointment as police commissioner had been widely speculated upon, as he was expected to reform the city’s notoriously corrupt police department. Rick Bragg was a rather public figure. And as soon as her father introduced them, they had instantly become engaged in a thrilling and highly charged debate.
Briefly, Francesca closed her eyes, suddenly afraid. The Countess Bartolla Benevente had discovered them in a moment of passion at the Channing ball. She had assured Francesca that her secret was safe. But the countess was not the only one to know of Rick and Francesca’s misguided feelings for each other—Francesca had confided in her sister, Connie, the Lady Montrose, and Calder Hart had instantly surmised the situation. And then there was that dastardly Arthur Kurland—he had even spied upon Francesca as she had been leaving Bragg’s home at No. 11 Madison Square, unchaperoned and at an unusual hour. And perhaps this last bit frightened her more than anything.
Kurland could be so dangerous. For what he did not know—what very few knew—was the fact that Bragg was a married man who had been and remained separated for four long years.
In fact, he had not seen his wife even once since she had left him, all those years ago.
It still hurt, thinking about the terrible fact that he did have a wife, even if he despised her. Francesca had only learned this fact a few weeks ago, shortly after they had first met. It was undeniably tragic. His wife had left him when he had decided to represent the poor and the indigent, the insane, the criminally accused, after graduating from law school. She had been furious that he had not accepted an offer to join a large and prestigious law firm in Washington, D.C. She had spent the past four years flaunting her lovers throughout Europe while spending all of his hard-earned money, careless of how moderate the income of a determined public servant was.
And Francesca understood the need for discretion now. Bragg was in public office. He was the city’s police commissioner. A marital separation was not acceptable to society. They would tar and feather him and chase him out of office, and he was the best thing that had happened to the city since Teddy Roosevelt. More important, his political aspirations were vast. Bragg might be the city’s police commissioner now, but he aspired to even greater offices in the future, and those reform activists around him and the Citizen’s Union party had the very same ambitions for him. Francesca knew his greatest dream was to run for the Senate. She knew he would succeed. It was her dream for him as well. He was, she had no doubt, destined for greatness.
She took a huge breath, in order to compose herself. She must not think about his life now, as there was a madman on the loose yet again—of that she had no doubt. She had come downtown for legitimate reasons. And as Sarah Channing was a family friend, she knew Bragg would personally involve himself in the case.
She pushed through the precinct’s front doors, which were slightly ajar. Summoning up a friendly smile, she waved at Captain Shea, who was behind the front desk. Several gentlemen were there arguing loudly, with a bored-looking Sergeant O’Malley standing over them. An unshaven man was seated on the wood bench before the front desk, his hands in cuffs, a roundsman beside him. As always, there was a good bit of raucous conversation in the lobby, to which was added the background noise of the constantly pinging telegraph. It was the telegraph that connected all of the police stations in the city. And every now and then, a typewriter or a telephone could be heard.
“I am going up!” Francesca called to Shea. “He is in?”
He waved her on. “G’day, Miz Cahill. He most certainly is.”
She loved being well-known at headquarters. She loved being waved on up as if she belonged there even more. And in a way, she did belong there now. Bragg had admitted that he
could not have solved any of the past three cases without her.
Not to mention the fact that she herself had been the one to bag the Randall Killer and the Cross Murderer, she thought with a satisfaction she simply could not deny.
As usual, she skipped the elevator, although it was present on the ground floor, its iron cage door open. She ran up the stairs to the second floor and realized that Bragg was hardly alone. His frosted glass door was open. Bragg was with an older man and woman, another gorgeous woman hanging on his arm. Two toddlers were on the floor, pulling books out of his bookcase, and a dark boy of about ten or eleven seemed to be watching over them.
Francesca recognized the people present instantly, from photographs she had seen. It was a family reunion, and she was frozen, suddenly, uncharacteristically, shy.
His mother, Grace Bragg, was a handsome older woman with red hair, a pair of spectacles slipping down her nose. She clung to his arm, smiling. Francesca knew she was an extremely politically active woman and that in her day she had been a leading suffragette before the movement became a popular one. His half sister, Lucy, who was perhaps twenty-four or twenty-five, clung to his arm, speaking rapidly and excitedly. He had a good-humored smile upon his face, and he was nodding at everything she said, clearly being patient.
And he looked so much like his father, Rathe Bragg, who stood beside him, that Francesca felt he would mature exactly the same way, into a very handsome older man with silvery blond hair, a dimpled grin, and sparkling amber eyes. Suddenly one of the toddlers howled—the boy, who was as dark as his sister was fair—and Rathe swooped up his grandson.
Bragg suddenly saw her. His gaze widened and his smile vanished.
Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 04] Page 2
