Bragg approached. Calmly he said, “Could you come with us?”
Sarah nodded, appearing extremely grim. Francesca slid her arm around her. “Sarah? Perhaps another look at your studio will jog your mind a bit.”
“Perhaps,” Sarah said. “But has something else happened?”
Francesca and Bragg exchanged a swift look. Francesca quickly decided that as Sarah was far stronger than she looked and extremely intelligent—not to mention that her life might be in danger—she should know the truth. Apparently, Bragg had reached the same conclusion, for softly, he said, “Did you know another female artist, Miss Melinda Neville?”
Sarah shook her head, her brown eyes dark with intensity. “No.”
“Her studio was vandalized in a very similar manner to yours,” he said.
Sarah stared at him. “What does this mean?”
“There is more,” Francesca said gently, taking her arm very firmly. But as she did, Sarah cried out, as if in pain.
“Are you all right?”
She nodded, but it was a moment before she could speak. “I bruised my arm. It is very sore—and quite purple, I might add.”
Francesca now recalled Rourke’s comment, as he had seen the bruise, perhaps when he had examined Sarah when she was ill.
“What is it that you are afraid to tell me?” Sarah asked.
Francesca hesitated, glancing at Bragg. He nodded at her. She said, “A woman was found murdered in Miss Neville’s studio, Sarah.”
Sarah turned white. She quickly sat down on the closest object of furniture, the edge of a plush green sofa. “Oh, God. Miss Neville?”
“No, it was an actress, Grace Conway.”
Sarah was bewildered. “I don’t understand.”
“Nor do we,” Francesca said with what she hoped was a reassuring smile.
Sarah stared, and after a pause, asked directly, “Am I in danger?”
Francesca hesitated.
Bragg said, “I don’t know. But for safety’s sake, I am leaving two police officers here, one outside and one just inside the front door.”
Sarah nodded, appearing flustered, breathless, and anxious all at once. “Was this actress’s murder an accident, perhaps?”
“Perhaps,” Bragg said. “Shall we?” He gestured at the door.
Sarah stood, and she and Francesca followed Bragg out. Francesca hadn’t expected Sarah to know about Miss Conway’s involvement with Evan and was relieved that she did not. And even though she knew that Sarah’s engagement would be ended, and soon, by her brother, to both his and Sarah’s relief, at that moment they were still officially affianced, and Sarah had to be told about Evan’s injuries. As they went down the hall, Francesca said, “I don’t want you to worry, but Monday afternoon Evan was in a bit of a brawl.”
Sarah halted while Bragg swung open the door to her studio and went inside. “A brawl?”
“Yes,” Francesca said, having no intention of telling her about Evan’s debts. “He was a bit smashed up, and he is in bed, but he will be fine in no time.”
“Oh! Poor Evan! I shall have to call on him immediately, of course.” She stared at Francesca.
“I am sure he should like that,” Francesca said, knowing it hardly mattered to him.
“I will do so this afternoon, of course,” Sarah said firmly. Then her expression changed, becoming worried, and she looked past Francesca and at the open doorway of her studio. “I wonder if I will ever want to paint again,” she murmured, more to herself than Francesca.
“Of course you shall!” Francesca cried, meaning it. “You are too brilliant to ever stop doing what consumes you, Sarah!”
Sarah’s smile was wan. She shivered and did not move forward.
Francesca did. She paused on the threshold of the studio, which was filled with midday light. Nothing had been touched. And the room remained a scene of carnage and wreckage, with paint splashed everywhere, canvases overturned, and one canvas mutilated. That canvas was a portrait of the stunning countess Bartolla Benevente, Sarah’s cousin.
Francesca saw everything in a glance and looked straight at the wall. There, amidst splatters of red and black paint was a crude letter. It looked like this:
Francesca stared. The letter could be a B, an F, an E, or perhaps even a K. It was not necessarily an F.
“Francesca,” Sarah whispered.
Francesca turned and saw that Sarah’s face was pinched with tension and fright. She left the studio, joining her in the hall. “What, dear?”
“I have such a pounding headache,” Sarah whispered, clasping her hands over her ears.
“Maybe you should go upstairs and lie down,” Francesca suggested.
Sarah shook her head, dropping her hands to her sides. “I can’t. I am afraid I might fall asleep,” she said.
Francesca could not understand what that comment meant.
“I have been having the oddest nightmares! There is paint everywhere, and when I turn to run away, I run right into a man. And the moment I do, he grabs my arm, and then I wake up, screaming.” She stared at Francesca now.
Francesca stared back, highly alerted now to a possibility that had not yet been considered. “And this is a dream? Can you see the man’s face? Do you know who this man is?” she cried.
“That’s just it,” Sarah whispered. “The moment he grabs my arm, I look at him, but then I am awake, and I am looking at my bedroom,” she said. “Francesca? It feels so real. It feels like déjà vu.”
When Francesca did not speak, Sarah added, “It feels as if it really happened.”
Only one other apartment was occupied by any tenants at Number 202 East 10th Street. That apartment was Number Two on the ground floor. Francesca and Bragg were greeted by a matronly woman with a grim expression and unsmiling eyes. Peering at them through the slightly cracked door, she said, “Yes?”
“Mrs. Holmes?” Bragg smiled.
“I don’t want to buy anything,” she said, closing the door abruptly.
Francesca lifted her brows as Bragg knocked again. “I am afraid I am an officer with the police and I am here on official business,” he said to the closed wooden door.
This time the door was opened by a young woman a few years older than Francesca. Francesca gazed into a pair of soft and worried brown eyes, framed by auburn hair that was tightly drawn back from her face. The woman opened the door fully. “I am Catherine Holmes. I beg your pardon; my mother doesn’t care for unexpected callers,” she said softly.
“We are sorry to intrude, but we must ask a few questions,” Francesca said with a slight and equally soft smile.
Catherine Holmes met her gaze, nodded, and let them into a modestly furnished flat. Her gaze returned to Bragg. “I’ve seen your caricature in the newspapers. You are the police commissioner.”
“Yes, and this is Miss Cahill,” he said.
Remaining anxious, Catherine Holmes offered them a seat in the small parlor, clasping her hands repeatedly in her apron, which she wore over a dark serge skirt. “Is this about poor Miss Conway?” she whispered.
“I am afraid so,” Bragg remarked.
“She was very pleasant—and very beautiful,” Catherine Holmes said, perching on a chair. “I cannot think of who would wish to do such a terrible thing.” Tears filled her eyes.
Francesca leaned forward to touch her hand. “Were you friends?”
Catherine Holmes shook her head. “No. But we did pass from time to time in the entry hall. For an actress, she was a very nice lady.”
Francesca hesitated. “Did you also see her male friend from time to time?”
Catherine Holmes blinked, straightening. “Yes,” she said slowly. “He was here often. I couldn’t help but notice him, as he was so handsome.”
Francesca thought that the cat might get out of the bag rather quickly, should the press ever interview the neighbors about Grace Conway. Evan would undoubtedly be identified almost immediately. Which meant they must find the killer even more quickly, to spare h
er brother any more pain.
“Can you think of anyone odd who has been lurking about Miss Conway?” Bragg asked.
Catherine Holmes shook her head again. “She had only the one visitor, the gentleman. She really didn’t stay in very much—she was almost never home.”
Francesca blinked at her.
“I am always home,” Catherine Holmes said quite ruefully. “I take care of Mother. And our parlor window opens onto Tenth Street.”
Francesca got up and walked behind the sitting area to the window. She pulled apart the draperies and had a perfect view of the entrance to the building. She whirled. “Are you certain you did not see anybody unusual leaving or entering this building on Monday?”
Catherine Holmes seemed pale. “You did not ask me that, but the answer is no. I hardly sit and watch the front door of the building all day long.”
Francesca glanced at the rocking chair set by the window. Someone certainly liked sitting there and watching the world go by. “Does your mother sit here?”
“Once in a while. She has gout and arthritis and she prefers to remain in bed.” Catherine Holmes stood up. She seemed more anxious than ever. She would have been a pretty woman had her expression been less worried, somber, and severe.
Francesca wondered if she was hiding something. She would bet her last nickel that poor Catherine Holmes, trapped in a dismal apartment with her scowling, ill mother, would sit at the window and watch the passersby, yearning for another life and another world.
Bragg stood. “Did you know Miss Neville, Miss Holmes?”
“No. She moved in a month or so ago and kept to herself. But I know she is an artist and that she had just come from Paris. Her brother told me so.”
Francesca froze. “Thomas?”
Catherine Holmes nodded. “Yes. He comes to see her every day, or so it seems.” She hesitated. “Although I haven’t seen him since poor Miss Conway was murdered.”
Francesca and Bragg shared a glance. “Do you know where we can find Thomas Neville?” Bragg asked oh-so-calmly.
“No, I don’t. He was very talkative, but he never mentioned where he lives.” She looked from Bragg to Francesca and back again. “What is this about?”
“We have been trying to locate him,” Bragg said.
“When did you last see and speak with Miss Neville?” Francesca had to cry. “And was she a friend of Miss Conway’s?”
“I don’t see how they could be friends when she had only just moved in,” Catherine Holmes said. “But I last saw her Monday night.”
Francesca trembled. “Monday night?” Grace Conway could have been murdered on Monday night!
Catherine Holmes looked wary now. “Yes. She had forgotten her keys. I happened to be coming in myself, and I let her in. It was six P.M. I know, because I had promised Mother I would be back by six at the very latest.”
“That is very helpful,” Bragg said, clearly tamping down his own enthusiasm now.
While Francesca wanted to jump up and down. “And then what happened? Did you see her go out again?”
“No, I did not.” Catherine Holmes was stiff now. “I had to make supper and put Mother to bed. I have no idea if she went out again or not, but that is the last time I saw her.”
“Thank you very much, Miss Holmes,” Bragg said, taking her hand.
She seemed surprised by the gentlemanly gesture. She flushed.
“Thank you,” Francesca added, grinning. She grabbed Bragg’s arm and practically dragged him into the hall. “Do you know what this means?” she cried.
He smiled. “I think so.”
“Miss Neville returned in the approximate window of time in which Miss Conway was murdered. Do you think she found her body . . . and then ran away? Or perhaps she even saw the murder!” she cried, her excitement rising with this last and hopeful thought.
“Or perhaps the murderer saw her as well,” Bragg said.
Francesca’s elation vanished. “You’re right. This is not necessarily good news. I am worried about her, Bragg.”
“Then that makes two of us,” he replied.
CHAPTER
SIX
WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 19, 1902—2:00 P.M.
“I SIMPLY CANNOT BELIEVE what has befallen Evan, Julia,” Bartolla Benevente said. She and Sarah were following Julia upstairs in the Cahill mansion. As always, Bartolla was resplendently dressed, in a sapphire ensemble, and she was wearing the jewels to match her slim little jacket and skirt. But now she was pale in spite of the rouge on her cheeks. She had reacted badly when she heard of Evan’s accident.
“I can only thank God he is getting better every day,” Julia said, her expression drawn. “Thank you so much for calling, Countess. Sarah, dear, and how are you?”
Sarah flushed with guilt. Bartolla, her cousin, was going on and on, with genuine concern, about Evan’s welfare. While she had not said a single commiserating word—and he was her fiancé. Not that she did not care. Of course she cared. He was the man chosen to be her husband—never mind that she wished, desperately, that she might remain unwed. And he was nice enough. He had always behaved courteously toward her, and Sarah knew he was very disappointed that she had been chosen to be his bride. Not that she blamed him. She was skinny and plain and entirely obsessed with her painting. Men never looked at her the way that they looked at her cousin or Francesca. “I am fine, Mrs. Cahill,” she murmured.
Bartolla took her arm possessively. “Sarah has completely recovered from that odd bout with fever that she had. I, of course, am anxiously awaiting news from the police and Miss Cahill as to whom the culprit was who dared invade our home and wreak such havoc on Sarah’s studio. Sarah has been so very brave.”
Sarah gave Bartolla a small smile. She was as anxious to know who had violated her beloved art studio and wished her cousin would not sing her praises. She had been nourishing the tiniest kernel of hope, deep within herself, that something or someone would interfere with her wedding and that she might remain a single young lady somehow.
Yet she knew her hopes to be utterly foolish.
“Yes, Sarah is very brave. This is so terrible, first Sarah’s studio, and now this assault upon my son.” Julia was so grim, and Sarah had the odd feeling that she knew more than she was letting on.
“I have come to know your son a bit,” Bartolla commented as they swept up the corridor. “It is simply so surprising that he would find himself in a barroom brawl.” The countess smiled at Julia, but her stare was penetrating.
“Boys will be boys,” Julia murmured, not meeting Bartolla’s regard. They all paused at Evan’s door, which was ever so slightly ajar.
Sarah stood behind both women. She was barely five feet tall, while Bartolla was perhaps five-foot-seven and Julia somewhere in between them both. So at first Sarah could not see into the bedroom at all.
“Well, well,” Bartolla murmured. “Who is that?”
“Mrs. Kennedy is still with us,” Julia said. “And she has been a savior, really.”
“I can see that,” Bartolla said, her tone odd.
Sarah found her curiosity piqued. She was no fool—she had seen the sparks flying between Evan and her cousin. If the truth be known, she wished them well—once she had even come to the hopeful conclusion that maybe they could run off together, leaving her alone, a spinster with her freedom. Of course, neither one would ever betray her in such a manner. Now she edged between the two taller women and saw a surprising sight.
Mrs. Kennedy, the seamstress who had made an amazing red ball gown for Francesca, sat on the bed by Evan’s hip. They were engaged in a quiet and casual conversation, but there was something so intimate about the scene that even Sarah felt a moment of surprise. It was like walking in on two very old and dear friends—or on a husband and his wife.
Maggie laughed. Evan was smiling, but even so, he looked dreadful, with his face black-and-blue and a black patch over his eye.
“Evan? Your fiancée is here with the Countess Benevente,” Julia said.
Maggie leaped hastily to her feet. She faced them, eyes downcast, two bright pink spots on her face.
“Hello, Evan!” Bartolla cried, sailing into the room. She ignored the seamstress, treating her as if she were a piece of the room’s furniture. “We just heard about your terrible accident, and we are so distressed!”
“Bartolla!” Evan sat up straighter, surprised, and then he was smiling. Sarah felt a pang, watching their gazes meet and hold. There was no doubt that they were genuinely fond of each other. She despaired. Perhaps she should be the one to run away.
The idea was not without merit.
“Sarah, hello,” Evan said.
Sarah started, realizing that Mrs. Kennedy had fled and that Julia was leaving the three of them alone. She managed a smile. “Evan, I just heard, and I am so sorry,” she said softly. “How badly are you hurt?” she asked worriedly. And to think that she had been absorbed in the trauma of what had happened to her silly studio. It was only a room. She could paint Bartolla’s portrait again. The walls could be cleaned, new canvases and paints bought. What had been wrong with her?
“I shall be as good as new in no time,” he said as Bartolla sat down on the bed, exactly where Maggie Kennedy had been seated.
“What can I get you?” she asked.
“A sip of water?” he asked, smiling at her.
Bartolla found the glass of water on his bedstand. She leaned forward, exposing quite a bit of cleavage, as her jacket was low-cut and she wore only a lace chemise beneath. Evan’s gaze dropped, then quickly lifted. Sarah turned away, walking to the window.
She didn’t care. She didn’t care that Evan was smitten with her cousin, as well he should be. Bartolla was gorgeous, vivacious, clever, kind. She was everything a woman should be.
Sarah paused before the window and stared down at the back lawns, which were blanketed in snow. She hugged herself, felt a patch of paint, and realized she had a spot of purple on her green skirt. Looking down, she found several blotches, and she sighed. Her stomach turned.
Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 05] Page 9
