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.
But who could make such a mistake?
Neil’s study was on the second floor of their large house, which took up a corner of the block overlooking both Madison Avenue and 62d Street. The lot had been vacant when they had become engaged, and both the vacant lot and the house, which they had built subsequently, had been a wedding gift from her father. Neil’s office had catty-corner windows, overlooking both the large busy avenue with its nearly incessant traffic and the shady, tree-lined side street, as quiet as the avenue was not. Connie heard a familiar sound from outside and she flinched.
For she recognized, as she always did, the crunch of his coach’s tires on the cobblestones of the short drive belonging to their house. She recognized the tinkling of the bells on the matching grays. She recognized Joseph’s cry of, “Whoa there, now!”
Her body tightened up impossibly. I must not cry, she thought.
She moved from Neil’s desk, where she had been standing like a statue, her mind going round and round in circles, for hours and hours—or so it seemed. She paused and glanced down at 62d Street, where their driveway curved into the house, past a small front garden. She could see Neil from behind as he walked away from the carriage, disappearing from her view before entering the house.
Her heart seemed to be choking her now. She reminded herself that this was a terrible mistake. For surely her husband loved her the way that she loved him.
She had loved him from the moment she had first laid her eyes upon him, five long years ago. Or was it five lifetimes ago?
Of course, he had terrified her, too. Because he was so perfect, and never in her wildest dreams had she imagined that she would land a husband so noble, so handsome, so intelligent, and so worldly. In the first year of their marriage, he had made her feel all of fourteen again. In that year, she had felt clumsy and gauche.
Of course, she was no longer that naïve child-bride. She was an adult woman, the mother of two, adept at running their home, caring for their daughters, and attending whatever functions Neil chose. She also supported the requisite charities, holding her own charitable functions twice a year. Universally she was considered to be an ideal wife and mother. Her friends frequently asked how she managed to do it all, and so well.
Her answer had always been that it was easy, when one had the kind of marriage that she had.
Now, Connie inhaled. But just what kind of marriage did she actually have? The answer was terrifying; she dismissed the question.
Somehow, she put one foot after the other, and she made it to the door. She opened it.
A housemaid was passing by. “Dottie? Please ask Lord Montrose to come to his study.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the maid said, and then she stopped and glanced wide-eyed at Connie a second time. “Lady Montrose? Are you ill?”
Connie realized she was clinging to the door, as if afraid she might fall down. And perhaps she would, if she did let go. Somehow she detached herself from the door and stood upright. “I am fine, Dottie. Thank you.” She walked back into the study. She felt odd, as if she were floating.
In fact, her life felt odd now, odd and unreal. How many times had she thought to herself that Neil was the perfect husband?
Abruptly tears filled her eyes and she imagined Neil with another woman, in an act that should never be performed outside of the bonds of love and marriage. How could Francesca have made such a terrible mistake? Francesca had stated that she had seen them together on the sofa, in the dark, in a state of dishabille. She had implied that they had been making love. Did that necessarily mean that they had? And it had been dark. Perhaps it had not even been Neil.
Connie felt her stomach turn over, hard. No, it had not been a mistake. Neil had been aloof lately. And they had not made love in months. She was ill.
“Connie?”
She flinched at the sound of his voice. And slowly she turned to face him, the man she loved with all of her heart and then some.
Neil Montrose was a big man and he filled up the doorway. He was impeccably clad, yet somehow the effort seemed careless. His suit jacket was open, his tie just slightly askew. When one added to his dark but blue-eyed good looks, his tall, muscular build, the effect was rakish and disarming. He was smiling, and he had a cleft chin.
And his smile disappeared. “What is it? Are you ill? Connie, do sit down.” He rushed to her.
She said, “Don’t touch me.” And she was aghast, appalled—it was as if another woman had spoken in that harsh, uncharacteristic tone.
He halted in his tracks, dropping his hands. Hands that had covered almost every inch of her body; hands that knew her intimately, hands that had, ultimately, brought her so much pleasure—once she had realized that there was so much pleasure to be had and so little shame within the bonds of marriage.
His jaw flexed. “What is it?” he asked again, but this time more coolly.
“Do you love her?” she heard herself ask—very coldly.
He straightened. He was so much taller than she was—Connie was not even five-foot-three, and Montrose was six-foot-four. “I beg your pardon?”
“I do think you heard me. Do you love her?” She felt her mouth stretch into a mirthless smile. “Or did you merely think to amuse yourself—and destroy me?”
“I see,” he said. “You have had a conversation with your sister.” His eyes were hooded now. They no longer seemed to be Neil’s eyes.
Inside, her heart began to break. Connie thought she could feel each shard as it peeled off. It hurt so. It was so hard to breath
e. “Yes. Francesca told me.”
“How meddlesome she has become.”
“So you do not deny it?”
He stared at her.
Connie waited.
“And if I did?” he asked slowly.
She could not breathe now. Connie said, “I would not believe you.” And once more, she had astonished—and terrified—herself.
“I see.” He turned away.
This was her chance. She opened her mouth and sucked down oxygen, dizzy and faint, clutching his desk—no, it was a chair in front of the desk—determined to compose herself before he turned back again. She thought she must resemble a fish out of water, dying pitifully, pathetically. How pitiful he would think her if he saw her now, like this.
He turned. “Are you not going to scream and shout? Weep, cry, and carry on?” His words were cautious.
“No. Just tell me how long it has been. For how long has Eliza Burton—whom I have entertained in this house—been your mistress?” Her exterior calm amazed her.
“Not long.” He did flush. “When the Burtons were over, she was not my … mistress. She has never been … my mistress.”
“I see. There is a difference between a lover and a mistress.” She turned her back on him. He did not speak. Did he see how badly she was shaking? Could he know that inside of her brain she was screaming—the worst, most reprehensible and unladylike profanities? At him? Surely he knew. “Do you love her?” She had to know.
“No.”
Connie nodded, not facing him. “Do you love me?” The moment she spoke, she knew how foolish her words were. Of course he did not love her. If he did, he would not have committed adultery.
“Yes.”
She slowly turned. His gaze was on her, watchful, unblinking. He reminded her now of a hawk, no, an owl. And she was the mouse he wished to devour.
But she was already devoured. She was dead, inside, and she would never be alive again. For he did not love her, and the proof was his treachery. “Why?”
It was such a simple question. It was the most profound question in the world.
“You would not understand.”
She finally let her gaze slide over him, as the pressure to cry built up inside of her, in her chest and in her heart, behind her eyes. She would not cry, though, not in front of him. Not now, not tomorrow, not ever. “Maybe you might try to explain.” But she already knew the answer. She wasn’t perfect enough.
“I don’t think so,” he said, and his tone took her by surprise, because it was harsh. “I am sorry,” he said, his jaw flexing. “It will not happen again. Will you forgive me?” he asked.
Of course she would. He was her husband, until death did they part. “No,” Connie said. “I will not forgive you, Neil.”
His eyes widened.
She walked out.
Her mind raced. Had Calder Hart been at Georgette de Labouche’s on the evening of the murder? Not for one instant did Francesca believe him to be the murderer. She refused to believe it. He was rather immoral and perhaps something of a blackguard, but he was Bragg’s brother and he simply could not be a killer.
But a neighbor had seen someone who resembled Hart leaving the apartment—before eight o’clock. And that did not bode well for Hart.
But he had an alibi. Which was why she and Joel were now on their way to find and interview the Jones sisters, whom Hart claimed to have been with until nine that evening, instead of calling upon Randall’s widow to pay their regrets. That condolence call would have to wait until the morrow.
“Hey, lady,” Joel said loudly.
Francesca realized he had been trying to get her attention ever since they had left that horrid reporter standing in the street by Georgette de Labouche’s house. He was tugging on her sleeve. “I’m sorry, Joel. I was thinking.”
“Stone-cold deaf,” he grumbled. “Don’t you want to know what I copped from the neighbors?” he asked.
Francesca started. “I do hope you don’t mean you have stolen something,” she said cautiously.
“Hell, no! You asked me to find out who seen wut.” He grinned.
She leaned forward eagerly as they approached 48th Street. “Someone saw something?”
“Nope. But the tart’s got family.”
“What?” Francesca breathed.
“She’s got a brother. Mark Anthony. An’ he’s here in the city; he’s downtown somewhere.”
Disappointment seared her. “This is a joke,” she said flatly.
His whole face furrowed with puzzlement. “Ain’t no joke. She got a brother. Mark Anthony. Big gambler type.”
“Mark Anthony was one of Caesar’s generals, Joel,” Francesca said. “Someone was jesting with you.”
He scowled. “Caesar? Never heard of him. This Anthony fellow has a flat somewhere down Broadway, and now and then he visits Labouche. She’s his sister,” he insisted. “He even brings her gifts from time to time. They be real close. Sunday dinners usually. He’s the only family she seems to have.”
Maybe it wasn’t a joke, Francesca thought. Maybe adopting ridiculous names ran in the family, or some such thing. “Do we know where to find Mr. Anthony?” she asked.
“I’ll find him,” Joel said confidently.
Francesca smiled and patted his head of thick black curls. “That was a job well done,” she said fondly. “You shall make a fine assistant indeed.”
“You think so?” he said, beaming and unable to contain it.
“Yes, I do.”
He began to whistle. Francesca gazed out the window, considering another question. She herself had seen an intruder in Miss de Labouche’s apartment, but that had been around midnight. Could it have been Hart?
It was truly hard to say. Her glimpse had been so brief—not even a full second—and in the dark. Francesca felt certain she could not identify the intruder.
If it had been Hart, then he was not the murderer—because he would not have gone back to simply stare at the man he had just killed and then walked away. Francesca was certain that whoever had entered the apartment while she was hiding in the kitchen was innocent of Randall’s murder—but somehow involved in Randall’s life. The killer would not return to the scene of the crime.
Francesca realized her spirits were even lower now than they had been upon leaving her house an hour or so ago. It had been one blow, it seemed, after another. First her father’s insistence that Bragg was not for her, which continued to dismay her to no end. Francesca felt certain that her father knew something that he was refusing to share with her. And whatever that something was, she would have to ferret it out. Unfortunately, her feelings for Bragg remained, leaving her no other choice.
Having had to tell Connie about Neil also continued to haunt her. Francesca could only imagine the extent of her sister’s heartbreak. And now she had just seen Evan with the actress who was his mistress. If only Evan could leave well enough alone! Kurland remained a mere annoyance—she thought she could manage him—but Hart had suddenly become even more of a suspect in the Randall murder than he already was.
Of course, she did not know Hart, not at all, so she should not care—but she did. He was Bragg’s brother, and because she cared about Bragg, that made her, in a way, Hart’s friend and ally—never mind the hostility between the two brothers. Whatever their mutual animosity was about, it was juvenile, and Francesca realized she intended to see them mend both their rift and their ways.
She smiled then at the idea, her mood lifting. It was a wonderful ambition, to see Hart and Bragg patch things up—why, perhaps she might even help them to become Mends!
The coach was halting. “We’re here,” Francesca said to Joel, glancing down the block. A line of shops seemed to be on the street and basement level of the avenue. A cobbler’s was directly before them, a small grocery on one side, a locksmith on the other. A busy saloon was on the street corner. Laughter and shouts came from it. Five thugs were swilling beer, standing by the lamppost, just outside of the saloon’s open doo
rs. A policeman also stood there, swilling beer with the five rowdies. It was a shameful sight with the copper in his uniform.
“Let’s see if we can find out where the Jones sisters live.” Francesca felt uneasy at the scene facing them now. “Is that copper drunk?” she managed, gawking. “It isn’t even five o’clock in the afternoon!”
“Drunk as a skunk, an’ that will be easy, if you got an eagle on you.” Joel jumped down to the frozen street, narrowly avoiding a pile of manure and other garbage.
“I do,” Francesca said, dismounting carefully from the coach. The conversation on the corner, which had been drunken and animated, abruptly ceased. Francesca knew her coach—and her person—had been seen. She tensed, preparing for lewd remarks, and when one of the men whistled—the sound insulting—she fled down the steps and into the safety of the cobbler’s shop.
A small man with a beard was pounding on a pair of leather soles on the rough wood counter where he was working. It faced the street. Behind him, a rack was filled with shoes, some mended, some needing repair. A small room was behind that, and Francesca glimpsed a woman at a stove and a baby in a bassinet.
Francesca knew that the cobbler lived behind his storefront shop with his family, and perhaps several other families as well, in terrible tenement conditions—the kind of conditions that she and others in the city wished to improve. But now was not the time to think of reform, and Francesca managed a firm smile as the cobbler set aside his leather soles, watching her rather curiously.
“Hello. I am looking for two women, Daisy and Rose Jones? I wonder if you could help me?” Francesca asked, opening her purse.
“English no good Shoes fix?” he said with a heavy Slavic accent.
“No, no, I do not need any shoes fixed. I am looking for two women, Daisy and Rose Jones?”
“Shoes fix,” he said, smiling at her. He pointed at her feet.
Francesca realized he did not understand a word that she was saying.
“He’s a Jew an’ he don’t speak English,” Joel said, making a face.
Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahil 02] Page 11
