“Good God, I apologize,” he said, standing. Clearly he wished to end the interview, and as he stood, he staggered.
“Oh, dear,” Francesca whispered. “Calder, how much have you had to drink?”
He looked at her, his eyes half-hooded now, but with sleepiness. “Don’t know. Why? Do you care?” His tone had turned into a purr.
She fought to ignore the suggestive sound. “Before I go, may I ask a few more questions?”
He waved at her, an affirmative, while moving to the sofa. He was lurching on his feet now, and he half-sat and half-collapsed onto the plush cushions. Before her very eyes, he lay down on his back.
“You didn’t mean it, did you, when you called Mary a man-hater? She certainly loved her father,” Francesca said.
“She is a man-hater, Francesca.” His eyes closed. “And I imagine that sometime soon she will realize her inclinations lie elsewhere.”
“Elsewhere?” It was so odd, talking to a man who had lain down in front of you as if this were an everyday occurrence.
“I promise you that it is only a matter of time before she takes a lover—who is female,” he murmured. He sighed then, flinging one arm over his face.
Francesca gaped. Did Mary prefer women to men? Could Hart be right? Her thoughts instantly veered to Daisy and Rose. “Calder, someone claims you were not with Daisy and Rose on Friday night.”
He lifted his arm and blinked at her. “So my sweet Daisy broke?”
She flushed at his use of language. “No. She did not. It was an outsider who overheard them.” She was anxious now. “Is it true?”
He nodded and sighed, stretching out more fully on his back now, his eyes once again closed.
Francesca stared down at him. This was too intimate, she had to leave, but she had to know. “Then where were you, Calder? On the night of the murder, at seven P.M., where were you?”
His arm remained high above his head, but he turned his face toward her and opened his eyes and their gazes locked. His eyes were hazel, she realized suddenly, not brown as she had thought. She saw shades of green and gold and brown in them, as well as orange. Worse, they slid over her slowly, with enjoyment, even, from her face to her toes—before lifting to her face once more. “I was here,” he said.
“Here?” Relief filled her. “Why didn’t you just say so? You have a houseful of servants—”
He cut her off, his eyes drifting closed. “No. Here, alone. I dismissed everyone.”
She stared, and as comprehension hit her, she was horrified.
His arm shifted, falling over his chest. His breathing had become deep and even.
Francesca finally clasped her cheeks, which were warm and damp. She brushed off the perspiration, and as she stared down at him, some of the tension generated from their duel dissipated. But hardly enough.
He had been in this monstrous house, alone, on the night of the murder?
Abruptly Francesca turned, weaving through chairs and tables, settees and ottomans, and finally arriving at the door. Alfred materialized a moment later, at the end of the hall. “Alfred, how much has Mr. Hart drunk?”
“He has been drinking ever since you called yesterday afternoon,” the Englishman said, revealing a glimmer of anxiety as he spoke.
Francesca gasped. “Oh, dear! Alfred, please bring a tray of sandwiches into Hart’s study. He is asleep now, but leave them beside him, within reach.”
Alfred nodded, about to leave. But Francesca plucked his sleeve. “And take away those whiskey bottles from the bar. Hide them—lock them up.”
Alfred paled. “Miss Cahill?”
She folded her arms. “He should grieve for his father properly, Alfred. Do you not agree?”
The butler hesitated. “Indeed I do. But he will dismiss me from my post.”
“Blame me.”
His eyes widened almost imperceptibly—and then he smiled. “Indeed I shall.” He started to go.
“There is one more thing. Did Hart dismiss the staff on Friday night?” It was too incredible to be believed, she thought. And if it were true—and it could not be—no one would believe it. No one. Not the police—and not a jury.
Alfred nodded. “Yes, he did.”
Francesca knew she gaped. “But … why?”
Alfred hesitated.
“My dear good man,” she said, “I only wish to help your employer. You do not betray any confidences by speaking with me.”
Alfred nodded slowly. “He dismisses the staff from time to time, perhaps two or three times a month.”
Francesca stared. “But this house is huge. It is a mausoleum. He dismissed everyone!”
“Everyone,” Alfred said with emphasis.
“But … why?”
“I do not know.”
Francesca could not imagine anyone being alone in a house of this size. “Does … he entertain on those nights?” It was the only possible explanation. Perhaps he gave parties like Stanford White.
“We wondered about that, madam. But one of the maids did snoop. No. He does not entertain. He wanders about, alone.” He paused, as if he might say more but was thinking the better of it.
“And?”
“He drinks and wanders about from room to room, apparently viewing his paintings and sculptures.”
Francesca was shaken. “And on Friday night? When did he get home? At what time did he dismiss the staff?”
“He returned home a bit after six, I believe, looking some what dour, and instantly ordered everyone out.”
Francesca’s heart lurched. Calder had no alibi between six and nine on the night of the murder. Dear God, it did not look good. “Thank you, Alfred.”
He nodded, then said, “No, thank you, Miss Cahill.” He left.
She hesitated, remaining stunned. Why come home, dismiss everyone, and then go to White’s party a few hours later? Terribly disturbed, she returned to Hart’s library. He was so still it was almost as if he were not breathing. Alarmed, she went to his side, then was pleased to see the slight rise and fall of his chest beneath the velvet smoking jacket.
She felt sorry for him. He was a complicated man, and she suspected his wounds ran deep.
And now, should anyone ever learn the truth of his whereabouts on Friday night, he was in deep trouble indeed.
Francesca looked around. The draperies had been left open. It was snowing steadily now outside. From this window, she had a view of the empty lot to the north of his property. In this distance, she saw a four-in-hand on the avenue, shrouded in the falling snow and the yellow glow of the streetlights.
She walked over to each of the three large windows and closed the curtains. Then she took a cashmere throw from a chair before the fireplace, and she returned to Hart’s side. She laid it over him, carefully so she would not awaken him. As carefully, she removed each of his slippers. Then she smiled a little, satisfied.
“Perhaps you wish to tuck me into bed?” he murmured, making her start with surprise.
She stiffened. “I did not mean to awaken you,” she managed.
“Any time.” His eyes did not even open.
She stared. “Hart?” she whispered.
His breathing seemed deep and even. He seemed to be sleeping once again. There was no answer.
Francesca turned slowly and again she made her way through the elegant but overfurnished room and to the door. She paused, and an odd urge made her look back. He was asleep, or very close to it. He hadn’t moved since first lying down on the couch.
Even in sleep, he appeared intriguing and dangerous.
He was, she decided, a very interesting man.
She left.
FOURTEEN
SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 2, 1902—7:00 P.M.
Her coach was moving down Fifth Avenue, following another brougham. Because it was a Sunday night and snowing, there was no other traffic directly ahead, and the pace was a swift one. Francesca stared west, at Central Park, which appeared magical in the glow of falling snow and the dull yellow lights cast f
rom the tall iron street lamps. She was glum. Hart was an unusual man, and she was more convinced than ever that he was not as bad as he clearly wished the world to think him to be. But he was in trouble, and he had lied to the police, creating a false alibi. No good could come of that, it only made him look guiltier, and while she remained convinced he was not capable of murder, much less murdering his own father, she was afraid of what was going to happen when the truth came out.
Unfortunately, she would have to tell Bragg what she had just learned. She could not keep something so momentous from him, and maybe he could help. Francesca felt certain that, when push came to shove, the blood Bragg shared with Hart would win out over any enmity between the two of them.
She glanced out of the other passenger window, aware that they were passing her own house. She sighed, her thoughts turning abruptly to her sister. Where could she be?
Bragg had said she was in a hotel somewhere. But Connie would never let the world know of her difficulties, especially her marital ones. Francesca doubted she would move into a hotel. If only she had not packed a trunk. Then Francesca would be certain she had merely gone out with the girls for the day.
She sighed again and realized they were approaching 59th Street. The posh and elegant Plaza Hotel was on her right and just ahead. It was Connie’s favorite lunch spot. She often met her girlfriends there…. Francesca sat up like a shot.
Beth Anne Holmes.
Beth Anne was Connie’s best friend, and her only unmarried one. Francesca pounded on the partition. “Jennings! We must detour to the Holmes house!” she cried. Her heart was pounding like mad. Of course. Connie had to be at Beth Anne’s. And why hadn’t she thought of it sooner?
But then, Neil had only insisted that Connie had left him a few hours ago. And she had only disappeared that morning.
Five minutes later the brougham was pausing in front of a large house that took up the corner of 38th and Fifth. Francesca had hoped to see one of the Montrose coaches in front, but to her shock, she saw the second Cahill carriage parked on the street instead. Francesca knew who was calling upon the Holmes family: Julia.
Julia had realized Connie was gone, and she had quickly come to the conclusion Francesca had just reached. Francesca leaped out of the carriage before Jennings had fully stopped it. She flew across the drive and up the front steps of the house. Her knock was greeted instantly by a houseman. She was not close to Beth Anne and hardly ever called—she did not know the servant and he did not know her. But before she could even introduce herself, she could hear voices coming from the parlor, and even from behind closed doors she recognized both Beth Anne’s voice and her mother’s.
“I am Francesca Cahill. I believe my mother is here,” she said breathlessly.
“Mrs. Cahill is in the blue room,” the servant said, waiting for her muff, hat, coat, and gloves.
Impatiently Francesca shed everything, practically thrusting her outerwear into the manservant’s arms and racing to the pair of teakwood doors on the entry hall’s other side before he had a chance to dispose of anything, much less lead her there. Francesca flung open both doors.
Connie sat on one of the room’s two blue-and-gold-striped sofas. Julia sat in a bergere adjacent to the sofa, patting Connie’s hand. Beth Anne, a plump and pretty girl with freckles on her nose and curly red hair, was standing. Connie appeared oddly calm, as if she had not just taken her children and left her husband. In fact, sitting there in a simple navy blue suit, one magnificently cut and stitched, with her hands clasped in her lap, she seemed beautiful, elegant, and composed. But she was so still that she could have been sitting for her portrait. She was so still that it was eerie.
Everyone looked at Francesca at once.
Julia said, grimly, “So you have told your sister that Montrose has a lover?”
Francesca nodded, suddenly realizing which direction the wind was blowing. “Con? Thank God you are all right!” She rushed forward.
Connie gazed at her steadily. She attempted a smile. It was brittle and heartbreaking. “Yes, I am fine,” she said.
Francesca sank down beside her sister, taking both of her hands. Connie looked as if she might break into pieces at any moment, as if she were the most fragile of porcelain dolls.
“How could you tell her such a thing?” Beth Anne cried angrily. Her green eyes were flashing.
Francesca turned incredulously. “She asked me if I knew something! Was I to lie?” Beth Anne was a gossip. In fact, she could not keep a secret if her life—or someone else’s—depended upon it. Francesca felt that Beth Anne had some nerve criticizing her now.
“I do not think it was your place to say anything—and we all know how often you say the wrong thing!” Beth Anne cried.
“Please don’t fight,” Connie said quietly but tersely. Her voice was high with tension.
“I wish you had come to me first,” Julia said, intervening.
Francesca looked at her mother and tensed. “He does have a lover, Mama. I saw them. And I cannot lie to Connie.”
Julia stared at her. “We shall speak privately in a moment, Francesca.”
Francesca stiffened, about to protest. Then she shook her head, becoming angry. Clearly she was going to be blamed, when this was all Neil’s fault. She faced Connie. “I have been so worried about you.” She sat down and took her hand. “Are you all right?”
Connie said, “I am fine,” in the exact same odd, detached tone of voice. She pulled her hand away from Francesca’s grasp. Her smile remained, as if carved upon her face. Clearly she was not fine.
“Connie, we have been so worried and … Neil is worried, too,” Francesca said.
Connie looked at her. Her eyes were oddly wild while she remained so still. She did not comment upon what Francesca had said.
“Would you dare to meddle again?” Beth Anne cried.
Francesca stood, glaring at Beth Anne. “He is worried. He is worried and filled with remorse. I am certain of it!”
“Just as you are certain Neil betrayed Connie?” Beth Anne challenged. “What if this has been a mistake? I find it hard to believe that Neil would ever betray Connie.”
Francesca wanted to shout at Beth Anne that no mistake had been made—that she had seen them in the act of fornication. Instead, she glanced at Connie, who had tears sparkling in her eyes, and then she looked at Julia. Julia stood up.
“Ladies, this is not the time to argue over spilled milk. Beth Anne, we appreciate how much you love Connie, but this is a family matter.”
Beth Anne looked ready to burst into tears. “Mrs. Cahill, you know I have been Connie’s best friend for years. I don’t think Francesca had any right to spy on Neil, or any right to tell Connie what she did.”
“I could not lie to my own sister! I never expected Connie to leave her husband!” Francesca cried.
“Connie had the perfect life! And you have simply ruined it,” Beth Anne said harshly.
Francesca stiffened. “I did not force Montrose upon …” She stopped. “Upon another woman!”
“If there was another woman!” Beth Anne flared.
Francesca wanted to throttle her. She was the biggest pain in the neck! How could Connie tolerate her?
“Please,” Connie said. “Do not fight.”
Beth Anne sat down on Connie’s other side and hugged her. “Everything will be fine. I am certain of it.” Over Connie’s head, she gave Francesca a dark look, as if this were all, entirely, Francesca’s fault.
“Beth Anne, I know how close you and Connie are, but Francesca is her sister, and they are even closer. Would you give us a few moments alone?” Julia asked.
Beth Anne stared, as if incredulous and disbelieving. She glanced at Connie, but Connie did not defend her. “Very well,” she finally said, but she shot Francesca an ugly look as she got to her feet.
Francesca refrained from glaring back. The truth was, it was hard to be patient or pleasant around Beth Anne. Francesca had never really cared for her, and she found
her the busiest body there was.
“And, Beth Anne? We all know you would never breathe a word of this to anyone,” Julia said with a smile. “It will only hurt Connie more should anyone learn what has happened.”
“My mouth is sealed,” Beth Anne said firmly.
Francesca made a disparaging sound.
Beth Anne looked at her and left the room.
A silence fell. Francesca said, “If I have done the wrong thing, then I am terribly sorry.”
Connie looked down at her lap. “You did not do the wrong thing, Fran,” she said, low. “I asked you what you knew, and you told me. Thank you.”
Julia said, “Are you certain that you did not make a mistake, Francesca?”
“I am positive, Mama,” Francesca said, glancing at Connie. But Connie did not speak.
“Well, what has been done is done. There is no preventing spilled milk. Now we must think of the future.” Julia sat down on Connie’s other side. “You must go home, dear. Before you do cause a scandal.”
Connie nodded. “I know.” She did not seem thrilled with the prospect.
Francesca was flooded with relief. “Neil does love you, Con. I am convinced of it.”
Connie looked at her. “Perhaps.”
Francesca felt her heart breaking all over again. She glanced at Julia. Julia gave her a look of approval. She said, “Dear, I am not exactly surprised that Montrose has wandered. It is the way of the world. Few men are capable of fidelity in the long run.”
Francesca gasped. “Mama! Surely you do not think most men stray?”
“I do. Or rather, I think most exceptional men wander, at times. But I never expected this to happen so early in your marriage. Your heart is broken now. It will mend. And I agree with Francesca. Montrose loves you. But now, you must go home, before you cause a scandal.”
“How easy it is for you to say,” Connie whispered.
“Connie, the longer you stay here, the more likely it is that society will learn what happened. You should go back to Neil tonight, as if nothing is wrong. In fact, stun him with your kindness. His guilt will know no bounds.”
Francesca said, “I think she should put him on the carpet. I would.”
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