by Brenda Joyce
She had forgotten. Francesca briefly closed her eyes in relief, and then she rushed to the door and slammed it closed. “Do you have to announce my affairs to the entire household?”
He smiled at her with affection and concern. “Were you up all night studying?”
Francesca went to the closet and donned a warm flannel robe. “Yes, I was. I have an examination Monday morning.”
He leaned against the door, his hands in the pockets of his tan trousers. “Fran, don’t you think you should confess? This has gotten far too hard. Sneaking off to college by day, staying up all hours by night, and trying to still have a normal life! I think you should tell Mama the truth.”
She just stared. “Have you gone mad? She will demand that I drop out of the program—and I am not going to do that, especially when it was hard enough to borrow the money from you and Connie for the tuition.”
“How can you keep this up?” he said flatly. “I have never seen you sleep this late—you are exhausted.”
“I’m not,” she said, a half-truth. “Evan, I know you are concerned for my welfare, but I am so happy. Please, don’t even think of telling Mama about my having enrolled at Barnard College.” She lowered her voice. “In fact, I’m nervous even discussing this subject in the house.”
He was wry. “She never leaves her apartments before noon.”
“There’s always a first time.”
He shrugged. “Suit yourself, then. So, shall we ride after breakfast? The park will be beautiful after all the snow we got last night.”
“I’d love to but...” She hesitated. She had intended to spend the entire day studying.
He scowled. “I understand.”
She watched him swing open the door. “Wait! Evan, what is going on with you and Sarah Channing?”
He turned to smile at her. “She is sweet, isn’t she?”
She gaped at him. “Sweet?”
He nodded, winked, and left the room, closing the door behind him.
He seemed smitten. Sweet? Francesca shook her head as she went into the bathroom to wash up and brush her teeth. Evan did not know it, but last summer she had happened upon him and his mistress one weekday afternoon. They had been strolling down Broadway; she had been running an errand. Francesca had taken one look at her brother and the gorgeous redhead he was with, and she had known that they were lovers.
Francesca had never said a word. But a little research had revealed that the woman was a somewhat renowned stage actress named Grace Conway, and in any case, her bright and worldly manner had been apparent. If Evan had been in love with the actress, how could he now be falling for her complete opposite? It was amazing.
Francesca went downstairs, having quickly donned a navy blue skirt and a white shirtwaist, the former flaring attractively at the hem. She had twisted her hair into a neat chignon, and for some reason, as an afterthought, had dabbed a speck of rouge on her cheeks and lips. She was trying not to remember last night.
As she approached the breakfast room, which was cozy and intimate compared to the formal dining room where her mother routinely had dinner parties for forty or fifty guests, she realized that something was amiss. Her father and Evan were conversing with loud, raised voices. But they did not seem to be arguing.
Francesca stepped onto the room’s threshold.
“What are the two of you shouting about?” Francesca asked without undue concern.
“Look at this, Fran!” Evan cried, pointing at the page in front of his father’s nose. They were both reading the Times.
Cahill stood, and as Francesca came forward, he handed her the paper. “Burton’s boy has been abducted,” he said grimly.
And Francesca stared at the headline on the front page.
BURTON HEIR ABDUCTED
Francesca gasped, then read the subtitle aloud. “ ‘Boy disappears in middle of the night.’ ” She looked up, stunned.
“I am sure the police are already handling this,” Cahill said, crossing the room, Evan on his heels. “But I feel compelled to do what I can. Perhaps we should notify the office of the U.S. Marshal. Undoubtedly the Burtons will want all the help they can get.”
“Are you going over there? I will come,” Evan said grimly, at their father’s side.
“We must offer them whatever aid and support we can. This is an abomination,” Cahill exclaimed.
Francesca stared at the words swimming on the front page of the Times as her brother and father left the room. The article stated that Jonathan Burton had disappeared from his own bed in the middle of the night, that he was six years old and had a twin, and that the Burtons had been attending a ball at their neighbor’s home, the house of the millionaire Andrew Cahill, when the crime had occurred. They had not realized one of their children was missing until their return. The article had nothing else to say about the disappearance, so it then went on, laboriously, about the Burtons and their life.
She put the paper down.
Oh, God. Last night while Eliza had been laughing and dancing, some criminal had entered her house, snatching one of the twins.
Francesca felt ill. Which twin had been taken? She knew them both, and well. They were such sweet, mischievous boys. Jonathan and James. In fact, it was only a few days ago that she had given Jonny a ride on her hack in Central Park—they had ridden double, the little boy in front of her. She was always giving them penny candies.
Was it last summer that James had put a beetle in her lemonade?
Eliza must be in hysterics, Francesca thought, near tears.
A is for Ants . . .
Francesca froze. And then she ran to the library.
The note in hand, Francesca raced back through the house, her mind whirling at impossible speeds. The note she had discovered last night—which she had entirely forgotten about—must pertain to the missing Burton boy. But why had it been left on her father’s desk? Why hadn’t it been left at the Burtons‘?
In the front hall, Francesca skidded to an abrupt halt. The thought struck her with stunning force. Whoever had abducted Jonny, either he or his accomplice had been present last night at the ball.
Francesca was about to dash through the front door, when it occurred to her that the envelope was also evidence. She ran down the corridor, burst into the library, rushed to the desk, and hurried through the mail scattered there. Where, goddammit, was it?
She espied the envelope with the single word “urgent” typed on its face, grabbed it, and bolted back down the hall.
“Miss Cahill!” one of the doormen cried as she wrenched the front door open. Francesca paid him no mind. She dashed down the imposing limestone front steps of the Cahill mansion, careful not to slip and fall on her face.
“Miss! Your coat! Your hat! Your gloves!” the doorman shouted after her.
Francesca ran. As she ran down the drive, which had been shoveled free of snow, the frigid air blasted her. She hit Fifth Avenue as a trolley was passing by, but she paid it no mind. The Burtons’ property abutted the Cahills‘. Unlike her own home, they had no grounds in front, just lawns in the back, and the four-story house sat directly on the street. And standing before the wide staircase leading up to the front door were three uniformed policemen in their brass-buttoned blue serge coats and blue-black helmets.
Carriages were triple-parked in front of the Burton house. So was a handsome Daimler motorcar. And two officers on horseback seemed to be patrolling the entire block from Sixty-first to Sixty-second Street. Already a crowd of pedestrians was gathering to point and speculate.
Francesca rushed forward, breathing hard. The three patrolmen immediately barred her way, preventing her from taking more than one step up the staircase.
“Sorry, miss,” the short one said. “No callers today.” But he eyed her warily.
Francesca guessed he thought her insane, running about without any outer clothes. “I am a friend of the family’s,” she cried. “I must go in!”
“Orders from the commissioner himself. No callers
today.” He was firm.
“But I am Francesca Cahill, I live right next door,” she cried, her teeth chattering. “My father is a personal friend of Bragg’s, why, he was at our ball last night. I must go inside. Is the commissioner here? I must speak with him! I have information vital to the case,” she cried.
The three turned to look at one another, then stepped back, whispering. Francesca was losing her patience, and she was freezing. The short patrolman stepped forward and told her that he would take her in.
“Thank you!” She dashed past him, eager to get inside.
Once inside the hall, a spacious wood-paneled room with a high, domed ceiling and marble floors, she looked around. She had been to the Burtons’ house many times, and on either side of the hall where she stood, the doors were open, to show off the beautifully appointed drawing room and a reception room similar only in function to that of her parents‘. If memory served her correctly, there was a parlor at the far end of the hall, which seemed to be where the patrolman was leading her. The double doors were open, and immediately Francesca glimpsed the occupants inside.
Eliza sat on a settee with her husband, Robert. She was sobbing into a handkerchief, and Burton had his arm around her, although he was as pale as a newly laundered sheet. Her father and Evan stood on their right side, their expressions terribly grim, while a shabbily suited gentleman with a huge belly and thick whiskers stood on their left. Behind him was another detective, also clad in a poor brown worsted suit, but sporting a badge. Bragg stood facing the Burtons, his back to Francesca.
“Commissioner, sir.” The patrolman spoke with unease, as if afraid of having his head taken off by the interruption.
Bragg turned, and saw not the policeman, but Francesca. His gaze sharpened impossibly.
He did not appear to be in a good humor. In fact, he looked rumpled and unshaven, as if he had not had a very good night’s sleep. Francesca was almost sorry she had come. “Commissioner,” she began.
He strode forward. “Miss Cahill, good day.” He was curt to the point of being rude, and she knew the slight courtesy of his greeting was an effort. “I am afraid you will have to come back at a later time. This is the scene of a felonious crime.” He turned an ice-cold stare on the policeman. “Escort her home. No one is to enter these premises—or have I not made myself clear?”
The policeman blanched. “Y’did, sir, ‘n’ yes, sir. Let’s go, miss.”
Bragg reached for the door, apparently about to close it in her face.
“Bragg!” Francesca also gripped the door, forestalling him. His eyes widened. “I have a clue!”
“What?” This not from the commissioner, but from her father.
Francesca held up the now crumpled note and envelope. “I found this last night in the library,” she said in a rush, “just before you came in to use our telephone. I think this pertains to Jonathan.”
He snatched the note and envelope and Francesca watched him read, and then she watched him pale beneath his natural golden coloring. She thought he cursed beneath his breath.
Burton was on his feet. “What is it? Is it a ransom demand?”
Bragg held the note and his gaze locked with Francesca’s. “No, it is not a ransom demand, but it appears that Miss Cahill is right. Come in, Miss Cahill,” he said.
It was hardly an invitation; it was a command. Francesca stepped inside, aware now of just how hard her pulse was pounding.
He slammed the doors closed behind her.
Chapter 3
Sunday, January 19, 1902—11 A.M.
Bragg was no longer facing Francesca. “Robert, please read this,” he said quietly. But there was no mistaking how strained his expression was.
Robert Burton took the note and read it silently with shaking hands.
“What does it say?” Eliza cried. Her eyes were swollen, the tip of her round nose red. “Dear God, what does it say?!”
“It makes no sense,” Burton said, handing the note back to Bragg.
Francesca could not help herself. She was hardly close to Eliza, but she stepped to her and laid her palm on the other woman’s shoulder. Eliza did not notice. “Please, may I see the note?” Eliza asked.
It was handed to her. “Robert, can you think of anyone with a grudge against you or your wife, who might leave this kind of note in the wake of the abduction?” Bragg asked grimly, with a sidelong glance at Francesca.
Burton shook his head. “I have a few enemies, I suppose. From past business dealings, but dear God, my answer is no. I know of no one who would be so insane as to steal my child from his own bed right out from under our roof!” His face collapsed as if he too might burst into tears.
“Miss Cahill.” The words were like a whiplash.
Francesca stiffened and met his dark eyes. “Yes?”
“Describe to me exactly how—and where—you found this note.”
She swallowed. Having this man’s full attention did odd things to her. It caused an almost unbearable tension within her; or was she imagining it because of the horrid predicament they all faced? “I already told you. It was perhaps ten in the evening, and I was sitting at Papa’s desk in the library. I was thinking.” She hesitated, recalling exactly why she had closeted herself in the library, and she avoided his gaze. Francesca stared at the floor and continued. “The entire day’s mail was in front of me. I saw the envelope with the word ‘urgent’ typed upon it. It was so odd that I opened it.” He stared, and she added quickly, “I suppose I shouldn’t have. I didn’t think twice about it.”
If Bragg felt that her behavior had been erroneous, he gave no sign. But then, he was thoroughly preoccupied with the matter at hand. He paced. His strides were tight and hard and filled with anger and urgency.
Her father patted her shoulder. “That’s all right, Francesca,” he said reassuringly, diverting her attention.
Francesca smiled a bit in return. “I suppose I should not have opened it. I’m sorry.”
Bragg looked at Cahill. “I will need a list of guests who were at the house last night, as well as a list of the entire staff in your employ, including those who had the night off.”
Cahill nodded. “My wife will see to it.”
Bragg turned to the portly man with the heavy whiskers. “Murphy. See to it that no one enters or leaves the Cahill premises until I say so.”
“Rick,” Cahill began.
Bragg did not give him a chance to continue. “I am sorry, Andrew, but there is no choice in the matter. I must interview everyone who is in your employ—no one shall be allowed to leave the grounds.” He faced Murphy. “No one is permitted to leave these premises, either. And Robert, I need a staff list from you, as well.”
Francesca found his authoritative manner impressive. She realized her eyes had been glued to him again and she looked away, with reluctance. If any man could locate Jonny Burton, it was this man, she thought. His determination would know no bounds.
“I don’t understand,” Eliza suddenly whispered. “Why would someone do this? And why leave such a note? What does it mean?” More tears slid down her face. Her chignon was coming undone. Dark curls were beginning to fall about her round shoulders.
Bragg suddenly knelt before her, taking her hands in his. “Mrs. Burton. I will find the boy. I promise you that,” he said softly. As abruptly, he stood again. “Murphy. Take this note and envelope to headquarters. To Heinrich. Put a dozen men, no, two, on the detail. I want to know the kind of typewriter that was used; that is, I want to know the company and the model. Then I want to know every single store in Manhattan that carries or has carried the particular machine. Do I make myself clear?”
Murphy’s eyes were wide. “Commissioner, no offense intended, sir, but that’s an impossible task.”
“Is it, Inspector?” Bragg asked so coldly that Francesca could have sworn the temperature in the room had dropped a good ten degrees.
“We will do our best.”
“Do more than your best. You can also tell H
einrich I suspect a shift-key machine was used. The five capital letters in this note seem to be imprinted more deeply on the page.”
Francesca’s brows shot up. She wished she could look at the note again, but knew better than to ask. Bragg was very impressive, indeed.
“The paper is of high quality. Find out what kind of paper was used—and which stationers here in Manhattan carry the stock.”
Murphy did not look happy. “Aye, sir.”
Francesca could not help herself. “Are you thinking a servant has abducted the child?”
Bragg whirled. His eyes were wide. And there was no mistaking his expression—he did not appreciate the question.
Francesca held her ground, silently applauding herself for doing so, for the commissioner could be daunting, indeed. “Commissioner, I only want to point out that a servant could have stolen the paper from this household—as it does seem to be a job done from within the Burton home.”
His gaze narrowed. “I would be remiss to draw any conclusions at the beginning of this investigation. I would also appreciate your leaving the analysis of evidence to the authorities. That is, to myself and my detective bureau, Miss Cahill.”
Francesca nodded, though she wanted to say more. She wanted to tell him that if a servant had taken the child, then surely there would have been a ransom demand. Still, ransom was probably the motive—for surely a ransom demand would be forthcoming.
For if it was not forthcoming, they were dealing with a madman.
“I still do not understand this note,” Eliza said, finally standing. She paced, dabbing at her eyes. Watching her, Francesca tried to imagine how she felt, with one of her children missing, taken out of his bed by some criminal, but she failed to do so. How could she? She was not a mother. She could only empathize. How she wished she could help.
“The note is bizarre,” Burton cried angrily. “Maddening!”
Eliza nodded, appearing about to burst into tears again, and she sank back down on the settee, hugging herself hard.
Francesca went over to her again. She knelt. “Can I bring you some tea? Or better yet, a sherry?”