Deadly Love

by Brenda Joyce

  Francesca shook her head. Instinct warned her not to share any facts of the case with the doctor.

  “Well, I think it was a good idea for the Burtons to send James to Eliza’s parents during this crisis.” He patted her arm. “You look tired, my dear. I will give Eliza something to help her sleep. Why don’t you go home?”

  “I intend to.” She knew her smile was wan. As Finny and the servant started up the polished teakwood stairs, covered with a Persian runner in delicate creams and golds, Bragg appeared, descending.

  He paused on the steps to speak to Finny. Francesca strained to hear. He kept his voice low, but she heard his every word. “The case has taken a very bad turn, Finny. Give her laudanum. I’d like her to sleep away this night.”

  “I understand, Commissioner,” Finny said, heading upstairs.

  Bragg entered the hall and his amber eyes found Francesca. There was no censure there. He just seemed terribly tired and terribly strained. While another servant brought him his coat, Francesca donned hers, which she had been holding, and together they crossed the hall on their way out.

  “Will you be able to get any rest?” she asked as they stepped outside. The wind was howling now, and it was snowing. Snowflakes swirled through the air.

  He glanced at her. “How can I? When a child’s life is at stake?”

  They had not yet descended the front stairs to the sidewalk; Francesca gripped his arm. “What does this madman want? What does he intend?”

  “Clearly he seeks to wound the Burtons.” Their gazes held.

  “And this time, there was no note. There was no clue, nothing, nothing but...” She could not continue.

  His jaw seemed so tight she imagined it would snap. Still, he reached out and steadied her by holding both of her arms. The gesture was so reassuring. She looked up, into his eyes. “Now what?”

  “We will hear from the madman again. Have no doubt.”

  She had no doubt. Because the madman wished to torment them with uncertainty over the boy’s fate. “There will never be a ransom demand, will there?”

  “I think it unlikely.”

  “So that would rule out a servant having committed the abduction.”

  “Not necessarily. There are servants who despise their employers. However, I cannot imagine a servant being so creative.” He paused. “Where are you leading, Francesca? I mean, Miss Cahill?”

  She smiled at the sound of her name on his lips. Then her smile vanished. “Unless this person takes pleasure in inflicting pain, his motive must be revenge.”

  “I have assumed so.”

  Francesca was quite certain he had thoroughly questioned the Burtons. “Did they come up with anyone who might hate them enough to do this?”

  He hesitated. “Francesca, you do realize that this remains official police business, no matter how helpful you have been?”

  “I do,” she whispered. And she already knew that the Burtons had come up with someone, otherwise he would have merely said no.

  “I cannot share that information with you.” He stared.

  It was hard to look away from his worried eyes. It was the most absurd moment to think of it, but Francesca recalled the photograph of Bragg with the three small children and the beautiful woman. She shoved the recollection aside. “I have thought of something.”

  “Indeed, I would, at this juncture, be shocked if you had not.”

  Had they not been in the midst of an unfolding tragedy, Francesca would have smiled. “Perhaps, just perhaps, this madman seeks to hurt Eliza—not Burton.”

  His only reaction was a flicker in the depths of his eyes.

  She grew dismayed and she plucked yet again on his coat sleeve, her fingers quite numb now from the cold. “She is the most admired of women! Perhaps the madman has been in love with her—and was rejected?”

  He sighed. “Fran ... Miss Cahill. You have thought of nothing I have not already thought of. There is one problem. Eliza Burton has not rejected any gentlemen. She says there have been no inappropriate overtures, no inappropriate suitors, and that she has not conducted herself in any inappropriate manner.”

  Francesca grew uneasy. “What if she is lying? To protect her marriage?”

  He stared. “You accuse her of what? Lying? A lack of morals? Infidelity? Or merely callous self-absorption?”

  “No.” Francesca shook her head, taken aback by his somewhat angry reaction. “No. I am sorry. I admire her so! I just... I just want to find the boy, alive.”

  Bragg turned away. But not before she saw the despair in his eyes. And she stood there, unmoving, watching him tread down the steps, already dusted with snow.

  He was taking this almost personally, she thought. But then, so was she.

  On the sidewalk he turned as a horse-drawn omnibus passed by. “I will walk you home,” he said.

  Francesca nodded and hurried to catch up to him. A moment later they passed through the wrought-iron gates that opened onto the Cahill property. They walked in silence, each absorbed with their own thoughts. And finally they reached his roadster.

  Francesca had shoved her gloveless hands into her coat, as she had not had the time to grab gloves, a hat, or even her muff. She watched him produce leather gloves from his coat pockets and dust off the windshield of the Daimler. When he was done, he faced her one last time. “By the way,” he said, “a new thought is occurring to me.”

  Eagerly, she said, “What is it?”

  “You said you were taking an examination when you pieced together the first two clues. What did you mean?”

  She looked at him and went blank.

  “Miss Cahill?”

  Evan and Connie were the only ones who knew she was studying at Barnard College. She managed a smile. “I meant... it was a self-examination. I study various subjects ... and test myself from time to time.”

  He looked at her as if she were very odd, indeed. “I see.” He tipped his dark bowler. “Good day, Miss Cahill.”

  “Good day, Commissioner,” she said, inwardly wincing and hardly relieved.

  Francesca stepped into the warmth of her home, handing her coat to a passing houseman. She shivered and rubbed her hands together, hoping to warm them. Her mother sailed into the hall, apparently coming from the yellow salon. “Francesca.” Julia smiled and Francesca knew her mother had been waiting for her. “How was your lunch with Mr. Wiley?”

  Francesca froze. Wiley! She had forgotten all about him, and not only had she forgotten, she had also failed to send him a note that morning explaining that she could not make their appointment. She stared at her mother, appalled.

  “Francesca! Just what does that look upon your face mean?” Julia’s hands found her hips. She was marvelously dressed in a fitted gray skirt and jacket with cream-colored stripes. Her blouse, adorned with lace, was a pale cream color, as well. A pearl necklace, brilliant with interspersed diamonds, winked above the collar of her blouse. And her curled blond hair was pulled neatly back.

  Julia Van Wyck Cahill was still an extremely beautiful and elegant woman. She never failed to make an entrance, no matter what the establishment might be.

  “I forgot,” Francesca whispered.

  “You forgot?” Julia exclaimed, wide-eyed. “How on earth could you forget? And where have you been all day?”

  Francesca clasped her hands to her cheeks. “Mama, I will send Mr. Wiley a note with both an explanation and an apology! This exact minute!”

  “I would like to hear that explanation,” Julia said, her blue eyes turning a stormy gray. “Francesca, you have gone too far. How could you?”

  Francesca bit her lip, then blurted, “Mama, I found another note.”

  “You what?”

  Francesca grabbed her mother’s arm and her words tumbled over one another as she explained how she had found the third note, and just where she had been since then. Of course, she did not breathe a word about her class that morning at Barnard College.

  “Oh, dear,” Julia said, becoming pale. Fran
cesca followed her mother back into the salon, where they both sat down on a gold brocade couch with gilded arms and legs and red trim. “This is terrible,” she said. “Eliza... she must be going insane.”

  Francesca had not told her about the ear; describing the bloody note had been enough. “Yes, I think so. Dr. Finny came to tend her.”

  Julia looked up. “That’s good.” She reached out and patted Francesca’s hand. “Well, I never denied that I have an extremely intelligent and capable daughter. I am glad you were of help, Francesca.”

  Her mother’s praise was rare. Francesca was absurdly pleased and she had to smile, aware that she also flushed. “Thank you, Mama.”

  “Of course, I expect you to go downtown this moment and apologize to Mr. Wiley—in person,” she said firmly.

  Francesca wanted nothing more than to crawl into her bed and take a good long nap. But she looked at her mother, saw the warning in her eyes, and knew better than to refuse. “All right.” The fastest way downtown was by the Second Avenue El, but Francesca could not deal with the crowds on the elevated, considering all that she had been through that day. “May I take Jennings? Maybe I can nap on my way.”

  Julia patted her knee. “Of course.” She stood up. “And do not forget that we have been invited to Connie’s, Francesca. Supper will be at eight.”

  Francesca was dismayed even though the Montrose home was just around the block on Madison Avenue. “I prefer to rest in my room—”

  “It is an intimate dinner, just twenty guests, and it should be lovely. Your sister is a magnificent hostess. I would like you to come.”

  Francesca had to study for her French literature class; she also desperately needed a good night’s sleep. An image of the piece of tiny frozen ear filled her mind. How would she ever sleep after the horrors of the day?

  “Francesca? Are you all right?”

  Francesca stood. “I am so worried about Jonny Burton.”

  Her mother grimaced. “We all are, dear. But the police are on the case, and doing, I presume, the best that they can. Wear your green gown tonight, please. And that cameo pendant.” She started from the room, then paused. “This will perk you up. Dr. Parkhurst is one of the guests.”

  Francesca’s eyes widened. Parkhurst was the founder and president of the Society for the Prevention of Crime. Dinner no longer loomed as an intolerable affair. To the contrary. “Why didn’t you say so?” she said.

  “I think the commissioner of police will also be present.” Julia left the room.

  Francesca reached for the back of a chair to steady herself. What did the small series of skips of her heart mean? She ran after her mother. “Mama, wait.”

  About to cross the hall, Julia paused. “Yes?”

  “What do you know about Rick Bragg?”

  Julia’s eyes widened with surprise. “Why, whatever do you mean? Surely you—Francesca! Surely you are not interested in the police commissioner?” her mother cried, with obvious dismay.

  Francesca felt her cheeks heat with embarrassment. “I did not say that,” she said slowly. “But why would it be so terrible? After all, he comes from a good family. The Texas Braggs are a match for the Vanderbilts. Or—he’s not married, is he?” She felt the heat in her cheeks ratchet up a few more miserable degrees.

  Julia faced her, hands on her slim hips. “I do not know what is going on in that incomprehensible mind of yours, Francesca. But any interest you might have in the commissioner should be laid immediately to rest.”

  He was married. Francesca felt her heart sinking, hard and fast.

  Julia faced her. “You know I do not like to speak ill of anyone,” she said, lowering her voice. “But I would never approve of a match between you and Rick Bragg.”

  Francesca stared, bewildered. “He’s not married?”

  “Married? Hardly! He is illegitimate, my dear girl. As illegitimate as one can get.”

  Francesca felt her mouth drop open and her jaw hang. “What?”

  Julia was actually turning pink. “Your father told me. The other night before bed.”

  Francesca’s eyes widened, for she could not imagine her mother and father in a private conversation, much less one in the bedroom.

  “I do not believe it is common knowledge,” Julia added.

  “And that is the end of that.” Her brows lifted.

  Francesca stared, speechless. She did not know of anyone in good society who had such a stigma attached to him. Illegitimate men just did not move about in quality circles. “He seems very well educated,” she finally said, at a loss. “He went to Harvard Law School.”

  Julia was grim. “What does that matter? He is also well connected. Your father thinks he will one day run for the Senate. But that does not change the fact”—and she looked all around them as if afraid of being overheard, before dropping her voice to an almost inaudible whisper—“that his mother was a woman of ill repute.”

  Francesca gasped. She was in a state of shock.

  “Do not ever repeat what I have told you, it would not be fair to the commissioner,” Julia said. “But if you have any romantic inclinations, I suggest you forget them this very minute.” She softened and touched Francesca’s face. “Now, I see you are as stunned as I was. Do not give Bragg another thought. When will you be ready to go downtown? I will tell Jennings.”

  Francesca managed to say, “In half an hour.”

  Julia nodded, pleased. She caressed Francesca’s cheek one more time and left the hall.

  Francesca felt as if she had been hit over the head with a huge wooden board. The day just kept getting worse.

  Francesca had taken a few minutes to freshen up, all the while thinking not about Mr. Wiley, but about the missing child and his parents—and Rick Bragg. Her earlier feeling of dismay had intensified, but she wasn’t quite willing to acknowledge why. She told herself that it had nothing to do with Bragg. She also wished she would not have to make the long and tiresome trip downtown.

  But of course, she had done Wiley a terrible disservice and her mother was correct, she must apologize immediately, and in person. A note would not do.

  Downstairs, Francesca told Jennings to bring the brougham around. Then she walked into the kitchens and asked for Joel Kennedy.

  Mrs. Ryan appeared from the pantries where she had been instructing several kitchen maids upon their duties. She was a tall, gaunt woman with fading red hair and faded blue eyes. Spectacles, which she never wore, dangled upon her narrow chest. Her hands found her hips. “Miss Cahill, the boy is not to be found. Anywhere.”

  Francesca blinked at her. She was always a bit intimidated by the woman, who ran the house with an iron hand. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Joel Kennedy is gone.” She was very grim—but then, such an expression was characteristic of her. “And not only is he gone, so is a good portion of the silver.”

  “What?” Francesca cried, stunned.

  “He’s stolen the silver, Miss Cahill. And I am not happy about telling Mrs. Cahill the sad fact.”

  Francesca could only stare in shock. Joel had stolen from her family when she had been so kind as to give him a job and a roof over his head! But more importantly, he was her only connection to Gordino and whoever was truly responsible for Jonny Burton’s abduction. Dismay crushed her then. “But how could he steal the silver? It’s kept under lock and key. And you have the keys, Mrs. Ryan,” Francesca said.

  “Come with me,” Mrs. Ryan said, and she marched off. Francesca hurried to follow.

  In the dining room was a huge piece of furniture, almost as high as the ceiling. It was a seventeenth-century piece that was exquisite to look at. But Francesca knew that the locked drawers and cabinets were where her mother’s most valuable silver, crystal, and china were kept. Mrs. Ryan pointed to a lower drawer. Francesca followed her gaze.

  The mahogany drawer was badly scratched around the brass keyhole. “He picked the lock,” Francesca whispered.

  “Indeed, let us hope he did no more than that,
for it will be just our luck should he be a bedchamber sneak.” Her hands had found her hips again.

  For a moment, Francesca wondered if she enjoyed the drama of what had occurred, either that, or Francesca being the one responsible for the theft. “We must be alert in case burglars try to enter the house at night while we are all asleep.” Bedchamber sneaks made wax impressions of bedroom locks, and came back with their cohorts to rob on a more massive and premeditated scale. It was not a pleasant thought.

  “Yes, we must,” Mrs. Ryan said. “Shall I tell your mother, or will you?”

  Francesca inhaled. “I must go downtown, Mrs. Ryan. Why don’t you keep this to yourself for a bit, and I will tell her later tonight?” She would delay that event as long as was possible.

  “Very well.” Mrs. Ryan turned and left the room with brisk, efficient strides.

  Francesca was grim and angry as she went to get her coat. She had been trying to help Joel Kennedy. He was an ungrateful little thief.

  Wiley and Sons was actually located on the corner of Broad and Wall streets. It had taken Francesca an hour to get downtown, as it continued to snow, although lightly. But the snow underfoot was enough to cause traffic jams, and now the sky was darkening—soon it would be twilight. Francesca asked Jennings to wait for her where he had double-parked alongside rows of carriages and a few motorcars, and she stepped carefully down to the curb.

  Francesca had not been to Wall Street in several years; there was little reason for her to do so, although her father’s offices were also in the area. The last time she had been downtown, the street had been busy with pedestrians as well as hansoms, coaches, and trolleys, all of the passersby male. Today, due to the weather, she supposed, only a few gentlemen were hurrying about their business, most of them holding open black umbrellas.

  Francesca glanced at the directory in the granite lobby of the building, then went upstairs to the second floor. A receptionist pointed her toward a corner office. Anxious now, Francesca proceeded to the office and knocked hesitantly upon the solidly closed door.

  Wiley called out for her to enter and she did.

  He was seated at a large desk, in his shirtsleeves, which were rolled up. He seemed to be very busy with paperwork. He glanced up and his eyes widened. A second later he had jumped to his feet. “Miss Cahill!”