by Brenda Joyce
“I do not think Bragg will survive as the commissioner of police if he does not find this madman, and the boy— alive.”
Francesca stared, filled with dismay. Of course she wanted justice to be served, and more than anything, she wanted Jonny Burton safely home. But dear God, it would be so unfair for Bragg to lose his job if the case could not be solved the way everyone wanted it to be. He was doing his best. He was a man of determination and integrity. Francesca was quite certain that he would be the best police commissioner since Teddy Roosevelt back in 1886.
“What makes you say so? Have you spoken with the mayor?” Francesca asked worriedly.
“I would never pry in such a manner,” Cahill said. “But haven’t you been reading the newspapers? The press has been merciless these past few days, accusing Bragg of incompetence and, in general, suggesting he is in over his head.”
“That is terrible,” Francesca whispered, ashen. She had been so immersed in the case herself that she had hardly looked at a newspaper recently, when usually she read one if not two every day. “And it is unfair,” she said vehemently.
“The press is not known for being fair,” Cahill mused.
Francesca suddenly realized that Connie was studying her far too closely. Francesca recalled the way Connie had been watching her and Bragg earlier at the Burtons‘, and for some reason, she flushed. Her sister rarely made her uncomfortable, but she was accomplishing that feat now. Then she had to smile, suddenly thinking of Connie’s reaction should she ever tell her about the kiss. She would swoon.
“So, what is it that you wished to discuss?” Cahill asked Francesca. “By the way, you still seem peaked, dear. Are you not feeling better?”
“I am just tired, Papa. This nightmare concerning Jonny Burton is making it impossible for me to sleep.”
Cahill stood and came around his desk. “Darling, you have a bleeding heart. It is wonderful to be so compassionate, but you are taking the misfortunes of others too deeply to heart. You should not be making yourself ill over this.”
Francesca managed a smile. “I know.” She paused. Then, “Papa, I think Evan and Sarah Channing are terribly mismatched.”
Cahill raised a brow, settling back in his chair. “Really?”
Francesca nodded and spoke in a rush. “She is not his type, not at all. You know how he is always attracted to the most beautiful and lively of women. She is so sweet, but my brother needs a woman of fire, Papa. Surely you must agree with me there! Sarah is retiring and timid. He will make her miserable, I am sure, and she will make him as unhappy. I have no doubt about it!”
Cahill smiled. “And you are, I suppose, a woman of the world? That is, a woman of vast experience when it comes to relationships of a personal nature between men and women?”
Francesca blushed. “Papa—” she began.
He interrupted her. “Francesca, I happen to disagree with you—completely. I know how you adore your brother, and how, in your eyes, he can do no wrong. But he is highly irresponsible. His reckless ways must come to an end, my dear. The time has come for him to assume responsibility as my son and heir. I think Sarah is exactly the kind of woman he needs, a woman of substance, not fire, a woman who can steer him in the correct and moral direction. The last thing your brother needs is a wild temptress to encourage him in his frivolous ways. In time, I am sure, your brother and Sarah will become the best of friends. And that, my dear, is what makes for a successful marriage. Not fire, not passion.” He smiled firmly at her.
Francesca was dismayed. She was also disbelieving. “Papa, surely you believe in love?”
“Indeed, I do. But I am a realist rather than a romantic, Francesca. And I thought you were, too.”
Francesca stared. She was a realist, but she was coming to realize that she was far more romantic of nature than she had ever before suspected. She thought about Bragg and her heart leapt uncontrollably. “But Evan does not love Sarah Channing. So how can you even suggest he marry her—much less rush him into this marriage?”
Cahill sighed. “He will come to love her in time.”
“And what if he does not? Because frankly, I cannot imagine Evan ever loving her. I think he may come to despise her in time. Have you considered that possibility?” Francesca asked.
“Actually, I have not. Francesca, my mind is made up. Sarah is the most admirable of women. She is strong and sincere, and the perfect match for your brother. You will not move me, my dear. And I know you think you can.” He smiled.
Francesca stood, thoroughly disconcerted. “Is there a reason you must announce the engagement the day after tomorrow? Can’t that wait? Why is there such a rush?”
“I see no reason to delay.” Cahill was mild of manner.
“Papa. Please postpone the announcement? At least give Sarah and Evan more time to get to know one another,” she pleaded with a smile, sure she would gain her way.
He shook his head. “Do you really think that if we delay this, somehow you will find a way to end the union?”
Francesca flushed. “Evan is so upset. He doesn’t like her at all,” she cried.
Cahill was dismissive. “Francesca, enough. The engagement will be announced Saturday night, and that is the end of that.”
Francesca stared, unable to believe her ears. Her father was always kind, and he always kept an open mind. But on this subject, apparently, that was not the case. “Are you trying to punish him,” she finally said, “for his gaming debts?”
Cahill was grim. “No, my dear, I am not. I am trying to correct his character. That is all.”
“His character is wonderful!” she cried.
Cahill stood. He was flushing. “Francesca, I do not want to beat a dead horse. Enough.”
“We are not beating a dead horse, Papa,” she said. “We are discussing my brother’s—your son’s—life.”
“Fran.” Connie stood. “Papa is growing angry. He is not going to change his mind, and I must tell you, I like Sarah. I think Papa may be right. I think she might be very good for him, a calming effect, so to speak.”
Francesca could think of nothing worse than to be forced into marriage for a “calming effect.” She turned back to her father. “Tell me one thing isn’t true,” she said.
“And what is that?”
“That you are not using his debts to force him to wed? Surely that is not the case, Papa?”
Cahill stared. After a long pause, he said, “I have the right to spend my money as I choose. I have worked very hard my entire life, Francesca. I was not born into a home like this. My mother worked in a mill, my father on the farm, and there was barely enough food on the table when I was growing up. I butchered cows with my own two hands. I have worked very hard to be able to provide you, your sister, and your brother a life like this. Why should I make good on your brother’s extravagant, reckless debts? I am sick and tired of the way he gambles away all that I have worked so hard for!” Cahill exclaimed.
Francesca was taken aback. She knew all about her father’s past, and how poor he had been. But she had never seen him so angry. She didn’t know how to respond. She finally said, “But surely you are not using those debts to force him to wed?”
“I am not the first father to deny a son payment of such reckless debts,” Cahill said. “Now, if you will excuse me?”
Francesca stared as her father, who was clearly controlling his temper, left the room. He did not march past her, and he did not slam the door, but the sound of it closing had something frighteningly final about it. Tears filled her eyes.
“Well,” Connie said on a deep breath. “I think we may rest assured that Evan will marry Sarah Channing.”
Francesca folded her arms. She was trembling. “Papa will not listen to reason. I have never seen him like this before,” she whispered. “And what is worse, he is blackmailing our brother,” she choked.
Connie put her arm around her. “It isn’t quite as bad as you are making it out to be, Fran. It really is for Evan’s own good.”
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Francesca felt as if she were collapsing in every possible way—mentally, physically, and emotionally. “But he wouldn’t even consider my point of view!”
“I suppose he feels very strongly about this,” Connie said. “Come on, chin up. There are far worse things that could happen to Evan, Fran.”
Francesca could not agree.
“Anyway, I am going home.” Connie kissed her cheek. “If I don’t see you before, I will see you at the engagement party Saturday night.”
Francesca looked at her. She was beginning to feel numb. Connie was going home. Would Montrose be there? Or was he even now downtown at police headquarters with Bragg? Dear God, she could not worry about her sister’s life now. She just could not. “All right,” Francesca said.
After Connie had left, Francesca turned to stare out of the window at the back lawns. Twilight had fallen. The sky was blackening rapidly. She realized just how tired she was.
And she and Bragg had still not had a chance to talk about what had happened at his house just that morning.
Her gaze fell on the newspaper on her father’s desk. She could not take much more, and she did not want to read about Bragg’s failure to solve the case. She turned away.
But a headline had caught her eye. She whirled, grabbing the newspaper. It was the late edition of the Sun. A headline screamed: “E is for Eternity.”
Francesca gasped, and in that one stunning moment, a comprehension struck her, and it was crystal clear.
It was the madman himself who was leaking information to the newspapers.
Francesca sat down on her bed clad only in her chemise, having let her hair down. Maybe she would take a nap, as well. Otherwise it would be a very early evening, indeed. But as tired as she was, her mind refused to stop. Images tumbled one after another, leaving in their wake unformed thoughts. Bragg and Montrose, Montrose and Eliza, Eliza and Burton. Evan and Sarah, her sister and Montrose, her father’s grim expression. And then there was little Jonny Burton. She no longer saw him as a smiling imp with a twinkle in his brown eyes and a splattering of freckles on his nose. Now, when she thought of him, she saw him pale and frightened and drawn.
If Eliza was playing a terrible trick on her husband, then the boy was somewhere safe, and he was alive.
Francesca wondered if she could be prosecuted for abducting her own son.
She knew it was far-fetched. No matter how much Eliza might despise Burton, she was not insane and she was not cruel. How easily Montrose could have lied.
But then he would be the insane one, then he would be cruel and sadistic.
Francesca tried to sort through the facts. There was one suspect who was clearly cruel and sadistic and capable of brutality. And that was Gordino, who hated Bragg, who had escaped prison that morning.
Francesca stood and found herself walking to the window and staring toward the Burtons’ house. It was Gordino. Of course it was Gordino. How could they even have a doubt?
She turned and retrieved her opera glasses, returned to the window, refusing to acknowledge any guilt for her spying. She trained them on the opposite house.
All the lights were on downstairs. Francesca stared into the ground-floor windows, one by one, but saw no one. She lifted the glasses to the second story. By now, she knew she was looking into Eliza’s apartments where she had been just a few hours ago. She still wished she had managed to type a few words on that old typewriter in her sitting room. It certainly would not have hurt.
The sitting room was empty and unlit. The bedroom was not.
Francesca’s grasp on the opera glasses tightened and she gasped as she focused on Eliza and Burton in what was clearly the midst of a fight. The two of them were standing almost in the center of the room—Francesca could make out the bed just behind them. They were face-to-face. Burton was gesturing wildly at her. Eliza did not seem to move, her body seemed stiff and set.
So much for the apparently perfect marriage, Francesca thought grimly. She was about to set her glasses down— for this was not her business—when Eliza turned away.
And as quick as a striking snake, Burton’s hand lashed out, and he whipped her around to face him.
She struggled to shrug him off.
Francesca knew she should put the opera glasses down. This was one scene she should not be privy to. Their battle was becoming physical and violent. This was another burden she could not bear.
But she could not move; she was frozen, standing there staring into the other house. Eliza managed to break free of Burton, and she said something to him.
Faster than before, his hand lashed out again. And this time, he struck her across the face.
Francesca cried out as the blow sent Eliza falling backward, onto her hands and knees on the floor. And then Burton was dragging her upright, and Eliza was struggling madly to free herself of him. Disbelieving, Francesca saw Burton grab a hold of her hair and yank her head back so hard that it must have hurt as badly as the blow to her face. She became utterly still in his grasp.
He said something to her. And then he lifted her in his arms and an instant later he threw her down on the bed. Eliza scrambled to get off on the other side. Burton caught her, dragging her back to the middle of the mattress, and then he straddled her, covering her mouth with his hand. He bent over her, and before Francesca’s wide eyes, he tore open the bodice of her dress.
Francesca dared not watch any more. She threw the opera glasses on the bed, then stared blindly, in horror, out of the window—at the hazy outline of the house.
Oh, God.
Her pulse was deafening her now. She began to shake wildly, trying to think of what to do—of how she could stop whatever was occurring in that bedroom across the street. But what could she do? Burton was accosting Eliza, and unless Francesca missed her guess, he was forcing himself on his own wife.
Should she run over there and demand to see either one of them? Of course she would be turned away. And Francesca knew, with the most awful sinking realization, that there was nothing she could do to stop Burton’s violence against his wife.
Eliza hates Burton with a vengeance.
Oh, God! Francesca rushed about her bedroom, not knowing what to do, where to go, what to think.
Eliza hates Burton with a vengeance.
Of course she did.
Francesca trembled. She was ill.
For now she could no longer deny that Eliza had the motive necessary to abduct her own son and attempt to destroy her own husband.
She had the motive. Oh, yes, she did.
And nothing Francesca did or said or thought would make that motive disappear.
She had missed two days of classes. She was quite certain the dean would wish to speak to her when she arrived on campus. It was the following morning, and Francesca had her books in a shopping bag, hidden beneath a newspaper, and she was on her way out the front door. She’d barely closed it when she saw the small figure lying in wait for her behind two large oak trees at the head of the Cahill drive. Joel Kennedy, bundled up in his worn, stained overcoat, a cap pulled down low over his face and ears, stood there clearly waiting for her. Even from the distance separating them, their eyes connected immediately. Francesca felt a stab of unease. She had the worst of premonitions—he was seeking her out and no good was going to come of it.
She was almost afraid of what it was he wished to say to her.
It was nine in the morning; her mother remained abed, her father was already on his way downtown to the office, and God only knew where Evan was. Francesca wasn’t sure he had even come home last night.
She hurried down the front steps, shivering—it was a frighteningly cold morning. And as she walked down the drive, Joel stepped out from behind the trees. He waited for her to approach.
“Joel. This is a huge surprise.” Joel fell into step beside her as they went down the drive. Francesca glanced at him. “Good morning.”
“ ‘Mornin’,” he said. He seemed grim. “I gotta talk to you, Miss Cahill
.”
Francesca halted in her tracks. She could not care less if Evan might come up the driveway at that moment, or if her mother might glance out of her bedroom window and see her speaking to the urchin. “What is it? Has something happened? Or have you come to tell me something?” She found herself gripping her tote with unusual strength. She prayed for good news. It was sorely needed.
“I don’t know why I gotta come clean,” he said, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets. “But I do. I lied to you, Miss Cahill.”
“About what? The silver?” But she knew this had nothing to do with the stolen silver, oh no.
He shook his head. “About Gordino.”
Francesca felt as if the air had been knocked out of her lungs with one fell blow. “How so?” she asked fearfully.
“He wasn’t the one who gave me that note to give to the fox.” Joel stared at her unblinkingly.
She shivered and this time it had nothing to do with the cold. Her dread increased. “I don’t understand, Joel. It wasn’t Gordino? Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure,” he cried.
“But why would you lie about something like that?” Francesca cried with despair.
“Why wouldn’t I lie?” He shrugged. “You give me a real good reason to tell the spots the truth when all they ever done is throw me in the Tombs. As if they don’t got worse roughs to pull.”
She blinked. She really could not understand him, and now, it had little to do with his speech.
“Besides, he said he’d only pay me if I kept my mouth closed,” Joel added.
“He? The person who gave you the note?”
“And I hate Gordino. He’s a rotten son of a bitch. I was hoping that fox you like would kill him!” Joel cried viciously.
Francesca was frozen. And afraid. “Why do you hate him so much that you would try to pin a crime on him that he did not commit?” she asked in a whisper. How silent the morning had suddenly become, silent, still, frozen.
Joel only stared back at her, his expression twisted.
“Joel?”
He snarled, “He’s after my mother, the bastard, and she’s so scared of him.”