Deadly Illusions

by Brenda Joyce

  “I really don’t know. I know he had a manor somewhere in Ireland, but as I said, he also kept a home in London and that is where we met the second time.” He added, “He was actually a handsome fellow, but his reputation was rather dour.”

  Before Francesca could ask him what he meant, the door was opened and Sam Wilson stood there. He started at the sight of them.

  “Hello,” Francesca said brightly. “May we come in?”

  “Yes, of course, although it is very early,” Wilson said, stepping aside with a smile. He seemed bewildered by their presence.

  “It’s well past nine,” Hart said as they followed him into the shop. “What time do you open?”

  “If a customer knocks—I thought you were customers—I will accommodate him or her. But otherwise, we open our doors at noon.” He paused by the display counter. “I use the morning to work on repairs in the back.”

  Francesca studied him closely. He could be considered tall by someone as small as Kate, but he wasn’t particularly so. He certainly wasn’t Irish, but then, they did not know that the man Maggie had met on the street was the killer—she might have bumped into an innocent passerby. She looked at his hands and was surprised that today he wore a ring on his left hand.

  If the killer were right-handed, he had worn the ring on his left hand, too.

  She stared. The ring was gold but there was no stone. The center had a flat smooth surface with some engraving upon it.

  Witnesses and victims often mistook, and sometimes wildly, the details of the crime. Francesca wondered if his ring, at night, in a shadowy flat, might look as if it had a stone in it.

  She wondered how she could get into his closet and look at his clothes.

  “We actually stopped by last night,” Hart said, giving her an odd look. Clearly he had expected her to do the questioning. They had decided not to tell Wilson that the police had tried to round him up. They would proceed very quietly, without putting him on the defensive.

  She tried to signal her discovery to him by glancing pointedly at Wilson’s hand and more specifically at his ring. But Hart appeared exasperated—he did not understand.

  “Last night? You stopped by my shop last night?” Wilson seemed very surprised. And he did not comment on the fact that he had not been at home.

  Francesca stepped forward. “I recalled some questions I wished to ask you,” she said. She hadn’t decided whether to re veal Kate’s murder or not.

  “Oh,” was his response.

  She became impatient. “Actually, we tried your door for some time—but you were not at home.”

  He blinked. His expression did not change. “Of course I was at home,” he said after an odd pause.

  “I beg to differ. We rang the doorbell repeatedly—we even banged on the door,” Hart said, repeating the account given by the police officers who had failed to locate Wilson at his home last night.

  “I was working in my shop,” he said, turning pale. “I was engrossed—I undoubtedly did not hear you at the front door.”

  That was a lie if Francesca had ever heard one. “May we see your repair shop? Perhaps you could show us what you were working on.”

  He stiffened. “What is this about? Why are you asking me questions about last night? I simply did not hear the door.”

  “Please humor my fiancée,” Hart said with a very serious expression.

  Wilson clearly thought about throwing them out. Then, as clearly, he decided not to go against Hart. “Come with me,” he said.

  As they followed him through a back door, Francesca slowed her steps, pulling Hart back with her. “In his shop, occupy him. I want to search his bedroom,” she whispered.

  “Absolutely not!”

  “Just keep him occupied,” she said, and then she realized that Wilson held another door open. A stairwell on his right clearly led to the living quarters above the shop.

  “Right in here,” he said.

  Francesca walked into a good-size room. There were two tables in it, both the size of dining tables, each covered with clocks and watches in all stages of repair. The oddest assortment of tools and gadgets, all miniature in size, were located on a tray on the closest table.

  “This clock is seventeenth-century Italian,” Wilson said with reverence. He showed them a large clock in bronze with a gilded face and pearl hands. “The owner brought it in very recently. She was a lovely girl, recently widowed, and the clock belonged to her husband’s family. I simply must get it running for her, as it has so much sentimental value now.”

  As Hart commented upon how elegant the clock was, Francesca glanced around. The back windows opened out onto the gardens Wilson had spoken of. A swing was beneath the single oak tree, some of his roses were in bloom, and there was a small cast-iron table, two chairs and a badminton net. When Francis married Wilson, she would have a wonderful home. “Excuse me, is there a rest room I could use?”

  “Of course,” Wilson said, startled. “Just up those stairs, first door on your left.”

  Francesca gave Hart a warning look and hurried out.

  Once upstairs, she ignored the bathroom, a simple affair with a walnut vanity, porcelain sink and water closet. The parlor was cheerful and cozy, the striped sofa facing a brick hearth. She pushed open a door and found, to her surprise, a small salon with a large piano. Did Wilson play? She quickly went to the remaining door and stepped into his bedroom.

  He had opened the pale muslin draperies and sunlight streamed into a pleasant room of medium size, the walls covered in a green-and-white striped paper. The bed was dark oak, almost black, with four posters and a heavily engraved head-board. The bedspread was a green print, covering the pillows, with one decorative emerald neck roll atop that. The bed was so precisely made that she had to wonder if he had even slept there last night.

  She went to the walnut bureau and studied the single photograph. It was of his wife, she assumed, a plain woman with a pretty smile and sweet, kind brown eyes. Then she moved to his closet.

  There were three suits hanging there, but not one was charcoal gray.

  Of course, Kate could have been wrong. The suit could have been brown or black—and he had two very dark brown suits hanging in his closet.

  Francesca thought she heard a noise on the stairs and she jumped. She quickly pushed closed the closet door and ran across the bedroom to the door, then peeked out.

  Wilson was not standing there in the salon, staring accusingly at her.

  She took a breath and exhaled. She had found nothing of value, she thought grimly. Then she corrected herself. Wilson did wear a gold ring.

  And where had he been last night?

  An idea struck her with stunning force.

  Very quietly, making sure each step was soundless, Francesca went downstairs. As she did so, their voices became louder. Hart remained in the repair shop with Wilson, encouraging him to explain the intricacies of clockwork to him. Good man, Francesca thought, and she fled down the hall and into the front shop.

  There, she did not pause. She went outside, closed the door and rang the doorbell just once.

  A moment passed and Wilson opened it. His pleasant smile vanished the moment he saw her.

  But Francesca smiled at him.

  He could hear the doorbell from his shop, oh yes, he could.

  Wilson had lied.

  HART HAD LEFT HER at headquarters after gaining a promise from her that she would not leave Mulberry Street until Raoul had returned to take her wherever she chose. His appointment with the ambassador was at half-past twelve, and with midday traffic, it could take him an hour to get to Bridge Street. Francesca had wished him a successful interview and had proceeded upstairs to Bragg’s office.

  Unfortunately, she found him with the chief of police, Brendan Farr.

  She hesitated in the open doorway, the strangest feeling of dread instantly forming in her chest. Both men were seated, and Bragg was the first to see her. He stood with a smile. “Come in.”

  Farr tu
rned and also stood, his smile barely discernible and not reaching his cold gray eyes.

  “I did not mean to interrupt,” Francesca said.

  “You are not interrupting,” Bragg said firmly, leading her in. “Farr had Maggie look at the mug book this morning. She did not recognize anyone.”

  Francesca stared at Farr and imagined him knocking at Maggie’s door with some of his bullies at an ungodly hour and forcing her to go to headquarters. “Was she late for work?” There was no way she could have been on time, as Maggie’s shift started at eight in the morning.

  Farr smiled at her. “We have a murder to solve, Miz Cahill. Two murders, actually.”

  “I hope her supervisor was understanding.” Francesca heard how cool her own tone was.

  Farr’s smile never moved. “Mrs. Kennedy seems smart enough. I imagine she’s taken care of herself all these years, with no man to look after her and not even you, and she can do so now.”

  Francesca decided to ignore him, making a mental note to make certain that Maggie had not been dismissed for her tardiness. “When you have a moment, I’d like to speak to you.”

  “We’re almost through. Why don’t you wait outside.” Bragg’s gaze met hers and it was calm, rock steady and oddly reassuring.

  And Francesca was relieved. Whatever game Farr was playing, Bragg would figure it out and do what he had to do to take care of matters. Farr wasn’t half as intelligent as Rick, but she knew better than to underestimate him.

  “I understand that Miz Cahill is working on the case,” Farr said flatly. “Do you have some information that would be use ful to us?”

  “I’m afraid I know nothing more than you.” She hesitated. “What are you going to do about Sam Wilson?”

  Farr smiled. “He should be here at any moment. I sent two men to his shop to bring him downtown. Meanwhile, we are trying very hard to locate John Sullivan. He seems to have disappeared after not paying the rent at his last known address.”

  “Well, you are the city’s finest. I am sure you will find him,” Francesca said.

  Farr saluted her. “Anything else, C’mish?”

  Bragg told him no, and a moment later they were alone.

  He closed the door and faced her. “What have you learned?”

  “Wilson gave me a false alibi. We saw him this morning, an hour ago, really, and he claimed to have been in his repair shop last night.” Francesca then proceeded to tell him what had happened.

  “That was clever,” Bragg said. “What do you think?”

  “In spite of Kate’s belief that the Slasher is a gentleman and a foreign one, he could be our man.” She frowned. “It’s just that there is something off about him.”

  He accepted that. Then, “It was the Slasher last night. Same knife, same dull blade, a right-handed assault.”

  “Does the coroner have any idea if she was cut after she died or not?”

  “No. He shed no clues on the sequence of the assault. But he found some dark gray thread under Kate’s nails.”

  “Kate insisted the Slasher wore a dark gray suit. Charcoal, to be exact.”

  Bragg nodded. “I know.”

  Francesca suddenly sat down. “Poor Kate—and poor Francis, if Wilson is our man!”

  “We need to locate John Sullivan, even if he is only a carpenter and not a gentleman.”

  “Yes, we do. Have you spoken with David Hanrahan?”

  “Yes. He has a rather solid alibi—he was drinking with two pals at a waterfront bar last night. Both men have corroborated his story. However, they are highly disreputable types, and I personally believe he could have conned or bribed them into saying anything he wished.”

  “What you are saying is that David remains a suspect,” Francesca said.

  “Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Yes, but I can’t shake the feeling, Bragg, that the Slasher is a gentleman, in a hat and a dark gray suit with an elegant gold ring.”

  “Wilson isn’t elegant.”

  “No, he isn’t, but he is hiding something, I would bet a small fortune on it.”

  “Hart’s?” He actually joked.

  “Hmm. He might not appreciate that. Besides, apparently his fortune is rather large. How are you, anyway?”

  He hesitated. “Would you call on Leigh Anne?”

  “Yes, of course. I said I would and I should love to do so.” She stood. “Is she having a difficult time?”

  “Yes, an extremely difficult time. And I feel helpless. I can’t reassure her—I don’t know how.”

  “Just tell her that you love her, that you always have and always will,” Francesca said softly.

  He made a sound of disgust. “That is easy for you to say!”

  “But if it is how you feel—”

  “I don’t know how I feel anymore and I am tired of trying to decide what, exactly, I am feeling,” he cried.

  She started in real surprise.

  “I’m sorry,” he apologized instantly. “That was uncalled for.”

  “I’ll visit tomorrow,” Francesca said, touching him lightly.

  He smiled at her. “Thank you.”

  Francesca smiled back. She took his hand and squeezed it.

  A police officer that she did not recognize poked his head in. “C’mish, sir! Newman sent me—we got a lead.” His eyes were huge and he was flushed with excitement.

  Francesca dropped her hand. Bragg said, “What is it?”

  “We found Sullivan. But there’s a problem.” He took a breath. “He’s dead.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Friday, April 25, 1902 1:00 p.m.

  HART WAS GOING over the representation he intended to make to support his growing monopoly of the trade in gold bullion from Hong Kong when his personal clerk stepped in. “Sir?” Edwards was flushing a deep shade of crimson.

  Hart could not gather why. He sat back casually in his chair. “Send Sir Lawrence in.”

  Edwards, a young, fair man, turned an even brighter shade of red. “The ambassador is not here yet. There is a woman—a lady—to see you.”

  As Edwards and his entire staff knew to admit Francesca with no formalities, he was mildly bemused. “Does she have a name?”

  “Yes, sir.” Edwards fought to breathe. “Miss Jones.”

  He was very surprised—and he was not an easy man to surprise. Only Francesca had the ability to consistently do that. But then, she was entirely unpredictable and it was one of the reasons he found her so intriguing. He now paused. Daisy had never before come to his office. Nor should she—it was out of the question to have his mistress or ex-mistress anywhere near his place of business. It was not about morality or convention, although for another man it might be. Hart had no time for any dalliance when he was immersed in his business affairs.

  He hadn’t seen her in almost a month. He sent her the allowance he had promised her and paid her bills. He had not a clue as to the cause of her sudden appearance at Bridge Street. “Send her in,” he finally said.

  Daisy walked into his office, every bit as gorgeous as he remembered, in the most ethereal way. She seemed to float as she moved, as if she could defy gravity with her slim, sensual body. He studied her clinically; his manner had always been objective toward every woman he met. There was only one woman who had so swiftly and easily swept aside that particular barrier, and that was Francesca. He could never look at her and feel even remotely detached about her presence, her appearance or her behavior and affairs. Daisy was beautiful and if he were not on the verge of wedlock, he would still be enjoying her favors. There would be no reason not to. But he was engaged, and so thoroughly distracted and preoccupied by his future bride that he could not find the remotest desire for the other woman. Then again, in the past few years his desire had become clinical, too: a matter of function, a means to pass the time, a means of escape from the gray that was his life.

  He stood and approached her, taking her hand and politely kissing it, his lips never making contact with her skin. “Good afternoon.
I must admit, you have succeeded in surprising me by your call.”

  Daisy had dressed very well for the occasion in an expensive pale blue gown that was modest, fashionable and elegant. Still, any man would know with a single glance that Daisy was not a lady. She smiled softly at him. “I do hope it is a welcome surprise. After all, we remain friends.”

  He had but one friend, his fiancée, but he did not dispute her. “Frankly, I never mix business with pleasure. But I assume there is some urgency to your cause, otherwise I know you would not have ventured so far afield, much less to my place of business.”

  “I’m afraid I have disturbed you,” Daisy said, downcast. “I apologize, Calder, but I did not think it appropriate to call on you at home.”

  He folded his arms across his chest, sensing a new game in the making. But why would Daisy think to play with him when he continued to be so generous with her? She remained in the house he had bought for her, and would do so for another three months until their agreement was over.

  “If you had sent me a note, I would have made an appointment and called on you.” He grew impatient. “I have a significant meeting, Daisy, so I suggest you tell me why you have called.”

  “May we shut the door?” she asked, appearing somewhat hurt.

  He wasn’t moved. “I see no reason to cause gossip,” he said. He hardly feared being alone with her—in fact, his lack of desire was amazing, considering he had once slept with every beautiful woman who was not of good character who dared cross his path—but he did not want Francesca hurt by gossip.

  “First, I wanted to tell you how truly happy I am for you. You have been nothing but kind and generous with me and you deserve a wonderful woman like Francesca,” she said so earnestly another man would have believed her.

  But he did not. She was standing in his place of business for a reason, and he wanted to get to it now. “Thank you.”

  She went to him and took his hands in hers. “But I miss you, Calder, I really miss all the time we have shared,” she said so softly that anyone passing in the corridor beyond his open door wouldn’t hear.