by Brenda Joyce
His gaze widened. “I was in my rooms at the hotel,” he said.
Francesca stiffened, glancing at Hart and then Bragg. “Alone?”
“Yes, alone. I was planning to dine in my rooms—as I usually do—and then I decided to go to your sister’s affair.” He glanced from Francesca to Bragg and then to Hart. “What difference does it make?”
Francesca stood up, thinking about the fact that he had no alibi for the time of Kate Sullivan’s murder.
Bragg stepped forward and leaned on the table. “Did you know Kate Sullivan, Lord Randolph?”
His eyes widened. “No. Who is Kate Sullivan?”
Francesca turned. “Kate Sullivan was murdered by the Slasher Thursday night, between 6:00 and 9:00 p.m.”
He paled and then he was on his feet. “You think I am the Slasher?” he cried.
“No one is accusing you of anything,” Bragg said.
“Why have you come to New York? Hart told me you usually have your assistants handle your overseas affairs,” Francesca said.
He stared at her, his brilliant blue eyes wide. “Certain matters needed my personal attention,” he said after a pause.
“What matters?” she shot back. “Gwen?”
He flushed.
“Are you in love with her?” Francesca asked. “Who ended the affair? Did you approve of her coming to America?”
He remained sheet-white. He finally said, “Her husband found out. There was no choice but to end the liaison.” He hesitated and added, “I had no idea she would leave Ireland. It all happened so quickly.”
“Is Gwen Hanrahan the reason you came to New York City?” Francesca pressed.
He briefly closed his eyes. Then he opened them. “Yes.”
She inhaled, hard. “And what day did you arrive here, precisely?”
His blue gaze never wavered. “I arrived here March 31,” he said.
Francesca felt the air leave her lungs in a rush. He had arrived in the city the week before the Slasher had begun his deadly work. And he had come to the city because of Gwen.
“Where were you Monday evening, April 7?” she heard Bragg ask, referring to the night Francis O’Leary had been attacked.
“I’d have to check my calendar,” he said flatly. “But I would imagine I was dining alone in my hotel room.”
FRANCESCA PACED RESTLESSLY in Bragg’s office. Her mind raced and her temples throbbed. It was very possible, she thought, that they had the Slasher in custody. She turned to face Hart.
He stood at the window, looking down on Mulberry Street, which was extremely busy even at this late hour, most of the pedestrians drunk and many on the arms of prostitutes. Sensing her gaze, he glanced at her.
“He followed Gwen here. An Irish nobleman, a recluse with a reputation for being dour, followed his lover across an entire ocean—his lover, who fits the profile of the Slasher’s victims perfectly,” she said.
Bragg walked inside before she had finished her thoughts.
“Well?” she cried. “He doesn’t seem to have a single alibi for any of the nights in question.”
“No, he doesn’t. And I find it odd that a man like Randolph would not be clever enough to have some very solid alibis,” Bragg said. “But frankly, if he has an obsession for her, I cannot comprehend it.”
Hart murmured, “An obsession is not rational.”
“Neither is stalking and slashing and murdering a certain type of woman,” Francesca said tersely. “That is psychotic.”
Bragg faced Francesca. “I am releasing him.”
“What?” She was shocked. Randolph was clearly obsessed and he could very well be their killer. But did he wish to harm Gwen, or just other women who were like her?
“I am releasing him with a tail. He has also agreed to hand over his calendar and I have sent an officer back to his hotel with him to retrieve it.”
Francesca ran to Bragg. “It is Saturday! It’s almost midnight. In a little more than twenty-four hours it will be Monday! Is that what you are thinking? That even though the Slasher chose to kill Kate Sullivan on Thursday, he could strike again on Monday as he has on the three previous weeks? And we will catch him in the act?”
“The Slasher will strike again, but frankly, I cannot hazard any guess as to when that will be. Except I fear it will be soon,” Bragg said, his gaze riveted to her face. “If Randolph is our man, he will be caught red-handed. I have put a tail on David Hanrahan as well.”
She seized his arm. “If Randolph is our man, he might be planning to go after Gwen this time. I cannot decide if she is his real target or he wishes to hurt any other woman he deems is like her! Bragg, can you give her police protection?”
“Of course,” he said. “And Francis O’Leary as well.”
She was vastly relieved.
“Sir?” Newman knocked as he poked his head into the office. “I just got the report from Heinreich,” he said. “An’ Chief Farr isn’t in, so he hasn’t seen it yet.”
Bragg waved him in and took the pages from the rotund detective. He glanced at them and then looked up. He was scowling.
“What is it?” Francesca asked in alarm.
“Sullivan wasn’t a suicide,” Bragg said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Sunday, April 27, 1902 After midnight
“WHAT DO YOU THINK?” Francesca asked.
They were alone in Hart’s coach, sharing the back seat, as it raced uptown through mostly empty streets. He faced her, his posture relaxed. His expression, although shadowed in the dimly lit interior, was pensive. “I think Randolph might be our man.”
“I am inclined to agree,” she whispered, feeling terrible for Gwen and her daughter. “And Sullivan?”
“The Slasher wanted to mislead us,” Hart said. “He murdered Sullivan to make us think Sullivan committed suicide after killing his wife.”
Francesca thought so, too. “It is so extreme for a man like Randolph, a man reputed to be reclusive and to have never recovered from the death of his family, to have an affair with his housemaid and then follow her to America.” Impulsively, she reached for his hand.
His gaze flew to hers.
She suddenly recalled their terrible argument of just a few hours ago and she released his palm. But she did not look away.
He met her stare.
With real trepidation, she said, “Are you still angry?”
His jaw was tight. “I am not all that happy.”
She nodded and bit her lip, looking away.
He took her hand and held it.
“How did we come to be in this dark place, Calder?”
“I don’t know.” But he pulled her closer and kissed her forehead. Then their gazes met. “I’ll take you to Kate’s funeral tomorrow,” he said.
She nodded, that terribly familiar knot of dread congealed now in her chest.
THE ENTIRE WARD, it seemed, had turned out for Kate Sullivan’s funeral, along with most of the press.
The church was two centuries old, small, square and hewn out of rough stone. As Hart’s coach paused alongside a more modest carriage, just in front of the two wide gray steps, Francesca glanced in real surprise at the crowd outside. The funeral guests were mostly Kate’s friends and peers and were clad in their Sunday best. Francesca watched various couples hurrying inside, some with children in hand. Her gaze veered. She instantly recognized a group of newsmen who had congregated near the church’s front steps but had yet to go up. These men wore shabby suits and derbies or felt caps, and carried pads in their hands. In their midst was Chief Farr. Apparently he was giving an interview.
“Shall we?” Hart asked in her ear.
She could barely take her eyes from Farr, wishing she could hear what he had to say. And she did not see Bragg anywhere yet. She nodded at Hart.
Maggie was with them, somberly clad in dark gray, and he helped her down to the street first. As Francesca stepped out, Farr looked in her direction and from a relatively short distance, their gazes met. He smiled at
her, but no warmth reached his cold gray eyes.
She quickly turned away; Hart steadied her. She looked up at him. “What do you think he is up to?”
“I think he might merely wish to steal the limelight,” Hart said in a low voice.
“I think he wants to discredit Rick, in the hope of toppling him,” Francesca said harshly. As she spoke, she saw the Daimler cruising slowly up the block, toward them. She was relieved that he was present. She did not like Farr’s usurpation of authority. And now Farr left the group of newsman, as if he did not wish to be caught speaking with them by his boss.
“Miss Cahill!” one of them cried.
She espied David Hanrahan coming up the block, alone, and seized Hart’s sleeve. Hanrahan was wearing a dark suit, but the jacket was a size too large on his lean frame and the trousers were too short. “He is wearing a dark suit,” she murmured, “but no one would ever mistake him for a gentleman.”
“Darling, everyone is wearing a dark suit—we are at a funeral.”
She continued to stare. “Hanrahan has a very strong motive to hate Gwen and other women like her, just like Lord Randolph. And he has not a single alibi for any of the murders in question—Hart, I am taking him off my list of suspects!”
Hart gazed at her with some amusement. “Is that wise, darling?”
“I feel very strongly that he is not our man,” she said. “I am operating by instinct alone.”
“I happen to have some of that feeling, too,” he returned.
“Miss Cahill! How are you?” It was Isaacson, from the Tribune peering eagerly at her. “Rumor has it that the Slasher is a gentleman. Is that true? And last night the police took one Harry de Warenne, Lord Randolph, in for questioning!”
Francesca heard Isaacson, but she did not reply. Down the block, Francis O’Leary and Sam Wilson were approaching, arm in arm, and also in their finest clothes. From this distance, Wilson had the appearance of a fine gentleman, as well, and no one would ever suspect he was a clockmaker. She gave Hart a pointed look and quickly answered Isaacson. “We have some reason to believe that the Slasher is a gentleman, but until he is caught, I am afraid we are not one hundred percent certain.”
“Is Lord Randolph a suspect?” Arthur Kurland asked, step- ping out from behind several of his colleagues. “I understand that he comes from quite a fine family in both Britain and Ireland.”
She felt her smile vanish. Hart squeezed her hand in warning. “No, Mr. Kurland,” she said. “I am afraid that was a dead end.”
Kurland smiled at her. “Speak of the devil,” he said. “I guess I’ll just go talk to him myself.”
Francesca whirled as Randolph alighted from a hansom, his ivory-tipped walking stick in hand. “What is he doing here?” she cried.
“Paying his respects, I would assume,” Hart said, his voice low.
“He doesn’t know Kate Sullivan—or that is what he said.” Francesca whispered back, unable to tear her gaze from him.
“Perhaps he has other motives,” Hart said with a nod, indicating that she should glance across the street.
There, on the east side of the avenue, Gwen O’Neil and Bridget were hurrying down that block, hand in hand, clearly in a rush. “Are we missing anyone?” Francesca asked. The turnout was an incredible one.
“I don’t think so,” Hart began as another hansom pulled up. And then he stiffened, sheer disbelief crossing his face.
Instantly she became uneasy. From where she stood, a dozen feet from the curb, Francesca glanced warily into the hansom. She froze.
Daisy Jones was seated there.
Francesca stared, real dread unfurling. Her heart skipped hard and then raced wildly. Someone was with her. It was her lover, Rose, a tall, dark, exotic woman of European descent who was now calmly paying the driver.
Francesca took Hart’s arm and pulled him away, toward the front steps of the church. From the corner of her eye, she watched both women alight, her mind racing at lightning speed. What were they doing here? Somehow, she knew this was about her and Calder and not the woman being buried that day.
Then instinct made her glance in the opposite direction, for she knew more trouble was in the making, and sure enough, she saw Kurland conversing with Randolph. And then she thought she saw something else of high significance and she whirled around. Yes, she was correct. David Hanrahan stood on the top step of the church, staring at Randolph with utter hatred. She gripped Hart hard. “I have a very bad feeling about this day,” she said breathlessly.
“I will make certain that she leaves,” Hart said tightly, his gaze on Daisy.
Francesca finally focused on him and saw that he was very angry. “No.” She tried to smile at him, but she wanted to know why the sight of Daisy had sent him into a temper. His eyes were black, his face a dark mask. He wasn’t looking at the woman who had briefly been his mistress now, but she could feel his tension.
Her mind raced. Why had Daisy gone to his office the other day? Had she thought to seduce him away from his fiancée, or back into an illicit liaison in spite of his engagement and his vows? She smiled more brightly at him. “Daisy is undeniably kind. If she wishes to attend Kate’s funeral, it is her right.” She did not believe a word she said.
He looked at her in disbelief. “She is not kind unless it suits her to be so. The press are here, Francesca.”
She had an awful inkling. She slowly glanced at Kurland, who was smiling widely at her and Hart. “Does he know? Does he know she was your mistress?”
“Can you think of another reason for him to be smirking? Fortunately he does not write a social column,” Hart said grimly.
Francesca did not want him to chase Daisy away. She wanted to confront her and find out exactly what the woman wanted from Hart. “Calder, please don’t make a scene. She’s here and Kurland has seen her. Everyone has seen her. Besides, we both know the truth—that she isn’t your mistress anymore.” She tried to smile at him. But it was hard not to feel humiliated. She could imagine what everyone was thinking, and that was exactly what her own father chose to think, too.
“You have one good point—a scene will only make things worse. I suggest we go inside, as it seems almost everyone has arrived.” The sidewalk had become far less populated, with most of the funeral guests going in to take their seats.
Francesca held on to Hart’s arm, her stomach rather ill, watching as Daisy and Rose walked past them and up the front steps of the church. Both women were striking in contrasting ways. Daisy was so slender and pale, clad in a dark rose and gray dress, a half veil on her hat, while Rose was tall, lush, olive-skinned and black-haired. She was as finely dressed in a dark navy blue ensemble and small, jaunty hat. She had not a doubt that they both knew they were the center of attention wherever they chose to go. Heads held high, they floated as they walked, as if unwaveringly proud of who they were and how they chose to live, as if acutely aware of the fact that most eyes were now trained upon them. Daisy held Rose’s arm as if she were her beau.
Francesca told herself that she must not hate Daisy Jones. Once, they had been friends. But as Daisy smiled at her in passing, she did hate her. And worse, she was afraid of her, too.
Hart looked as if he was about to commit murder himself.
Bragg walked up to them, having finally double-parked so as to not congest the street. “It is an interesting turnout,” he said. “Are you all right?” he asked Francesca as if Hart were not present.
“I’m fine,” she lied. “Come sit with us,” she added. And his presence provided her with no small amount of comfort.
FATHER CULHANE WAS VERY slim and very fair, with pale brownish hair. As he leaned on the podium, his expression suitably somber, Francesca decided he was in his late twenties but no more. He had a large, hookish nose and his temples were graying. Francesca had meant to interview him after Margaret Cooper’s murder, but had never gotten to it. Now, she made a mental note to find out what he knew about the Slasher’s victims. After all, two of the women had b
een in his parish.
“Kate Sullivan was a blessing to everyone who knew her, even in passing,” he began, apparently giving the eulogy himself. “The woman I knew worked hard and honestly every single day of her life, giving to others when others were in need. She led an exemplary life, a godly life, a good life. She first came to me six years ago, a young newlywed. I’ll never forget the day we met, when she had just moved into this ward. She was so full of life, so full of happiness, and so genuinely hopeful.” He smiled at everyone, pausing.
Francesca was barely listening, as she was much more interested in the crowd that had come to pay Kate their last respects than in the sermon. Gwen sat several pews ahead and she was clearly trying not to cry, her arm around her daughter. Her husband sat across the aisle and he kept staring at her. She did not seem to notice, or perhaps she did not care.
Randolph sat two rows ahead of Francesca and just to her right. He had been staring at Gwen from the moment he had taken his seat. His gaze was frighteningly intense and terribly morose.
He remained high on her list of suspects.
“Her passing was a terrible tragedy, and I am sure that many of you are thinking, as I am thinking, why? Why such a good, honest, godly woman? Where is the justice in that?” Culhane was saying, his tone filled with passion.
Francesca spotted Francis and Sam Wilson, seated behind her. Francis was ashen, her nose red, clearly unable to control her tears. Wilson had his arm around her. He seemed saddened, too.
His gaze met hers.
Francesca quickly faced forward. Had she seen a cool light in his eyes? An expression absolutely uncharacteristic for the man she thus far knew?
She shifted to look directly to her right, across Hart, and met Farr’s cold gray gaze. This time he did not smile at her, he merely stared, and a chill went down her spine. He was up to something, she thought. And hiding evidence on this case was just the tip of that iceberg.
As she turned away, she saw Daisy whispering to Rose and then Daisy got up and made her way out of the pew and down the aisle, clearly leaving the church.