by Brenda Joyce
She tried very hard not to glance away. She felt her cheeks warm as she whispered, “No.”
And for one more moment they stood that way, with her hand pressed to his face as he held her wrist hard, there. She thought he would take her hand, turn it over and kiss it—as he had so often done. He did not. “I do not believe you.”
“Leave it alone, Hart, please,” she repeated.
“Does Bragg know that you are here, asking for seventy-five thousand dollars?”
She hesitated. He sighed. “I didn’t think so. You will take Raoul today.”
She bit her lip, relieved. “Papa is using our carriage today, so thank you very much. I am picking up Joel on my way downtown to police headquarters.” She wanted to change the subject. “We will interview Henrietta Randall today. I want to make certain that Bill Randall is not a suspect.”
He paced and said, “My damnable half brother was at the university in Philadelphia the weekend your portrait was stolen. There are two witnesses.”
“I just want to make certain his alibi is genuine.” She knew how much he despised his half brother and his calm demeanor was being eroded by an increasingly dark, angry expression. “Did you speak to Randall?”
“No.” He faced her, seeming disgusted. “I left that unpleasant chore to my investigators.”
She hurried to him. “He isn’t involved in this, Calder. I am merely being thorough.”
He caught her wrist before she could caress his cheek. “I cannot believe I commissioned that portrait.”
She knew where he was going. “Stop. I chose to pose nude. I enjoyed doing so!”
“Of course you did. You are putty in my hands.”
She was taken aback.
“I taint everything—and everyone—I touch, Francesca. You are no exception.”
FRANCESCA HAD BEEN TO the notorious Blackwell’s Island several times, to do charitable work at its almshouse, but she had never become indifferent to the sight of the prison. As she stood with Bragg in the bow of the ferry that was steaming up the East River from the south—they had embarked from the ferry terminal adjacent to the Brooklyn Bridge—she shivered, and not just because it was cold out on the water.
“You need a shawl,” Bragg said softly. Before she could protest, he had shrugged off his suit jacket, placing it over her shoulders.
His masculine scent enveloped her, making her uncomfortably aware of him. It reminded her of a long-ago time, when they had been more than friends. Hart would hardly appreciate this gesture, she thought. “Thank you. Every time I come here, I think about how daunting the penitentiary is.”
The prison, built from the island’s granite quarries, took up most of the landmass, running from the island’s southern tip to its northern end. They were just passing East Forty-second Street on their left, where the traffic was fairly brisk for a late-June day. The steamer had taken less than a half hour to make the short trip from the South Street piers.
“It is certainly a forbidding and imposing structure. In any case, I am glad that Mrs. Randall is in the workhouse, as the conditions in the prison are deplorable.” He gave her a long look. “I prefer you do not visit those premises.”
She smiled grimly at him. “I already have, Bragg. I am a reformer, remember? I have heard Seth Low rail against the Blackwell’s Island Penitentiary for its horrid overcrowding, drug dealing and lack of sanitation for almost a decade. When I came here to do my charity work, I made a point of visiting the prison.”
He rolled his eyes. “I cannot imagine how you were allowed inside.”
“I have my methods.”
“Yes, you do.” He sobered. They had had an entire hour to discuss the case. Bragg was up to speed. The only fact he did not know was that she was now the target of a blackmailer. He had apprised her of several new clues, as well: Daniel Moore was deeply in debt and six months behind on his rent for the gallery; he was two months late on his apartment. And a woman had come forward to claim that she had seen two gentlemen leaving the gallery on Saturday. She couldn’t recall the exact time of day, but Joel’s witness’s statement had been corroborated.
Bragg also believed that Moore was involved with Francesca’s entrapment on Saturday. Now they meant to look at his bank accounts to see if he had recently received a significant sum of money. In any case, they agreed that it was time to bring Moore down to HQ for some serious questioning.
Francesca had decided to keep Joel in the Washington Square neighborhood, searching for more clues. She had asked Bragg to locate the brothel where Dawn might be working, and he had wired the appropriate precincts. Francesca was hopeful that by the afternoon, she might have located that particular bawdy house. If not, she would at least have a list of the brothels on the west side, in the forties, and in the vicinity of both elevated railroads.
Bragg remained skeptical of Solange Marceaux’s involvement.
Their ferry was now steaming up the west side of the island. They would alight from the piers there. “So why are you so ragged this morning? I thought you and my brother were mending fences.”
She looked at him carefully. The moment she had arrived at his office, he had noticed that she was not wearing her ring, but he hadn’t said a word. “I thought so, too. But he is resolved to be noble now. He believes it is in my best interests that we do not resume our engagement.”
Bragg stared, his expression not moving. To his credit, he did not look at her left hand.
“I know you are pleased.”
“I am very pleased, but I prefer not to evince my pleasure, not when you are suffering such heartache, Francesca.” His gaze was searching.
“I remain optimistic,” she said.
He half smiled, their gazes holding. “You are the eternal optimist.”
She smiled back, but briefly. She sensed he wished to ask her about her engagement ring and that he was restraining himself. She bit her lip. Wasn’t he her closest friend—after Connie? “I took off my engagement ring, as you can see. It is tucked safely away in Julia’s safe.”
“I noticed. However, I suspect you have hardly given up on my brother.”
She hesitated. “Connie told me to take the ring off.”
His eyes widened with instant comprehension. “Do not think to manipulate Hart!”
She winced. “Connie is far more experienced than I am. She gave me sage advice, Bragg.”
“To do what? To play him, by pretending you are in agreement with him that things are off now? He will see through that con immediately.”
She was suddenly afraid that he was right, but her course was set now. She decided to change the subject. “How are things with you? We are always discussing my affairs, when I care as much about your problems as you do mine. Have you made any progress with Leigh Anne? Is she feeling any better?”
He started, then spoke carefully. “With the holiday weekend looming, I have been entirely wrapped up in police affairs, Francesca.”
“Well, surely you have had a conversation or two with your wife.” She was joking.
He didn’t smile. “I have barely been home for more than an hour or two at a time. Nothing has changed.”
She was now, finally, very concerned. Surely this was a slight bump in the road of their marriage, wasn’t it? “Rick, you must make time for your family. You cannot live at police headquarters or hide from Leigh Anne in your work.”
He was cool. “I am not hiding from anyone or anything, Francesca. I remain a very busy man.”
She made up her mind. She must call on Leigh Anne before the Braggs left town for the July Fourth weekend. If she could help somehow, she would.
Bragg suddenly took her arm and as he did, the bow of the ferry struck the pier. Francesca stumbled and he caught her in such a manner that she was in his arms. Instantly, their gazes met.
It was just a bit too familiar, she thought, her heart lurching. She gently dislodged herself as lines were cast ashore, and she wondered if he was reluctant to let her go. The ferry c
aptain was approaching. “Hope it was a good voyage, C’missioner.” He was ruddy cheeked and portly, with huge white whiskers.
“It was a very fine trip,” Bragg said. “Francesca?”
She handed him his jacket and thanked the ferry captain as he shrugged it back on. She glanced past him. The front hall of the penitentiary almost appeared gothic with its high sloping roof, and it jutted out from the rest of the building at a right angle. She knew that the prison’s eight hundred cells were to the left, the workhouse, penitentiary hospital and the asylum all to the right. At the most northern end of the island was the almshouse, where she had often gone to visit the city’s poorest widows and orphans.
“I hope the conditions in the workhouse are far better than those in the prison, Rick. Henrietta is hardly a felon. I cannot even believe she was convicted for her knowledge of what Mary had done.”
“She did not come forward when we interviewed her, and while keeping her silence is not a crime, the jury obviously did not like her degree of involvement.” They traversed the walkway to the reception hall’s front doors. A group of prisoners was tending the gardens in front of the hall under the supervision of an armed guard. “But hers is a very minor offense, and that is why she is in the workhouse, rather than in the prison with hardened criminals.” He opened one of the pair of heavy wooden doors for her, then paused. “I will worry constantly about you if you think to play my brother.”
She couldn’t help being touched, and perhaps even thrilled. “Just as I am worried about you and Leigh Anne,” she said softly.
His expression hardened. “Let’s go, Francesca.”
They went inside. The hall was very much like the lobby of a shabby, fifth-rate hotel. It was dark and gloomy, with a seating area for visitors, a reception desk and an area for registry. The space was old, but not dirty, and she had no doubt that various prisoners kept it clean. Bragg had wired ahead, and he hadn’t even reached the clerk at the reception desk when a large man came out of an adjacent hall, beaming. “Commissioner Bragg! It is a pleasure to meet you, sir.”
The director of the Blackwell’s Island Penitentiary shook Bragg’s hand, then beamed at Francesca. “It is even a greater pleasure to meet you, Miss Cahill. I have been following your sensational investigations in the newspaper. You are even more famous than the commissioner, I believe—and so much prettier.” He winked.
“I hope I am not more famous, but I hardly mind being a bit more attractive,” Francesca said, smiling. She had never met Richard Coakley before. He seemed a very pleasant, good-humored sort; his character was incongruous with his task of overseeing the various institutions on the island.
They followed him down a long, dank hall. Francesca shivered. There was scum in the corners of the floors, which were cracked. She glanced out the windows, which were hard to see through, as they were quite dirty. The grounds were kept up, as was the front hall. But that was all—it even smelled oddly in the corridor.
Large signs appeared overhead, alerting visitors that the penitentiary hospital was on their right. He said, “I checked into Mrs. Randall’s file. She is doing very well. She has been given cooking duties, which she performs without mishap, and she does not cause trouble at all. She never complains and has kept mostly to herself. She is, in fact, a model inmate.”
“I am glad to hear that,” Bragg said.
“She is serving six months, is she not?” Francesca asked. Formidable signs ahead read Blackwell’s Island Work house.
“Yes, and her release date is October 22.” Coakley pushed through the iron doors. “The dormitories are upstairs. We have over three dozen different workrooms, as you can see.”
They continued briskly down the dark corridor. The only sounds now were the humming and whirring of the machinery the various inmates were using in the nearby workplaces. Francesca glanced into one workroom and saw several dozen women busily pushing garments through sewing machines. Everyone wore a gray prison uniform and no one spoke. “This way,” Coakley said with vast cheer.
He pushed open a pair of doors. They found themselves in a large, institutional kitchen, where the din of pots and pans was terrific. Three dozen people milled about. There were probably a dozen stoves and half a dozen ovens. “This kitchen feeds everyone on this island except for the felons in the penitentiary—the pen has its own kitchens,” he said loudly.
Francesca saw a mouse scurrying under a table. That was, she thought, better than a cockroach. She had barely had that thought when she thought she saw one of the insects vanishing into the wall.
A guard had approached and was conferring with Coakley. Francesca scanned the many workers in the kitchen. She suddenly saw Henrietta, pushing a huge tray into an oven. “There she is,” she said to Bragg, already starting forward. “Henrietta!”
The older woman closed the oven and turned. Her eyes widened.
Francesca came forward, hating the fact that Henrietta was in the workhouse. Once, Henrietta had been plump. Now she was thin. She had aged a decade in the past few months. Her hair, once blond, was entirely gray. Instead of being stylishly curled, it was severely pulled back into a simple ponytail. “How are you, Henrietta?”
The woman looked past her at Bragg, who was clearly instructing Coakley to leave them. “How do you think?” She trembled. “Mary is locked up in Bellevue. Thank God my boy was not arrested for a crime he did not commit! And I am here, in this horrid place!”
“I am very sorry you were convicted and incarcerated,” Francesca said, meaning it.
“You hate my family—you hate all of us!”
“No, I don’t,” she said earnestly as Bragg joined them. “I feel very sorry for Mary, in fact, but even sorrier for you. And…I understand why Bill did what he did. He was only protecting his sister.”
“You can’t mean it,” Henrietta cried. “You are with that rotten cur, Calder Hart!”
Francesca stiffened. Bragg said, “Francesca and Hart were engaged, but if you have not seen the papers, I will tell you that the wedding is off. Francesca is not marrying Hart.”
Henrietta seemed surprised. “We only get the papers once in a while—and only if we pay triple the newsstand price. I cannot afford a newspaper.”
“I will make sure you get a daily, Henrietta, and it will not cost you a cent.” Francesca was outraged, but she understood how prisons worked. The guards would pocket the costs. “Do you like to read? Should I send you books?”
Henrietta stared. “Why are you here? Why are you being nice? What do you want?”
“We were hoping to speak with Bill. As the university is closed for the summer, we thought you might know where he is staying.”
She paled. “What do you want with my boy? He is a good boy! He has done nothing wrong! Is he in trouble?”
“He isn’t in trouble, Henrietta,” Francesca soothed. “But we are on an investigation, and he could be helpful to us. That is the only reason we wish to speak with him.”
“I haven’t seen him in months. I do not know where he is! He is such a good boy—he is studying to be a lawyer. One day, I know he will free Mary.”
Francesca hesitated. Mary was mentally ill, and she knew Henrietta knew it. She decided there was no point in saying that Bellevue Hospital was the best place for her. “When was the last time you saw Bill?”
“I don’t know—months ago—he was at my trial.” She laughed bitterly.
Francesca caught her hand. “I know how horrid this place is. I am so sorry you are here. I am going to send you books. And you will be out in October—you will be free in October, Henrietta.”
The other woman started to cry. “I don’t want your kindness. I miss Mary. I miss Bill. I miss our home, our family.… She is good, Miss Cahill, and she never meant to hurt her father! Never!”
“We know she did not mean it, and of course you miss your home, your son.” Francesca clasped her shoulder. She didn’t dare look at Bragg now.
“He is such a good boy. No woman could have a
better son! He has visited me every single weekend—” She stopped, her eyes wide with fear.
Francesca started. “Bill visits you every weekend?”
“No, no, I only wish he would do so!” she cried.
“Was Bill here this weekend, Mrs. Randall?” Bragg demanded. “Tell us the truth. If you do not, we will merely check the visitors’ log. No one can visit without registering with the prison.”
She was pale, her hands fluttering now. “He visits me almost every weekend—only an examination keeps him away.”
My God, Francesca thought, looking at Bragg. He said sharply, “Was he here this weekend?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “He was here—he was here Saturday morning.”
Bill Randall was now Francesca’s number-one suspect.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Monday, June 30, 1902
Noon
MAGGIE KENNEDY HESITATED, holding a garment bag to her bosom. She was walking past the elegant circular driveway on the eastern side of the Metropolitan Club. As she stared through the open iron gates and across the pale limestone, she saw a trio of beautifully and expensively dressed ladies alighting from a hansom. Liveried doormen in crimson and gold had leaped to open the cab doors for them. The women had not even noticed. More doormen rushed to open the club’s glass doors. Laughing and chatting, the trio vanished inside the marble building, undoubtedly on their way to the Ladies’ Restaurant.
Maggie could barely breathe. Evan frequented the Metropolitan Club. So did most of the city’s millionaires. The ladies who dined there were their wives, their sisters and their daughters. Francesca had probably eaten there often. Surely the countess Bartolla Benevente had, as well.
What was she doing?
She, Maggie Kennedy, would never dine in that club!
She wouldn’t even be allowed to walk up that grand circular driveway.
Maggie had left her Tenth Avenue flat almost an hour ago. She had taken the Third Avenue El uptown to Fifty-ninth Street. She would never hire a hansom—the fares were too outrageous and she worked too hard for every penny earned—so she had walked across town to Fifth Avenue, browsing the storefronts. At the Grand Army Plaza, she had turned uptown.