Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahil 03]

by Deadly Affairs

Francesca watched them leaving the hall, smiling a bit. She thought Peter was enjoying himself—although, of course, it was hard to tell.

  Then she felt the eyes.

  She turned, no longer smiling.

  Katie sat on the stairs, staring at Francesca and Bragg. Her expression was as closed as a book, as hard as a rock. When she realized Francesca was regarding her, she leaped to her feet and fled back upstairs.

  Francesca looked at Bragg.

  He said grimly, “She is very sullen. She doesn’t speak. She might need the help of an expert, Francesca.”

  Francesca nodded. “I wonder if she was like this before her mother died.”

  Bragg shrugged. “She is more than you, I, or Peter can handle. That is clear.” He smiled at her then. “Shall we? We have work to do.”

  She smiled back and had started toward him when she slipped. “Oh!”

  Bragg reacted, catching her before she fell. “Are you all right?”

  “I am fine,” she said breathlessly, having almost wound up on her head. “The floor is wet—” She stopped.

  They both looked down.

  “I have had it!” Bragg said.

  “He was a very devout man,” Father O’Connor said. “He came to mass every Sunday, and sometimes during the week as well.”

  Francesca stood beside Bragg as the interview with Mike O’Donnell’s priest began. It hadn’t been hard to locate him—they had found the small church where Father O’Connor preached to his parishioners just a few blocks north of Water Street. The mass had just ended and the last of his parishioners were leaving the church. She was surprised to learn that Mike O’Donnell had been a churchgoing man. He hadn’t seemed very religious when she had met him.

  “When did you last see him?” Bragg asked.

  “Just last Sunday,” O’Connor replied. He was a tall white-haired man in his later years. “It was a terrible thing, his wife murdered like that—and now his sister, too.”

  “Yes, it was. So you knew both women?”

  “Not really. I knew Kathleen. In the old days, before they separated, she would come here with him to worship. Then, they shared an apartment in a tenement a few blocks from here with two other families. But I have not seen her in two or three years,” the priest replied. They were all seated in his small office just behind the church. It was a simple room, square, with oak floors and stone walls, a bookcase, and the priest’s desk. “She was such a gentle woman, Commissioner. Quiet and retiring, and also devout. I was disappointed that they went their separate ways. I counseled them not to.”

  “So you never met Mary?”

  “No, I didn’t say that. I met her once, briefly, at Kathleen’s funeral.”

  “The funeral Mike did not go to,” Bragg said.

  The priest hesitated. “I am sure he had his reasons.”

  “What reasons could there be?” Francesca murmured.

  O’Connor looked at her. “He loved Kathleen. He did not want to leave her. I believe her death devastated him. He has not been the same since.”

  Francesca looked at Bragg. Mike O’Donnell hadn’t seemed very devastated the other day. “Did you ever meet her boyfriend, Sam Carter?”

  O’Connor blinked. He had pale gray eyes that were almost colorless. With his white hair and fair complexion, he almost appeared to be an albino. “I did not even know that she had taken a lover. I am truly disappointed in her.”

  He had spoken as if she were still alive, Francesca thought. How odd.

  “Did Mike ever show or evince any anger toward Kathleen for the failure of their marriage? Did you ever hear him speak of her in any kind of threatening way?” Bragg asked. “Did he ever threaten her?”

  “I wouldn’t know if he ever threatened her, I assume they had their share of arguments. But no, I did not ever hear him speak unkindly toward Kathleen.”

  “So he is a saint,” Francesca murmured.

  O’Connor looked sharply at her. “I hardly said he was a saint. Intemperance is a sin.”

  “He never threatened her, or spoke angrily about her, not even in the confessional?” Bragg asked.

  “Commissioner! You know I cannot reveal anything I have heard in confession.”

  Francesca tried to tamp down her impatience.

  “Two women have been brutally murdered, Father,” Bragg said coldly. “And if you have heard anything that might help me find the killer, even if during confession, I suggest you share it with me.”

  “I would never violate my holy oath,” Father O’Connor said rather abruptly. “Now, is that all?”

  “Mary is being buried tomorrow. Has O’Donnell said anything about her death? Has he shared his grief—or other feelings—with you?”

  O’Connor was standing, a signal that the interview was over. “No, he has not. Not really.”

  “What does that mean?” Bragg asked, not moving, although Francesca had also risen to her feet.

  O’Connor sighed. “He and Mary were not close. In fact, they were not close at all.”

  “What does that mean?” Bragg asked.

  “It means exactly that.”

  “You know more than you are telling me,” Bragg remarked.

  “I cannot say anything else.” He looked away from them both, upward, as if toward God, for heavenly advice.

  “Not even to prevent a third murder?” Bragg remained cold.

  O’Connor’s eyes went wide. “Surely you don’t think this madman will strike again?”

  “I do,” Bragg said.

  Francesca tried not to give him too sharp a glance. What did he know that she did not?

  “Very well,” O’Connor said. “O’Donnell lusted after his own sister.”

  Outside, Francesca confronted Bragg. “I still think it is Carter, but dear God, the man confessed to wanting to bed his sister!” She felt herself flush. “That is the urging of a madman.”

  “So O’Connnor says,” Bragg remarked.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means that he gave up his confidential information far too easily for my taste. It means I do not trust him. There is one fact. O’Donnell did not go to his wife’s funeral. Let’s see if he shows up tomorrow at Mary’s.” He walked over to the carriage that they had taken downtown. His motorcar had, oddly, refused to start up. Today a police officer was driving them about the city.

  “But why would O’Connor say something if it was not true?”

  “I do not know. But he about-faced. He went from telling us how devout O’Donnel is, and the next thing, we learn he is coveting his own sister, which is hardly the thinking of a godly man.” He opened the carriage door for Francesca. “A cross was carved onto both women’s throats, Francesca.”

  Francesca almost tripped while entering the carriage. She faced him with horror. “You don’t think—you don’t suspect O’Connor!”

  “I wonder,” was all that he said.

  “But what about Carter? He knew about the crosses!” she cried.

  “It is in all the newspapers,” he said calmly, climbing in beside her. “Where am I dropping you?”

  “Lydia Stuart’s,” she said, giving him the address. “I saw the headlines in the Sun and the Trib. They have dubbed the killings ‘The Cross Murders.’ But those papers went on sale early this morning. Do not tell me they came off the press before five or six! I saw Carter last night, perhaps at one or so, and he said specifically that he didn’t kill or carve anyone.”

  “He might have heard about the details of both murders on the streets,” Bragg said. “Or maybe not. In any case, I did not say that O’Connor is a suspect. But he gave in to me far too easily. My intuition tells me he is not honest—or rather, that he is not being honest with us.”

  Francesca shivered. “So we now have three possible suspects?”

  “We certainly have two,” Bragg said as their carriage merged onto the Bowery.

  “There is Carter, who is very hostile and who knows both women were carved. But did he know both women?�
��

  “That is a good question, and I shall ask him directly when we find him.”

  “O’Donnell did know both women, being the husband of one and the brother of the other. He is ‘devout’—and a cross was carved into each victim’s throat, indicating some kind of religious fanaticism. He did not attend his wife’s funeral, yet he told me he loved her and did not want to leave her.” Francesca met Bragg’s gaze. “Hmm. He also spoke angrily of Carter. And according to O’Connor, he lusted after his sister. Bragg, he has the makings of our man.”

  Bragg smiled fondly at her. “A moment ago your vote was in favor of Carter.”

  “He scared me last night.”

  His smile faded. “I know.”

  She shook off her memory of being seized by him. “O’Connor is a man of God, a check for the religious connection, and he also knew both women.” She was thinking about the cross carved onto both women’s throats.

  “He claims to have met Mary once,” Bragg said.

  “You don’t believe him?”

  “I don’t believe or disbelieve him. Let’s see if he shows up at Mary’s funeral. It is at noon tomorrow. It shall be an interesting day.”

  Francesca hesitated. “Shall we go together?”

  He glanced at her. “Why not?”

  Relief filled her. “I thought that after last night, you might not wish to do so.”

  “I have done a good deal of thinking since then,” Bragg said. He lowered his voice, although the carriage partition separated them from the driver. “I also treasure our friendship. I refuse to give it up. It is very important to me—even if it means that my man has turned himself into a nanny.”

  She felt her heart turn over with joy and exultation. “Good,” she said. “Then we remain friends and partners, and I can think of little that might be better.”

  He gave her a look.

  Her choice of words had been poor; she knew it the moment she spoke and the moment he met her gaze. She flushed. “Given the circumstances,” she amended.

  “I do hope this is not a bad time to call,” Francesca said, upon greeting Lydia Stuart. It was early that afternoon now, and they were in a small and cheerful salon.

  “Of course it is not,” Lydia said, with a smile that seemed strained. She turned to the manservant at the door. “That will be all, Thomas. Please close the door as you go.” As they waited for him to leave, Francesca felt guilty for not dealing with her client’s problem. The moment Thomas was gone, the door solidly closed behind him, Lydia faced her. “Mr. Stuart is not at home,” she said nervously. “I can imagine where he is, and with whom.”

  “Mrs. Stuart,” Francesca began, feeling terrible for not having news to deliver.

  “Please, you must call me Lydia!” she cried. “Did you find out if he is doing what I think he is?” she asked.

  “No, I did not,” Francesca began.

  “What?” Her expression changed; she seemed stunned.

  “I am so sorry, but two innocent young women have been brutally murdered, and I have been working with the police on solving the murders.”

  Lydia blinked at her. “Oh. I see.”

  “But I will not let you down,” Francesca said firmly. “It is just that everything has happened so quickly.”

  Lydia nodded, seeming terribly upset. Suddenly she stiffened, her eyes widening. “Oh, dear!” she cried.

  “What is it?” Francesca asked—as the door to the salon opened.

  Lydia pasted an artificial smile on her face and turned. “Darling, I did not expect you back,” she said brightly. But her tone was strained.

  A gentleman of medium height with graying hair, a beard, and a mustache entered the room. His gaze moved from his wife to Francesca; he was smiling. “Hello, dear.” He kissed her warmly and turned to Francesca.

  “This is Miss Francesca Cahill,” Lydia said. “She is a new friend; we met the other night at that music reception! I am so pleased she has called.” She took Francesca’s hands. “It has been difficult, you know, as I am sure I have told you, moving here just a few months ago from Philadelphia. My husband seems to know everybody, but I know no one.”

  Francesca hadn’t realized they were newly arrived in the city.

  Lincoln Stuart faced her. He was a pleasant-looking man of medium height and build. “I am pleased to find that my wife has made a friend here.” Then he squinted at her. “Why is your name so familiar?”

  “Perhaps you know my father,” Francesca asked quickly, “Andrew Cahill?”

  “No, I do not think that I do.”

  Francesca could imagine why he knew her name—he might have read Kurland’s article in the Sun on Thursday. She smiled at him. “Perhaps we met at the reception? Although I confess I am good with faces and I do not quite recollect yours.”

  “The Haverford affair?” he asked.

  Francesca hesitated, darting a glance at Lydia.

  “No, darling, the Bledding music reception; remember that stunning trio from Saint Petersburg? That young man on the violin was so superb!” She was perspiring and it was obvious.

  But Lincoln did not seem to realize how tense and uncomfortable his own wife was. He studied Francesca very closely. “How odd, that I cannot place you,” he said.

  “Well, I am sure we will both recall where it is that we have met,” Francesca said lightly.

  “Yes, I am sure.” He smiled. Then he said to his wife, “Darling, I forgot my cigars. I am off now, but I shall be back for supper. Say, at seven or so?”

  “That is perfect,” Lydia said swiftly.

  Lincoln bowed to Francesca and they exchanged goodbyes, and then he left the room.

  A short silence reigned. “He knows,” Lydia whispered. “He knows I have hired you to spy upon him.”

  She was frightened. Francesca gripped her hand. “Balderdash,” she said. “But this is the perfect opportunity. You think he is off to Mrs. Hopper’s?”

  Lydia nodded fearfully.

  Francesca squeezed her hand. “Then I am following him!” Francesca cried.

  “Now?” Lydia gasped.

  “Now,” Francesca said.

  It became obvious almost instantly that Lincoln Stuart was not going to Rebecca Hopper’s. His coach traveled north, bewildering Francesca, especially once he had traveled past Central Park. She could not imagine where he was going; this far north of the city, the land was undeveloped, consisting mostly of pasture and cows. On 103d Street, his carriage turned onto an even more desolate stretch of avenue with an occasional farmhouse in evidence. Her cabbie dutifully followed, keeping a city block between Francesca and her quarry. And finally, well over an hour after leaving the Stuart home downtown, Lincoln Stuart’s carriage cruised to a halt.

  On the west side was a huge meadow that was unenclosed and dotted with oak trees. On the east side of the road, where his carriage had stopped, was a cemetery.

  Her first reaction was disbelief, and as Lincoln alighted from the coach, her second was to wonder if Kathleen O’Donnell was buried there.

  Francesca watched him walking slowly through a pair of wide iron gates. They had been closed but not locked, and he pushed them open. Her mind raced. There was simply no connection between Stuart and the murders, but arriving at a cemetery was so completely unexpected. Then she realized that her cab was slowing.

  She pounded on the partition. “Do not stop,” she ordered her cabbie. “Keep going. Go right past the coach, please!”

  “Whatever you want, miss,” the driver said, and the black cab and bay horse cruised past the Stuart carriage.

  As it did so, Francesca ducked back against the seat where she sat so Stuart might not glimpse her inside the hansom, in case he turned to look at them, as they were the only other vehicle on the road. A moment later, she dared to peek out of her window, back toward the cemetery. He did not seem to be looking; he was slowly walking up a dirt path among a dozen headstones.

  Francesca was thoroughly perplexed. But she had seen enough for n
ow. “Driver! We are going back to the city, please.”

  The letter was waiting for her on her desk inside of her bedroom when she returned.

  Francesca was actually very organized, although one would not think so to look at her desk, which was usually an indecipherable mass of books and papers. Now, however, it was very neatly organized; a maid had clearly cleaned it earlier that day. In fact, Francesca’s books and notebooks were arranged in such a manner that the pristine white envelope was the first thing she saw upon entering her bedroom, as it sat propped up in the desk’s center.

  Her mind remained filled with questions about Lincoln Stuart; now she moved swiftly to her desk, curious, and realized the envelope was not marked. It had not been posted—someone had delivered it to her. In fact, it might not even be meant for her, as her name was not anywhere on the envelope.

  She opened it and pulled out a sheet of paper.

  A poem had been typed there in block letters. It read:

  A SIGH

  ONE WHISPER

  A LIE

  THREE LASSES

  MUST DIE

  ELEVEN

  SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 9,1902—6:00 P.M.

  Peter answered the door—with Dot.

  Francesca could hardly concentrate on the child, who shrieked with pleasure upon seeing her. “Frack, Frack, Frack!” she cried.

  Somehow, she lifted the two-year-old into her arms, and of course instantly Dot began to struggle to get down. ll“Where is he?” Francesca asked breathlessly. She had phoned police headquarters and had been told that Bragg was on his way home; upon telephoning his house, she found the line busy. Jennings had driven to Madison Square at a breakneck speed. Francesca thought they had managed the trip in ten or twelve minutes; fortunately, this hour on a Sunday did not have a lot of street traffic.

  “He is in the study,” Peter said.

  Francesca shoved Dot into his arms and ran down the hall. She did not knock. He started when she raced into the small room, where a fire glowed in the hearth. Bragg was standing at his desk. “Francesca?”

  She handed him the poem.