Henrietta stared, her expression rather strained. “I am no fool,” she said. “Of course I knew.”
“How long have you known?”
Henrietta stared. “Forever. Paul has never been faithful to me for a day in his life. Miss de Labouche was not the first, and had he lived, she would not be the last.” She remained calm, although tense. “Why are you here, Miss Cahill?”
Francesca was grim. She wet her lips. “Did you follow your husband to his mistress’s house on Friday evening and shoot him in the back of the head?” Francesca asked.
Henrietta stared.
“Do not answer her, Mother!” Bill exclaimed from behind Francesca.
Francesca whirled, her heart sinking with stunning force, to find Bill and Mary standing there, having come into the room undetected. Bill was angry, and justifiably so, while Mary’s face was starkly white and pinched with fear.
Mary’s face was pinched with fear.
Henrietta was also staring at her children, now on her feet. “Yes,” she said, ashen. “I have disliked my husband for years. I grew tired of it all. We argued that morning, over money, of course, and I followed him and shot him in the back of the head.”
“Mother!” Bill shouted.
Mary remained tight-lipped, white, and silent.
Francesca looked at Henrietta, who was lying. Oh, dear. What did she do now?
“I am very sorry, Miss Cahill, but you have gone too far,” Bill said from behind her.
Francesca turned and met his cold gray eyes. And too late, she saw the gun he held in his hand. He was going to shoot her.
But before she could react, he raised the butt and struck her on the head with it.
There was a huge lancing pain, and then there was blackness.
TWENTY-ONE
MONDAY, FEBRUARY 3, 1902—10:00 P.M.
Francesca became aware of a pain arcing through her head. And for one moment, as she fought unconsciousness, she was confused.
Then the heavy blackness dimmed, lifting. As she awoke, the pain increased, and she realized that she was lying down. She stirred, her eyes fluttering open—only to find that she could not move her arms or her legs.
Her eyes flew open as she tried to sit up, but she was incapable of all movement except in her fingers and toes. The comprehension was brutal. She was tied to a bed.
Francesca looked from the plain whitewashed ceiling down to her arms and legs and saw that rope bound her wrists and ankles. The bed was simple and placed against one wall, several shelves above it. The room was feminine but neither cozy nor comfortable. The truth struck her then.
Bill Randall had hit her from behind with a heavy object and now she was tied to Mary’s bed.
Oh, God. She had never expected this. Henrietta was so mild-mannered; Francesca had actually expected some kind of guilty and stricken confession. Instead, she was tied up—she was a prisoner, for God’s sake.
But surely, surely, they would not harm her, would they? Or worse?
But she was already harmed, she reminded herself grimly.
And then she had a truly terrible thought. What if Bragg found her this way?
She flushed, anticipating her humiliation—it would know no bounds. She had to free herself.
Suddenly the bedroom door opened and Bill Randall was standing there.
Francesca met his dark gaze. It was so dispassionate that fear assailed her. She was in grave danger indeed.
“What are you going to do with me?” she whispered.
“I don’t know.” He stood in the threshold but did not come forward. “Why did you have to snoop, Miss Cahill? Why could you not be like other young ladies your age? Now I have a terrible dilemma. I must protect my family. No matter the cost.”
She tried to breathe normally, for it was a way of controlling her fear. “You will never get away with this.”
“There is always a way when one is truly motivated,” he said, and he turned abruptly and closed the door behind him. Francesca did not hear it lock.
She tugged on the ropes, but to no avail. All she did was become warm and begin sweating. She felt tears of real fear trying to form in her eyes, and sternly she told herself she must remain calm—she must think.
After all, she was a clever woman. She prided herself on her intelligence. Her intelligence was what must save her now.
Did Randall think to kill her?
She shivered, sick to her stomach at the thought.
And then she heard footsteps at the door. They were not Randall’s; they were far too soft. She tensed.
The door slowly creaked open and Henrietta stood there.
Their gazes locked.
And Henrietta appeared to be on the verge of genuine tears.
Hope flared within Francesca. “Two wrongs do not make a right,” she whispered.
Henrietta gazed at her. “Why did you have to come?”
“You know why. Your husband was murdered. No matter how horrible he has been to you and your family, no one deserves that.” She did not take her gaze from the other woman’s.
Henrietta wet her lips. “I am so sorry,” she said.
“Please untie me,” Francesca tried. To her own ears, it sounded as if she were begging.
Tears filled Henrietta’s eyes. “I can’t.”
“But Bill will never get away with this. You know he will not.”
“He is very clever,” she said, ashen.
“You will be all alone when this is over. Your entire family will be taken from you.”
A tear fell. It trickled down her face. “I love my children,” she whispered. “How could this have happened?”
“I know you love them. And they love you.”
Another tear fell. “They deserve better than this.”
“Yes, they do. Please, Henrietta. Before this gets out of hand.”
Henrietta stared at her, and for one moment Francesca thought she would comply, but instead, she turned and left, not quite closing the door after her.
Francesca collapsed into the mattress. Now what? And no one knew where she was—no! Hart’s driver was outside!
That gave her hope. But what if they killed her before the driver suspected anything?
She tested the rope again. It was the kind of cord used to tie parcels for the postal office. She would never be able to break it, Francesca wiggled her wrists, praying that if she tried long enough, she might wiggle her wrists free. After a long moment, it seemed that the bonds were loosening, but her wrists were becoming burned. Francesca stared at the cord there. It was only her imagination, she decided grimly, for the bonds had not loosened at all.
She flopped back on the bed, tired from her efforts and trying to hold the fear at bay. A cramp seized her calf.
Francesca cried out, shaking her leg wildly to alleviate the terrible feeling, and when it had passed, she realized that the loop on her right ankle was far looser than all the other ones. Perhaps there was hope after all! She began to work her ankle in circular motions, breathless with hope, a silent prayer in her mind—and after several long moments, she slipped her foot free.
She could only stare in disbelief at her freed foot. But now what?
There were two shelves above the bed. And the bed was placed with one side along the wall. She looked up and saw several knickknacks and books. Then she saw the porcelain doll.
She stared, trying to stay calm, but her breathing increased with excitement. She raised her leg experimentally—she could reach the shelf and she could easily knock the doll down.
Her decision was made. Wishing she did not have shoes on, Francesca raised her leg and carefully maneuvered her foot behind the doll. Her intention was to knock the doll to the bed, move it to the wall, and break it. But if the doll did not land on the bed, in the vicinity of her foot, she was back where she had started.
She pushed the doll off of the shelf.
It fell right onto the bed, not near her foot—but near her right hand.
She wanted to shout with re
lief. She caught it with her fingertips and took a deep, deep breath; then she flung it at the wall by her feet.
It broke, making a brief shattering sound.
Francesca did not pause. She used her foot to push the pieces toward her other hand, a laborious process that took several long minutes. But finally a shard was within reach, and she grabbed it with the fingertips of her left hand. Dear God, she was halfway home!
Drenched with perspiration, she began to maneuver the shard into position until she could saw at the cord around her wrist. It was far easier than she had thought it would be. In a moment, her hand was free.
She wanted to shout with joy.
Instead, Francesca untied herself rapidly and sat up, panting now. She did not pause. She leaped from the bed, dashing to the door. She halted there, straining to hear.
No one seemed to be present.
It was now or never. She would have to race downstairs and to the front door, avoiding detection. And she must not fail…. She ran.
Reaching the stairs and pounding down them.
Bill appeared upstairs, coming from one of the bedrooms. “What the hell!” he exclaimed. “She’s escaped!”
Francesca reached the ground floor. The front door was just ahead. Never had she run faster. She heard Bill thudding down the stairs in hot pursuit.
She was going to make it. Barely. She was an arm’s length from the door. And he was not close enough to grab her.
Francesca seized the doorknob—but it did not budge.
It was locked.
Too late, she realized that it had been a servant coming downstairs earlier and that he or she had locked the door while she eavesdropped in the hallway.
Bill clamped his hand down on her shoulder. “Christ Almighty! How the hell did you get free?” he cried, whirling her about to face him.
Francesca smiled brightly but did not even think. They were both standing on the small rug in the entryway. Mary was now coming downstairs as well. Francesca dug her heel into the rug, and when it caught, she yanked with all of her strength upon it. Bill gasped, thrown off balance as the rug was pulled forward, falling backward, into his sister.
Francesca fled through the closest doorway.
Mark Anthony slouched in the small wooden chair in the tiny bare room used for interrogations. Two detectives sat facing him across a small and rickety wooden table. Bragg stood with his arms folded across his chest, leaning against the closed door of the room. A single lightbulb glared from the ceiling above. The room stank of sweat, tobacco, and blood.
The prevailing silence had been a long one.
“C’mish?” one of the detectives asked, looking over his shoulder at Bragg.
Bragg shoved himself off of the wall. “Last chance,” he said softly.
“Fuck you,” Anthony said, but not particularly harshly. He had a black eye. The officer who had delivered it had received an instant suspension. There was nothing like making a point. The days of beating and torture were over.
“Throw him in the Tombs.” Bragg stalked out of the room, not bothering to close the door behind him. And the moment he had left the prisoner, his thoughts veered uncontrollably, and an image of Francesca filled his mind.
There was no mistaking the terrible accompanying feeling of loss and anguish. It was a feeling he had never before experienced, not like this. He had been ill ever since telling her about his wife, and the only way to avoid the pain and the grief was to concentrate on his work.
How had this happened? They had only just met. How could this have happened?
Very easily, he thought, as she was the kind of woman a man might meet once in a lifetime, if he was very lucky.
“Wait!” Anthony shouted.
Relieved, Bragg whirled and re-entered the interrogation room. He stared coldly at Anthony and did not speak. “I didn’t do it,” Anthony began.
“You’re wasting my time,” Bragg said, turning to leave.
“Damn it, I didn’t! Why would I kill the bastard? Georgette had a sweet deal. She’s my friend. We go back fifteen years, maybe more. Blackmail is one thing. OK, I blackmailed the gent. But I didn’t off him,” Anthony growled.
Bragg walked out.
“Are you going to release me?” Anthony shouted after him.
He did not answer. He was grim. Francesca tried to penetrate his thoughts again, but he shoved her away. Brooding solved nothing, and he had a case to conclude. Determined not to suffer another distraction that came from the heart, he walked briskly down the corridor, refusing to dwell on his personal life, even though that task seemed a monumental one now. Funny, but it was so easy to forget Leigh Anne even existed, and with Francesca, whom he had only just met, the opposite was true.
His strides brisk, he passed numerous policemen, all of whom looked at him and then, sensing the brewing storm, as quickly looked away. He entered the reception lobby of headquarters. It was a Monday night, so it was relatively quiet there: one gentleman in a top hat was making a complaint, one shabby fellow with holes in his breeches was being booked, and only one or two telegraphs were ringing. Conversation remained hushed. A drunk was in the holding pen behind the front desk, but he had passed out. Georgette de Labouche was in a separate but adjoining cell, and she stood upon glimpsing Bragg, gripping the iron bars. He had intended to ignore her; instead, upon impulse, he wheeled and walked over to her. “How long have you known Anthony?”
“Fifteen years or so,” she replied. Then, “My only crime is taking good care of Paul, Commissioner. And Sean’s a lot of things, but he isn’t a killer.”
Bragg did not tell her that he agreed with that. “Is there any detail of that night that you have forgotten to tell me?” he asked.
“No. I have told you everything! I asked Miss Cahill to hide the body because I was so frightened. And when she refused, I decided to run away. Now I know it was stupid …” Tears filled her eyes. Then she blinked, her eyes widening, the tears gone.
She had remembered something. “What is it?” he asked sharply.
“Oh, dear. There is one thing, but I don’t see how it could be important. When I was about to sneak out of the house, I saw Paul’s son walk in. I do not know him except by sight, and I have no idea what he wanted, but he went up the hall, I think into the parlor, where Paul’s body was. I ran out then.”
Elation seared him. “Thank you, Miss de Labouche.” He turned to go.
“When will we be released?”
“Soon,” he said.
Bragg turned and as he did so, someone fell into step beside him. “Sean Mackenzie is a well-known swindler and con man. Is he being charged now with Randall’s murder? And if so, why? What is his game?”
Christ—it was after ten at night. Did these vultures ever sleep? Bragg vaguely recognized the reporter as that especially irritating newshound from the Sun—the one who often sat outside of Bragg’s home on Madison Square, snooping and spying upon him and all of his affairs there, both his personal as well as his professional ones. And who had opened his mouth and blabbed about Mackenzie, whose alias was Mark Anthony? Another fly would fall.
“It is after working hours,” Bragg said succinctly. “I suggest you leave these premises before I have you thrown out—on your rather large ass.”
Kurland dared to smile at him. “The city never sleeps,” he began.
Bragg seized him by the throat and threw him against the wall. Kurland cried out. A dozen police officers came rushing over, but no one tried to intervene. “I said leave,” Bragg said, and he released the man, shaken by his inexplicable and uncontrollable loss of temper. The rage had been red-hot.
Kurland had turned white. He loosened his collar and gulped air. Finally he said, “Thanks, C’mish. I needed that. I can see we have truly reformed the city’s finest.” He grinned and then seemed to realize he was pressing his luck, for he blanched anew and quickly left.
Bragg rigidly watched him go, dismayed by his own behavior. His brief attack would undoubtedly be in
the morning’s paper, made out to be far worse than it was. Damn it. The mayor would demand an explanation—and there was no reasonable one to make. Police commissioners did not attack civilians, or even criminals for that matter.
“Someone is in a fine humor indeed,” his half brother drawled from behind him.
This was just what he needed now. Bragg turned, his men having quickly dispersed, no one speaking, everyone hushed and avoiding him now as if he carried the plague.
“What do you want now, Calder?” His tone sounded weary to his own ears. It crossed his mind that there was something he must say to Francesca, or something that he must do, yet in truth, nothing could change the facts of his life, and everything pertinent had been said.
“I cannot believe what I just saw.” Hart was laughing. “My lily-white brother has assaulted someone. My lily-white brother who is a police officer!” He was crowing, in fact.
“I have a murderer to arrest. I have no time for this.”
Hart’s smile vanished. “Anthony is not the one?”
“No, he is not.” Bragg walked away from Hart and ordered a dozen officers to assemble for a raid.
Hart had followed him and when he had finished directing his captain, Bragg faced him, irritated. “Why are you here? What do you want?”
Hart studied him. He seemed serious now. “I want you to leave Francesca alone.”
Bragg stiffened, all thought of the imminent arrest vanishing from his mind. “Actually, I want you to leave her alone, Calder,” he said coldly. “But I believe I have already stated that.”
Hart’s smile was mirthless. “But I am not the one who has a wife, and I am not the one who has misled her, nor am I the one currently breaking her heart.”
Unfortunately, he happened to be right. “And since when is it Francesca?”
Hart smiled. “We are friends.”
“You just met her!” He felt explosive. He could not seem to get a grip on himself these days. “And you do not even know what it is to have a lady for a friend.”
“Perhaps not. Until now. But oddly, I have become inexplicably fond of her, and I do not like what has happened.”
Bragg felt his temper imploding. “Never think to come between myself and Francesca,” he warned.
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