by Brenda Joyce
Francesca itched to claw the other woman now. She said, dangerously, “That’s a lovely idea, Bartolla. It is so thoughtful of you!”
Bartolla laughed. “Francesca, you are so nervous! I really am trying to help.”
Francesca gave her a murderous look.
“Won’t Hart get out on bail?” Sarah asked.
“He hasn’t been arrested, Sarah,” Francesca returned. She decided she despised the widowed countess.
“Thank God!” Bartolla cried. “You are very brave, Francesca, to stand by your man in such a time. Most women would turn tail and run the other way as fast as they could.”
Before Francesca could answer, Harold announced the arrival of Rourke Bragg. He had not been home last night when Hart had been taken downtown, but of course, he would know about it now—the entire house would know. Francesca was relieved to see him stride into the room.
His amber gaze took in all three women. His expression grim, he paused by Sarah, kissing her cheek. He nodded politely at Bartolla and went right to Francesca, taking her arm and moving her aside. “Are you all right?” he asked quietly.
“Of course,” she lied, meeting his intently searching gaze.
“How is Hart?”
Francesca pulled him across the room and out of ear shot. “He refused to allow me to go downtown with him last night,” she whispered. The anguish cracked open, and she looked at Rourke as if he might be the one to talk some sense into Hart.
He put his arm around her. “He wants to spare you exactly what you are going through.”
“I need to see him,” she said urgently. “Rourke, I will confess that I am afraid!”
“You don’t think he did it?” Rourke was aghast.
“No. But he has decided we are through. I am afraid he will never change his mind. Maybe this is the excuse he needs!”
“If he doesn’t, I will change it for him,” Rourke said grimly. “Maybe this is an excuse—he has been a bachelor his entire life—but I don’t think he has suddenly got cold feet. I think he cares very much for you and wants to spare you any more grief. How can I help, Francesca? Just say the word.”
“He needs all of us now. He should not turn anyone away. But if he won’t let me comfort him, then maybe you can do so.”
“I am going to try to talk some sense into him,” Rourke said grimly. “Of course I will visit him today. And by the way, Francesca, the family has already hired the best criminal attorney in the city, Charles Gray.”
Francesca was relieved on that count. “Good. And I think you should visit—everyone should,” Francesca said.
Rourke lightened. “Francesca, you do not know the Braggs if you think anything or anyone could keep them away.”
She finally smiled. Then, slyly, “You are having lunch with Sarah?”
He flushed, glancing across the room at Sarah. “Yes, and do not play matchmaker,” he growled.
“I would never sink so low,” she said with a smile.
He rolled his eyes at her and they walked back across the room. Bartolla was wide-eyed, glancing back and forth between them both. She was obviously dying to learn what had just transpired.
“Rourke?” Sarah said. “Maybe we should invite Francesca to join us. I think she might like company today.”
“No!” Francesca smiled. “Sarah, I have some key suspects I must interview. I wasn’t exaggerating when I said I have some important leads to follow. Do not change your plans on my account. But I do need a word with the countess—alone.”
“That will be our cue, then,” Rourke said. “Francesca, where can I find you later in the day?”
She knew he intended to tell her about his visit to Hart and she loved him dearly for such loyalty and concern. “I am staying with my sister. But I have no real idea what time I will get home tonight.”
Rourke looked at her in surprise. So did Sarah, who voiced what they were all thinking. “Francesca, you are living with Connie now?”
Francesca was all too aware of Bartolla’s avid inter est. “I had been thinking of moving out for some time now. It is hard to roam the city at all hours of the day and night while living under Julia’s roof. She really does not care for my sleuthing. So I have moved in with Connie and Neil—but just until I can lease my own flat.”
Sarah was stunned, and so was Rourke. Unmarried young ladies did not live by themselves. Trying to cover up his shock, he merely said, “Then I will try to reach you at Lord Montrose’s tonight. Good luck, Francesca.” He smiled at Sarah, who squeezed Francesca’s hand, and they left.
Her heart began a more insistent beat. Francesca smiled at Bartolla. The countess smiled back. “What do you wish to discuss, Francesca?” She walked toward a chair, clearly about to sit.
Francesca said, “My brother.”
Instead of sitting, Bartolla slowly turned.
“I saw him at Connie’s last night.”
“Really?” Bartolla’s smile never wavered, but her gaze was searching.
“I have never seen him so moody,” Francesca said, “I believe he is very unhappy.”
Bartolla stiffened. “You are wrong. I know him better than anyone, Francesca. Of course, it has been difficult for him, being disowned by his own family. However, I have assured him that your father will eventually change his mind. If anything is bothering Evan, it is his relationship with Andrew Cahill.”
Bartolla was smooth and clever. “And when do the two of you plan to elope?”
Bartolla looked as if she had been kicked. “He told you?”
“I am a sleuth, remember? I dearly love to unearth secrets—and lies.”
“What does that mean?” Bartolla demanded with hard, cold eyes.
“It means that he also told me why the two of you are running off together in such a rush,” Francesca said as coldly. She was furious.
Bartolla was rigid. “I do not know what you mean.”
Francesca leaned toward her. “Evan told me that you are with child. Is the child even his?”
Bartolla slapped her across the face. “How dare you.”
Francesca jerked, stunned, but even she had to admit that maybe she deserved that. She rubbed her throbbing cheek. “I am suspicious, Bartolla. I am not certain the child is Evan’s. Worse, I am not even convinced you are with child.” And she glanced at Bartolla’s nearly flat abdomen.
“I am no trollop! I love your brother! There has been no one but Evan since I came to town,” Bartolla exclaimed, her cheeks pink. “I thought we were friends!”
“So did I—until you betrayed me by sending Leigh Anne that letter,” Francesca returned.
Her eyes widened. “Oh, come! You were about to have an affair with Rick Bragg, and she is his wife, even if they were separated. Considering you are now head over heels for Hart, you must not bear a grudge. I’d think you might consider some gratitude, really.” Her eyes turned black. “Hart would never take Bragg’s leftovers.”
“My personal life is not at issue here. If you are with child, prove it. Because otherwise, I am going to recommend that my brother wait before he does something he may regret for the rest of his life.”
“You plan to interfere in our relationship?” Bartolla asked, with obvious dismay.
“Evan doesn’t want to marry you. I happen to believe he is in love with someone else,” Francesca retorted. “I suggest you schedule an appointment with your doctor, Bartolla, for you and Evan. And do not think about bribing him to corroborate a lie, because I will find out.”
Bartolla began to shake. It was a moment before she spoke. “I am carrying Evan’s child, and it is his duty to marry me. This is not your affair!”
“Yes, it is,” Francesca said.
Bartolla took one step closer, so they were nose to nose. “My dear, if you interfere, I will make certain that your relationship with Hart fails.”
Francesca was taken aback. “What does that mean?”
“It means that I know Hart quite well. I know he is jealous—insanely so.
I know that, for the first time in his life, he is in love. I know he is a man who will never forgive betrayal.” She smiled coldly now.
“What are you saying? That you will somehow turn Hart against me?”
“Yes, that is exactly what I am saying.” Bartolla laughed. “I will make certain he comes to despise you, Francesca. And don’t think I can’t do it. You are so naive! You cannot go up against me, my dear. I am a woman of the world. I know what makes a man like Hart breathe. I know what would make a man like Hart hate.”
Francesca was actually shaken. Bartolla seemed inherently dangerous, far more vicious and malicious than she had ever dreamed. But she would not back down; she loved her brother too much to do so. She stared at the countess. It was a long moment before she spoke. “Sarah has no idea you are so ruthless, does she?”
“You started this war, my dear. You can end it easily enough by minding your own business.”
Francesca knew when she should retreat. She simply turned and walked out. Bartolla could not turn Hart against her, could she? She had no clue as to how the other woman might accomplish such a feat.
One thing had become clear. They were not friends, oh no. They were bitterly opposed, they were enemies.
FRANCESCA ARRIVED AT POLICE headquarters on pins and needles at the prospect of seeing Hart. She was worried about what her reception might be, but hoped he would be pleased to see her, and not cold and distant in the hopes of continuing to push her away. Francesca hurried toward the front door of the station.
“Miss Cahill! Miss Cahill! Please, we’d like a comment from you!” several newsmen cried, leaping out from behind the two gaslights as she went up the building’s front steps.
Francesca faltered. Three reporters had surrounded her and one of them was Arthur Kurland. She was very dismayed, but she managed a smile, facing them. “I will be happy to give you a comment,” she said, drawing in an extra breath. She was going to profess Hart’s innocence.
Kurland came closer. “How do you feel about the end of your engagement, Miss Cahill? And would you care to give me a quote for tomorrow’s paper?”
Francesca froze, for she had not expected that question, although she should have anticipated it. Somehow she said, “I am afraid I cannot discuss any personal matters.”
“Really?” Kurland laughed. “Can you make a comment about Hart’s incarceration last night, then? Or is that personal, too?”
“Mr. Hart is innocent. He has been cleverly framed,” Francesca said, flushing in anger.
Gasps greeted her declaration and lead pencils flew.
“Miss Cahill! Will you continue to investigate this case? Are you working for Hart, in spite of the end of your engagement?” This was from Walter Isaacson of the Tribune, a newsman Francesca thought fair and honest.
Francesca turned away from Kurland in relief. “I have been hired by Rose Cooper to find Miss Jones’s killer,” Francesca said. She held up her hand before any one could speak. “There has been a major break in the case and I am pleased to share it with you.” She paused for effect, having everyone’s complete attention now. “Daisy Jones’s real name was Honora Gillespie. She is the daughter of Judge Gillespie of Albany, New York.”
“What are you saying?” Kurland cried. The other reporters were as surprised. Pencils raced, scratching over notepads.
“I think you heard me. Now, if you will excuse me?” She smiled pleasantly and left the stunned newsmen. No one made any effort to follow her, as they were so engrossed in making their notes. Inside, she sighed in relief. She had just deflected the entire story away from Hart. She had no doubt that tomorrow’s headlines would be quite lurid. She was sorry for the Gillespies, but that news would have broken in another day or so, anyway. It was Hart she had to think of.
Francesca paused for a moment, seeking to recover her composure. The lobby was in chaos, with a number of gentlemen arguing at the front desk with a pair of bored officers. Telephones were ringing off the hook, telegraphs were busily pinging, and a drunk was singing. Francesca glanced across the crowded room toward the holding cells. They were all occupied—and Hart was not present. Had he been released? Her heart skipped at the thought.
“Miss Cahill!” An officer she did not know but recognized came up to her. “The c’mish wants you upstairs. He sent me to find you,” he said breathlessly, and he glanced at his notes. “I called the Cahill house and then the Montrose residence and I was going to go uptown to the Dakotas, where they said you were. He’s real eager to see you, miss.”
“What has happened?” she asked quickly.
“He’s got the Gillespie family upstairs—they just came in.”
Francesca ran for the stairs, forgetting to thank him and hiking up her skirts as she went up. The Gillespies must have taken a sleeper train last night, she thought in real excitement.
The door to the conference room was open. Obviously Bragg wanted to appear casual and relaxed with the family. He and Newman sat facing the judge, who seemed to have aged a decade since the other day, and his wife, who was a small, pale, blond woman that reminded Francesca of a delicate bird. She clutched a linen handkerchief in her hand and frequently used it to dab at her eyes. Francesca saw that Daisy had resembled her somewhat, and she had certainly inherited her slender frame from her, but she doubted Martha Gillespie had ever been as beautiful as her oldest daughter.
She turned to Daisy’s sister and studied her without anyone remarking her presence yet. Lydia, Francesca had learned, was two years younger than Daisy. She had hair that was neither brown nor blond, even, unremarkable features, and a much darker skin tone than her sister. In fact, other than her eyes, which even from this distance she could tell were a pale blue, Francesca saw no resemblance between the two sisters. She wondered at their friendship, then. She knew how difficult it could be growing up with a sibling who was remarkable in any particular way—in this case, being so beautiful. She wondered if Lydia had been jealous of her sister.
Lydia sat rigidly beside her mother, her hands clasped on the table in front of her. Like both of her parents, she seemed very upset.
Bragg noticed her and stood. “Francesca, come in. The judge and his family arrived very early this morning. They just came in to see me.”
Francesca smiled at him and Newman, and then at the judge. “Good morning, Judge. Thank you for coming—and thank you for bringing Mrs. Gillespie and your daughter.”
He also stood. “Martha, this is the young lady I told you about, the very remarkable sleuth.”
Martha nodded tearfully. “I still can’t believe it. I can’t believe Honora is dead.”
Francesca glanced at Lydia, who did not move. She looked as if she wished to cry, but she did not. “I am very sorry,” Francesca said. “Daisy was liked by every one and she did not deserve her fate.”
Martha Gillespie shook her head. “How is it possible? How is it possible that she gave up the life she had with us to become what she had? Please tell me, Miss Cahill, because I don’t understand.”
“I don’t know, but I should like to find out,” Francesca said softly.
The judge muttered, “I had to tell them. I told them on the train last night.”
Francesca wished she had been the one to break the news, so she could have gauged both Martha’s and Lydia’s reactions. But Daisy’s mother certainly seemed grief-stricken and shocked.
Bragg said, “The judge just gave his statement. It is brief and exactly as you described.”
Francesca understood. He claimed to have no knowledge of Honora’s whereabouts, until Francesca had appeared in Albany yesterday. She said, “Let’s go back to Honora, the fifteen-year-old daughter. Mrs. Gillespie? Were you close to your daughter?”
Martha nodded. “Of course I was. I adored Honora. She was so beautiful and sweet.”
Francesca was skeptical. If her home life had been so happy, why had Daisy left? “And there were family outings? Picnics, ice skating? Family vacations, family gatherings? Supper at hom
e, at least on Sundays?”
Martha looked perplexed. “We went to church every Sunday. We are Baptist. But my husband works very long, hard hours, and when he is not working, we have social obligations. And no one in my family cares for picnics,” she added.
A picture was emerging, Francesca thought. “So you and the judge went out almost every night.”
“If not, he would work in his study, dining there alone,” Martha said.
“I take each and every case very seriously,” Gillespie said harshly. “What is this about?”
Francesca just smiled reassuringly at him. “Did you take Honora shopping?”
Martha was taken aback. “We had a modiste come to the house to make both of the girls’ wardrobes.” She started to cry. “It feels like only yesterday. How could she be gone—and this way!”
Lydia said softly, “Honora liked horses.”
Francesca turned her attention to Daisy’s somber sister. “She did?”
“Yes. We would ride through the fields almost every day, in the afternoon.” Lydia held her gaze. “And some times we took lunch. Sometimes we shared a picnic.”
Francesca sat down besides her. Lydia’s message was clear. Her sister had liked picnics, but their mother had not known. “Do you know why she ran away? Had she become unhappy before she left?” she asked softly, speaking only to Lydia now.
Lydia glanced at her parents. “I don’t know why she left.” A tear fell. “I don’t know if she was unhappy.”
“Were you close?” Francesca asked gently. If the two girls had spent so little time with their parents, if they had ridden together every day, she suspected they had been good friends.
Lydia nodded; and another tear fell.
“Perhaps there was a boy, a young man that she liked?”
“There were no boys,” Lydia said hoarsely. “I wish she were here!”
Francesca glanced at Bragg. He said, “Did she tell you that she was going to run away, Lydia?”
“No!” Lydia was both adamant and aghast at the thought, and Francesca believed her.
Bragg turned to Martha. “Did you have any idea that your daughter was unhappy enough to leave home?”