Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 05] (31 page)

And then she recalled the huge, hard pressure of the man’s penis against her back, the sexual threats whispered in her ear, and she turned her face away, crying out.

“What is it?” Rourke asked softly.

“Get Francesca,” she whispered raggedly.

S
ATURDAY
, F
EBRUARY 22, 1902—AFTER MIDNIGHT

F
RANCESCA WAS STARING AT
Hart, terribly curious as to just what he was thinking, his suggestive comment echoing in her brain. The front door slammed behind her. Footsteps pounded. “Francesca!” Rourke shouted.

All inappropriate thoughts vanished. Francesca whirled in real alarm as Rourke ran up to them. “There has been an attack. Sarah needs you.” He looked at Hart. “Get Rick.”

“Is Sarah all right?” Hart demanded.

“She seems all right, but as she has just survived an attempt at murder, I would prefer to examine her at length before swearing upon a Bible that her health is good,” he said quickly, grabbing Francesca’s arm.

She raced to keep up with him as they ran back to the house. “He was here? Our strangler?”

“Oh yes,” Rourke said grimly, pushing open the front door. “I saw him.”

She stared at him, stumbling down the corridor with him. “Did you recognize him? Was it Hoeltz? Neville? LeFarge?”
Too late, she realized Rourke did not know any of those men. “What did he look like?”

Before he could answer, Sarah appeared, staggering up the corridor. Francesca cried out, as Sarah’s face was as white as an imaginary ghost and her throat was mottled with brutal red marks. Rourke broke into a run. “What do you think you are doing?” he scolded, but gently.

“I could not stay in there,” she whispered, tears filling her eyes. “What if he came back?”

“He isn’t coming back,” Rourke said, lifting her into his arms as if she weighed no more than a baby. “Hart has gone to get the police.”

Sarah was making a huge effort to be brave. “You do not have to carry me, Rourke. I can walk.”

“I think that I do,” he said firmly.

Francesca hurried over, clasping Sarah’s shoulder as they walked into the closest room, a grand library. “Why don’t you put her down on the sofa, Rourke? I shall sit with her and you can rouse the staff. We need a fire, water, tea.” Her mind sped. “No, make it a nice Scotch whiskey.”

“My medical bag is at Hart’s,” Rourke said, clearly displeased. “I’ll send a servant to Doctor Finney.” He placed Sarah on the oversize blue sofa as gently as if she might break. Francesca turned on the lamp beside it. “I’ll be right back,” he said.

Sarah looked at him, her face twisted with fear and nerves, yet oddly grim with resolution, too. “Don’t wake Mother. I cannot manage her hysterics now.”

Rourke hesitated.

Francesca sat down beside Sarah and put her arm around her. Sarah was as small and fragile as she looked, she thought with a pang. “Rourke? See if you can quietly rouse just one servant. A maid.”

He gave her an exasperated look that said he’d rouse whomever he stumbled upon.

Sarah said, “The staff who sleep in are on the fourth floor. But the housekeeper has her room behind the kitchen.”

He nodded and left, leaving the door fully open.

Francesca wished he had started the fire. “Are you all right?” she asked, getting up and turning on another lamp. The library remained huge and filled with shadows. Good God, a man could hide behind the draperies, she thought.

“No. I had hoped to start your sketches, Francesca,” Sarah whispered, trailing off.

Francesca felt for her then. “You must tell me what happened.”

“I know.” Sarah gazed at her fearfully. “I cannot discuss this in front of Rourke or anyone else.”

“All right.” She took Sarah’s hands and clasped them tightly. “Did you get a good look at him?”

“He assaulted me from behind. I never saw his face, Francesca.” Sarah started to shake terribly. Tears filled her eyes. “The moment he pushed me to the wall, I knew. I knew it was the same man who had attacked me last week!”

“What?!” Francesca gasped. “You never said you were attacked.”

“I couldn’t. I couldn’t speak about it. It was so horrible that I refused to think about it,” she said tersely.

“I don’t understand,” Francesca gasped.

“I know, for neither do I.” Sarah brushed angrily at a falling tear. “I was
so
afraid. I think I felt that if I pretended it hadn’t happened, it would somehow be over—somehow, it would be as if it hadn’t happened. I refused to think about it; it is as simple as that.” Her mouth trembled and she met Francesca’s gaze. “I am sorry, Francesca, sorry that I lied to you, of all people. I beg you to understand.”

Francesca thought that she did. “It’s all right.”

“No, it isn’t.” She swallowed. “He has haunted my dreams, Francesca.”

Francesca hugged her, hard. “You poor dear! But you must tell me what happened, Sarah—both last week and just now. You must tell me everything so we can catch this bastard!”

Sarah nodded grimly, clearly fighting tears. “I found him in my studio, painting on the wall. He saw me and I ran, but he caught me from behind, which is how I hurt my arm.
I swear to God, I don’t know how I got free—I think he tripped on something. I ran to my room and hid there. The next morning I found my studio in shambles, and that is when my mother sent you her note asking for your help.”

Francesca caressed Sarah’s back. “Thank God Rourke was here tonight.” And it was the worst twist of fate that Sarah had not gotten a look at the killer.

“He held me against the wall and I could not breathe and I was afraid he would rape me before he broke my neck!” she cried.

It took Francesca a moment to understand. “He was sexually aroused?”

Sarah nodded, her eyes huge, mostly dilated black pupils. “He said he would. He said many horrible and obscene things to me.” She suddenly retched, vomiting on the floor.

Francesca held her as she retched again, several times. Her heart broke for Sarah Channing.

“I am sorry,” Sarah wept now. “Look at what I have done!”

Francesca held her in her arms. “It hardly matters. I shall catch this beast, Sarah, and when we are through, he shall never ever see the light of day again!”

When Sarah had stopped crying, Francesca stood. “Let me clean this up.”

“No! I’ll do it!” Sarah stood unsteadily.

“Sarah—”

“I don’t want to be alone here, not at night.”

“All right,” Francesca said, taking her arm. They started through the huge dark house. Francesca quickly became anxious. It crossed her mind that the killer could be lying in wait for them. She told herself that was absurd, but nevertheless, the house was so silent and so dark. Sarah was as tense. She started at every shadow. “It’s all right,” Francesca tried, not quite believing it. Their killer had an agenda now, and Sarah Channing’s murder was on it.

“I just remembered something,” she whispered as they entered the pitch-black dining room.

Francesca fumbled for a light on the table. When it came on she breathed in relief. “What is that?”

“He said that he hadn’t forgotten me, and he called me a little whore.”

Francesca stared, her mind racing. “Can you recall his exact words?”

Sarah shook her head, her nose red now, her eyes tearing again. “I’m sorry. I can’t. But I will never forget the sound of his voice,” she whispered.

Francesca took her hand and they left the dining room. A moment later they were in the huge vaulted kitchen, which was fully lit. Rourke stood at the stove, boiling water, for tea, Francesca supposed. He saw them and started. “What the hell are you two doing wandering around this house by yourselves?”

Francesca let Sarah sink down into a chair at the dining table used by the staff. “Sarah had an accident, and we came for rags to clean it up.”

“I’ll do that,” the housekeeper said, appearing in her gray dress, her hair still in one long gray braid. “Miss Channing, thank God you are all right!”

Sarah nodded but did not speak.

“Mrs. Brown,” Rourke said, “bring us a nice glass of port.”

The housekeeper nodded and hurried off.

Rourke came over and laid his palm on Sarah’s forehead. She flinched but met his gaze. “You are warm,” he said.

“I am sick,” she returned. “Why, Francesca? Why has this man accused me of being a whore? Why does he wish to murder me? Why?” she cried.

Francesca sat down beside her. “I simply do not know. Yet,” she added.

Rourke pulled something out of his pocket. “Here,” he said. “Here is some evidence for you.”

Francesca realized he had handed her a lady’s silk stocking. It was torn. “What is this?”

“He was using this to strangle Sarah,” Rourke said. “But
considering the marks on her throat, he was using his hands, first.”

Sarah closed her eyes, trembling. “Yes, he was using his hands. And when I was sure I was about to die, he tied the stocking there and tightened it.” She covered her face with her hands, which were shaking uncontrollably.

Francesca quickly held her. But she looked up at Rourke. “Did you see him?” she demanded.

He was grim. “He was masked, Francesca. In fact, he was wearing a lady’s stocking over his head,” he said. Then, “If you do not catch this killer, I shall.”

But Francesca hardly heard.
A monster, no eyes, no mouth
. Ellie had been right.

Bragg strode in, followed by Hart. Rick looked very grim; in fact, he appeared to be on the verge of anger. Francesca could guess why and knew it had nothing to do with the strangler in their midst.

Less than a half an hour had passed by; Hart must have galloped his coach through the city streets. Sarah had calmed considerably, probably due to the port Rourke had insisted she drink, sip by sip. Francesca leaped to her feet the moment Bragg entered the room.

She raced to him. “Thank God you are here,” she said urgently.

His gaze skidded over her elegant turquoise evening gown and its low bodice, then shot to Sarah, still seated at the kitchen table, but now with Rourke, who had his hand clasped over one of her hands. “How is she?” Bragg asked flatly.

“She is a bit better. She has terrible bruises on her throat, Bragg,” Francesca said, keeping her tone low.

“It was the same man?” he asked in a similar tone.

“Apparently so.” She held his gaze. “Can we discuss the case outside?”

He nodded. Francesca left the room with him, aware of
Hart’s black gaze following her. In the hall, she faced Bragg. “Look at this,” she said, whispering.

She showed him the stocking. “He wore one as a mask, and used this to try to strangle Sarah. Apparently he began with his hands. She cannot recall his words, but he did call her a little whore and said something to the effect that he had not forgotten her.”

Bragg’s expression darkened. “I am getting a dreadful feeling, Francesca. Our madman is just that, mad, and he hates women.”

“This has nothing to do with Evan, I fear,” she whispered back. “It gets worse. Sarah thought he might think to rape her.”

Bragg started. “Did he say something to that effect?”

Francesca shook her head. “He was aroused.”

For a moment Bragg stared, and she added, “He also was profane. Sarah said he used many obscenities.”

Bragg was grim. “Neither Miss Conway nor Miss Holmes was raped, Francesca.”

Francesca started. “What?!”

“Both victims were thoroughly examined. Neither one was raped,” Bragg said. “I did not tell you about the physical examinations because I wished to spare you.”

She stared at him, remaining stunned that he had ordered such examinations on Grace Conway and Catherine Holmes.

“Our killer has very perverted appetites, Francesca.”

She regrouped. “Yes, he does.”

“You are Sarah’s friend. You need to sit down with her and record everything that madman said.”

“She doesn’t remember everything. And as far as the first attack goes, she was trying to forget it completely, Bragg—almost the way a child might deny reality in order to pretend that it did not happen. That is why she did not tell us about it.”

He nodded, accepting her explanation of Sarah’s odd behavior. “What
did
happen?”

“She interrupted him as he was leaving her studio—they struggled briefly, he tripped, and she got away. He was obscene then, too—Sarah said she completely forgot everything until he attacked her again tonight.”

Bragg absorbed this and said, “There are no police on duty outside the house.”

“I assumed that, for some reason, you dismissed them.”

“No such order ever came from me. If Newman issued such a directive, he had better have a good reason.”

“Is he on his way?”

“I would imagine so. Where did the attack take place?”

“Her studio,” Francesca said, and of the same mind, they started through the house in that direction. “Bragg, I saw Bertrand Hoeltz tonight at an art exhibition. He lied. He told me the other day that he did not know Sarah, but Sarah knows him very well.”

Bragg gave her a grim look and said nothing.

“What is it?”

He pushed open the door to Sarah’s studio. It had been completely cleaned up, the floors washed and waxed, the canvases stacked up, the easels set upright. Which was why the blood-red words dripping down one pristine white wall were so shocking: