Deadly Illusions (19 page)

He hesitated and said, “I'm happy for you, then.”

She wrapped her arms around herself as the kettle began to boil, singing. Why had he come? How had it come down to this? He hadn't smiled once. There had been no gesture of kindness or concern—not that she expected concern or warmth or anything, of course she didn't, but once, there had been affection and laughter. Now, the room was so dreadfully cold.

He started toward her, his expression far more grim than before.

Gwen froze.

But he did not touch her. He lifted the kettle from the fire and set it aside.

She turned away, trembling. For one moment, she had been waiting for him to take her into his arms. She remained the most foolish of women—worse, she had shamelessly yearned for him to do so.

“We don't want you here!” Bridget suddenly cried. “Why did you come? You heard Mama, we're happy here. We like it here, we do!”

He looked at the child. “I'm sorry, Bridget, I am sorry if I am intruding, but I had business in the city and I merely wished to inquire after you and your mother.”

So he had come on business, she thought, staring at his classic profile. The mouth she remembered had been so mobile; this one never moved, remaining compressed in a firm, tight line, impossibly, even when he spoke.

He turned to her and she felt trapped, her backside against the counter, a sink just inches to her right, the stove to her left. “I feel responsible for all that has transpired,” he said, with no
emotional inflection whatsoever. He removed his wallet and from that, a cheque. “Please take this, Gw—Mrs. O'Neil,” he said, and he coughed. “I am sure it is the least I can do, but it will find you better accommodations, far from this neighborhood, and it will help you feed your daughter.”

The anger began. “I don't want that,” she heard herself say.

His smile was odd, all twisted and half-formed. “Please. Please accept this small gesture on my behalf. I know it hardly makes up for what I have done and—”

“You have done nothing,” she cried, clenching her hands so tightly into fists that she knew her nails were drawing her own blood.

He started, eyes wide, and for the first time she saw a man she recognized, revealed by the disbelief in his eyes. “I have destroyed your marriage—your life, actually,” he said.

“I had no marriage with David,” she said, holding her chin high. “You destroyed nothing. It was time for me and my girl to move on.” She forced a smile.

“Maybe so. Still, for my part in what happened, please accept my offer.”

“I don't want anything from you,” she cried.

He stared at her for an interminable time.

And behind them both, Bridget breathed hard.

He nodded and walked to the table, two steps from where he stood, and laid the bank cheque there. Then he walked to the door, where he paused, shoulders rigid, and he glanced at her.

She realized she was crying but she could not look away.

His mouth tightened. “I am sorry, Gwen,” he said. He touched the brim of his felt hat and he left.

 

“C
OME IN,”
M
AGGIE
breathed, her eyes wide, her complexion ashen. She opened the door wider to let Francesca, Hart, Raoul and Joel inside.

“Are you all right?” Francesca asked the moment she had bolted the door behind them.

Maggie looked at her, nodding, her eyes shining with tears.

“Oh dear,” Francesca whispered, and she embraced the other woman who, briefly, clung in return.

Then Maggie stepped back, managing a smile. “I am sorry I am being so foolish. But I decided to call on Kate, as she lives just around the block from me. And now she is dead! The Slasher has struck again,” she cried, keeping her voice down. Clearly, her three younger children were all asleep in the flat's single bedroom.

Francesca put her arm around her as they walked toward the small sofa that defined the room's parlor. “It may or may not be the Slasher. We will not know until a clinical examination of the body has occurred.”

Maggie confronted her. “What do you mean, it may not be the Slasher? If he didn't kill Kate, then who did?”

“We simply don't know yet,” Francesca said.

Maggie clasped her hands together. “I have forgotten my manners,” she whispered. “Francesca, Mr. Hart, do sit down, please,” she said.

“We are fine,” Hart said firmly. He had walked over to her window to look down on Tenth Avenue. “Kate's apartment is but a minute's walk from here,” he remarked.

That was very true. One had to walk only to the corner of Tenth and Avenue A, turn right, and go up Tenth Street a few doors to her building. Guessing his unspoken question, Francesca said, “Francis is on Eleventh Street and Avenue B.”

Hart turned to her very seriously. “Do not tell me that every victim lived on this square block?”

“No! She is on the northwest side of Eleventh and Avenue B. Still,” she said, their gazes locked, “the proximity is amazing.”

“Maybe we had better go to my brother-in-law's,” Maggie said softly.

Francesca faced her. “I would feel much better if you did move temporarily, just until the killer is caught. Maggie, my mother has no objection if you wish to stay with us.”

Maggie smiled weakly. “I can't think clearly right now, not with poor Kate dead. But I have to do what is best for the children.”

“Yes, you do, and that means you must move out of this flat until the killer is caught.”

“My brother-in-law only has a one-bedroom flat. He has two children of his own. It would be so cramped.” Maggie shook her head. “I am hysterical, I apologize. How could Kate be dead?”

Francesca had a sudden idea. She grasped Maggie's shoulder, smiling at her. “I have a perfect solution, one that does not involve your staying with us again.”

Maggie gazed at her hopefully. “You do?”

She glanced at Hart briefly and faced Maggie. “Calder has more room than anyone. Come and stay with us—I mean, him!”

Maggie faltered, darting her eyes at Hart. “I couldn't!”

“Of course you can. Calder doesn't mind, do you?” Francesca said eagerly.

“I have dozens of empty bedrooms, even with my family in residence. And no, I don't mind,” he said, looking now at Francesca with a wry smile.

“Maggie, this is the perfect solution!” Francesca cried. “I know you thought that staying with my family again would be an imposition. Well, it is no imposition with Calder, as he is my fiancé.”

Maggie seemed to waver.

“And we shall soon rename my home l'Hôtel des Étrangers,” Hart said with a shrug, “if Francesca has her way.” He walked over to the flat's single window.

“That means the hotel of strangers,” Francesca said, sitting
down beside Maggie and taking her hands in hers. “Calder is joking. I'll send a driver for you first thing tomorrow.”

Maggie bit her lip. “Six in the evening, then. I have to work,” she reminded Francesca.

Francesca was pleased, but it was time to move on to business. Briskly, she said, “Why did you decide to go visit Kate?”

“I had the strongest urge to see her.” Maggie shrugged. “I saw her at church last Sunday, of course, and I so wanted to ask her how she was, but we really did not speak. She seemed upset, distraught, and I did not want to intrude. Last night, I decided I would call on her. I wanted to ask her how she was and if I could do anything for her.” Tears filled her eyes. “If only I had gone earlier, maybe the killer would have seen us together and gone away.”

Francesca clasped her shoulder. What if Maggie has seen something? What if she had glimpsed the killer? “What time did you go over to visit?”

“It was half past seven, maybe eight,” she said. “I fed the children and tucked Lizzie and Paddy into bed. Then I walked over, leaving Joel here to watch the children.”

“It would be best if you didn't wander the streets after dark,” Francesca said.

Maggie nodded. “Kate's door was wide open. Completely open, so much so that the moment I paused on the threshold, I saw her in the bed. The second thing I saw was the blood. I screamed.” She had blanched again.

Francesca patted her hand. “I assume you left?”

Maggie nodded. “I ran out faster than I have ever run before. I ran out screaming for help, for the police. There wasn't a roundsman in sight!” She was angry then. “But Joel found one on Avenue B a few blocks up.”

“So you went from Kate's back to your own flat to ask Joel
to find a police officer,” Francesca said. Maggie nodded and she took her hand, continuing, “Did you see anyone? Anyone at all? Either on your way to her flat or on your way home?”

Maggie just looked at her.

Francesca could not decipher the look. “Maggie?”

“The streets were absolutely deserted, both times, not a soul in sight…except for one man.”

Francesca straightened.

“As I was going over to visit Kate, I bumped right into a man when I turned the corner.”

“The corner of Avenue A and Tenth Street?” Francesca tried to restrain herself now, but she had tensed with anticipation.

Maggie nodded. “I bumped into him so hard he grabbed me and steadied me. He was a perfect gentleman—it was my fault but he apologized.”

She had bumped into a man on her way to visit Kate—a man who was a perfect gentleman.
What if he had been the killer?
“Was he really a gentleman?” she pressed. “Did you get a look at him? Did he speak? Did you?”

Maggie inhaled and said, “He was a gentleman, a fine gentleman, with the most brilliant, remarkable eyes. Even at night, I could see how blue they were.”

“Did he wear a ring?” she cried, on her feet. “Was he tall?”

“I don't know if he had jewelry on, but he was quite tall, as tall as Mr. Hart. Francesca, there's more. He was Irish.”

“Are you certain?”

“He spoke briefly, and it was but a murmur, but yes, I recognized his accent.”

Francesca trembled with excitement. If this man was the Slasher, they had just learned that he was an Irishman.

Hart came over. “We don't know that this gentleman is the killer,” he warned.

She ignored him. Her every sense told her that Maggie had
bumped into the killer as he was leaving Kate's flat after perpetrating the deadly deed. “Maggie, if you saw him again, would you recognize him?”

“Yes,” Maggie said, very firm now. “Oh yes, I couldn't possibly forget a man like that.”

Friday, April 25, 1902 8:00 a.m.

F
RANCESCA PAUSED ON
the threshold of the breakfast room, a cheerful salon papered in a bright, sunny gold with windows overlooking the Cahill back lawns. They were verdantly green and freshly cut and the imported Belgium tulips were already blooming. Francesca barely noticed any of that.

Andrew Cahill sat at the head of the table, a copy of the
New York Times
in his hands, the
Sun
and the
Tribune
set aside, just beyond his plate. He laid down the
Times
and looked up. “Good morning, Francesca. Do not tell me that you are joining me for breakfast today?” he said with bemusement.

Francesca adored her father. He was a rotund man of medium height with an equally round face and a perpetually benign complexion. He had an even and pleasant disposition, which both her sister Connie and Evan had inherited. Rare was the day that he lost his temper. He was as passionately dedicated to reform as she was, and she had learned everything she knew about reform, politics and the world from him. She smiled as she entered the room. “We always share breakfast, Papa.”

“Yesterday you fled this house before I even sat down,” he said, his tone not quite as fond as usual.

She almost cringed as she went to the head of the table to hug him. “Yes, I did depart rather early.”

His expression was partly stern and partly resigned. “Your mother is in despair! She tells me you are chasing another killer, this one the Slasher, dear God.”

Francesca did not know what to say. She pulled out a chair and sat down. “Papa, you know how important justice is to me. Two women have been cruelly murdered, and we are very afraid more murders will follow.”

“I do know how important justice is to you, Francesca, no one knows it better than I—and no one is prouder of you than I am. I also realize that you have found your true passion in this life. Unlike your mother, I know better than to try to insist you cease sleuthing. But, like your mother, I worry terribly about the jeopardy you put yourself in during these investigations.”

She hugged him, hard. “Thank you, Papa! I knew I could count on you.”

“I am not exactly approving of this new pursuit of yours. But as you have thus far saved half a dozen lives and brought as many criminals to justice, I am not disapproving, either.”

She beamed at him and then smiled at the servant who filled her cup with coffee. “Thank you,” she said. “Do you want to hear about the case?”

He studied her. “Yes, I think that I do. But first, is it true that you are working with Rick Bragg again?” he asked quietly.

She hesitated. Then, “He is your friend. And you admire him as much as I do. You believe in him the way that I do. Surely you cannot be opposed to our working together?”

He was grim. “I am not opposed to your working with him, if that is what it is. But you are engaged to another man. Need I remind you of that?”

She grinned. “I am happily engaged to another man. Does this mean you are coming round to the fact of my marriage to Calder?”

“I have made myself clear. Hart needs to prove himself worthy of you. My opinion is hardly set. He doesn't object to your working with Rick?”

Francesca hesitated. “He has his jealous moments. But, Papa, those feelings I had for Rick, they are in the past. I really want
to marry Calder,” she said, unable to help adding, “and a year is far too long to wait!”

He merely raised an eyebrow. “I think your life is much more complicated then you realize,” he said. “Will we see you tonight at your sister's? You do recall she is having a lavish affair.”

Francesca winced. She had entirely forgotten the buffet supper party her sister was holding for some hundred guests. It was a charity event. The supper was costing a hundred dollars a plate and the funds were going to an organization that supported the city's homeless children. “Yes, of course,” she said.

The Cahill butler appeared at the breakfast-room door. “Miss Cahill? Mr. Hart is here. He wishes to speak with you.”

Francesca leaped to her feet in surprise, wondering what Hart was doing at her home at this unsocial hour. Not that she minded! She was fully dressed for a busy day ahead of her. And she remembered with lightning clarity the events of last night.

They had left Maggie's and gone the few blocks uptown to Mulberry Street to meet Bragg, hoping to be present during the questioning of Sam Wilson. But the police had not brought Wilson in, because he had been nowhere to be found. By the time Hart had finally dropped her at home, it had been well past midnight. This morning she had awoken recalling being in his arms and his lingering good-night kiss.

“Papa, I will be right back,” she said, and before Andrew could react, she was dashing from the room.

Hart was waiting in the hall, clad in a nearly black suit, looking well rested and impossibly attractive. His eyes brightened when he saw her and he smiled warmly.

She went right into his arms. “What is this?” she queried.

“I've rearranged my morning schedule. In fact, I postponed two clients,” he said, sliding his arms around her and giving her a brief kiss. Then he stepped back. “I think we should call on Wilson.”

Delight began to grow. “Wait a moment. You have canceled
your business affairs so you can sleuth with me?” She was absolutely thrilled.

He grinned and the cleft in his chin deepened, his slight left dimple winked. “I am
postponing
two clients, importers who need me far more than I need them. I have an extremely urgent meeting this afternoon with the ambassador to Hong Kong that I must attend. It is in regard to my shipping interests,” he said.

Suddenly she had an inkling. “Is this sudden interest in sleuthing about the danger that Wilson might pose, or my working this case with Bragg?”

“I plead guilty,” he drawled, “to all of the above. I think we should hurry,” he added. “Unless Wilson has fled the city, he will be at home, getting ready to open up his shop.”

She agreed. “If we arrive early enough, we can interview him before the police do.”

He lifted one eyebrow. “I know you are not thinking to undercut my brother.”

“Never. But I want to speak to Wilson alone, without any police officers present. I feel certain, Calder, that sugar will get far more than vinegar this time.”

He smiled at her and gestured for her to precede him out.

 

A
S THEY PAUSED AT
the door of Wilson's shop, Francesca suddenly recalled Gwen O'Neil's plight. She faced Hart quickly. “I forgot to mention something to you,” she said quickly.

His dark eyebrows lifted. “I will not even try to guess.”

“Would you mind giving Gwen O'Neil employment? She worked as a ladies' maid in Ireland. She has no references, though, as her employer there—one Lord Randolph—happened to seduce her and cause her no end of trouble.”

He seemed mildly amused. “I have no idea if we need another maid.”

“Hart!” she protested, exasperated.

He smiled at her. “Darling, if you adopt a stray forevery
case you investigate, we really will need to turn my home into a hotel.”

“Just agree, please,” she said.

“Of course I agree.” He was reflective. “I know an Irishman named Randolph. He comes from a very old, well-established family and he shares a shipping venture with an English cousin. We met in Istanbul and renewed our acquaintance in London. Of course, even though he is heir to an Irish earldom, I doubt he was Gwen O'Neil's employer.”

“That would be an amazing coincidence,” Francesca said as she rang the doorbell. “Was his home near Limerick?”

“I really don't know. I know he had a manor somewhere in Ireland, but as I said, he also kept a home in London and that is where we met the second time.” He added, “He was actually a handsome fellow, but his reputation was rather dour.”

Before Francesca could ask him what he meant, the door was opened and Sam Wilson stood there. He started at the sight of them.

“Hello,” Francesca said brightly. “May we come in?”

“Yes, of course, although it is
very
early,” Wilson said, stepping aside with a smile. He seemed bewildered by their presence.

“It's well past nine,” Hart said as they followed him into the shop. “What time do you open?”

“If a customer knocks—I thought you were customers—I will accommodate him or her. But otherwise, we open our doors at noon.” He paused by the display counter. “I use the morning to work on repairs in the back.”

Francesca studied him closely. He could be considered tall by someone as small as Kate, but he wasn't particularly so. He certainly wasn't Irish, but then, they did not know that the man Maggie had met on the street was the killer—she might have bumped into an innocent passerby. She looked at his hands and was surprised that today he wore a ring on his left hand.

If the killer were right-handed, he had worn the ring on his left hand, too.

She stared. The ring was gold but there was no stone. The center had a flat smooth surface with some engraving upon it.

Witnesses and victims often mistook, and sometimes wildly, the details of the crime. Francesca wondered if his ring, at night, in a shadowy flat, might look as if it had a stone in it.

She wondered how she could get into his closet and look at his clothes.

“We actually stopped by last night,” Hart said, giving her an odd look. Clearly he had expected her to do the questioning. They had decided not to tell Wilson that the police had tried to round him up. They would proceed very quietly, without putting him on the defensive.

She tried to signal her discovery to him by glancing pointedly at Wilson's hand and more specifically at his ring. But Hart appeared exasperated—he did not understand.

“Last night? You stopped by my shop last night?” Wilson seemed very surprised. And he did not comment on the fact that he had not been at home.

Francesca stepped forward. “I recalled some questions I wished to ask you,” she said. She hadn't decided whether to re veal Kate's murder or not.

“Oh,” was his response.

She became impatient. “Actually, we tried your door for some time—but you were not at home.”

He blinked. His expression did not change. “Of course I was at home,” he said after an odd pause.

“I beg to differ. We rang the doorbell repeatedly—we even banged on the door,” Hart said, repeating the account given by the police officers who had failed to locate Wilson at his home last night.

“I was working in my shop,” he said, turning pale. “I was engrossed—I undoubtedly did not hear you at the front door.”

That was a lie if Francesca had ever heard one. “May we see your repair shop? Perhaps you could show us what you were working on.”

He stiffened. “What is this about? Why are you asking me questions about last night? I simply did not hear the door.”

“Please humor my fiancée,” Hart said with a very serious expression.

Wilson clearly thought about throwing them out. Then, as clearly, he decided not to go against Hart. “Come with me,” he said.

As they followed him through a back door, Francesca slowed her steps, pulling Hart back with her. “In his shop, occupy him. I want to search his bedroom,” she whispered.

“Absolutely not!”

“Just keep him occupied,” she said, and then she realized that Wilson held another door open. A stairwell on his right clearly led to the living quarters above the shop.

“Right in here,” he said.

Francesca walked into a good-size room. There were two tables in it, both the size of dining tables, each covered with clocks and watches in all stages of repair. The oddest assortment of tools and gadgets, all miniature in size, were located on a tray on the closest table.

“This clock is seventeenth-century Italian,” Wilson said with reverence. He showed them a large clock in bronze with a gilded face and pearl hands. “The owner brought it in very recently. She was a lovely girl, recently widowed, and the clock belonged to her husband's family. I simply must get it running for her, as it has so much sentimental value now.”

As Hart commented upon how elegant the clock was, Francesca glanced around. The back windows opened out onto the gardens Wilson had spoken of. A swing was beneath the single oak tree, some of his roses were in bloom, and there was a small cast-iron table, two chairs and a badminton net. When Francis
married Wilson, she would have a wonderful home. “Excuse me, is there a rest room I could use?”

“Of course,” Wilson said, startled. “Just up those stairs, first door on your left.”

Francesca gave Hart a warning look and hurried out.

Once upstairs, she ignored the bathroom, a simple affair with a walnut vanity, porcelain sink and water closet. The parlor was cheerful and cozy, the striped sofa facing a brick hearth. She pushed open a door and found, to her surprise, a small salon with a large piano. Did Wilson play? She quickly went to the remaining door and stepped into his bedroom.

He had opened the pale muslin draperies and sunlight streamed into a pleasant room of medium size, the walls covered in a green-and-white striped paper. The bed was dark oak, almost black, with four posters and a heavily engraved head-board. The bedspread was a green print, covering the pillows, with one decorative emerald neck roll atop that. The bed was so precisely made that she had to wonder if he had even slept there last night.

She went to the walnut bureau and studied the single photograph. It was of his wife, she assumed, a plain woman with a pretty smile and sweet, kind brown eyes. Then she moved to his closet.

There were three suits hanging there, but not one was charcoal gray.

Of course, Kate could have been wrong. The suit could have been brown or black—and he had two very dark brown suits hanging in his closet.