Kitabı oku: «A Francesca Cahill Novel», sayfa 2

Rose swallowed. “I don’t know. I was out for the evening. When I got here, the house was dark, I knew some thing was wrong! I called for her, but she didn’t answer.” Rose stopped, for out in the hall, a soft bump had sounded.

Stiffening, Francesca looked at the open door, as did Rose. The hall beyond was lost in shadow and she saw nothing. But she had heard a noise—someone was present.

Francesca stood. “Where are the servants?”

“The butler sleeps in his room behind the kitchens, as does the maid. The housekeeper goes home at five.” Rose was ashen and wide-eyed now.

“Did you go below stairs when you came home?”

Rose shook her head. “No. I was about to go upstairs when I saw the light coming from this room.” Her mouth trembled and she glanced at Daisy’s covered body. She inhaled, clearly fighting more tears.

“Wait here,” Francesca said. She glanced at the desk, saw a letter opener and took it. Then she changed her mind, putting it back and taking a crystal paperweight instead. After what had been done to Daisy, she did not think she could stab anyone. Clutching the paperweight, she left the study. The corridor outside remained dark and every blond hair on her nape prickled with dread and fear.

Someone was lurking in the corridor leading to the kitchen and servants’ quarters. But it would make little sense for that someone to be the killer, who must have long since fled. It was probably just a servant.

On the other hand, murderers often defied every possible assumption one might make about them.

Francesca took a deep breath for courage, once more wishing she had her gun, and she started forward, trying to make as little noise as possible. She heard footsteps approaching—each footfall slow and cautious. She froze.

Her grip on the paperweight tightened. She debated turning to flee, but in a moment whoever was beyond her would appear and see her. Instead, she pressed against the wall, waiting. The shadowy form of a man appeared, carrying a candle. He saw her against the wall, halted in midstride and lifted the candle higher.

Francesca was illuminated—but so was he.

Standing there in the hall was her fiancé.

CHAPTER TWO

Tuesday, June 3, 1902—12:45 a.m.

FRANCESCA WAS DISBELIEVING. Hart was the very last person she had expected to see. What was he doing in the city?

And then she saw the dark stain on Hart’s white shirt, where his suit jacket was unbuttoned. “Calder?”

He hurried toward her, his own surprise fading. “Francesca!” he exclaimed, and his expression changed, becoming displeased. “Why am I not surprised to find you here?”

“Are you hurt?” she demanded, but the beginnings of a terrible fear had crept into her mind. Somehow, she knew the blood was Daisy’s. She stiffened, staring up at his dark, handsome face.

“I’m not hurt.” He took her arm, as if to steady her. “Daisy is dead, Francesca.”

She met his probing regard, her mind scrambling to sort through the confusion. “I know.”

“The blood is hers, Francesca, not mine. I found her in the study. She had been stabbed.”

Their eyes met. All of Francesca’s shock suddenly vanished. He was supposed to be in Boston. When had he returned to town and why hadn’t he called her? What was he doing here at Daisy’s, in the kitchen and servants’ quarters? Given the blood on the front of his shirt, he had held Daisy, too, the way Rose had. Some thing sharp and distasteful filled her: dread. “Calder, Rose said she found Daisy. In fact, she sent me a note asking me to come here.”

“When I arrived, Rose wasn’t here.” His regard held hers. “I found Daisy on the floor of the study, very much alone.” He looked away from her now. His composure was usually rock solid, but Francesca saw that he was struggling to maintain it. “She was already dead.”

Francesca swallowed, feeling ill. “You checked for a pulse?”

He met her gaze. “Yes.”

Francesca felt as if she were interrogating a suspect. Of course, that was not the case. “When did you arrive here, Calder?”

His look was sharp. “I left my home around eleven,” he said. Then, softly, with warning, he added, “I do not want you involved, Francesca.”

Francesca’s tension rose. She was already involved, because Daisy had once been Hart’s mistress, because she had once been Francesca’s friend and because she had recently been her rival.

“Francesca,” he said, his tone pointed, and he took her wrist.

She looked into his eyes. “Daisy is dead, Hart. She has been murdered. I think we are both involved.”

He turned away, but not before Francesca saw the anguish in his eyes. She was shocked. Had she imagined it, or did Calder have some feelings for Daisy still, after all of this time?

He slowly faced her. “You are staring.” His tone had softened and his hand slipped to her palm. “Francesca, I am also in shock. We had better summon the police.”

Her heart raced with painful force. If she had seen anguish in his eyes, it was now gone. He seemed grim, but not grief-stricken. Of course he would be distraught that a woman he had once known intimately was dead. “Calder, what are you doing here?”

He hesitated, his expression hardening. “I finished my affairs in Boston earlier than expected. I arrived at Grand Central at a quarter to seven this evening.” He met her gaze directly. “After I found Daisy, I decided to look for the killer. I was about to do so when Rose came into the house. She was not wearing any wrap—clearly she had just stepped out. I hid. She went directly to the study, Francesca, directly to Daisy. I followed her. She was not surprised to see Daisy murdered.”

Francesca’s mind raced. Calder had not answered her question. He had not told her why he was at Daisy’s in the first place. Any affairs that remained between him and Daisy were of a financial nature. Such concerns could have waited. It was well after midnight now.

If he had left his uptown home at eleven, he would have arrived at Daisy’s perhaps an hour ago. What had he been doing in the house for all of that time? Her pulse quickened with fear. She did not have to be thinking all that clearly now to know that Hart could be in trouble with the law. “And then what happened?”

“I left her and went to search the house.” He released his hand from hers and tilted up her chin. “You’re upset. I am, as well. We’ll get through this, Francesca.”

Francesca tried to smile at him and was fairly certain she had failed. “Of course we will. But Daisy is dead, Calder. As malicious as she was toward me, toward us—she did not deserve to die, and certainly not so violently.”

His face tightened and something dark and deep flared in his eyes. “No. As much trouble as she caused us recently, she did not deserve to die.”

Suddenly Francesca recalled that day last month out side of the church. After taunting her, Daisy had walked away. Hart had come outside, the memorial service over. He had been grim and resolute, and he had told her in no uncertain words not to worry.

I will take care of Daisy. Those had been his exact words. Now Francesca felt a surge of fear and she tried to think if anyone might have overheard his statement. Of course, Calder hadn’t meant he would murder Daisy; he had meant he would make sure that she no longer bothered either one of them. But Daisy had been his mistress until a few months ago, and he continued to support her financially. Francesca had investigated enough crimes of passion to know that Hart should be kept out of this case. “Calder, you should leave right now. I will find a roundsman and alert Bragg. Did any one else see you? Did Rose see you?”

He gave her an odd look. Softly, he said, “Are you trying to protect me, Francesca?”

She stiffened, but that single look caused her heart to skip. “Very well, I confess. Yes, I want to protect you. You should stay as far away from this house and the murder scene as possible.” It crossed her still-dazed mind that she would have to lie to the police, if no one was to know that Calder had been at Daisy’s that night. She didn’t know how she would manage telling such a lie to Rick Bragg.

Hart’s eyes smoldered. “I already spoke to Homer, the butler, and the housemaid. They are in their quarters, where I told them to remain. They both know I am here. I don’t think Rose saw me. I found Daisy murdered, Francesca—I didn’t murder her myself.”

He was angry and she knew it. Quickly she took his hand but he shook her off. “Hart! I know you didn’t kill her!” Of that, she had no doubt. “But you were here on the night of her death. You could be implicated.” Francesca hoped that the coroner would discover that Daisy had been killed before a quarter to seven that evening.

“You don’t need to protect me, Francesca,” he said. “Besides, half the city knows I have been keeping her. I cannot deny our relationship. But remember, Rose was here before me.”

“That is your word against hers.” Francesca rubbed her temples, which throbbed. No good was going to come of this. A crystal ball could not have been clearer! If she did not find another suspect, and quickly, the police were going to consider Hart a prime suspect. She looked up and found him regarding her steadily, his gaze far too intent.

Suddenly he softened. He reached out and touched her cheek. “Why are we arguing? You don’t need to protect me, Francesca, as I have done nothing wrong. And I have been fending for myself since I was a small boy, stealing scraps of food on the streets. And I have missed you,” he added even more softly, and his tone was impossible to resist.

“I have missed you, too,” she whispered shakily, moving into his arms as he reached out to her. She stood there, still grieving yet overcome with relief, pressed against his hard, powerful body. This was where she most wanted to be. Something terrible would come of this case, she just knew it. She was afraid for him, for her, for them both. But as afraid as she was, she had never loved him more.

Hart held her silently for a long moment, and she felt his strong heart begin to increase its beat. Her own pulse could not help but skip and dance when she was in his arms. Francesca lifted her face.

He touched her lips with his, once, twice, three times.

Beneath the gentle brushing, Francesca sensed his urgency and need. In response, as always, a fire roared to life in her veins. Their eyes met and held. Then Hart stepped back. “We should respect the dead,” he said seriously.

“Yes, we should.” Francesca folded her arms across her chest and gave herself a moment to refocus. “Rose is with…the body.”

“Rose,” he repeated. “Could she have murdered the woman she loved? Might she have already been here when I arrived? When did she send you this note, Francesca?”

Francesca could not imagine Rose killing her best friend, but she would consider it, of course. “The note arrived at my home before midnight. Let’s estimate that it arrived by a quarter to the hour. Rose wrote and sent the note around eleven or shortly thereafter. She was undoubtedly sending me the note, which came by cab, when you walked in.” It crossed her mind that most of the suspicion could be directed at Rose. “She found the body before you did. She was first on the scene.”

He stared for a moment. “I have never trusted Rose. Why did she send for you, of all people? There was no love lost between any of us.”

Francesca hesitated.

“Let me guess,” he said sarcastically. “She wants you to find the killer?”

Francesca bit her lip. “Calder,” she began, deter mined to head him off at the pass. Even though he was always supportive of her investigations and proud of her success in them, she knew why he did not want her on this particular case—and the reason was Daisy. “This is a crime of passion. I do not think it will be hard to find the killer. From what I saw,” she added, an image of Daisy’s mutilated chest coming to mind, “someone stabbed Daisy repeatedly in a fit of anger.”

“You cannot predict the nature of this investigation!” Hart exclaimed. “Do not mistake me now, Francesca, this is one case where I do not want you involved.” His look was uncompromising.

“But I am involved. She was your ex-mistress and I am your fiancée.” Francesca tried to be firm and gentle at once.

He made an angry sound and took her arm. “I am asking you, this one single time, to leave the investigation of Daisy’s murder alone.”

That terrible feeling of dread rose swiftly up again. Francesca stole a look at Hart’s angry expression, her heart sinking. Now was clearly not the time to tell him that nothing and no one—not even Hart—could stop her from finding Daisy’s killer. But why did he want her off the case so badly? Surely he had nothing to hide, not from her.

“This is too personal for us both,” Hart said in a calmer tone, as if that explained his reasoning, but it explained nothing at all.

“Yes, it is personal for us both,” Francesca said noncommittally. She was aware of the exasperated look he cast at her, but now she was wondering about Rose. She had yet to ask her exactly when she had found Daisy. Given the extent of her grief, it was possible she had sat with her dead friend for quite some time before writing Francesca the note. One fact was clear—Daisy had been murdered before eleven or half past eleven p.m., when Rose had sent Francesca the note.

Together, they moved toward the study, where the candle continued to flicker. As they approached, Francesca’s steps slowed, as did Hart’s. His grasp on her hand tightened, but with reassurance, not warning. Francesca glanced at him and he tried to smile at her, but the curve of his firm mouth could not extinguish the sadness in his dark navy blue eyes.

He was far more upset than he was letting on, she thought with dismay. God, what if he still had feelings for Daisy? Could she possibly manage that, when Daisy had always felt like a threat to her relationship?

Rose was now sitting on the sofa, curled up like a child, her knees to her chest, the dark green evening gown she wore stained with blood. Daisy remained on the floor, covered from head to toe with the throw. Hearing their footsteps, Rose looked up.

She shot to her feet, pointing, her hand shaking. “You! I should have known! You goddamned bastard! You killed her!”

Police Commissioner Accused of Dereliction of Duty

Commissioner Bragg Fails Reformers

Civic Leaders Outraged with Police Policy

IN DISGUST, RICK BRAGG swept all three newspapers from his desk, cradling his head in his hands. His head ached and he was impossibly tired. He had never felt more worn, and that had nothing to do with the fact that the grandfather clock in the hall had just chimed a single time, indicating it was one in the morning. Right now, he almost regretted accepting the mayor’s appointment, an appointment that had initially been filled with excitement and hope. He was the first police commissioner since Teddy Roosevelt to attempt the monumental mission of reforming the city’s notoriously corrupt police force. But the hottest issue of the day was his undoing, especially as the mayor had tied his hands behind his back, refusing to allow him to do his job as he wished to do it.

Bragg sighed and reached for his bourbon. Mayor Low was already afraid of the vast German vote and had decided to ask the police not to enforce the blue laws, which required the closing of saloons on the Sabbath. Yet every reform group in the city was in favor of such closings. But after a series of crackdowns, Tammany Hall had made it a point to stir up as much trouble for Bragg and his force as possible. The German workers of the city were in an up roar, demanding their rights in protests and petitions. Afraid of losing reelection, Low had told Bragg to back off.

Low was good for the city. He was a man dedicated to social and political reform and he was courageous enough to oppose Tammany Hall. He was also Bragg’s boss. There was no way Rick could refuse his orders, even if it meant compromising his own oath to uphold and obey the law.

He could please no one now. The reformers, led by the clergy and the city’s progressive-minded elites, wanted his head and his resignation. So did half of his own force, due to the internal shake up he had inflicted these past five months, reassigning officers left and right to break up the rings of graft and bribery that manacled the city in a web of corruption and lies. Low had made it clear that he wished for Rick to continue on; given the circumstances, he was pleased with the internal cleanup of the force. Rick hadn’t really been considering resignation, but sometimes, on an endless day like this one, it crossed his mind.

He was never at home, and his family had never needed him more.

He drank, finishing the bourbon and pouring another one. His family. Images of his beautiful wife and the two little girls they had decided to adopt filled his mind. Who was he fooling? He had finished all the urgent paperwork an hour or two ago and had chosen to linger over the damn dailies, with their accusatory headlines, because he was afraid to go upstairs.

He was afraid to go to the bedroom he shared with his wife, afraid to go to their bed.

He leaned his face on his hands, closing his eyes, so tired he thought he could fall asleep at his desk. And it wasn’t the job, it wasn’t the corruption, it wasn’t the politics—it was the impossible personal and private dilemma he found himself in. How much longer could he go on this way?

He had become a stranger to his family, a stranger to the little girls who needed him—a stranger to his wife.

And she wanted it that way.

He stood abruptly, terribly torn. A part of him was ruthlessly determined to go up those stairs, climb into her bed and simply hold her, even though he would find her stiff with tension, pretending to be asleep. When he reached for her, he knew she would turn away, refusing to allow him any opportunity for comfort or intimacy. And he could not blame her.

Leigh Anne had said she did not hold him responsible for the accident that had caused her to lose the use of her legs, but he blamed himself—and knew that, deep down, she blamed him, too.

Once, he had thought their marriage over. Years before the accident, soon after they were first married. She had left him to travel in Europe and he had hated her passionately. Now, too late, he had faced the extent of his passion. He still loved her and he always had. But it had become painfully obvious that she no longer cared in return. He knew what he should do. He should give her the freedom she clearly wanted, but how could he? Who would take care of her if he did so? And what about the girls? If he left Leigh Anne, it would mean the loss of his family.

His heart seemed to crack apart at the thought.

He stared at the dark, empty fireplace. The past flashed before his eyes—the moment he had first laid eyes on Leigh Anne, which was when he had fallen in love. Their wedding, and her happiness then. His sudden, unexpected decision to leave his profitable career to perform legal services for the poor and inopportune. Her unhappiness had followed, for he had turned his back on a sizable income and worked eighty-hour weeks instead. Finally, there was her betrayal. She had simply left him, walking out on their marriage. Too late, he wished he had never taken that damn employment, or that he had begged her to return.

But he hadn’t. And four years of separation had limped by, until the night Francesca Cahill had come into his life.

He smiled, but his sadness increased. He wondered what would have happened if Leigh Anne had never returned to him. He still cared deeply for Francesca and he always would. Once, they had been on the verge of falling in love, but that seemed like a lifetime ago. Now he was committed to his wife and children—and Francesca was committed to his half brother. His smile vanished. Hart would break her heart. He knew it the way he knew that Leigh Anne wanted him to leave. He had not a single doubt, and the day Hart hurt her, he would break him.

A sharp knocking sounded on the front door.

Bragg was relieved, as he hated thinking about Francesca with Hart. It was terribly late, so the call could only be police business—an emergency. Bragg grabbed his suit jacket from the back of his chair and hurried down the narrow hall of the modest Victorian brownstone he leased.

A roundsman stood there with a lantern, his expression alert. Bragg was already shrugging on his jacket. “What is it?” He did not know the young officer who faced him.

“Sir, there has been a murder. Inspector Newman thinks you might want to meet him at HQ, immediately.”

He was tense, and glad of the distraction. This could only be dire, indeed. “Who is the victim?” He stepped outside, closing the front door behind him. The early June night was cool, but not unpleasant.

“A woman. Her name is Miss Daisy Jones, sir.”

An instant passed as he assimilated this stunning fact—Hart’s mistress had been murdered. “Newman is at headquarters? He is not at the murder scene?”

“No, sir. There are some officers at the scene, but he has several witnesses to speak with, sir. He asked me to tell you that he is interviewing Calder Hart and Miss Cahill as we speak.”

Bragg tripped. For one moment, he was in disbelief. Hart was at HQ—with Francesca. And he simply knew that no good could come of this case.

FRANCESCA SAT BESIDE HART at the long, scarred wood table in the conference room of police headquarters. The room was on the second floor, just a door down from Bragg’s office. Inspector Newman, a rotund and pleasant man with graying hair with whom Francesca had worked many times, sat facing them, holding a notepad, and wearing his most professional demeanor. Francesca knew that was on her account, as he was very aware of her close relationship with Bragg.

Francesca had already heard Hart’s story on the short ride from Daisy’s to Mulberry Street, when they had had a chance to speak. Now she watched him closely, carefully listening to his every word. She could not help herself, for she had learned on her numerous past investigations to check and recheck every detail. Witnesses often confused facts and events; perpetrators often deliberately misled the police. Of course, she was not suspicious of Hart and she expected him to keep his facts straight, and although his expression was deadpan, his tone calm, she was certain now that he was very distressed by the evening’s events.

“I left the train depot a few minutes before 7:00 p.m. As I was not expected, I took a cab home. Traffic was heavy and it was a good hour before I reached the house. An hour later I found a note from Daisy on my desk.”

Which meant he had found her note at 9:00 p.m., approximately, Francesca thought.

“And what did her note say?” Newman asked.

“She wished to speak with me the moment I returned home and said it was very urgent.” Hart’s impassive expression never changed, but sitting beside him, Francesca could feel the tension coiled up in him. She could not help herself, and she reached out to cover his hand with her own. He glanced at her with a slight smile that failed to reach his gold-flecked eyes.

“And do you have any clue as to what could be so urgent?” Newman asked.

Hart did not hesitate. “I felt certain the matter was a financial one.”

Newman glanced at Francesca, his cheeks becoming a bit pink.

Francesca was willing to let him off the hook. “I am well aware of the fact, Inspector, that Daisy was Calder’s mistress.”

He blushed. “I am sorry, Miss Cahill, to bring up such a delicate subject. You spoke as if the affair had ended?”

“It ended the day Francesca agreed to become my wife,” Hart said flatly. “The morning of February 24.”

Francesca looked at him in real surprise. He recalled the exact date she had accepted his proposal? He turned to smile at her, when Rick Bragg walked purposefully into the room.

Francesca leapt to her feet, very relieved to see him. Calder’s half brother was a very handsome man, but the two men shared little resemblance. Bragg had tawny hair and a golden complexion, as did most of the Bragg men, while Hart was as dark as midnight. He glanced between Francesca and Hart as he approached them, his expression grim. Hart’s face settled into an unreadable, emotionless mask.

Francesca was aware of the new currents of tension swirling in the room as she clasped both of Rick’s hands. “I am so glad you are here! Calder was just giving his statement, Rick. Of course, you know that Daisy is dead.”

“So I have been told,” he said, kissing her cheek. “Are you all right?”

She nodded. “Yes, of course. But Rose is devastated.” She hesitated, then dared to add, “Calder is upset, too.”

Rick clearly did not believe that. “What are you doing here, Francesca? You are a witness to the murder?”

“Not really,” Francesca said quickly. She realized Bragg had not released her hands and that Hart watched them like a hawk. She gently disengaged herself. “Rose found the body and sent a note, asking me for help. It appears that Rose discovered Daisy first, and that Calder found her while Rose was sending me the note. When I got to the house, Rose was with Daisy and Calder was looking for the killer. He had just spoken with some of the staff.”

Bragg turned to Hart. “Don’t let me interrupt your statement.”

Hart shrugged as if he had not a care in the world.

Bragg leaned over Newman’s shoulder and scanned his notes. As he did so, Newman said, “He received a note from Daisy requesting a meeting, sir. That would have been about nine o’clock.”

Bragg nodded, straightening. His aloof gaze met Hart’s. “So you rushed off to meet your mistress?”

Hart sent him a cold, unpleasant smile. “You know damn well I broke off the affair when I became engaged to Francesca.”

Newman looked startled. He said, “Sir, she was living in Mr. Hart’s house.”

“I am aware of that. So, you rushed off to meet Daisy as she requested?” Bragg asked again.

Francesca walked over to stand beside Hart, dismayed that Bragg had instantly gone on an attack. Hart, who remained sitting rather indolently, did not give any sign of being shaken. “No, I did not rush off anywhere. It had been a long day and I had a drink, perhaps two. It was some time later when I decided to call on Daisy and conclude whatever affairs were bothering her.”

Bragg made a mocking sound. “And those affairs were?”

“I assumed they were financial matters,” Hart said, slowly rising to his feet, “as the only connection left between me and Daisy was financial. I continued to support her—we had a verbal contract, and it did not expire until mid-July. But you know all of that, don’t you, Rick?”

Bragg stared and Hart stared back. Then Bragg glanced at Francesca. “I find it highly unlikely that you just returned to town and went to see Daisy to discuss a few bills.”

“I don’t care what you think,” Hart said, finally appearing annoyed. “I never have and I never will.”

Bragg looked ready to explode—or arrest him. Smiling tightly, he said, “Considering your mistress has been murdered, I think you had better start to care what I think.”

Hart smiled as tightly, and for one moment, Francesca thought he was about to smash his fist in Bragg’s face.

Francesca hated the hostility between the two brothers. She gripped Hart’s arm. “A terrible murder has been committed,” she said tersely. “There is no point in the both of you going at each other’s throats. We need to find Daisy’s killer. We owe her that.”

Bragg gave her an undecipherable look and walked away, running his hand through his hair. Hart faced her, his rigid expression softening. “You don’t need to be here right now,” he said.

Francesca gaped. “Of course I do!” she cried. She could not tell him, not in front of Newman and Bragg, how worried she was about his apparent involvement. “When we go home, we will go home together,” she whispered.

Before Hart could object, Bragg returned to them, apparently having recovered his composure. “Let’s leave the subject of why you went to see Daisy aside for the moment. Walk me through what happened when you arrived.”

Some of Hart’s tension eased. “I left the house around half past eleven, I think. When I arrived at her home, I saw that there were no lights on downstairs. No one answered the knocker, and that was odd. I did not have a good feeling at this point. So I tried the door, found it unlocked and walked in.”

Francesca could not breathe and her heart raced. The mental note she had made earlier was glaring at her now. Hart had said he had left home at eleven, not half past. Was he deliberately misleading Bragg and the police, or had he, like most witnesses, made an innocent factual error? And she wondered again, if he had really left home at 11:00 p.m., what had he been doing for nearly an entire hour in that house? Was that why he was misleading the police?

Almost as if he were a mind reader, he turned to Francesca. “What time did you get there?”

She hesitated, her instincts rising up now. She did not want to lie, but she desperately wanted to protect Hart.

“Francesca?”

She wet her lips. “Before midnight,” she lied. “I imagine it was just a few minutes after Hart.” She could barely believe that she was lying to a man she had once loved and still cared so deeply for.

Bragg rubbed his jaw. “Calder?”

“I found Daisy shortly after I first walked in,” he said, not looking at Francesca now. “It appeared as if she had been stabbed in the chest, many times. No one could survive such an attack, but I did check for her pulse.” He spoke very calmly, as if they were discussing the next day’s weather, but he was gripping the back of the chair he had been sitting in and his knuckles were white.