Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahil 02] (31 page)

Sleuthing and the pursuit of a higher education did not, apparently, go hand in hand.

Carriages and taxis continued to pause at the curb to discharge their passengers. Lexington Avenue remained both busy and noisy, mostly because of a series of passing electric trolleys, each one on the heels of another. Francesca was about to go inside when she saw a gleaming cream-colored motorcar rolling to a stop beside a parked carriage, clearly double-parking. It was a Daimler, and there was no mistaking the driver.

The engine died and Bragg got out of the car, his dark brown overcoat left open and swinging about him. As he strode toward her with his agile yet purposeful stride, her heart skidded. He was devastating in appearance this morning, oh, yes. His tawny good looks were just so unusual, so striking.

He had seen her and he smiled, crossing over to the sidewalk carefully, behind the carriage. “Good morning,” he said, his regard somehow far too intent. Or was it intimate?

She couldn’t help herself; in spite of how dire he had sounded last night, she smiled happily, pleased to see him, to be with him. “Great minds think alike,” she said lightly and breathlessly.

“Indeed they do.” His gaze moved over her face. “I received a telegram this morning.”

Francesca became alert. “From Philadelphia?”

“Do you read minds? Or only mine?” he said teasingly.

She smiled and waited for him to share with her whatever the telegram had contained.

“Bill Randall has a roommate on campus. Alistair Farlane states the last time he saw Bill was Thursday morning. If Bill was in Philadelphia Friday night, as he has claimed, he did not sleep in his college dormitory, or at least, not in his room.”

“So I was right,” Francesca breathed, watching another taxi pausing at the curb. A woman was inside. “Bill is our intruder.”

“It looks that way.” Bragg turned. A buxom woman alighted to the street, but she was not Georgette de Labouche.

Their eyes met. “I was hoping she might show up,” Francesca confessed.

“I doubt that she will. Any leads?”

She hesitated. “One. I will let you know if it comes to anything.”

“I would hope so.” He began to smile at her, his gaze soft, and then he glanced sharply aside. But Francesca had also seen the Randall family alighting from a taxi at the exact same time.

Bill Randall was on the curb, helping his mother out of the hansom. In the broad light of day, his face seemed pale and angular, his lanky body far more than slender. In fact, he had a tired and worn, if not sallow, look about him. Was he worried? Overtired? Or merely in the throes of anguish? And why had he lied about when he had arrived in the city—if he did not have something to hide?

“Careful, Mother,” he said. “There is melting slush all about.”

“Thank you, dear,” Henrietta returned weakly, clinging to him as she eased her plump bulk onto the sidewalk. She wore a dark coat, beneath which was a black ensemble, and a black hat with several roses and a half-veil. Francesca tried to discern her state of mind, but it was hard to see through the veil. She clutched a wadded-up handkerchief in one hand, which she kept pressing to her eyes, beneath the veil. Clearly she was still distraught.

“Mary? It’s slippery,” Bill warned, after leaving his mother on the curb.

Francesca saw Mary posed to alight from the hansom, a too-thin figure in a too-big beige coat, her pinched white face ravaged from days of crying. Her eyes remained red and swollen, as did her nose, in general doing little to aid her in her appearance. She was wearing a hat, sans veil, but her hair seemed unkempt beneath it, shiny tendrils escaping this way and that. She was clutching a faded brown velvet purse almost compulsively.

Francesca felt a pressure on her arm. She glanced at Bragg. He met her gaze and they moved over to Henrietta, who was, for the moment, standing alone.

“Mrs. Randall?” Bragg said softly. “We have come to pay our respects.”

She choked on a sob and looked up at them, and as quickly away. “Commissioner Bragg,” she gasped, surprised. “Oh, I did not expect you….” She glanced up again, briefly, this time at Francesca. “And Miss Cahill,” she breathed. Her gloved fist found her mouth as she fought more sobs.

“We are very sorry,” Francesca said, deeply disturbed. She quickly slid off her gloves and clasped the woman’s hands, which remained gloved. “If there is anything we can do,” she added, encouraging the woman to meet her gaze.

“No, no, thank you,” she murmured, and she refused to look up.

Francesca glanced up at Bragg and met his eyes. His expression was wry; he knew exactly what she was up to, she thought.

“We appreciate the offer,” Bill Randall said tersely, taking Henrietta’s arm and looping it tightly and possessively in his. “Hello, Commissioner. Miss Cahill. Have you found the killer?” His tone was high.

Francesca slipped her gloves back on. Mary was standing beside them. Her eyes were wide, intense, and even angry. “I have heard of no arrests!” she exclaimed.

“There have been no arrests, but we are working round the-clock on this one,” Bragg said calmly. “We shall find our man.”

“But you know who murdered our father!” Mary cried, pointing her finger at Bragg. It was shaking.

“Actually, I do not,” Bragg said. He nodded politely, as if to leave.

Francesca’s insides tightened as she saw Hart climbing out of the most elegant, and by far the largest, coach that had stopped on the block. He was stunning, as always, in a coal black suit and coat. Like Bragg, he wore no hat.

“Perhaps it is time for you to recuse yourself from the investigation,” Bill Randall said stiffly. “Have you read today’s editorial in the
Times,
Commissioner?”

“I’m afraid not, and if the need arises, you may be sure that I will recuse myself. Shall we go in?” Bragg asked, unperturbed. If he had seen Hart, he gave no sign. Still, Francesca knew he never missed a trick.

Hart was studying them all as he approached. In fact, once he had seen them all, there was no question that he intended to greet them, instead of entering the church. Francesca felt her tension soar. Unquestionably, a scene was in the making.

He met her gaze and winked.

She felt like strangling him. Could he not go inside and behave himself?

Bragg’s gaze had become strangely hooded, but Francesca knew he also watched Hart approaching, and she felt that he only pretended indifference. And at that moment Mary turned, saw Calder Hart, and cried out. “There he is! The murderer of our father!” she screamed shrilly.

Hart laughed and paused before the group. Several mourners whirled on the steps of the church in order to gape. Francesca tried to catch his eye, so she could silently convey to him that he must leave the Randalls alone. But now he was not looking at her.

“Henrietta,” he intoned, “my dear, dear … what? Stepmother? I see you are incoherent with grief. And Billy. You have actually come home to bury your beloved father. And Mary. My sweet, innocent, adoring little sister. May I give one and all my deepest and most sincere regrets?” he asked, and he was laughing still.

Henrietta sank into Bill’s arms, apparently in a dead faint.

“Arrest him!” Mary shouted, stomping one foot. “Arrest this … this despicable murdering bastard!”

Hart laughed harder.

Bragg turned cold eyes on him. “How clever,” he said.

Hart shrugged. “I did my best.”

“As usual,” Bragg murmured. “Are you happy now?”

“Very.” Hart grinned.

Francesca looked from the one to the other and realized that Bragg had expected Hart to show up at the service, in just such a provocative manner.

Suddenly a small man in a suit and top hat was shoving a notepad in front of Mary’s face. “Would you swear in court that your half brother murdered your father, Miss Randall?” he demanded, prepared to scribble her response.

Francesca groaned.

“I most certainly would!” Mary cried, practically jumping up and down. “There is no doubt in my mind.”

“That is slander, tsk-tsk. Play with fire and you shall get burned,” Hart said, clearly not alarmed.

Francesca caught his eye. He was truly enjoying himself.

“Someone help me get Mother inside,” Bill huffed, holding her up in his arms. Her head lolled to the side. And she had, of course, dropped her handkerchief.

No one moved.

Except Bragg, who had taken the notepad out of the man’s hands and now threw it in the street. “Get lost,” he said. “Before I take today’s
Tribune
and use it to render you speechless.”

The reporter blanched and fled. And standing behind him was Arthur Kurland, the reprehensible reporter from the
Sun.

“Will someone, anyone, help me with Mother?” Bill asked heavily again.

Hart chuckled and held out his arm to Francesca. “MayI?”

She shook her head no, and as she did so, she saw Henrietta slam closed one eye beneath the veil. Francesca froze as Bragg put his arm underneath the heavyset woman in order to help Bill. Henrietta Randall was pretending to swoon.

When the woman was standing rather solidly, moaning and pretending to have regained consciousness, Bragg stepped aside.

Kurland took his notepad from his breast pocket. “Miss Randall seems to have no doubts as to who murdered her father,” he said to Bragg. “Have you officially interrogated your
brother,
Commissioner? Does he have an alibi for the night of the murder? I believe he was at White’s party—but the victim died earlier in the evening.”

“No comment,” Bragg said brusquely.

Francesca’s insides seemed to curdle. She did not like Kurland’s expression, much less his question. And now the reporter from the
Sun
was staring at Hart.

“May I ask you some questions?” Kurland asked.

“No.” Hart turned away brusquely.

“Perhaps I shall interview two young ladies … er, two young women!” Kurland called to his back.

Francesca froze. He knew. He knew about Hart’s He; somehow he had uncovered the truth.

Hart whirled, his expression black with rage. Kurland took a step backward, but Hart stalked him. “You may speak with anyone you wish,” Hart ground out softly.

“Did you lie about your whereabouts that evening?” Kurland cried, clearly frightened.

Suddenly Hart had the man by the throat. “Prepare yourself for my lawsuit,” he said viciously as Kurland began to choke.

“Calder!” Francesca screamed.

Bragg grabbed his brother. “Let him go, Calder! Let him be!”

Hart released the reporter, who doubled over, choking and gasping for air.

Bragg dragged Hart away. “Are you insane?” he hissed. “You may as well have begged the man to set his sights upon you! He will gun for you now.”

Hart shrugged Bragg off as Francesca came up to them. “I lost my temper,” he said. His gaze turned to Francesca. Their eyes met.

“I did not say a word to anyone—except Bragg,” she said quickly. “Calder, I had to tell him. Because you are in trouble now, even though I know you are innocent.” She spoke very softly, so no one might overhear them.

He stared at her. “I spoke to you in confidence.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I did not feel that I had a choice.” Hart straightened his suit, then looked at Bragg.

“I have not said a word, not even to my foremost detective. Kurland has done his own homework,” Bragg said grimly.

Hart brushed some dust from his sleeve. “Apparently.”

“Why did you lie in the first place?” Bragg asked quietly.

“Why not?” Hart said with a shrug.

Bragg stared grimly. Then he glanced at Francesca. “I am going inside with the Randalls. I shall try to speak with Bill after the service.”

Francesca nodded, relieved that the intense moment had passed. She smiled a little at him, and he smiled in return. And for one moment, their gazes held.

She watched him walk over to the family, admiring the set of his shoulders, the length of his stride. Hart breathed, “Star-crossed lovers. And so the drama goes on.”

She flinched. “What are you talking about?”

“You and my brother,” he said, his dark eyes upon her.

Dread filled her. A very vivid and bittersweet memory of last night assailed her. “Why would we be star-crossed? What do you know that I do not?”

His eyes widened slightly with surprise. “Well, well. My brother has been keeping secrets. I do believe it is time for the service to begin. Shall we?” He held his arm out to her.

Francesca nodded, finally smiling and about to give him her arm when someone brushed her from behind. Startled, she whirled and came face-to-face with a stranger.

The man said in a hushed and urgent whisper, “I must speak to you, Miss Cahill. Alone, after the service.”

“What?” she cried.

“Ssh.” The man stood eye-to-eye with her. He wore a proper although ill-fitting suit and coat, his brown fedora pulled low over swarthy and rather rough, although attractive, features. Had he not been in a suit, he might have been a prizefighter, for although he was not tall, he had broad shoulders and an equally broad chest. Francesca guessed him to be about thirty. “Make sure you get rid of the police commissioner.”

She gaped, looking into a pair of startling sea green eyes.

“Francesca?” Hart said from behind her, with concern.

“I am Mark Anthony,” the stranger said.

She gasped. And before she could react, he rushed away.

Had Hart not been present, she would have shouted after Anthony or followed him. She did not know what he wanted, but there had been no mistaking the urgency in his tone. She could not wait to speak with him now. Francesca was elated. She had found Mark Anthony! Or rather, he had found her!

“Good news?”

The sexy murmur was breathed into her ear and it tickled her skin. She looked up, into Hart’s bemused and beguiling dark eyes. “You are the busiest body I know,” she said, almost meaning it.

He grinned, his spirits obviously having rebounded. “But that excludes yourself.”

She ignored that. What did Anthony want? She was on pins and needles now.

“And who is that prizefighter?”

She blinked. “Excuse me?”