Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahil 02] (21 page)

“Undoubtedly you could,” Andrew said calmly. “Francesca, please do not get yourself too involved in Bragg’s life.”

She laid the paper down. “Why?”

“I cannot tell you why. I’m sorry.”

Francesca stared, trying to see into his eyes. His words were an echo of her own words to her mother last night. Was Andrew keeping a confidence of Bragg’s, the way she was with Connie? It certainly seemed so. “And if I become ‘too involved’ in Hart’s life?”

“I should not like that, either.” Andrew slapped his napkin down. “Your mother finds him suitable for you; I do not. He is a notorious womanizer, and worse than that, he shows very little respect for anyone or anything. I find it hard to like a man who seems intent on shocking the world with his every utterance and action. I do not like him, I do not trust him, and I should not like for you to set your cap on him as your mother has for you.”

“I am not setting my cap on anyone,” Francesca said tersely, her heart sinking at her father’s words. Clearly Julia had made up her mind, and the frightening part was, she usually got her way. “I tried to tell Julia that last night. Well, thank God you are not on her side.”

“Not in this, at least. And I have put my foot down in no uncertain terms.” He hesitated. “It is a shame, really, about Bragg.”

She tensed. “Why?”

“Because he is such an honorable man and, if things were different, I am quite certain the two of you would suit one another very well indeed.” He stood. “But things are not different.” He held her gaze. “And they will never be different, Francesca.”

It felt like a death knell. “I wish I knew why,” she tried, knowing it would be futile.

He came around and kissed her forehead. “I am sure he will tell you himself, if the need arises—but hopefully, it will not.”

Francesca could only watch him leave the breakfast room, and when he was gone, she cradled her forehead on her hands, briefly despairing. Bragg had a secret, clearly, and she was afraid of what it might be.

Before departing to call upon Mrs. Randall, Francesca tried telephoning Connie again. This time, there was no answer, and she was thoroughly alarmed. Why hadn’t a servant picked up the telephone?

True, they only had one telephone, and like the Cahills’, that telephone was in the study. It was possible no one had heard it ringing. Possible, but not likely. The Montrose household was a busy one, and they had a dozen in staff, at the least.

Francesca wrote Connie a note, sealed it in an envelope, and gave it to a stable boy to deliver, with precise instructions—it was to be handed directly to Lady Montrose and not her husband. If Lady Montrose was not available, it was to be handed to Mrs. Partridge, the girls’ nanny, and she was to deliver it personally herself.

Francesca reminded herself that, even though it felt like an eternity had passed since she had last seen her sister, it had only been yesterday in the late afternoon. In all likelihood, all was well, and she was imagining all kinds of terrible scenarios.

And what could be happening? For all Francesca knew, Connie had taken to her rooms to nurse her broken heart. Still, she had confronted Montrose, and every instinct Francesca had told her that was only the tip of this particular iceberg.

Joel was waiting for her outside of the Cahill mansion’s front gates. Briefly Francesca’s spirits lifted; she was happy to see him. The Randall residence was on 57th Street, between Lexington and Fourth Avenues. Francesca hailed a hansom, not wanting to alert anyone in her family where she was off to. As she and Joel got out, she instantly saw Bragg’s handsome motorcar double-parked alongside a waiting coach, and she hesitated.

“Now what do we do?” Joel asked by her side. “Copper won’t like this.” He shook his dark head.

Her heart seemed to do a series of somersaults. “Let me think,” she said tersely. There was no denying that her first reaction to the sight of his roadster and the knowledge that he was at the Randalls’ was a nervous excitement and a real elation—it seemed as if their paths were meant to coincide. But following her initial response was a different kind of anxiety. Francesca reminded herself that she had every right to pay Mrs. Randall her respects. And she was now a bona fide part of the police investigation, if she played along with Bragg and pretended that she believed he had enlisted her to find Miss de Labouche. Surely her clever mind could concoct a plausible and convincing explanation as to why the search for Georgette de Labouche had led her there.

She sucked up any dwindling courage and knocked on the door of the red brick Victorian townhouse. A maid answered it immediately.

Francesca gave her a calling card and waited in the small, shadowed foyer while Joel glanced curiously around and the maid presented it to the widow. She could see that her father was right—Paul Randall had led a very genteel but usual life, neither poor nor wealthy, but somewhere in between. His home was pleasant but small; it was one-half of the brick house she had entered. A narrow staircase led to the bedrooms upstairs—there were probably three. She could glance into the dining room, where a table and chairs seated six. He undoubtedly had two or three servants; the maid would also be a laundress and perhaps even a cook. His coachman would also serve as valet. The wood floors beneath her feet needed a new stain and a bit of repair, but they were acceptable. Francesca could smell a Sunday dinner cooking. Roasted guinea hens, unless she missed her guess.

At the end of the hall was the parlor, and the door was now closed. The maid reappeared from within it. “You may come with me, miss,” she said, blinking at Joel.

Francesca moved down the hall, giving Joel a look, that meant children were to be seen and not heard—especially when on an investigation. She was ushered into an overdone parlor, crammed with too many chairs and tables but just one somewhat frayed red sofa. Popular art vied for one’s attention with framed photographs and many collectibles. Mrs. Randall sat on the sofa, clutching a handkerchief, her eyes swollen and red. She was a plump woman who had probably been quite pretty in her youth. A rather plain blond girl, about Francesca’s age, stood behind her mother, her thin hand on her shoulder. She, too, appeared heartbroken, and her nose was red and swollen, as were her eyes. Bragg had been sitting in an armchair, but he stood as Francesca was shown into the room. He wore his usual dark and finely cut suit, but his overcoat was draped upon the back of the chair.

She smiled tentatively at him.

He said, “Good morning, Miss Cahill. I was wondering how long it would take you to call upon Mrs. Randall.” His amber eyes were filled with warmth and good humor. He was neither disturbed to see her present, nor angry about the day’s newspapers. Francesca was pleased to see him well rested and in good spirits. Their gazes met.

“I am here on official business, Commissioner,” she said, hiding a bigger smile and inclining her head. She did not want him to ascertain her true feelings for him now.

He glanced at Joel. “Joel,” he said, in way of a reluctant greeting.

Joel gave him a dark and scowling look.

Francesca touched his shoulder in a quieting manner. He crossed his arms and moved farther away from Bragg. She sighed but could not blame Joel for his attitude toward the police. He was, after all, a pickpocket.

She approached the heavyset widow. “Mrs. Randall? I am here to pay my condolences. I am so very sorry for your loss.”

Henrietta Randall nodded. “I do not understand, Miss Cahill,” she said. “We have not met. You do not know Mary. Your card says you are a crime-solver? Did you somehow know my husband?”

Francesca did not glance at Bragg now. “Actually, I did not, but I have been retained to find his murderer.”

Henrietta Randall blinked. “By whom?”

“I am afraid my client wishes to remain anonymous,” Francesca said firmly. She glanced at Bragg. He was studying her, and his expression, while rather impassive, contained another hint of his earlier good humor. Clearly he approved of the tack she had chosen to take; she could not tell the widow that she worked for the mistress. Francesca knew she should be angry with him for his trying to divert her from the real work at hand, but it was impossible; she had to smile at him.

Why did he have to look so good this early in the day? Why did his mere presence have to dominate and warm the room? Even when she was not looking at him, she was acutely aware of him being there, his attention somehow trained upon her.

“I do not wish to interrupt your interview with the commissioner,” she began, looking far too directly into his eyes.

“You are not interrupting,” Bragg said, with a wave of his hand. He did not look away. “In fact, I am done here, and on my way out.”

Francesca started, dismayed.

He gave her an odd look, which she thought contained a warning, just for her, and he handed Henrietta Randall his business card. “Mrs. Randall. Rest assured I shall find your husband’s murderer. And in a timely manner. If you have any further thoughts based on our conversation, please get in touch with me immediately—at any time, either at my office or at my home. I will come by instantly. No thought is too small or too inane, Mrs. Randall. You might think something is irrelevant when I shall think it a great clue.” He smiled at her, then glanced at Mary. “You, as well, Miss Randall.”

Mary nodded, but said, “We have told you everything. There is simply nothing more to tell.”

Henrietta started to cry. Mary clasped her hand tightly. She had a wide but narrow mouth, which was pursed very tightly. Her hair was pulled back tightly in an unfashionable and unkempt chignon.

“Miss Cahill.” Bragg smiled and inclined his head.

“Good day, then,” Francesca managed, watching him walk out. She knew he had tried to tell her something privately, and the fact thrilled her. Unfortunately, she did not know what he had intended to communicate. When he was gone, she gave herself a mental kick and smiled at her hostess and her daughter. “May I ask a few questions?”

“Please,” Henrietta said.

“Do you know who wished to kill your husband?”

“No one wished to kill my husband,” Henrietta said firmly. “He was well liked, a kind man.”

“Mother!” Mary cried out in exasperation. “Why do you keep saying that?” She looked angrily at Francesca. “I told the police commissioner, and I will tell you, too. One person hated my father.”

Francesca thought she knew who that one person was. “And that is?”

“His bastard, Calder Hart. My half brother,” she practically spat.

So animosity was a family affair, Francesca thought. She glanced at Henrietta. “Do you feel the same way?”

Henrietta nodded, her gaze downcast, tears sliding down her face. “He has always hated us all.”

“Why? Why did Hart hate his father so?” Francesca asked, although the answer seemed obvious. Still, she wished to hear it from either Henrietta or her daughter.

“Why?” Mary was incredulous. “Why? I’ll tell you why! Because he was a mistake, because Father never wanted him, not then, and not now!”

“Did your father hate Hart, as well?” Francesca felt she had to ask. The family drama was terribly compelling.

“My father did not hate anyone!” Mary cried. “He was a good man, as good as gold! He only thought to please people, and help them. He was a saint!”

Francesca blinked. She supposed she would be speaking of her own father in the same way, she decided, if he had just died. “I am so sorry,” she said again.

Mary sat down beside her mother, crying now into her hands. Her sobs were huge and torn from deep within her. The sobbing turned to terrible moans. Watching her, Francesca felt hugely sympathetic. She could only imagine her own grief when the day came that her father passed on. She knew it was time to leave.

“Perhaps we can finish this another time?” Henrietta asked. She stood. “As you can see, Mary is inconsolable. She was the apple of Paul’s eye. His little girl. We all loved him so; but she, even more.”

Francesca nodded. She whispered, “Mary? I so understand. I adore my own father, too.”

Mary paused, looking up, her face covered with tears. “Then you know I shall never be the same,” she whispered in real anguish.

“Yes, I know.”

Mary covered her face, weeping again.

Henrietta walked out from behind the table in front of the sofa, clearly wishing Francesca to leave them to their mourning.

“Mrs. Randall? How old is Mary?” “She is eighteen,” Henrietta said, walking Francesca to the door.

And Hart was twenty-six—for Francesca knew he was two years younger than Bragg was. “You have a son, do you not?” Francesca asked.

“Yes, Bill arrived home yesterday afternoon. He attends university in Philadelphia,” she said. Then, proudly, “He will graduate this summer.”

Francesca smiled. So Bill Randall was older—and he was about twenty-one. Five years separated Randall’s affair with Hart’s mother and the birth of his first legitimate child. Francesca wondered when Henrietta had learned that Randall had had a mistress and an illegitimate child, but that did not quite pertain to this case. Had she known about Georgette de Labouche? As it was all over the morning’s papers, Francesca suspected she knew now.

“I would like to speak with him, too, if I may,” Francesca said.

“He’s asleep. Why don’t you come by later this afternoon? We will be through with our dinner by four,” Henrietta said. “Thank you.” Francesca shook her hand and found herself in the hall with Joel. Their gazes met. She shook her head, warning him not to speak yet, and they walked slowly to the foyer, Francesca thinking about the brief and unenlightening conversation she had just had.

“Miss Cahill?”

Francesca turned at the sound of Mary’s shrill voice.

The very thin, rather gawky blonde hurried to her. “I didn’t want to speak in front of my mother,” she said fiercely. She glared at Joel. “Who is
that?”

“He is my assistant. He runs errands for me.” Francesca had become alert. “What is it? What is it that you wish to tell me?”

“I
know
Hart killed my father—and I know why!” she cried.

“You do?” Francesca asked, surprised.