Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahil 02] (41 page)

She closed her eyes and suddenly heard Anthony saying, as clear as day, I
didn’t do it.
Her eyes flew open.

She did not want to envision him now. Especially not while making that statement—his gaze had been hard but direct. He
had
been blackmailing Paul Randall, with or without Georgette’s prior knowledge and help.

Another image and recollection assailed her strongly. “We are innocent,” Georgette had said, looking at Fran as directly.

Francesca sat up grimly. In spite of her grief, it was impossible now not to think about the two of them more fully. And what about the fact that Bill Randall had been to Georgette’s house after the murder? Francesca did not think she was mistaken about having seen him there. If only Joel had been present, if only he had seen Bill as well! But she felt certain Bill had been to the house and that he had known his father was dead. Which meant he knew the killer, or was protecting the killer. Francesca could not imagine him and Anthony as partners. That was inconceivable.

And committing blackmail did not necessarily mean that one could commit cold-blooded murder.

Something wasn’t right.

I am the other woman, the cheap woman, the immoral one—the whore! Whom shall they blame? … I think she did it …

Francesca stiffened. Why hadn’t she paid more attention to Georgette when she had been accusing Henrietta of killing her husband? Perhaps because it had been so clichéd and the widow was the obvious choice for the mistress to point the finger at. But there hadn’t been any hatred in Georgette’s words. She had been frightened, yes, but she had been impassioned as well. What else had she claimed?

They’ve hated each other for years!

Dear God, Henrietta had been faking her tears at the funeral. Not only did Francesca know that from watching her, but she had picked up the handkerchief Henrietta had dropped and it had been as dry as a bone. Her swoon had been a matter of theatrics as well.

Francesca’s pulse raced with excitement. Oh, my. It looked as if they had apprehended the wrong person. But this would make so much sense and it would explain Bill’s actions. For who had more motivation than the long-suffering widow?

She rapped on the partition and when it was opened by the driver, she said, “Number Eighty-nine East Fifty-seventh Street, please. I must make a stop and I won’t be long.”

“As you wish, miss,” the coachman replied.

It was only half past eight, but Francesca was told that the Randalls were not receiving callers at this hour. She was also told that Mr. Randall would receive her tomorrow at noon. Francesca barely heard the maid, because from where she stood in the foyer, she could look right down the hall, and at its end the parlor door was ajar. Light spilled from that room. She could also hear voices coming from within, and even though she could not see anyone, one of the voices was Mary’s.

Francesca smiled at the maid. “I shall return on the morrow, then,” she said, and the door was closed before her. Francesca did not move.

She heard no lock turning, but it was early yet, too early to lock the doors.

Francesca counted to a thousand, slowly. Then, shoving aside any twinges of guilt, she tested the doorknob. As she had thought, the door had not been locked yet.

She was becoming rather adept at trespassing, she thought, slipping into the empty foyer. Just a week or so ago, she had entered the Burton household in the exact same—and illegal—manner. The second time was much easier than the first. There was almost no guilt, but there was fear. If Henrietta was a killer, Francesca might well be in trouble if caught.

The parlor door remained ajar. Now she could hear Bill’s voice, but not what he was saying. Francesca debated eavesdropping, and her need to know more won. Her fear increased as she moved cautiously down the hallway and tried to blend into the wall at its end. But she could hear them clearly now.

“Don’t you think you have had one glass too many of sherry?” Bill asked calmly.

“Not really. It has been a gruesome day,” Mary returned sharply. “They are all gruesome days, now.”

“Far more gruesome for me than you,” Bill said darkly. “I do look forward to returning to the university—that is, if I can afford the tuition.”

A silence fell. It was brooding.

Francesca could hear her own breathing. It was tense and labored and she sought to relax.

Then, “At least we do not have to live with his hypocrisy anymore,” Mary said bitterly.

“But the question is, how shall we live? He has left us nothing. He has left me nothing. I am his heir and I am penniless.” Bill was angry. “At least you will marry—if you can bring yourself to do it.”

“I am never marrying,” Mary said vehemently. “You know how I feel about that. More so now than ever. How could Papa have done this to us? How?”

“I don’t know why you never saw the truth. After all, Calder Hart has been in our midst for ten years.”

“But that was before he met Mama! He explained to me so carefully and I understood completely. But then”—she paused—“I was only eight years old when I met that bastard brother of ours. Papa could have told me he had come to us from the moon and I would have believed him.” She sounded tearful. “But you should have told me about her! I should have known about the whore! I am always the last to know everything in this house.”

“Poor Mary.”

They were silent now, but Francesca stiffened. Was that footsteps she was hearing? She felt herself tremble. Someone was coming downstairs!

She froze. Unfortunately, there was no place to hide and no way to make herself invisible. Was Henrietta approaching, or a servant? The hall was dimly lit, but if the person on the stairs intended to visit the parlor, she would be caught like a mouse in a trap. Sweat trickled down her temples and inside of her bodice. Damn it. Perhaps this was not a good idea.

“I am going to take Miss de Labouche to court. I intend to wrest that house from her,” Bill suddenly said. “I could kill father for leaving it to her!”

Francesca had stopped breathing. The intruder had reached the ground floor. She held her breath and heard the person moving away from where she stood, toward the front door. A moment later the person opened a side door and disappeared into another room.

Francesca started to sigh and heard, “Good. And meanwhile, they will hang Hart.” Mary was vicious. She laughed, but the sound turned into a sob. “He has no alibi, he despised Father, and he will be the first to admit it. God, if only he had really killed Father!” She started to cry.

Francesca started. What was this? Elation filled her. So the Randalls knew Hart was innocent … which seemed to mean that they knew the identity of the killer.

“Mary … enough. I am going to bed,” Bill said abruptly.

Breathless now, Francesca realized that she must either leave the house or do what she intended in the first place, which was interview Henrietta. And there was no time to procrastinate. She started to inch down the wall, away from the parlor, afraid of making a sound and being caught with her hand in the safe, so to speak.

Then she gave it up. Her strides increased; she reached the stairs. Her pulse was rioting and sweat was gathering beneath her chemise, between her breasts. She did not dare breathe easier as she bounded swiftly up the stairs.

Only a single light was shining on the second floor. But the door to Henrietta’s sitting room was wide open, and she could be seen sitting at her desk, a pen in hand. She was writing a letter or a note and Francesca watched her breathlessly. She was an innocuous-looking woman. Plump, well-dressed, quiet of manner. She did not seem at all like a murderess.

Francesca stepped into the room.

“Mary?” Henrietta turned, but she was not smiling. And her eyes went wide in shock.

Francesca closed the door behind her. “I am so sorry to intrude, Mrs. Randall, but I must have a word with you.”

It was a moment before Henrietta spoke. “How did you get up here? Who allowed you in?” She did not stand.

“I do apologize for letting myself in,” Francesca said, watching her closely. She was dry-eyed. She did not appear grief-stricken. “Your son gave a wonderful eulogy today.”

“I think you should leave.” Henrietta calmly clasped her hands in her lap.

“An innocent man has been arrested for your husband’s murder, Mrs. Randall.”

Henrietta did not even lift a brow. “And that affects me how?”

“Do you not care?”

She opened her mouth and closed it. “Of course I care.” Francesca waited.

“I mean, I want to see my husband’s murderer brought to justice. I certainly do.”

Francesca sighed. Clearly there had been no love in this marriage. “I am sorry, Henrietta, so sorry, that you have shared most of your life with a man you did not care for.”

Henrietta stared. “I loved Paul.”

“Did you?”

“Of course.”

“But he has been keeping Georgette, a beautiful, younger woman, for years. He has been visiting her like clockwork, every Tuesday and Friday night. He has bought her jewels and furs,” Francesca said, not wanting to be mean, but trying to provoke a reaction. “And you have known about it.”

Henrietta stared, her expression rather strained. “I am no fool,” she said. “Of course I knew.”

“How long have you known?”

Henrietta stared. “Forever. Paul has never been faithful to me for a day in his life. Miss de Labouche was not the first, and had he lived, she would not be the last.” She remained calm, although tense. “Why are you here, Miss Cahill?”

Francesca was grim. She wet her lips. “Did you follow your husband to his mistress’s house on Friday evening and shoot him in the back of the head?” Francesca asked.

Henrietta stared.

“Do not answer her, Mother!” Bill exclaimed from behind Francesca.

Francesca whirled, her heart sinking with stunning force, to find Bill and Mary standing there, having come into the room undetected. Bill was angry, and justifiably so, while Mary’s face was starkly white and pinched with fear.

Mary’s face was pinched with fear.

Henrietta was also staring at her children, now on her feet. “Yes,” she said, ashen. “I have disliked my husband for years. I grew tired of it all. We argued that morning, over money, of course, and I followed him and shot him in the back of the head.”

“Mother!” Bill shouted.

Mary remained tight-lipped, white, and silent.

Francesca looked at Henrietta, who was lying. Oh, dear. What did she do now?

“I am very sorry, Miss Cahill, but you have gone too far,” Bill said from behind her.

Francesca turned and met his cold gray eyes. And too late, she saw the gun he held in his hand.
He was going to shoot her.

But before she could react, he raised the butt and struck her on the head with it.

There was a huge lancing pain, and then there was blackness.

M
ONDAY,
F
EBRUARY 3, 1902—10:00 P.M.

Francesca became aware of a pain arcing through her head. And for one moment, as she fought unconsciousness, she was confused.

Then the heavy blackness dimmed, lifting. As she awoke, the pain increased, and she realized that she was lying down. She stirred, her eyes fluttering open—only to find that she could not move her arms or her legs.

Her eyes flew open as she tried to sit up, but she was incapable of all movement except in her fingers and toes. The comprehension was brutal.
She was tied to a bed.

Francesca looked from the plain whitewashed ceiling down to her arms and legs and saw that rope bound her wrists and ankles. The bed was simple and placed against one wall, several shelves above it. The room was feminine but neither cozy nor comfortable. The truth struck her then.

Bill Randall had hit her from behind with a heavy object and now she was tied to Mary’s bed.

Oh, God. She had never expected this. Henrietta was so mild-mannered; Francesca had actually expected some kind of guilty and stricken confession. Instead, she was tied up—she was a prisoner, for God’s sake.

But surely, surely, they would not harm her, would they? Or worse?

But she was already harmed, she reminded herself grimly.

And then she had a truly terrible thought. What if Bragg found her this way?

She flushed, anticipating her humiliation—it would know no bounds. She had to free herself.

Suddenly the bedroom door opened and Bill Randall was standing there.

Francesca met his dark gaze. It was so dispassionate that fear assailed her.
She was in grave danger indeed.

“What are you going to do with me?” she whispered.

“I don’t know.” He stood in the threshold but did not come forward. “Why did you have to snoop, Miss Cahill? Why could you not be like other young ladies your age? Now I have a terrible dilemma. I must protect my family. No matter the cost.”

She tried to breathe normally, for it was a way of controlling her fear. “You will never get away with this.”

“There is always a way when one is truly motivated,” he said, and he turned abruptly and closed the door behind him. Francesca did not hear it lock.

She tugged on the ropes, but to no avail. All she did was become warm and begin sweating. She felt tears of real fear trying to form in her eyes, and sternly she told herself she must remain calm—she must think.

After all, she was a clever woman. She prided herself on her intelligence. Her intelligence was what must save her now.

Did Randall think to kill her?

She shivered, sick to her stomach at the thought.

And then she heard footsteps at the door. They were not Randall’s; they were far too soft. She tensed.

The door slowly creaked open and Henrietta stood there.

Their gazes locked.

And Henrietta appeared to be on the verge of genuine tears.

Hope flared within Francesca. “Two wrongs do not make a right,” she whispered.

Henrietta gazed at her. “Why did you have to come?”

“You know why. Your husband was murdered. No matter how horrible he has been to you and your family, no one deserves that.” She did not take her gaze from the other woman’s.