Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahil 03] (34 page)

Francesca went to her, sat down beside her, and took her hand. They exchanged a glance and Francesca saw that Lydia was stiff with fear.

“Have you ever used Lizzie O’Brien as a seamstress? I believe that was her trade,” Bragg said.

“I don’t think so.” Lydia shook her head. “I don’t know.”

“The name does not sound familiar?”

“No,” Lydia murmured.

Francesca squeezed her hand.

“I demand to know what this is about!” Lincoln nearly shouted. “We are missing one of the finest suppers I have ever had.”

“Two young women have been brutally murdered, Mr. Stuart. You have surely read about the Cross Murders?”

Lincoln stared. He shifted uncomfortably. “But what does that have to do with me?”

“Lizzie O’Brien might be next, if she is still alive.”

“I still don’t understand.” But he was as pale as his wife now.

Bragg smiled and it was grim. “She gave a friend Number Two-thirty-six Harold Square as her home address,” he said.

Lincoln seemed stunned. He looked at Lydia, who also seemed astonished. It was Lincoln who turned back to Bragg first and spoke. “That is simply impossible,” he said.

“Is it?” Bragg asked with a smile that did not reach his eyes. “I have one more question, and I would appreciate a direct answer.”

Francesca looked at him with real expectation. So did the Stuarts.

“Which one of you attended Mary O’Shaunessy’s funeral, and why?”

“What? We do not know any Mary O’Shaunessy,” Lincoln said firmly.

Lydia said nothing.

“Where were you on Monday, Mr. Stuart?”

“On Monday? What is this about?” He was flushed now. “On Monday I was at my store, from nine in the morning until five, which is when we close.”

“You did not go out for lunch?” Bragg asked.

Lincoln shook his head in a negation, and then he sighed. “Of course I did. As if I can remember now—when I am being treated like a criminal! I went out at twelve as I do every day. There is a good and inexpensive restaurant a few blocks away.”

Bragg said, “So a waiter there will be able to corroborate your story? That you were at lunch Monday at noon?”

Lincoln stared. “Yes, I do not see why not.”

“Mrs. Stuart?” Bragg prodded.

She inhaled. “I was at home with a migraine.”

“Are you satisfied now?” Lincoln asked.

“Did you go to lunch on foot?” Bragg asked.

Lincoln appeared bewildered. “Of course I did. It is only four blocks away. Besides, I leave the carriage at home for my wife.”

The Stuarts had returned to supper. Newman had left, in order to go home for the evening. Francesca and Bragg stared at each other. Finally she said, “Who is lying?”

“I don’t know. But today their driver had a sudden memory loss—he simply could not recall where he had been on Monday afternoon.” Bragg gave her a significant look. “I suspect that he has been told to keep his mouth
shut or risk his job. I did not pressure him. . . . I hate to see him lose his employment, especially if the Stuarts are not involved.”

“They have to be involved! Their coach was at the funeral. One of them—or a friend—knew Mary O’Shaunessy!” Francesca cried.

Bragg patted her shoulder. “Stay calm. It does look that way. But all the evidence is not in.”

“Whoever is lying, the other one is protecting her or him,” Francesca said.

“Yes.”

“Lizzie must have worked for them, Bragg. Why else give their home address?”

“You may be right. Or perhaps another servant was a friend of Lizzie’s and she was using her to retrieve her mail? We shall have to question the entire household,” he said. “And now I am wondering if she is still alive,” Bragg added grimly. “In any case, I shall have to make a trip to Number Two-thirty-six Harold Square. But tonight I shall alert the Philadelphia police about the investigation here and have them begin a thorough search of the premises.”

“To search the house . . . for her body?” Francesca asked.

“Yes.” He gave her a long and thoughtful look. “And for any possible clues. It’s not as if we have a lot of leads here.”

“Well, if she is found there, then we shall know that the killer is Lincoln.”

His brows arched. “Perhaps. Or perhaps it is Lydia, or a servant.”

Francesca blinked. “You suspect Lydia?”

“I have ruled no one out. Mike O’Donnell remains the most obvious choice, and he remains in custody on drunk and disorderly charges. I shall have to release him shortly, Francesca. It is against the law to detain anyone without pressing charges.”

“I know.”

“And the most obvious choice is not necessarily the right choice of suspect,” Bragg added.

She took his sleeve. “Bragg? You do know that you just said ‘we’ must question the entire household.” She did grin.

He blinked. “That was a slip of the tongue.”

“Bragg!” She took his arm. “You know I am indispensable to this case. Admit it.”

He sighed and smiled at her. “All right. But I am not sure it is the case you are indispensable to.”

She tensed with expectation.

He held her gaze. “You are indispensable to me, Francesca, and it has happened so quickly that sometimes it makes my head spin.”

She was thrilled. All the anguish and irritation of the entire evening vanished in that moment. “You know I feel the same way,” she said softly.

“I know.”

A moment passed. Francesca knew he wished to take her in his arms, but she also knew that they would both exercise extreme caution now. “I have an idea.”

“I am hardly surprised.” He smiled at her.

“The Stuarts are dining. The ball will go on well past midnight. I think we should go over to their house right now and see if we can turn up anything interesting.”

“It’s funny that you should say that. That is my intention precisely.”

Excitement flooded her. “We can walk right out without anyone but servants seeing us go.”

“Do you not have to make your excuses?”

“I will have a servant tell Evan that I have gone home with a terrible migraine.” She grinned at him.

The front door was locked, of course. But the back door was not.

No staff seemed present as they stepped into the kitchen pantry. Francesca glanced at Bragg, and she smiled. There was a half-moon out and several street lamps were on, so she knew he could just make out her expression. “You will be impressed,” she whispered.

He waited and she opened her small evening bag, removing a candle.

“I beg your pardon?” he said.

“I made a list of items I should always carry with me after the Burton Affair. But it was not until we solved the Randall Killing that I actually got round to keeping the items at hand. I also have a match.” She was somewhat gleeful.

“
No
. What the hell is this?” He pulled her tiny pistol out of the bag.

She blinked. “Why, it is a gun.”

“I do not like this, Francesca.” He had not kept his voice down.

“Bragg, it is for self-protection.”

“Self-protection!” He was incredulous. “The next time you met up with a real thug, someone like Gordino or Carter, he could rip this out of your hand! A bullet from this will hardly stop them—unless your aim is to kill.”

She winced. Now was not the time to tell him that she had recently encountered Gordino and that the midnight encounter with Carter had spurred her to carry her weapon at all times. “I hope to never have to use it,” she said.

“Balderdash,” he snapped.

He deposited the gun in her purse and took the matches from her. “Is it loaded?” he asked.

She nodded. She had figured out how to load it while en route to school yesterday. On her way home, she had purchased the necessary bullets.

“We shall discuss this later,” he said, lighting the candle. “But you are not carrying a gun, Francesca, and that is that.”

She led the way out of the pantry. “That is hardly a discussion.”

He ignored her as they quickly crossed the small kitchen. The Stuarts’ home was an older one, built perhaps fifty years ago. While it was not half of a larger residence, the rooms were small and the layout typical of Victorian homes. They went through a small dining room, also unlit. “The staff probably sleeps out. Which means no one is here, as their driver will be at the Channing affair.”

Francesca thought so, too. “That must be the library. I would like to go upstairs and through their personal rooms.”

“Those are my sentiments exactly,” Bragg said, but he paused at the library door, which was closed. “However, I shall do a brief search here. One never knows.”

Francesca met his gaze and nodded. As he slipped into the room, she turned, suddenly acutely aware of being alone in a house of shadows, guided by the small taper in her hand. Suddenly uneasy, she started up the stairs. She reminded herself that Bragg was but a shout away and would never let anything happen to her. She also reminded herself that Mike O’Donnell knew both victims, as well as Maggie and Lizzie, and he would probably prove to be their man. Still, Lizzie having used the Stuarts’ Philadelphia home as an address for her mail simply had to be explained.

The steps creaked underfoot. Francesca worried with each groan of wood, but reminded herself that the Stuarts would not be home for hours and hours. Still, she would not relish confronting Lincoln while alone in his home—not that that would ever occur.

There were two rooms upstairs. As Francesca stepped into one, she saw that it was a spare bedroom that was not used at all—sheets covered the furniture there. She quickly opened the adjacent door, and upon seeing the large four-poster
bed she knew this was the master bedroom. She hesitated, glancing around.

There was a Chinese lacquer screen in one corner, and a large tufted chair and ottoman were in front of a small hearth, which was dark. An upholstered bench was at the foot of the bed, and two end tables were on its either side. There was a secretary in the room’s farthest corner. It was a dainty piece—Lydia would be the one to use it.

Francesca walked over to the mantel but saw nothing but two photos atop it, one a wedding photo, the other a picture of an older woman, who she guessed was Lincoln’s deceased mother. She moved to one end table by the bed.

A cross was there. Francesca hesitated, as it was a small and dainty pendant hanging on a delicate gold chain. It obviously belonged to Lydia, but a cross did not make her a murderess.

Francesca opened the bureau’s single drawer. There was a folded piece of paper there, and she quickly opened it. The letter was from Mary. Her stunned mind tried to comprehend why Lydia would be receiving a short note from Mary when she held up the candle and realized that the letter had been penned to her husband, Lincoln. It said:

Dear Sir,

I am writing to tell you that, as much as I have enjoyed meeting you, I simply cannot accept your invitation to dine. The reason speaks for itself. Were you an eligible man, I would be more than happy to further our acquaintance. In fact, my regrets are deep.

Sincerely,

Mary O’Shaunessy

Francesca sat down on the bed, stunned.

Lincoln and Mary?

Lincoln Stuart had been romantically pursuing Mary O’Shaunessy?

Which would explain why he had been at the funeral, if he had been, or maybe Lydia had gone to catch her husband grieving for another woman. She did not move. But did this mean that Lincoln had killed Mary?

No, it most certainly did not—although it could, as Mary had rejected him. Still, Francesca sensed that Mary had liked Lincoln—and only her strong sense of virtue had kept her away from him.

A killer was out there who had viciously murdered two young women who had been close friends, and two other friends of theirs remained as potential victims—if Lizzie was still alive. But this did explain the funeral. Surely Lincoln had been there in disguise and Lydia had gone to catch him mourning.

Francesca had smiled grimly, then heard a door closing downstairs.

She jumped to her feet. Then she tried to become calm, as the door surely had been closed by Bragg.

But it had sounded like the front door.

She folded the letter and tucked it into her bodice. She hesitated, then ran to the other side of the bed, quickly opening the table drawer there. She saw some loose change, some receipts, and a small Bible.

Was Lincoln a religious man? She had no doubt that this was his side of the bed.

She froze, straining to hear. She thought she had heard footsteps on the stairs. What if it was not Bragg?

Suddenly a man entered the room. She almost cried out, but he approached her too swiftly for her to do so, snuffing out the candle with his fingertips. It was Bragg. He grabbed her arm. “They have just returned.” He spoke in a whisper. “I found a poem downstairs. Innocent enough, although it mentions God’s master plan, and it is written in a man’s hand. Lincoln Stuart fancies himself a poet.”

“He was pursuing Mary, Bragg,” Francesca whispered. “And Lydia knew, as she had a note written by Mary to
him. Is it at all possible that the two murders were not related? Perhaps she killed Mary out of jealousy.”

“No. We have a mad killer, Francesca, one who has threatened to strike again, or have you forgotten? But Lincoln lied. He claimed he did not know Mary.” He was grim. “The plot thickens. Let’s get out of here before we are discovered. Searching his home without a warrant is illegal. I shall have him brought downtown tonight for a thorough interrogation.”

Francesca had not known that their night’s police work was illegal, and she was somewhat surprised. He took her arm when they heard footsteps on the stairs. She stiffened, her gaze going to his.

It quickly crossed her mind that if Lincoln was the killer, he had murdered two innocent women already, brutally, and he was about to murder a third. That is, he was a dangerous man, and they could be in jeopardy if he had a weapon.

She reminded herself that she had a gun. Was Bragg carrying one?

In their interlude in the study at the Channings’, she had not noticed any weapon. She doubted she would not have felt a gun if he had it tucked in his belt or elsewhere.