Chapter 13 #2
Francesca stiffened, not allowing Hart to drag her past the woman. “What is your name?” she asked kindly. “Were you friends with Kate and Margaret?”
“Francesca,” Hart said grimly, a harsh whisper in her ear. “This is not the time.”
Before the woman could respond and before she could jab Hart with her elbow telling him to have some patience, a heavyset man in a plaid shirt and corduroy jacket pushed his way to stand before her.
“You’re gonna find the Slasher? A rich fancy lady?
” He sneered. “Like you care about us! What’s in it for you?
” he demanded, his eyes burning with anger and hatred.
“Damn it,” Hart said with no inflection. He stepped in front of Francesca before she could insist that she wanted nothing but the truth and justice. “Move aside and let the lady pass.”
“Fancy snobbish highbrows,” the man shouted.
Some men in the crowd agreed, cheering and booing at once. “Tell ’em to go home! Back where they come from!” a young man shouted.
“Yeah, send ’em home. It’s their kind that’s killin’ us, not the Slasher!” a woman screamed.
Francesca realized a riot was in the making. Just as she had that terrible comprehension, Joel darted to stand beside Hart, his face red, shouting, “Miz Cahill will solve this crime! She knows her stuff, she does, an’ I can prove it!”
But no one heard him because Hart very calmly put his fist in the nose of the man in corduroy. “That is for not stepping aside when politely directed to do so,” he said.
The man held his bleeding nose, looking ready to assault Hart but clearly debating the merits of doing so.
And just as a few men stepped forward, looking ready to commit murder, a short, brawny man with curly black hair appeared at Hart’s side. He was wearing a dark suit and he held a big black revolver that he aimed at the crowd. He did not speak.
“Thank you, Raoul,” Hart said. He turned and seized Francesca. “Now may we go?”
“Yes, that is a good idea,” she said somewhat meekly. And with Raoul covering them from behind and Joel in tow, they dashed down the block and around the corner to the building where the Kennedys lived.
Gwen put the teakettle to boil with shaking hands. She was so upset she could not breathe, much less think. But she was acutely aware of the gentleman who sat at her kitchen table.
“Gwen,” Harry de Warenne said tersely. He cleared his throat and said, “Mrs. O’Neil. Please.” He stood up.
She didn’t turn, fighting tears, remaining stunned. He was here, here in America, in the city, in her flat. But why?
“Gwen.” His tone was rough now. “I mean, Mrs. O’Neil. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you. I suppose I should have sent you a note.”
She must compose herself, she thought wildly. He must never know how deeply she had fallen in love with him—how intensely and how foolishly. She inhaled hard and slowly turned to face him. Bridget stood near the sink, her eyes huge in her utterly white face.
Harry—no, Lord Randolph—was staring at her with the blue eyes his family was famous for, a very grim expression on his masculine face.
“There is a killer lurking in the neighborhood,” Gwen managed to say. “My neighbor was murdered on Monday. You frightened me very much.”
“I know,” he said. “I read about it in the papers.” He hesitated and added, “How can you live here?”
She straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin with all the pride she had left. “This is our home now.”
He never looked away from her face. No, that was not right, he never looked away from her eyes, and she was drowning in his, drowning in a pool of blue nobility. “Do you like it here…in America?”
“Yes,” she lied, her smile brittle. She hadn’t seen him in five months, but he had changed so much.
Oh, his face was the same, impossibly handsome, all high cheekbones, strong jaw and equally strong nose, but she remembered warm glances, soft, seductive smiles and more kindness than anybody had a right to bear.
But all men were kind, she thought bitterly, when what they wanted was a woman’s body.
He hesitated and said, “I’m happy for you, then.”
She wrapped her arms around herself as the kettle began to boil, singing.
Why had he come? How had it come down to this?
He hadn’t smiled once. There had been no gesture of kindness or concern—not that she expected concern or warmth or anything, of course she didn’t, but once, there had been affection and laughter. Now, the room was so dreadfully cold.
He started toward her, his expression far more grim than before.
Gwen froze.
But he did not touch her. He lifted the kettle from the fire and set it aside.
She turned away, trembling. For one moment, she had been waiting for him to take her into his arms. She remained the most foolish of women—worse, she had shamelessly yearned for him to do so.
“We don’t want you here!” Bridget suddenly cried. “Why did you come? You heard Mama, we’re happy here. We like it here, we do!”
He looked at the child. “I’m sorry, Bridget, I am sorry if I am intruding, but I had business in the city and I merely wished to inquire after you and your mother.”
So he had come on business, she thought, staring at his classic profile. The mouth she remembered had been so mobile; this one never moved, remaining compressed in a firm, tight line, impossibly, even when he spoke.
He turned to her and she felt trapped, her backside against the counter, a sink just inches to her right, the stove to her left.
“I feel responsible for all that has transpired,” he said, with no emotional inflection whatsoever.
He removed his wallet and from that, a cheque.
“Please take this, Gw—Mrs. O’Neil,” he said, and he coughed.
“I am sure it is the least I can do, but it will find you better accommodations, far from this neighborhood, and it will help you feed your daughter.”
The anger began. “I don’t want that,” she heard herself say.
His smile was odd, all twisted and half-formed. “Please. Please accept this small gesture on my behalf. I know it hardly makes up for what I have done and—”
“You have done nothing,” she cried, clenching her hands so tightly into fists that she knew her nails were drawing her own blood.
He started, eyes wide, and for the first time she saw a man she recognized, revealed by the disbelief in his eyes. “I have destroyed your marriage—your life, actually,” he said.
“I had no marriage with David,” she said, holding her chin high. “You destroyed nothing. It was time for me and my girl to move on.” She forced a smile.
“Maybe so. Still, for my part in what happened, please accept my offer.”
“I don’t want anything from you,” she cried.
He stared at her for an interminable time.
And behind them both, Bridget breathed hard.
He nodded and walked to the table, two steps from where he stood, and laid the bank cheque there. Then he walked to the door, where he paused, shoulders rigid, and he glanced at her.
She realized she was crying but she could not look away.
His mouth tightened. “I am sorry, Gwen,” he said. He touched the brim of his felt hat and he left.
“Come in,” Maggie breathed, her eyes wide, her complexion ashen. She opened the door wider to let Francesca, Hart, Raoul and Joel inside.
“Are you all right?” Francesca asked the moment she had bolted the door behind them.
Maggie looked at her, nodding, her eyes shining with tears.
“Oh dear,” Francesca whispered, and she embraced the other woman who, briefly, clung in return.
Then Maggie stepped back, managing a smile.
“I am sorry I am being so foolish. But I decided to call on Kate, as she lives just around the block from me. And now she is dead! The Slasher has struck again,” she cried, keeping her voice down.
Clearly, her three younger children were all asleep in the flat’s single bedroom.
Francesca put her arm around her as they walked toward the small sofa that defined the room’s parlor. “It may or may not be the Slasher. We will not know until a clinical examination of the body has occurred.”
Maggie confronted her. “What do you mean, it may not be the Slasher? If he didn’t kill Kate, then who did?”
“We simply don’t know yet,” Francesca said.
Maggie clasped her hands together. “I have forgotten my manners,” she whispered. “Francesca, Mr. Hart, do sit down, please,” she said.
“We are fine,” Hart said firmly. He had walked over to her window to look down on Tenth Avenue. “Kate’s apartment is but a minute’s walk from here,” he remarked.
That was very true. One had to walk only to the corner of Tenth and Avenue A, turn right, and go up Tenth Street a few doors to her building. Guessing his unspoken question, Francesca said, “Francis is on Eleventh Street and Avenue B.”
Hart turned to her very seriously. “Do not tell me that every victim lived on this square block?”
“No! She is on the northwest side of Eleventh and Avenue B. Still,” she said, their gazes locked, “the proximity is amazing.”
“Maybe we had better go to my brother-in-law’s,” Maggie said softly.
Francesca faced her. “I would feel much better if you did move temporarily, just until the killer is caught. Maggie, my mother has no objection if you wish to stay with us.”
Maggie smiled weakly. “I can’t think clearly right now, not with poor Kate dead. But I have to do what is best for the children.”
“Yes, you do, and that means you must move out of this flat until the killer is caught.”
“My brother-in-law only has a one-bedroom flat. He has two children of his own. It would be so cramped.” Maggie shook her head. “I am hysterical, I apologize. How could Kate be dead?”
Francesca had a sudden idea. She grasped Maggie’s shoulder, smiling at her. “I have a perfect solution, one that does not involve your staying with us again.”
Maggie gazed at her hopefully. “You do?”
She glanced at Hart briefly and faced Maggie. “Calder has more room than anyone. Come and stay with us—I mean, him!”
Maggie faltered, darting her eyes at Hart. “I couldn’t!”
“Of course you can. Calder doesn’t mind, do you?” Francesca said eagerly.
“I have dozens of empty bedrooms, even with my family in residence. And no, I don’t mind,” he said, looking now at Francesca with a wry smile.
“Maggie, this is the perfect solution!” Francesca cried. “I know you thought that staying with my family again would be an imposition. Well, it is no imposition with Calder, as he is my fiancé.”
Maggie seemed to waver.
“And we shall soon rename my home l’H?tel des étrangers,” Hart said with a shrug, “if Francesca has her way.” He walked over to the flat’s single window.
“That means the hotel of strangers,” Francesca said, sitting down beside Maggie and taking her hands in hers. “Calder is joking. I’ll send a driver for you first thing tomorrow.”
Maggie bit her lip. “Six in the evening, then. I have to work,” she reminded Francesca.
Francesca was pleased, but it was time to move on to business. Briskly, she said, “Why did you decide to go visit Kate?”
“I had the strongest urge to see her.” Maggie shrugged.
“I saw her at church last Sunday, of course, and I so wanted to ask her how she was, but we really did not speak. She seemed upset, distraught, and I did not want to intrude. Last night, I decided I would call on her. I wanted to ask her how she was and if I could do anything for her.” Tears filled her eyes.
“If only I had gone earlier, maybe the killer would have seen us together and gone away.”
Francesca clasped her shoulder. What if Maggie has seen something? What if she had glimpsed the killer? “What time did you go over to visit?”
“It was half past seven, maybe eight,” she said. “I fed the children and tucked Lizzie and Paddy into bed. Then I walked over, leaving Joel here to watch the children.”
“It would be best if you didn’t wander the streets after dark,” Francesca said.
Maggie nodded. “Kate’s door was wide open. Completely open, so much so that the moment I paused on the threshold, I saw her in the bed. The second thing I saw was the blood. I screamed.” She had blanched again.
Francesca patted her hand. “I assume you left?”
Maggie nodded. “I ran out faster than I have ever run before. I ran out screaming for help, for the police. There wasn’t a roundsman in sight!” She was angry then. “But Joel found one on Avenue B a few blocks up.”
“So you went from Kate’s back to your own flat to ask Joel to find a police officer,” Francesca said. Maggie nodded and she took her hand, continuing, “Did you see anyone? Anyone at all? Either on your way to her flat or on your way home?”
Maggie just looked at her.
Francesca could not decipher the look. “Maggie?”
“The streets were absolutely deserted, both times, not a soul in sight…except for one man.”
Francesca straightened.
“As I was going over to visit Kate, I bumped right into a man when I turned the corner.”
“The corner of Avenue A and Tenth Street?” Francesca tried to restrain herself now, but she had tensed with anticipation.
Maggie nodded. “I bumped into him so hard he grabbed me and steadied me. He was a perfect gentleman—it was my fault but he apologized.”
She had bumped into a man on her way to visit Kate—a man who was a perfect gentleman. What if he had been the killer? “Was he really a gentleman?” she pressed. “Did you get a look at him? Did he speak? Did you?”
Maggie inhaled and said, “He was a gentleman, a fine gentleman, with the most brilliant, remarkable eyes. Even at night, I could see how blue they were.”
“Did he wear a ring?” she cried, on her feet. “Was he tall?”
“I don’t know if he had jewelry on, but he was quite tall, as tall as Mr. Hart. Francesca, there’s more. He was Irish.”
“Are you certain?”
“He spoke briefly, and it was but a murmur, but yes, I recognized his accent.”
Francesca trembled with excitement. If this man was the Slasher, they had just learned that he was an Irishman.
Hart came over. “We don’t know that this gentleman is the killer,” he warned.
She ignored him. Her every sense told her that Maggie had bumped into the killer as he was leaving Kate’s flat after perpetrating the deadly deed. “Maggie, if you saw him again, would you recognize him?”
“Yes,” Maggie said, very firm now. “Oh yes, I couldn’t possibly forget a man like that.”