Chapter 14 #2
Francesca stepped forward. “I recalled some questions I wished to ask you,” she said. She hadn’t decided whether to reveal Kate’s murder or not.
“Oh,” was his response.
She became impatient. “Actually, we tried your door for some time—but you were not at home.”
He blinked. His expression did not change. “Of course I was at home,” he said after an odd pause.
“I beg to differ. We rang the doorbell repeatedly—we even banged on the door,” Hart said, repeating the account given by the police officers who had failed to locate Wilson at his home last night.
“I was working in my shop,” he said, turning pale. “I was engrossed—I undoubtedly did not hear you at the front door.”
That was a lie if Francesca had ever heard one. “May we see your repair shop? Perhaps you could show us what you were working on.”
He stiffened. “What is this about? Why are you asking me questions about last night? I simply did not hear the door.”
“Please humor my fiancée,” Hart said with a very serious expression.
Wilson clearly thought about throwing them out. Then, as clearly, he decided not to go against Hart. “Come with me,” he said.
As they followed him through a back door, Francesca slowed her steps, pulling Hart back with her. “In his shop, occupy him. I want to search his bedroom,” she whispered.
“Absolutely not!”
“Just keep him occupied,” she said, and then she realized that Wilson held another door open. A stairwell on his right clearly led to the living quarters above the shop.
“Right in here,” he said.
Francesca walked into a good-size room. There were two tables in it, both the size of dining tables, each covered with clocks and watches in all stages of repair. The oddest assortment of tools and gadgets, all miniature in size, were located on a tray on the closest table.
“This clock is seventeenth-century Italian,” Wilson said with reverence.
He showed them a large clock in bronze with a gilded face and pearl hands.
“The owner brought it in very recently. She was a lovely girl, recently widowed, and the clock belonged to her husband’s family.
I simply must get it running for her, as it has so much sentimental value now. ”
As Hart commented upon how elegant the clock was, Francesca glanced around.
The back windows opened out onto the gardens Wilson had spoken of.
A swing was beneath the single oak tree, some of his roses were in bloom, and there was a small cast-iron table, two chairs and a badminton net.
When Francis married Wilson, she would have a wonderful home.
“Excuse me, is there a rest room I could use?”
“Of course,” Wilson said, startled. “Just up those stairs, first door on your left.”
Francesca gave Hart a warning look and hurried out.
Once upstairs, she ignored the bathroom, a simple affair with a walnut vanity, porcelain sink and water closet.
The parlor was cheerful and cozy, the striped sofa facing a brick hearth.
She pushed open a door and found, to her surprise, a small salon with a large piano.
Did Wilson play? She quickly went to the remaining door and stepped into his bedroom.
He had opened the pale muslin draperies and sunlight streamed into a pleasant room of medium size, the walls covered in a green-and-white striped paper.
The bed was dark oak, almost black, with four posters and a heavily engraved headboard.
The bedspread was a green print, covering the pillows, with one decorative emerald neck roll atop that.
The bed was so precisely made that she had to wonder if he had even slept there last night.
She went to the walnut bureau and studied the single photograph. It was of his wife, she assumed, a plain woman with a pretty smile and sweet, kind brown eyes. Then she moved to his closet.
There were three suits hanging there, but not one was charcoal gray.
Of course, Kate could have been wrong. The suit could have been brown or black—and he had two very dark brown suits hanging in his closet.
Francesca thought she heard a noise on the stairs and she jumped. She quickly pushed closed the closet door and ran across the bedroom to the door, then peeked out.
Wilson was not standing there in the salon, staring accusingly at her.
She took a breath and exhaled. She had found nothing of value, she thought grimly. Then she corrected herself. Wilson did wear a gold ring.
And where had he been last night?
An idea struck her with stunning force.
Very quietly, making sure each step was soundless, Francesca went downstairs.
As she did so, their voices became louder.
Hart remained in the repair shop with Wilson, encouraging him to explain the intricacies of clockwork to him.
Good man, Francesca thought, and she fled down the hall and into the front shop.
There, she did not pause. She went outside, closed the door and rang the doorbell just once.
A moment passed and Wilson opened it. His pleasant smile vanished the moment he saw her.
But Francesca smiled at him.
He could hear the doorbell from his shop, oh yes, he could.
Wilson had lied.
Hart had left her at headquarters after gaining a promise from her that she would not leave Mulberry Street until Raoul had returned to take her wherever she chose.
His appointment with the ambassador was at half-past twelve, and with midday traffic, it could take him an hour to get to Bridge Street.
Francesca had wished him a successful interview and had proceeded upstairs to Bragg’s office.
Unfortunately, she found him with the chief of police, Brendan Farr.
She hesitated in the open doorway, the strangest feeling of dread instantly forming in her chest. Both men were seated, and Bragg was the first to see her. He stood with a smile. “Come in.”
Farr turned and also stood, his smile barely discernible and not reaching his cold gray eyes.
“I did not mean to interrupt,” Francesca said.
“You are not interrupting,” Bragg said firmly, leading her in. “Farr had Maggie look at the mug book this morning. She did not recognize anyone.”
Francesca stared at Farr and imagined him knocking at Maggie’s door with some of his bullies at an ungodly hour and forcing her to go to headquarters. “Was she late for work?” There was no way she could have been on time, as Maggie’s shift started at eight in the morning.
Farr smiled at her. “We have a murder to solve, Miz Cahill. Two murders, actually.”
“I hope her supervisor was understanding.” Francesca heard how cool her own tone was.
Farr’s smile never moved. “Mrs. Kennedy seems smart enough. I imagine she’s taken care of herself all these years, with no man to look after her and not even you, and she can do so now.”
Francesca decided to ignore him, making a mental note to make certain that Maggie had not been dismissed for her tardiness. “When you have a moment, I’d like to speak to you.”
“We’re almost through. Why don’t you wait outside.” Bragg’s gaze met hers and it was calm, rock steady and oddly reassuring.
And Francesca was relieved. Whatever game Farr was playing, Bragg would figure it out and do what he had to do to take care of matters. Farr wasn’t half as intelligent as Rick, but she knew better than to underestimate him.
“I understand that Miz Cahill is working on the case,” Farr said flatly. “Do you have some information that would be useful to us?”
“I’m afraid I know nothing more than you.” She hesitated. “What are you going to do about Sam Wilson?”
Farr smiled. “He should be here at any moment. I sent two men to his shop to bring him downtown. Meanwhile, we are trying very hard to locate John Sullivan. He seems to have disappeared after not paying the rent at his last known address.”
“Well, you are the city’s finest. I am sure you will find him,” Francesca said.
Farr saluted her. “Anything else, C’mish?”
Bragg told him no, and a moment later they were alone.
He closed the door and faced her. “What have you learned?”
“Wilson gave me a false alibi. We saw him this morning, an hour ago, really, and he claimed to have been in his repair shop last night.” Francesca then proceeded to tell him what had happened.
“That was clever,” Bragg said. “What do you think?”
“In spite of Kate’s belief that the Slasher is a gentleman and a foreign one, he could be our man.” She frowned. “It’s just that there is something off about him.”
He accepted that. Then, “It was the Slasher last night. Same knife, same dull blade, a right-handed assault.”
“Does the coroner have any idea if she was cut after she died or not?”
“No. He shed no clues on the sequence of the assault. But he found some dark gray thread under Kate’s nails.”
“Kate insisted the Slasher wore a dark gray suit. Charcoal, to be exact.”
Bragg nodded. “I know.”
Francesca suddenly sat down. “Poor Kate—and poor Francis, if Wilson is our man!”
“We need to locate John Sullivan, even if he is only a carpenter and not a gentleman.”
“Yes, we do. Have you spoken with David Hanrahan?”
“Yes. He has a rather solid alibi—he was drinking with two pals at a waterfront bar last night. Both men have corroborated his story. However, they are highly disreputable types, and I personally believe he could have conned or bribed them into saying anything he wished.”
“What you are saying is that David remains a suspect,” Francesca said.
“Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Yes, but I can’t shake the feeling, Bragg, that the Slasher is a gentleman, in a hat and a dark gray suit with an elegant gold ring.”
“Wilson isn’t elegant.”
“No, he isn’t, but he is hiding something, I would bet a small fortune on it.”
“Hart’s?” He actually joked.
“Hmm. He might not appreciate that. Besides, apparently his fortune is rather large. How are you, anyway?”
He hesitated. “Would you call on Leigh Anne?”
“Yes, of course. I said I would and I should love to do so.” She stood. “Is she having a difficult time?”
“Yes, an extremely difficult time. And I feel helpless. I can’t reassure her—I don’t know how.”
“Just tell her that you love her, that you always have and always will,” Francesca said softly.
He made a sound of disgust. “That is easy for you to say!”
“But if it is how you feel—”
“I don’t know how I feel anymore and I am tired of trying to decide what, exactly, I am feeling,” he cried.
She started in real surprise.
“I’m sorry,” he apologized instantly. “That was uncalled for.”
“I’ll visit tomorrow,” Francesca said, touching him lightly.
He smiled at her. “Thank you.”
Francesca smiled back. She took his hand and squeezed it.
A police officer that she did not recognize poked his head in. “C’mish, sir! Newman sent me—we got a lead.” His eyes were huge and he was flushed with excitement.
Francesca dropped her hand. Bragg said, “What is it?”
“We found Sullivan. But there’s a problem.” He took a breath. “He’s dead.”