Chapter 21 #4
Randolph shot to his feet. “But what about the others? How would they be connected to her? And there is only one person endangering Gwen’s life—David Hanrahan,” he ground out.
“How long were you involved with Mrs. Hanrahan?” Hart interposed calmly.
He was red with anger. “I fail to see how this is anyone’s business but my own.”
Bragg had stepped briskly into the room. If he was surprised to see Hart there, he gave no sign. “Lord Randolph, I am Commissioner Bragg. Unfortunately, with a killer on the loose, you have no choice but to answer our questions.”
Still crimson, Randolph said, “Six months.”
“You knew her for six months or you had an affair with her for six months?” Francesca asked.
“I knew her for a year and a half,” he said tersely.
“So you were lovers for six months,” Francesca said.
“I fail to see the point of this line of inquiry,” he cried.
Francesca thought about the fact that he had known Gwen for an entire year before he had seduced her.
“Where were you last Thursday evening, Lord Randolph?” Bragg asked, cutting to the chase.
Randolph started and then glanced at Francesca and Hart. “They know where I was. I was at the Montrose affair. I beg your pardon, but why are you asking me this?”
“You arrived late,” Francesca pointed out. “You arrived sometime after 9:00 p.m., perhaps even at half past nine. The affair started at seven. Where were you before you arrived at my sister’s house?”
His gaze widened. “I was in my rooms at the hotel,” he said.
Francesca stiffened, glancing at Hart and then Bragg. “Alone?”
“Yes, alone. I was planning to dine in my rooms—as I usually do—and then I decided to go to your sister’s affair.” He glanced from Francesca to Bragg and then to Hart. “What difference does it make?”
Francesca stood up, thinking about the fact that he had no alibi for the time of Kate Sullivan’s murder.
Bragg stepped forward and leaned on the table. “Did you know Kate Sullivan, Lord Randolph?”
His eyes widened. “No. Who is Kate Sullivan?”
Francesca turned. “Kate Sullivan was murdered by the Slasher Thursday night, between 6:00 and 9:00 p.m.”
He paled and then he was on his feet. “You think I am the Slasher?” he cried.
“No one is accusing you of anything,” Bragg said.
“Why have you come to New York? Hart told me you usually have your assistants handle your overseas affairs,” Francesca said.
He stared at her, his brilliant blue eyes wide. “Certain matters needed my personal attention,” he said after a pause.
“What matters?” she shot back. “Gwen?”
He flushed.
“Are you in love with her?” Francesca asked. “Who ended the affair? Did you approve of her coming to America?”
He remained sheet-white. He finally said, “Her husband found out. There was no choice but to end the liaison.” He hesitated and added, “I had no idea she would leave Ireland. It all happened so quickly.”
“Is Gwen Hanrahan the reason you came to New York City?” Francesca pressed.
He briefly closed his eyes. Then he opened them. “Yes.”
She inhaled, hard. “And what day did you arrive here, precisely?”
His blue gaze never wavered. “I arrived here March 31,” he said.
Francesca felt the air leave her lungs in a rush. He had arrived in the city the week before the Slasher had begun his deadly work. And he had come to the city because of Gwen.
“Where were you Monday evening, April 7?” she heard Bragg ask, referring to the night Francis O’Leary had been attacked.
“I’d have to check my calendar,” he said flatly. “But I would imagine I was dining alone in my hotel room.”
Francesca paced restlessly in Bragg’s office. Her mind raced and her temples throbbed. It was very possible, she thought, that they had the Slasher in custody. She turned to face Hart.
He stood at the window, looking down on Mulberry Street, which was extremely busy even at this late hour, most of the pedestrians drunk and many on the arms of prostitutes. Sensing her gaze, he glanced at her.
“He followed Gwen here. An Irish nobleman, a recluse with a reputation for being dour, followed his lover across an entire ocean—his lover, who fits the profile of the Slasher’s victims perfectly,” she said.
Bragg walked inside before she had finished her thoughts.
“Well?” she cried. “He doesn’t seem to have a single alibi for any of the nights in question.”
“No, he doesn’t. And I find it odd that a man like Randolph would not be clever enough to have some very solid alibis,” Bragg said. “But frankly, if he has an obsession for her, I cannot comprehend it.”
Hart murmured, “An obsession is not rational.”
“Neither is stalking and slashing and murdering a certain type of woman,” Francesca said tersely. “That is psychotic.”
Bragg faced Francesca. “I am releasing him.”
“What?” She was shocked. Randolph was clearly obsessed and he could very well be their killer. But did he wish to harm Gwen, or just other women who were like her?
“I am releasing him with a tail. He has also agreed to hand over his calendar and I have sent an officer back to his hotel with him to retrieve it.”
Francesca ran to Bragg. “It is Saturday! It’s almost midnight.
In a little more than twenty-four hours it will be Monday!
Is that what you are thinking? That even though the Slasher chose to kill Kate Sullivan on Thursday, he could strike again on Monday as he has on the three previous weeks? And we will catch him in the act?”
“The Slasher will strike again, but frankly, I cannot hazard any guess as to when that will be. Except I fear it will be soon,” Bragg said, his gaze riveted to her face. “If Randolph is our man, he will be caught red-handed. I have put a tail on David Hanrahan as well.”
She seized his arm. “If Randolph is our man, he might be planning to go after Gwen this time. I cannot decide if she is his real target or he wishes to hurt any other woman he deems is like her! Bragg, can you give her police protection?”
“Of course,” he said. “And Francis O’Leary as well.”
She was vastly relieved.
“Sir?” Newman knocked as he poked his head into the office. “I just got the report from Heinreich,” he said. “An’ Chief Farr isn’t in, so he hasn’t seen it yet.”
Bragg waved him in and took the pages from the rotund detective. He glanced at them and then looked up. He was scowling.
“What is it?” Francesca asked in alarm.
“Sullivan wasn’t a suicide,” Bragg said.