Chapter 22
After midnight
“What do you think?” Francesca asked.
They were alone in Hart’s coach, sharing the back seat, as it raced uptown through mostly empty streets. He faced her, his posture relaxed. His expression, although shadowed in the dimly lit interior, was pensive. “I think Randolph might be our man.”
“I am inclined to agree,” she whispered, feeling terrible for Gwen and her daughter. “And Sullivan?”
“The Slasher wanted to mislead us,” Hart said. “He murdered Sullivan to make us think Sullivan committed suicide after killing his wife.”
Francesca thought so, too. “It is so extreme for a man like Randolph, a man reputed to be reclusive and to have never recovered from the death of his family, to have an affair with his housemaid and then follow her to America.” Impulsively, she reached for his hand.
His gaze flew to hers.
She suddenly recalled their terrible argument of just a few hours ago and she released his palm. But she did not look away.
He met her stare.
With real trepidation, she said, “Are you still angry?”
His jaw was tight. “I am not all that happy.”
She nodded and bit her lip, looking away.
He took her hand and held it.
“How did we come to be in this dark place, Calder?”
“I don’t know.” But he pulled her closer and kissed her forehead. Then their gazes met. “I’ll take you to Kate’s funeral tomorrow,” he said.
She nodded, that terribly familiar knot of dread congealed now in her chest.
The entire ward, it seemed, had turned out for Kate Sullivan’s funeral, along with most of the press.
The church was two centuries old, small, square and hewn out of rough stone.
As Hart’s coach paused alongside a more modest carriage, just in front of the two wide gray steps, Francesca glanced in real surprise at the crowd outside.
The funeral guests were mostly Kate’s friends and peers and were clad in their Sunday best. Francesca watched various couples hurrying inside, some with children in hand.
Her gaze veered. She instantly recognized a group of newsmen who had congregated near the church’s front steps but had yet to go up.
These men wore shabby suits and derbies or felt caps, and carried pads in their hands.
In their midst was Chief Farr. Apparently he was giving an interview.
“Shall we?” Hart asked in her ear.
She could barely take her eyes from Farr, wishing she could hear what he had to say. And she did not see Bragg anywhere yet. She nodded at Hart.
Maggie was with them, somberly clad in dark gray, and he helped her down to the street first. As Francesca stepped out, Farr looked in her direction and from a relatively short distance, their gazes met. He smiled at her, but no warmth reached his cold gray eyes.
She quickly turned away; Hart steadied her. She looked up at him. “What do you think he is up to?”
“I think he might merely wish to steal the limelight,” Hart said in a low voice.
“I think he wants to discredit Rick, in the hope of toppling him,” Francesca said harshly.
As she spoke, she saw the Daimler cruising slowly up the block, toward them.
She was relieved that he was present. She did not like Farr’s usurpation of authority.
And now Farr left the group of newsman, as if he did not wish to be caught speaking with them by his boss.
“Miss Cahill!” one of them cried.
She espied David Hanrahan coming up the block, alone, and seized Hart’s sleeve. Hanrahan was wearing a dark suit, but the jacket was a size too large on his lean frame and the trousers were too short. “He is wearing a dark suit,” she murmured, “but no one would ever mistake him for a gentleman.”
“Darling, everyone is wearing a dark suit—we are at a funeral.”
She continued to stare. “Hanrahan has a very strong motive to hate Gwen and other women like her, just like Lord Randolph. And he has not a single alibi for any of the murders in question—Hart, I am taking him off my list of suspects!”
Hart gazed at her with some amusement. “Is that wise, darling?”
“I feel very strongly that he is not our man,” she said. “I am operating by instinct alone.”
“I happen to have some of that feeling, too,” he returned.
“Miss Cahill! How are you?” It was Isaacson, from the Tribune peering eagerly at her. “Rumor has it that the Slasher is a gentleman. Is that true? And last night the police took one Harry de Warenne, Lord Randolph, in for questioning!”
Francesca heard Isaacson, but she did not reply.
Down the block, Francis O’Leary and Sam Wilson were approaching, arm in arm, and also in their finest clothes.
From this distance, Wilson had the appearance of a fine gentleman, as well, and no one would ever suspect he was a clockmaker.
She gave Hart a pointed look and quickly answered Isaacson.
“We have some reason to believe that the Slasher is a gentleman, but until he is caught, I am afraid we are not one hundred percent certain.”
“Is Lord Randolph a suspect?” Arthur Kurland asked, stepping out from behind several of his colleagues. “I understand that he comes from quite a fine family in both Britain and Ireland.”
She felt her smile vanish. Hart squeezed her hand in warning. “No, Mr. Kurland,” she said. “I am afraid that was a dead end.”
Kurland smiled at her. “Speak of the devil,” he said. “I guess I’ll just go talk to him myself.”
Francesca whirled as Randolph alighted from a hansom, his ivory-tipped walking stick in hand. “What is he doing here?” she cried.
“Paying his respects, I would assume,” Hart said, his voice low.
“He doesn’t know Kate Sullivan—or that is what he said.” Francesca whispered back, unable to tear her gaze from him.
“Perhaps he has other motives,” Hart said with a nod, indicating that she should glance across the street.
There, on the east side of the avenue, Gwen O’Neil and Bridget were hurrying down that block, hand in hand, clearly in a rush. “Are we missing anyone?” Francesca asked. The turnout was an incredible one.
“I don’t think so,” Hart began as another hansom pulled up. And then he stiffened, sheer disbelief crossing his face.
Instantly she became uneasy. From where she stood, a dozen feet from the curb, Francesca glanced warily into the hansom. She froze.
Daisy Jones was seated there.
Francesca stared, real dread unfurling. Her heart skipped hard and then raced wildly. Someone was with her. It was her lover, Rose, a tall, dark, exotic woman of European descent who was now calmly paying the driver.
Francesca took Hart’s arm and pulled him away, toward the front steps of the church. From the corner of her eye, she watched both women alight, her mind racing at lightning speed. What were they doing here? Somehow, she knew this was about her and Calder and not the woman being buried that day.
Then instinct made her glance in the opposite direction, for she knew more trouble was in the making, and sure enough, she saw Kurland conversing with Randolph.
And then she thought she saw something else of high significance and she whirled around.
Yes, she was correct. David Hanrahan stood on the top step of the church, staring at Randolph with utter hatred.
She gripped Hart hard. “I have a very bad feeling about this day,” she said breathlessly.
“I will make certain that she leaves,” Hart said tightly, his gaze on Daisy.
Francesca finally focused on him and saw that he was very angry.
“No.” She tried to smile at him, but she wanted to know why the sight of Daisy had sent him into a temper.
His eyes were black, his face a dark mask.
He wasn’t looking at the woman who had briefly been his mistress now, but she could feel his tension.
Her mind raced. Why had Daisy gone to his office the other day?
Had she thought to seduce him away from his fiancée, or back into an illicit liaison in spite of his engagement and his vows?
She smiled more brightly at him. “Daisy is undeniably kind. If she wishes to attend Kate’s funeral, it is her right. ” She did not believe a word she said.
He looked at her in disbelief. “She is not kind unless it suits her to be so. The press are here, Francesca.”
She had an awful inkling. She slowly glanced at Kurland, who was smiling widely at her and Hart. “Does he know? Does he know she was your mistress?”
“Can you think of another reason for him to be smirking? Fortunately he does not write a social column,” Hart said grimly.
Francesca did not want him to chase Daisy away.
She wanted to confront her and find out exactly what the woman wanted from Hart.
“Calder, please don’t make a scene. She’s here and Kurland has seen her.
Everyone has seen her. Besides, we both know the truth—that she isn’t your mistress anymore.
” She tried to smile at him. But it was hard not to feel humiliated.
She could imagine what everyone was thinking, and that was exactly what her own father chose to think, too.
“You have one good point—a scene will only make things worse. I suggest we go inside, as it seems almost everyone has arrived.” The sidewalk had become far less populated, with most of the funeral guests going in to take their seats.