Chapter 13 #4
The door to the conference room was open.
Obviously Bragg wanted to appear casual and relaxed with the family.
He and Newman sat facing the judge, who seemed to have aged a decade since the other day, and his wife, who was a small, pale, blond woman that reminded Francesca of a delicate bird.
She clutched a linen handkerchief in her hand and frequently used it to dab at her eyes.
Francesca saw that Daisy had resembled her somewhat, and she had certainly inherited her slender frame from her, but she doubted Martha Gillespie had ever been as beautiful as her oldest daughter.
She turned to Daisy’s sister and studied her without anyone remarking her presence yet.
Lydia, Francesca had learned, was two years younger than Daisy.
She had hair that was neither brown nor blond, even, unremarkable features, and a much darker skin tone than her sister.
In fact, other than her eyes, which even from this distance she could tell were a pale blue, Francesca saw no resemblance between the two sisters.
She wondered at their friendship, then. She knew how difficult it could be growing up with a sibling who was remarkable in any particular way—in this case, being so beautiful.
She wondered if Lydia had been jealous of her sister.
Lydia sat rigidly beside her mother, her hands clasped on the table in front of her. Like both of her parents, she seemed very upset.
Bragg noticed her and stood. “Francesca, come in. The judge and his family arrived very early this morning. They just came in to see me.”
Francesca smiled at him and Newman, and then at the judge. “Good morning, Judge. Thank you for coming—and thank you for bringing Mrs. Gillespie and your daughter.”
He also stood. “Martha, this is the young lady I told you about, the very remarkable sleuth.”
Martha nodded tearfully. “I still can’t believe it. I can’t believe Honora is dead.”
Francesca glanced at Lydia, who did not move. She looked as if she wished to cry, but she did not. “I am very sorry,” Francesca said. “Daisy was liked by everyone and she did not deserve her fate.”
Martha Gillespie shook her head. “How is it possible? How is it possible that she gave up the life she had with us to become what she had? Please tell me, Miss Cahill, because I don’t understand.”
“I don’t know, but I should like to find out,” Francesca said softly.
The judge muttered, “I had to tell them. I told them on the train last night.”
Francesca wished she had been the one to break the news, so she could have gauged both Martha’s and Lydia’s reactions. But Daisy’s mother certainly seemed grief-stricken and shocked.
Bragg said, “The judge just gave his statement. It is brief and exactly as you described.”
Francesca understood. He claimed to have no knowledge of Honora’s whereabouts, until Francesca had appeared in Albany yesterday. She said, “Let’s go back to Honora, the fifteen-year-old daughter. Mrs. Gillespie? Were you close to your daughter?”
Martha nodded. “Of course I was. I adored Honora. She was so beautiful and sweet.”
Francesca was skeptical. If her home life had been so happy, why had Daisy left? “And there were family outings? Picnics, ice skating? Family vacations, family gatherings? Supper at home, at least on Sundays?”
Martha looked perplexed. “We went to church every Sunday. We are Baptist. But my husband works very long, hard hours, and when he is not working, we have social obligations. And no one in my family cares for picnics,” she added.
A picture was emerging, Francesca thought. “So you and the judge went out almost every night.”
“If not, he would work in his study, dining there alone,” Martha said.
“I take each and every case very seriously,” Gillespie said harshly. “What is this about?”
Francesca just smiled reassuringly at him. “Did you take Honora shopping?”
Martha was taken aback. “We had a modiste come to the house to make both of the girls’ wardrobes.” She started to cry. “It feels like only yesterday. How could she be gone—and this way!”
Lydia said softly, “Honora liked horses.”
Francesca turned her attention to Daisy’s somber sister. “She did?”
“Yes. We would ride through the fields almost every day, in the afternoon.” Lydia held her gaze. “And sometimes we took lunch. Sometimes we shared a picnic.”
Francesca sat down beside her. Lydia’s message was clear. Her sister had liked picnics, but their mother had not known. “Do you know why she ran away? Had she become unhappy before she left?” she asked softly, speaking only to Lydia now.
Lydia glanced at her parents. “I don’t know why she left.” A tear fell. “I don’t know if she was unhappy.”
“Were you close?” Francesca asked gently. If the two girls had spent so little time with their parents, if they had ridden together every day, she suspected they had been good friends.
Lydia nodded; and another tear fell.
“Perhaps there was a boy, a young man that she liked?”
“There were no boys,” Lydia said hoarsely. “I wish she were here!”
Francesca glanced at Bragg. He said, “Did she tell you that she was going to run away, Lydia?”
“No!” Lydia was both adamant and aghast at the thought, and Francesca believed her.
Bragg turned to Martha. “Did you have any idea that your daughter was unhappy enough to leave home?”
Martha was pale. “No, of course not.”
Gillespie said, his cheeks pink, “She was a very happy young lady, sir.”
Francesca had the oddest sense that the Gillespies were not being entirely honest with her. “Happy young ladies do not run away from home, Your Honor.”
Gillespie jumped to his feet. “How dare you! What does any of this have to do with my daughter’s murder?”
Francesca turned to Lydia. “Did she write you, Lydia? Did she tell you where she was after she had left? Did you know that she was here in the city?”
Lydia hugged herself, her gaze downcast. “No.”
Francesca knew a lie when she saw one. Lydia had either heard from her sister or had known where her sister was. “You have missed her, haven’t you?”
Lydia nodded, closing her eyes briefly. “She was my sister. I loved her.”
Francesca allowed that statement to resonate. She and Bragg shared a look and he spoke.
“Judge Gillespie. Did you know Honora had become Daisy Jones? Did you know she was in New York City before Miss Cahill spoke with you?”
The judge stood, his chair rocking back loudly. “Of course not! What are you insinuating? That I knew where my daughter was for all of this time? That I knew the life she had chosen, what she had become, and I did nothing to bring her home? Sir, I protest.”
Francesca inhaled, and beside her, she felt Bragg’s tension, too. After a moment, quietly, he said, “I apologize, but it was a question I had to ask. And it is a question I must ask your wife, as well.”
Martha stared, horrified. “No,” she whispered. “I did not know. Richard told me yesterday, when he told us Honora was dead.”
Bragg nodded. “We may have more questions for you, but we are done for now. I would like to ask you to stay in the city for a few days, in case we have a new lead.”
“Are you going to find Honora’s killer?” the judge demanded.
“We will find him,” Bragg said softly. “Have no fear of that.”
“Is it true that you have detained a suspect? I glimpsed a headline on my way over here, but I have yet to read the paper,” Gillespie said.
Francesca grew still.
“We have not made an arrest, and I am not convinced the suspect in custody is the guilty party,” Bragg said.
Francesca faced him. What did he mean, the suspect in custody? Hart had been released, hadn’t he?
“Who is he?” Gillespie demanded.
Bragg hesitated. “His name is Calder Hart. He had kept Daisy as his mistress for a brief time in February,” he said carefully.
“I know that name,” the judge cried. “He’s a wealthy man, here in the city.”
“He’s my brother, sir,” Bragg said, stunning Francesca.
The Gillespies cried out in shock.
“He is not the killer,” Francesca said firmly. “And the police will do their job.”
“This is rich! You have placed your own brother in custody for the murder of my daughter! What kind of investigation is this? Of course you claim he did not do it!” Gillespie stormed out. His wife and daughter followed.
But then, Lydia glanced back into the room—at Francesca. Her expression was odd. It was almost desperate, like some kind of plea. And then they were gone.
Bragg rubbed his jaw.
“That was very brave of you,” Francesca said. “What do you think?”
“It appears that the entire family is grieving and that no one has a clue as to why Daisy—I mean Honora—would leave home the way that she did,” Bragg said.
Francesca was impatient. “Rick, I still think Gillespie knew all about Daisy and her life here in the city. I cannot shake the feeling.”
“For once, I am not convinced that you are right.”
Francesca sighed. “Martha Gillespie may have been left in the dark. However, I also think Lydia had been in touch with her sister. Either that, or she somehow knew where she was.”
“On that point, you may be correct,” Bragg said.
Francesca fell silent, mulling over the case. Finally, she said, “What did you think of that look Lydia just gave me before they left? It seemed so hopeless—it almost seemed like a cry for help. What did that mean?”
“Yes, it was very hopeless. But that might be due to her grief.”
He could be right, Francesca thought. Her mind veered to Hart. “Rick, didn’t you release Hart? He wasn’t in the tank when I came in.”
Bragg did not reply. Her heart sank. “Rick?”
“I cannot treat him any differently than I would anyone else! Good God, Francesca, I have the Progressives in this city breathing down my neck, led by the clergy, and your father’s friends. And then there is the press.”
“What are you saying?”
He turned away. “He has been arrested for Daisy’s murder.”