Part 8 (1/2)

He smiled at her. ”Darling, if you adopt a stray for every case you investigate, we really will need to turn my home into a hotel.”

”Just agree, please,” she said.

”Of course I agree.” He was reflective. ”I know an Irishman named Randolph. He comes from a very old, well-established family and he shares a s.h.i.+pping venture with an English cousin.

We met in Istanbul and renewed our acquaintance in London. Of course, even though he isheir to an Irish earldom, I doubt he was Gwen O'Neil's employer.” ”That would be an amazing coincidence,” Francesca said as she rang the doorbell. ”Was.h.i.+s home near Limerick?” ”I really don't know. I know he had a manor somewhere in Ireland, but as I said, he also kepta home in London and that is where we met the second time.” He added, ”He was actually ahandsome fellow, but his reputation was rather dour.” Before Francesca could ask him what he meant, the door was opened and Sam Wilsonstood there. He started at the sight of them. ”h.e.l.lo,” Francesca said brightly. ”May we come in?” ”Yes, of course, although it is very early,” Wilson said, stepping aside with a smile. Heseemed bewildered by their presence. ”It's well past nine,” Hart said as they followed him into the shop. ”What time do you open?” ”If a customer knocks-I thought you were customers-I will accommodate him or her. Butotherwise, we open our doors at noon.” He paused by the display counter. ”I use the morningto work on repairs in the back.” Francesca studied him closely. He could be considered tall by someone as small as Kate,but he wasn't particularly so. He certainly wasn't Irish, but then, they did not know that theman Maggie had met on the street was the killer-she might have b.u.mped into an innocentpa.s.serby. She looked at his hands and was surprised that today he wore a ring on his lefthand. If the killer were right-handed, he had worn the ring on his left hand, too. She stared. The ring was gold but there was no stone. The center had a flat smooth surfacewith some engraving upon it Witnesses and victims often mistook, and sometimes wildly,the details of the crime. Francesca wondered if his ring, at night, in a shadowy flat, mightlook as if it had a stone in it. She wondered how she could get into his closet and look at his clothes. ”We actually stopped by last night,” Hart said, giving her an odd look. Clearly he hadexpected her to do the questioning. They had decided not to tell Wilson that the police hadtried to round him up. They would proceed very quietly, without putting him on the defensive. She tried to signal her discovery to him by glancing pointedly at Wilson's hand and morespecifically at his ring. But Hart appeared exasperated-he did not understand. ”Last night? You stopped by my shop last night?” Wilson seemed very surprised. And he didnot comment on the fact that he had not been at home. Francesca stepped forward. ”I recalled some questions I wished to ask you,” she said. Shehadn'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 athome.” He blinked. His expression did not change. ”Of course I was at home,” he said after an oddpause. ”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 hishome last night. ”I was working in my shop,” he said, turning pale. ”I was engrossed-I undoubtedly did nothear you at the front door.” That was a lie if Francesca had ever heard one. ”May we see your repair shop? Perhapsyou could show us what you were working on.” He stiffened. ”What is this about? Why are you asking me questions about last night? Isimply did not hear the door.” ”Please humor my fiancee,” Hart said with a very serious expression. Wilson clearly thought about throwing them out. Then, as clearly, he decided not to goagainst 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 a.s.sortment 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 a.s.sumed, 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 pa.s.sed 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 amba.s.sador 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 Fair.

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.”

Fair 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 unG.o.dly 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 s.h.i.+ft 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.

Fair'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 rea.s.suring.

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?”