Part 13 (2/2)

But Francesca was on her way out. ”Don't worry, I have Joel, Raoul-and I have a gun.”

Connie cried, ”Now I am really worried!”

She paced, feeling terribly alone.

It was a pleasant spring day, the sun warm and bright, the sky blue, the overhead clouds puffy and white. If Bragg had come, she could not tell, as there was no sign of him or any detectives anywhere in sight. Joel was a bit farther down the block, begging for coins and in general, appearing absolutely unremarkable. Hart had arrived by a cab, and he had disappeared into the hotel, looking madder than h.e.l.l, but he had, somehow, refrained from even looking at her once. Francesca wished his temper was not so easily ignited but she would worry about mending that fence later.

Traffic was heavy in front of the hotel, with many hansoms and coaches pausing before the gold-and-cream-colored canvas canopy to discharge the various gentlemen arriving for lunch, as well as pairs of handsomely attired ladies, mostly middle-aged matrons.

Francesca loitered by the lamppost, just a few steps from the hotel's entrance, watching every pa.s.serby and every hotel guest. No one bothered to look her way, other than the occasional single gentleman who hoped for some sign of interest from her. Of course, she gave none.

She paced, dismayed. Today was Monday and even though the Slasher had broken the pattern by murdering Kate Sullivan Thursday-and probably murdering her husband as well-Francesca felt certain that he would strike again that day. Every victim thus far had been female, poor and pretty. All had been Irish except for Margaret Cooper, but she had been Irish by descent on her mother's side. Everyone except for Margaret Cooper had attended Father Culhane's church- Margaret had been Baptist. Francesca could not help but go back to her original theory that Margaret had been a mistake- the killer had intended to strike at Gwen, but had mixed up his victims.

If that were the case, would he strike at Gwen again? But Gwen had police protection-and that would keep her safe.

Francesca tensed, an alarm going off inside of her mind, one warning her now that she had just missed an important clue. She felt strongly that Margaret had been mistaken for Gwen, but Gwen was now safe. So what was she missing?

In frustration, she paced. Francesca did not feel like going over the list of suspects in her head, but she did. She knew she should not dismiss David Hanrahan as a suspect. He hated his wife, who had betrayed and left him, and he had the motive to start killing women like her. And he had not one alibi for any of the murders or attacks. Not only did he not have a single alibi, he had been in the country-in the city-when the Slasher had first struck.

How easily he could be the killer. Francesca simply felt certain he was not their man. Their man was a real gentleman-and he was clever, oh yes. She would bet her life that Hanrahan was not their man.

Which led her right to Harry de Warenne. Lord Randolph she could not dismiss-like her

husband, he had followed Gwen, his lover, to America and that was more than extreme. He was an Irish Protestant landlord, she was a housemaid and she had jilted him. Surely he felt betrayed. But was he insane? Insane enough to act out his grief, rage and frustration on a series of women who reminded him of Gwen? And if he was their man, would he eventually go after Gwen? Yet how could he? Gwen was being guarded night and day by the police. Francesca knew she was missing something-and it screamed at her now. Francesca paused besides the tall iron lamppost once again, this time hardly seeing the group of chattering ladies entering the hotel. She rubbed her temples, turning her thoughts away from Gwen. It was indeed striking that Kate had come from a genteel background, that her family had disowned her, that her brother had come to her funeral, but not to grieve, and that he was a gentleman with a rock-solid alibi for every attack and every murder in question. Frank Pierson could certainly be the killer, she thought. He remained at odds with his sister for what she had done, and even now, with Kate dead and buried, he was not forgiving her, oh no. Finally, there was Sam Wilson. He had no motive that Francesca could discern, but he also had no alibi for any of the nights in question-and he had let Francis lie for him to create an alibi for last Thursday, too. Francesca rubbed her temples. The killer had to be one of the three gentlemen. But which one? And who had sent her that note? And what, dear G.o.d, was she missing? She glanced around, a very strong image of Kate's funeral coming to mind. It did not seem that the person who had sent the note was coming after all-surely she had been waiting for a full half an hour. Hart had said it was a trap, but he had been wrong. It was a diversion. She tensed. Her mind was seared with images of the funeral now. Everyone had been there. She and Hart, Bragg and Farr, Francis and Sam, Gwen and her daughter, both David Hanrahan and Lord Randolph, Kate's brother and Maggie. The images and faces tumbled through her mind until they were spinning and blurred. Father Culhane stood at the pulpit, giving his emotional eulogy, his blue eyes brilliant with pa.s.sion and righteous anger. Everyone had been at Kate's funeral. Every victim, except for Margaret, had attended Culhane's church. They had all been in his parish. If her theory were correct, Margaret was a mistake. Francesca shook her head hard as if to clear it. But she could not. Father Culhane knew each and every victim. He knew each and every victim well. Her heart began to race. She tried to tell herself to slow down, but now, she thought about how tall he was, that he came from a fine old Irish family, and he had remarkable blue eyes- eyes that blazed, eyes that were brilliant, remarkable blue eyes-eyes a woman would not forget, not even if she b.u.mped into him a single time by chance on the street. Her mind raced. Everyone had police protection now-so the killer could not go after Gwen. Everyone except for Maggie. Maggie, who also belonged to Culhane's parish. And she reeled. If the Slasher was Culhane, if he thought to strike again, today, Maggie was the perfect victim, never mind that she was at Hart's. Praying she was wrong, Francesca rushed into the street, waving wildly at Raoul, who was atop the driver's seat of Hart's coach, farther down the block. He saw her and released the brakes, lifting the reins, driving the team of black Andalusians forward. Hart stepped out of the hotel lobby and Bragg appeared at a side entrance. As they rushed to her, she cried, ”I think it's Culhane, I think Father Culhane is the killer and I am afraid he will go after Maggie next!”

”But I'm tired,” Mathew complained, yawning comically.

Maggie bent over him, shaking her head. ”Just pretend that this is the schoolroom. You needto finish spelling out the rest of the words I gave you. As soon as you are done, we will go tothe kitchen and have lunch.” Mathew scowled but picked up his pencil and began laboriously writing. Maggie walked over to Paddy, who was reading a picture book on the floor, Lizzie besidehim, drawing with colored crayons. She bent and smiled. ”What a pretty picture, Lizzie,” shesaid, but she was distinctly aware that her smile was forced. It was terribly heavy and brittle,and it almost hurt to form the expression. But then, her chest was aching so. Maybe she wasconfusing her feelings; maybe it wasn't the smile that hurt her so, but her heart. She refused to think about Evan Cahill now. The beautiful countess was having his child andthey would soon be married and she wished them a lifetime of joy and happiness. It was awonderful match. She felt ill. She straightened, closing her eyes. How could she have been so foolish as to fall in lovewith a man so far above her station in life, a man she could never have and only dreamabout? She touched her lips, unable to forget the feel of his mouth, his hands and his body when hehad kissed her that one single time. ”Mrs. Kennedy? You have a caller,” Alfred said, standing in the doorway of the salon. Maggie started, wiping a stray tear from her cheek, and for one incredibly foolish moment,hope soared. Evan had returned. She smiled at her children, aware of her heart racing. ”I will be right back,” she said.”Mathew, keep an eye on Paddy and Lizzie, please.” She followed Alfred into the hall, her low heels clicking on Hart's white-and-gold marblefloors, and down the corridor, pa.s.sing numerous oil paintings, watercolors, sculptures andbusts. The front hall was the size of a ballroom and it wasn't until she was halfway across theexpanse that she realized whom her caller was. She faltered, surprised and thendisappointed. ”Father?” Father Culhane turned. ”h.e.l.lo, Mrs. Kennedy.” She smiled at him, bewildered. ”What a pleasant surprise.” ”You seemed very upset yesterday at Kate's funeral,” he said softly. His gaze held hers. ”Ihad heard you had moved in with Mr. Hart and I wanted to inquire after you.” That was very kind of him, she thought. ”How could I not be upset? Poor Kate,” shewhispered. He held out his arm. ”Shall we stroll in the gardens?” he asked, smiling. She nodded and took his arm.

He stood on the threshold of Hart's huge mansion, tugging nervously at his collar. There was no reason for him to be there, none, except for the most disturbing pair of blue eyes he had ever seen and could not forget. In the end, it was those eyes- Maggie's eyes-that had stopped him from walking into Jack's.

Hart's door suddenly opened.

Evan yanked down on his jacket.

”Mr. Cahill,” Alfred intoned. ”Good day, sir,” he said, stepping aside so Evan could enter.

He did, finding it hard to breathe. He realized he was as nervous as a schoolboy thinking about how to steal his very first kiss. He closed his eyes, trembling. He should have never kissed Maggie Kennedy-it had been a terrible mistake. Ever since that foolish act, he had done nothing but think about it-about her.

And he d.a.m.n well knew he should not be calling now.

”Mr. Cahill, sir?”

Alfred cut into his indecision and he smiled grimly at the butler. ”Is Mrs. Kennedy in?”

”She is walking in the gardens with Father Culhane,” Alfred said.

It was such a pleasant day. Maggie tucked her hands beneath her arms, a shawl about her

shoulders, trying to enjoy the blooming gardens. Father Culhane walked with her, respecting her need for silence.

She paused and summoned up a smile. ”I appreciate your concern, Father, but I am fine, really.”

”You look terribly sad,” he said seriously. His gaze searched hers. ”You haven't been to confession in months, Mrs. Kennedy. I am very surprised.” He was reproving.

She flushed. ”I'll come soon,” she whispered, but she didn't mean it. She didn't want anyone, not even a priest, to know that she had lost her heart to some society rake. Except Evan wasn't the rake he was made out to be; he was the kindest, most sincere and gentle man she had ever met.

”I hope so, Maggie,” the priest said.

She looked up at him, startled by his use of her given name.

He smiled at her-oddly.

And she became alarmed. ”Is something wrong?” she asked hesitantly.

”Why don't you tell me?”

She was suddenly nervous and wanted to end the encounter. ”I am distraught over the murders,” she said unsteadily. Then, s.h.i.+vering, she continued, ”It's cold. I think we should go back inside.” She turned.

He seized her before she could go. ”Why don't you tell me about him?”

She gaped. ”What?”

”The gentleman you allow into your flat. The one I keep seeing you with.” And his eyes blazed.

And she felt him smile, his mouth against her cheek.

Chapter 26.

Monday, April 28, 1902.

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