Deadly Illusions (32 page)

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 forevery 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 God, 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 im ages 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 passion 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 bumped 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!”

 

“B
UT
I
'M TIRED,”
Mathew complained, yawning comically.

Maggie bent over him, shaking her head. “Just pretend that this is the schoolroom. You need to finish spelling out the rest of the words I gave you. As soon as you are done, we will go to the 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 beside him, drawing with colored crayons. She bent and smiled. “What a pretty picture, Lizzie,” she said, 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 was confusing 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 and they would soon be married and she wished them a lifetime of joy and happiness. It was a wonderful match. She felt ill.

She straightened, closing her eyes. How could she have been so foolish as to fall in love with a man so far above her station in life, a man she could never have and only dream about?

She touched her lips, unable to forget the feel of his mouth, his hands and his body when he had 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 marble floors, and down the corridor, passing numerous oil paintings, watercolors, sculptures and busts. The front hall was the size of a ballroom and it wasn't until she was halfway across the expanse that she realized whom her caller was. She faltered, surprised and then disappointed. “Father?”

Father Culhane turned. “Hello, 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. “I had 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,” she whispered.

He held out his arm. “Shall we stroll in the gardens?” he asked, smiling.

She nodded and took his arm.

 

H
E 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 damn 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.

 

I
T 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 gentleman 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, shivering, 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.

Monday, April 28, 1902 1:00 p.m.

T
HEY LEAPED FROM
Hart's coach and ran up the front steps to his home. They did not knock, but barged in, much to Alfred's shock. “Where is Mrs. Kennedy?” Francesca cried, standing be hind Hart and Bragg, Joel at her side.

Blinking, he said, “She is in the gardens, Miss Cahill, with Father Culhane and—”

Francesca cried out, following both men as they ran through the house and out the back doors. The moment they reached the terrace, she saw Maggie crumpled in the grass. Seized with fear, Francesca looked again and saw two men struggling on the lawn. With shock, she realized her brother was in the midst of a deadly struggle with Father Culhane. Dear God, she had been right!

Joel took off, racing to his mother and dropping down beside her.

Francesca ran to them, praying desperately that Maggie was all right. She dropped to her knees. Joel was weeping. Instantly she noted that Maggie was as white as a corpse. She then saw a thin red line on her throat—it was a scratch, nothing more. Francesca reached for her wrist to take her pulse as Joel cradled her face, tears falling down his cheeks.

Francesca found her pulse. It was strong and steady and relief overwhelmed her then. Just as she was about to tell Joel that his mother was fine, Maggie's eyes opened.

“Shh,” Francesca said. “Don't sit up quickly.”

But Maggie cried out, struggling to rise, her gaze on the deathly fight behind her. Francesca turned to see Evan landing a solid blow to Culhane's face. The priest's nose was shattered already, blood pouring from it, and now he staggered backward, crashing into the gazebo. Bragg leaped between the two men, grabbing Culhane and shoving him face first to the ground. He straddled him, cuffing him almost simultaneously. “You are under arrest,” he said flatly.

Hart had put his arm around Evan, as if to hold him up. “Are you all right?” he asked.

Evan did not answer. He shoved free, rushing over to where Francesca sat with Maggie and Joel. He knelt, almost pushing Francesca aside in his haste. “Are you hurt?” he cried. Blood trickled from his mouth, where his lower lip was split. He gripped Maggie's shoulders. “Are you hurt?” he repeated anxiously.

“I'm fine,” Maggie whispered, tears clouding her eyes. “But you're not…you're hurt.” She touched his mouth.

Francesca knew when she was an intruder and she slowly got to her feet, taking Joel's hand. There was no doubt now in her mind as to which way this wind was blowing. Then she gave in to her curiosity. She looked once more and saw Evan pull Maggie against his chest. He held her hard, his eyes closed, his expression one of anguish. For one moment, she could only stare. Joel was also staring—but with a smile.

Hart pulled Francesca to him and took her hand. They exchanged a long glance and then he said, “Will you ever heed my advice?”

She began to breathe more normally now. They had their killer and the case was almost closed. She smiled at him. “Your advice, yes. Your orders? I don't think so.”

He sighed, appearing equally annoyed and relieved, no easy task, indeed. Then he slid his arm around her. “This solves it, then,” he said. “We are marrying immediately, because I am not letting you run around this city by yourself, chasing killers like
Culhane. When I look in the mirror tonight, I will undoubtedly be gray.”

Francesca tried not to appear pleased. Keeping a straight face, she said, “There are only a few new white hairs at the temples, Calder, and it is really most attractive.”

Hart shook his head.

 

H
E WAS SO AFRAID.

Harry de Warenne paused in the dark, unlit corridor outside Gwen's door, acutely aware of his feelings and worse, his own vulnerability. But then, he had followed his lover across an entire ocean, unable to forget her. From the moment he had realized that he could not let Gwen go, he had begun to live in real, raw fear. He hesitated, filled with dread.

For he understood the complications and he knew the odds.

Justice did not walk hand in hand with fate.

And that terrified him.

He did not have to knock. The door swung open and Gwen stood there, her hair haphazardly pinned up, her eyes wide, her skin impossibly pale. “Harry?” she whispered.

He inhaled hard and tried to smile and knew he failed. “I hope I am not calling at an inopportune time,” he said.

“Of course not.” She was the one who managed a frail smile. “Come in, please.”

He walked inside, his heart beating hard, wondering how to say what he had crossed an entire ocean to say, afraid of her response. He turned. “Come home with me.” And he winced. That was not what he had come to say, or at least, not that way.

“Wh-what?”
she gasped.

He briefly closed his eyes. Then he opened them and found himself staring into Gwen's, vaguely aware of Bridget having come to stand behind her mother. “When Miranda and the boys died, I knew my life was over.” He could not form a smile. “But
I was wrong, because as much as I longed to die with them, I didn't. I continued to breathe, I continued to wake up day after day after day. I continued to eat, to sleep. But my world had changed. It was dark and gray.”

She reached for his hand, tears in her eyes. “I know. I know how much you love her, how much you miss them.”

“No, you don't know,” he cried. “One day, years later, I walked into my study at Adare and you were there, the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. My heart, which had stopped beating the day I lost my family, began to beat again. I was so afraid, Gwen, I was so afraid of you,” he said desperately, gripping her hands tightly now, afraid she would pull away.

She stared in shock. “You were afraid of
me?
”

He somehow nodded. His heart drummed. “I was afraid of betraying my wife, my children, with the feelings that began to grow inside me that very day. I was afraid of loving someone again as much as I had loved Miranda—I was afraid of losing that love again one day. I can't manage to lose that love another time, Gwen,” he said hoarsely. And he wondered if she understood.

“What are you saying?” she cried, tugging her hand free of his.

“I have come to America to ask you to be my wife,” he said simply.

She stared, her eyes as huge as saucers.

And he was sweating now. “I have done something rather unconscionable. I have bribed your husband into signing a statement claiming he is your close cousin, releasing you from your marriage. A part of that bribe required that he go to California, which he has done.” He nervously awaited her reaction; he could not seem to breathe.

But she was too stunned to speak.

“I have friends in high places,” he said urgently. “I can have your marriage annulled.”

She wet her lips. A tear fell. “Did you…did I…did I just hear you say you came here to ask me to be your wife?” she asked numbly.

“Yes,” he said solemnly, but his heart wasn't solemn at all. He felt as if it would pound its way right out of his chest. “I love you, Gwen. I never thought I could love again, but I do. I want to take care of you and Bridget, I want to take you both home, with me, where you belong.”

She went into his arms, weeping. “I love you, too, Harry.”

 

F
RANCESCA SAT IN ONE
of the two chairs facing Bragg's desk, impossibly relaxed and really quite cheerful. Even though Father Culhane had not confessed, there was no doubt now as to his guilt. They were simply waiting for Heinreich to confirm that the pocketknife he had assaulted Maggie with was indeed the murder weapon. Bragg sat before her, speaking quietly on the telephone. Then he placed the receiver on the hook and smiled at her, light reaching his eyes. “Have I told you yet what an ingenious sleuth you are?”

She smiled in return. “Please do.” Then she said sincerely, “We make a fine team, Rick. I hope that never changes.”

His expression faded. He toyed with a pen, then looked up. “Hart has been very helpful, hasn't he?”

She tensed very slightly. “Yes, he has.”

“You seem very happy today,” he said quietly.

“I am very pleased to have caught Culhane. I confess, though, that I suspected Frank Pierson from the moment he showed up at his sister's funeral. I was wrong.” She met his steady, searching gaze. “I am happy,” she said quietly. “I know that so much has changed, but I am very happy with Calder. I want you to be happy, too.”

He looked away just as there was a knock on his door, which was ajar. Newman stood there, smiling. Bragg gestured him in with his hand.

Newman beamed. “Sir! The pocketknife is the same one. Heinreich is certain. There is an unusual and slight indentation on one side of the blade. It is the same indentation we found on Kate's corpse.”

“Good.” Bragg stood and Francesca also rose. “Shall we get a confession and save the taxpayer the cost of a lengthy trial?”

“Let's,” she said, unable now to stop worrying about him in a personal manner. As they walked down the hall, she said, “Will you confront Farr about his devious behavior during this case?”

Bragg shook his head. “I am keeping a very close eye on him. Whatever he is up to, I want to find out. I don't want him to know that I am aware of his treachery, at least not yet.”

Francesca touched him and they paused outside the conference room. “I am worried. He is a viper in our midst and I am afraid of what he might do in the future to hurt you.”

He smiled. “He can only hurt me politically, so don't worry, Francesca, although I appreciate your concern.”

She had to accept that. Eventually, they would find out what Farr was really after. They walked inside.

Culhane sat in manacles in the conference room, under guard. He looked up at them and he was almost the picture of innocence. But he did not speak. He hadn't said a word since Bragg had told him he was under arrest.

“We have confirmed, Father, that the knife you assaulted Mrs. Kennedy with is the murder weapon used by the Slasher. Any reasonable jury will find you guilty of her attempted murder and I have little doubt that you will be convicted of murder in the first degree as well.”

He stared coldly at them.

“You murdered two fine young ladies,” Francesca cried.
“Why?”

Culhane looked at her and she was chilled by his regard. “Ladies? I don't think so. Each and every one deserved to die
for their faithless behavior. The world is a better place, Miss Cahill, without them.” He never took his brilliant eyes from her.

She knew she was safe in the conference room but she had the uncanny feeling that he wished to murder
her,
as well. And he was not confessing to his crimes. “Why? Why were they faithless?”

“Kate Sullivan was a whore. She deserted her husband, just as Gwen O'Neil did. Francis O'Leary was no less a whore for carrying on with Wilson. They received their just deserts, I think.” His eyes blazed.

“But what about Margaret Cooper?” Francesca asked, shivering.

He looked away.

Francesca stared at Bragg. He stepped forward and Culhane cried, “She was the mistake!” He covered his face with his hands and began to cry.

Francesca had known it, but she was not jubilant. “You wanted to kill Gwen, didn't you? But you attacked the wrong woman.”

“God forgive me,” he whispered, sobbing. “She did not belong to my flock, I did not know her. I never meant to hurt her, she was not a blight on my parish!”

“And Maggie Kennedy?” Bragg asked quietly. “Did she also deserve to die?”

He nodded, looking up, his face covered with tears. “She has been whoring for your brother, Miss Cahill.” Then he stared at her, his eyes glittering with hatred. “I saw you,” he whispered. “I saw you yesterday in Calder Hart's library.” And his gaze was burning with accusation.

She jumped backward, her cheeks heating, understanding his meaning and horrified by it. “You spied on us?” she cried.

He stood and pointed at her with both shackled hands. “You are next,” he cried. “You, the most faithless one of all!”

Bragg seized him and thrust him at the police officer, who had his billy stick in hand. “Get him out of here,” he said in disgust.

“Yes, sir,” the young rookie said. He jerked Culhane from the room, but not before the priest looked back at Francesca, crying, “Oh yes, weep in fear, because the faithless shall die!”

“Shut your trap,” the officer said, pushing him out of the room.

“The faithless shall die,” Culhane shouted as he was marched down the corridor. His footsteps sounded, his words almost echoed, and then there was only silence in the hall.

Francesca was trembling. She looked up as Bragg took her by the shoulders. “Oh dear,” she whispered. “I wonder if I was next.”

“It doesn't matter,” he said fiercely. “Culhane is in custody and he will be going to the electric chair. Thank God he did not get his chance to go after you.”

She exhaled, still trembling, feeling quite certain that Culhane had watched her and Hart making love. She shuddered at the notion.

“It's all right,” Bragg said softly.

She met his steady regard. Then she touched his cheek. “I know. I simply am horrified to think of his spying on me…” She trailed off for a moment, not wanting to explain.

But he knew, for he released her, turning away. He wandered over to the window behind his desk, staring down at Mulberry Street.

She followed. “I know I've said this before. How can I help?”

He turned, smiling a little. “Your friendship is a help, Francesca.”

“Should I call on Leigh Anne again? She is so melancholy, Rick. Maybe a good friend would help her out of this morass of despair.”

“That would be nice,” he said, not smiling.

She did not know what to do, for she felt certain she saw pain reflected in his eyes. So she took his hand and squeezed it.