Deadly Illusions. Brenda JoyceЧитать онлайн книгу.
Hart would murder her for being out in such a neighborhood after dark, alone and without transport.
Someone hurrying her way, a child with him, bumped into her as he passed. Francesca tensed, continuing on, when she was seized from behind. Her heart slammed with fear.
“Miss Cahill!” a woman cried, her brogue as thick as an Irish bog.
Francesca turned, relief swamping her, and met not the gaze of a man, but that of a frightened, distressed woman. An instant later she realized that Gwen O’Neil had grabbed her and that Bridget stood closely by her mother. “Mrs. O’Neil! You startled me.”
Gwen released her. Her eyes were wide in her blanched face. “I cannot believe it’s you! A friendly face—a sight for sore eyes,” she cried.
Francesca was now calm and attuned to the fact that Gwen was far more than relieved to see her. The woman looked ready to leap out of her skin from fear. She smiled at Bridget and instantly realized that the eleven year old knew all about her neighbor’s murder. She stood stiff and frozen beside her mother, her eyes huge in her small face. “Mrs. O’Neil,” she began, smiling and hoping to calm them both. But this was an opportunity not to be missed. Never mind that she was terribly late for her mother’s dinner party—she would see these two safely home and catch a brief interview. Or perhaps even a substantial one, at that.
But Gwen jumped as if she had caught on fire, glancing wildly around her, her eyes huge with fear. Francesca took her arm. “Mrs. O’Neil? What is it? What’s wrong?”
Gwen’s dark eyes met hers. She opened her mouth but no sound came out.
Bridget was the one who spoke. Tears thickened her voice. “We’re bein’ followed,” she cried.
CHAPTER TWO
Tuesday, April 22, 1902 7:00 p.m.
FRANCESCA GLANCED AROUND but saw nothing amiss. Men and women continued to pass on their way home after a long day’s work and the boys continued to slam the ball around in the cobbled street with their sticks. She faced Gwen grimly. “Let me take you up to your flat,” she said.
“Would you?” Gwen cried in obvious relief.
Francesca took her arm. “Let’s go,” she said kindly. As Bridget preceded them, she glanced over her shoulder one more time. She half expected to see the Slasher standing against the tall iron street lamp, watching them. But nothing on the street had changed.
There was no light in the small entry hall, and the stairs were also dark with shadow, but that was not unusual in these terri ble tenements. “I assume there are no gaslights?”
“No,” Gwen breathed, fumbling in her shopping bag. “But I have a candle and matches.”
Francesca carried a candle and matches as well, but she waited for the other woman to light the wick. Gwen’s hands were shaking so badly, though, that Francesca took the candle and match from her, struck a spark and lit it. Instantly the small, grim entry was illuminated. Someone had hung a cracked mirror on one peeling wall in a futile attempt at decoration. “Let’s go, Bridget,” she said with false cheer, shivering.
They hurried upstairs in single file, the steps creaking beneath their feet. Gwen and her daughter lived on the second floor, as had Margaret Cooper. When they passed Margaret’s flat, Francesca saw that the door was padlocked, meaning that the police had left. The sign Police Line had been nailed to the door. When she and Bragg had left the flat together, a photographer had just arrived. Bragg had conceived of the singular notion of photographing the victim and the crime scene for reference during the investigation. It was a brilliant idea.
Gwen unlocked the door, her hands continuing to tremble. The moment they were all inside, she said tersely, “Bridget, light another candle,” as she quickly bolted the door behind them.
Francesca wondered how she was going to live in such a state of fear. She studied her from behind as the other woman turned, managing a smile and unpinning her straw hat. instantly, her hair tumbled down.
Francesca stiffened. She already knew that Gwen had dark red hair, but now she was struck by the fact that it was almost waist length, rather curly, and very much like the hair of Margaret Cooper. And while Gwen and Margaret did not look at all alike—Margaret had been pretty but in a soft way, and Gwen was striking—the similarity between them now was unmistakable. And Gwen lived next door to Margaret….
“You’re staring,” Gwen breathed.
“I’m sorry. I know you found your neighbor, Mrs. O’Neil. I am so sorry. It must have been terrible.” Behind her, another candle flamed to life, illuminating the long, single room more drastically.
Gwen nodded. “It was terrible,” she whispered. She put her hat on a peg and her wool shawl followed. She wore a simple print blouse and dark skirt. As she leaned over, Francesca realized she was taking off her shoes. Once in her stocking feet, she turned with a small smile. “My feet hurt,” she whispered.
Francesca guessed that her shoes were not store-bought and were either too small or had holes in the soles. Then, as she heard water running at the kitchen sink, she thought about the bucket of water she had seen in front of the sofa in Margaret’s apartment. Had she had sore feet, too? Had she been soaking her feet before her murder? Was that how the killer had caught her?
She smiled at Gwen. “Please, do not mind me. Are you certain that you were being followed?”
Gwen hesitated and then moved to the small square table covered with a bright yellow tablecloth. A chipped glass was in its center, a single daisy there. She gripped the back of one chair. Bridget was lighting the stove and setting a pot of water to boil. “No. I mean, I’m not certain—but I am sure of it!”
That made no sense. Francesca took off her gloves, laying them on the cheerful tablecloth. Bridget put a carrot, a potato and an onion into the pot. A pinch of salt followed. “Tell me why you think you were being followed,” Francesca said softly.
Tears filled Gwen’s eyes. “I don’t know! I didn’t see any one when I left police headquarters. But I had this feeling, a real strong feeling, that I was being watched! Haven’t you ever had that feeling?” she cried.
Francesca touched her arm. “Of course.”
“Oh Lord, where are my manners tonight? Miss Cahill, you have been nothing but kind to my daughter, saving her from those terrible men last month! Please, sit down. Bridget! Put on water to boil. We have tea,” she said brightly, the tears shining on her cheeks. “English tea. It’s special—I brought it with me,” she added, clearly referring to her recent move from Ireland to New York.
“Thank you,” Francesca said, taking a seat. Gwen contin ued to stand. “So you did not see anyone?”
“No. I didn’t. But I couldn’t shake the feeling, not the whole way from the police station.”
Francesca nodded. “Why don’t you sit, too? You have had an exceedingly difficult day.”
But Gwen had gone to the stove to stir the soup pot. “You probably think me mad,” she said over her shoulder.
“No, I do not.”
“Bridget, wash your face and hands.”
Bridget had been standing quietly in the corner of the room where the counter next to the stove met the sink. “I want to go home!” she suddenly cried. “I hate it here! But mostly, I hate Lord Randolph!”
Francesca stood, the urge to take the child in her arms overwhelming. She wondered who Lord Randolph was. Instead, Gwen rushed to her daughter, enfolding her against her bosom, holding her tightly. “I know, darling, I know. But we can’t go home. You know we can never go back.”
Bridget burst into tears and ran behind the curtain that clearly partitioned off a sleeping area. Gwen stood staring at the mustard-colored drape, clearly torn and anguished. Francesca could not fathom Gwen’s last words. Why couldn’t