Deadly Illusions. Brenda Joyce

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      “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 she and her daughter return home?

      Francesca went to her and laid her palm on her shoulder. “How hard this must be for you and your daughter, making a home for yourselves in a new land.”

      “It’s hard,” Gwen whispered. “I tried to find good work, but all I could find was work in a factory. We make candles all day long. At home, I was a ladies’ maid in a mansion on a hill. We were never hungry,” she added.

      Francesca had recently hired a new maid for her own home, when the staff was already full. Ellie had been a vagrant but had witnessed a murder. Now she was the most dedicated maid at the Cahill home. She knew her mother, Julia, would not allow another addition to the household.

      Francesca wondered if her sister needed another servant. How perfect that would be! “Do you have references?” she asked.

      Gwen looked away. “I’m afraid not.”

      Francesca was startled. She wondered what the lack meant, but knew that now was not the time to pursue it. And she did not doubt that Gwen had been a fine ladies’ maid. She was a fair judge of character, and trusted Gwen’s sincerity. Then a brilliant idea occurred to her. Calder Hart. She brightened. He wouldn’t care if she hired another maid for that huge mausoleum he called a home. She made a mental note to place Gwen in his domestic employ immediately. “May I ask you some questions, Mrs. O’Neil? I am taking on the case of Margaret’s murder.”

      Gwen nodded, moving to sit down. She let out a sigh of exhaustion as she did so.

      Francesca sat beside her. “Did you know Margaret Cooper?”

      Gwen nodded. “She was already living here when we moved in. She was very pleasant, very friendly, offering to show me and Bridget around. She helped me get my first employment, but the work was so far downtown that I quit when I found the opening at the candle makers. We had supper together once or twice. She was a good person, Miss Cahill. She did not deserve to die!”

      “So she was not married?”

      “No, she was entirely alone in this world,” Gwen said.

      “Did she have a gentleman friend?” Francesca asked, thinking about the fact that there had been no sign of a male visitor in her flat.

      “No. In fact, I found it odd, as she was so pretty and kind.”

      Francesca took a notepad and pencil from her purse and made some notes. “Margaret must have had some kind of personal life.”

      “She went to work six days a week and to church every Sunday. You do know,” Gwen added, “that I have already told all of this to the police.”

      “I would love to hear your answers for myself, if you do not mind. I care very much about this case and about bringing Margaret’s killer to justice,” Francesca said earnestly. “The police have a great many investigations to handle. I have just one.”

      “Of course.” Gwen smiled a little for the first time that evening, apparently beginning to relax. The water began to boil and she got up to make the tea.

      “What faith was Margaret?”

      “She was Baptist,” Gwen said over her shoulder. Then she smiled again, her eyes softening. “I took her to my church once. She was very religious, Miss Cahill. Her mother was Irish. Did you know that?”

      Francesca sat up straighter. Here was another link, she thought eagerly. Kate Sullivan and Francis O’Leary were Irish—and now, Margaret had turned out to be of Irish descent. “No, I hadn’t known. Where did Margaret work?”

      “She СКАЧАТЬ