"It was a very fine trip," Bragg said. "Francesca?"

She handed him his jacket and thanked the ferry captain as he shrugged it back on. She glanced past him. The front hall of the penitentiary almost appeared gothic with its high sloping roof, and it jutted out from the rest of the building at a right angle. She knew that the prison's eight hundred cells were to the left, the workhouse, penitentiary hospital and the asylum all to the right. At the most northern end of the island was the almshouse, where she had often gone to visit the city's poorest widows and orphans.

"I hope the conditions in the workhouse are far better than those in the prison, Rick. Henrietta is hardly a felon. I cannot even believe she was convicted for her knowledge of what Mary had done."

"She did not come forward when we interviewed her, and while keeping her silence is not a crime, the jury obviously did not like her degree of involvement." They traversed the walkway to the reception hall's front doors. A group of prisoners was tending the gardens in front of the hall under the supervision of an armed guard. "But hers is a very minor offense, and that is why she is in the workhouse, rather than in the prison with hardened criminals." He opened one of the pair of heavy wooden doors for her, then paused. "I will worry constantly about you if you think to play my brother."

She couldn't help being touched, and perhaps even thrilled. "Just as I am worried about you and Leigh Anne," she said softly.

His expression hardened. "Let's go, Francesca."

They went inside. The hall was very much like the lobby of a shabby, fifth-rate hotel. It was dark and gloomy, with a seating area for visitors, a reception desk and an area for registry. The space was old, but not dirty, and she had no doubt that various prisoners kept it clean. Bragg had wired ahead, and he hadn't even reached the clerk at the reception desk when a large man came out of an adjacent hall, beaming. "Commissioner Bragg! It is a pleasure to meet you, sir."

The director of the Blackwell's Island Penitentiary shook Bragg's hand, then beamed at Francesca. "It is even a greater pleasure to meet you, Miss Cahill. I have been following your sensational investigations in the newspaper. You are even more famous than the commissioner, I believe-and so much prettier." He winked.

"I hope I am not more famous, but I hardly mind being a bit more attractive," Francesca said, smiling. She had never met Richard Coakley before. He seemed a very pleasant, good-humored sort; his character was incongruous with his task of overseeing the various institutions on the island.

They followed him down a long, dank hall. Francesca shivered. There was scum in the corners of the floors, which were cracked. She glanced out the windows, which were hard to see through, as they were quite dirty. The grounds were kept up, as was the front hall. But that was all-it even smelled oddly in the corridor.

Large signs appeared overhead, alerting visitors that the penitentiary hospital was on their right. He said, "I checked into Mrs. Randall's file. She is doing very well. She has been given cooking duties, which she performs without mishap, and she does not cause trouble at all. She never complains and has kept mostly to herself. She is, in fact, a model inmate."

"I am glad to hear that," Bragg said.

"She is serving six months, is she not?" Francesca asked. Formidable signs ahead read Blackwell's Island Work house.

"Yes, and her release date is October 22." Coakley pushed through the iron doors. "The dormitories are upstairs. We have over three dozen different workrooms, as you can see."

They continued briskly down the dark corridor. The only sounds now were the humming and whirring of the machinery the various inmates were using in the nearby workplaces. Francesca glanced into one workroom and saw several dozen women busily pushing garments through sewing machines. Everyone wore a gray prison uniform and no one spoke. "This way," Coakley said with vast cheer.

He pushed open a pair of doors. They found themselves in a large, institutional kitchen, where the din of pots and pans was terrific. Three dozen people milled about. There were probably a dozen stoves and half a dozen ovens. "This kitchen feeds everyone on this island except for the felons in the penitentiary-the pen has its own kitchens," he said loudly.

Francesca saw a mouse scurrying under a table. That was, she thought, better than a cockroach. She had barely had that thought when she thought she saw one of the insects vanishing into the wall.

A guard had approached and was conferring with Coakley. Francesca scanned the many workers in the kitchen. She suddenly saw Henrietta, pushing a huge tray into an oven. "There she is," she said to Bragg, already starting forward. "Henrietta!"

The older woman closed the oven and turned. Her eyes widened.

Francesca came forward, hating the fact that Henrietta was in the workhouse. Once, Henrietta had been plump. Now she was thin. She had aged a decade in the past few months. Her hair, once blond, was entirely gray. Instead of being stylishly curled, it was severely pulled back into a simple ponytail. "How are you, Henrietta?"

The woman looked past her at Bragg, who was clearly instructing Coakley to leave them. "How do you think?" She trembled. "Mary is locked up in Bellevue. Thank God my boy was not arrested for a crime he did not commit! And I am here, in this horrid place!"

"I am very sorry you were convicted and incarcerated," Francesca said, meaning it.

"You hate my family-you hate all of us!"

"No, I don't," she said earnestly as Bragg joined them. "I feel very sorry for Mary, in fact, but even sorrier for you. And...I understand why Bill did what he did. He was only protecting his sister."

"You can't mean it," Henrietta cried. "You are with that rotten cur, Calder Hart!"

Francesca stiffened. Bragg said, "Francesca and Hart were engaged, but if you have not seen the papers, I will tell you that the wedding is off. Francesca is not marrying Hart."

Henrietta seemed surprised. "We only get the papers once in a while-and only if we pay triple the newsstand price. I cannot afford a newspaper."

"I will make sure you get a daily, Henrietta, and it will not cost you a cent." Francesca was outraged, but she understood how prisons worked. The guards would pocket the costs. "Do you like to read? Should I send you books?"

Henrietta stared. "Why are you here? Why are you being nice? What do you want?"

"We were hoping to speak with Bill. As the university is closed for the summer, we thought you might know where he is staying."

She paled. "What do you want with my boy? He is a good boy! He has done nothing wrong! Is he in trouble?"

"He isn't in trouble, Henrietta," Francesca soothed. "But we are on an investigation, and he could be helpful to us. That is the only reason we wish to speak with him."

"I haven't seen him in months. I do not know where he is! He is such a good boy-he is studying to be a lawyer. One day, I know he will free Mary."

Francesca hesitated. Mary was mentally ill, and she knew Henrietta knew it. She decided there was no point in saying that Bellevue Hospital was the best place for her. "When was the last time you saw Bill?"

"I don't know-months ago-he was at my trial." She laughed bitterly.

Francesca caught her hand. "I know how horrid this place is. I am so sorry you are here. I am going to send you books. And you will be out in October-you will be free in October, Henrietta."

The other woman started to cry. "I don't want your kindness. I miss Mary. I miss Bill. I miss our home, our family.... She is good, Miss Cahill, and she never meant to hurt her father! Never!"

"We know she did not mean it, and of course you miss your home, your son." Francesca clasped her shoulder. She didn't dare look at Bragg now.

"He is such a good boy. No woman could have a better son! He has visited me every single weekend-" She stopped, her eyes wide with fear.

Francesca started. "Bill visits you every weekend?"

"No, no, I only wish he would do so!" she cried.

"Was Bill here this weekend, Mrs. Randall?" Bragg demanded. "Tell us the truth. If you do not, we will merely check the visitors' log. No one can visit without registering with the prison."

She was pale, her hands fluttering now. "He visits me almost every weekend-only an examination keeps him away."

My God, Francesca thought, looking at Bragg. He said sharply, "Was he here this weekend?"

"Yes," she whispered. "He was here-he was here Saturday morning."

Bill Randall was now Francesca's number-one suspect.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

Monday, June 30, 1902

Noon

MAGGIE KENNEDY HESITATED, holding a garment bag to her bosom. She was walking past the elegant circular driveway on the eastern side of the Metropolitan Club. As she stared through the open iron gates and across the pale limestone, she saw a trio of beautifully and expensively dressed ladies alighting from a hansom. Liveried doormen in crimson and gold had leaped to open the cab doors for them. The women had not even noticed. More doormen rushed to open the club's glass doors. Laughing and chatting, the trio vanished inside the marble building, undoubtedly on their way to the Ladies' Restaurant.

Maggie could barely breathe. Evan frequented the Metropolitan Club. So did most of the city's millionaires. The ladies who dined there were their wives, their sisters and their daughters. Francesca had probably eaten there often. Surely the countess Bartolla Benevente had, as well.

What was she doing?

She, Maggie Kennedy, would never dine in that club!

She wouldn't even be allowed to walk up that grand circular driveway.

Maggie had left her Tenth Avenue flat almost an hour ago. She had taken the Third Avenue El uptown to Fifty-ninth Street. She would never hire a hansom-the fares were too outrageous and she worked too hard for every penny earned-so she had walked across town to Fifth Avenue, browsing the storefronts. At the Grand Army Plaza, she had turned uptown.

Staring at the pale marble building, Maggie bit her lip, debating turning around and going home. She was on a fool's errand, surely. Bringing Francesca's new custom shirtwaist to the Cahill home was just an excuse to see Evan, and she knew it.

Are ye fallin' in love, my silly girl?

One little kiss and he has yer whole heart?

She didn't want to think about her beloved husband now. He had died many years ago, when Joel was just a small boy, but she had loved him with all her heart and she still did. She would never stop missing him, and hearing him in her head was so comforting. She knew he would be worried about her now. And while he was half in jest, she also knew that Josh was dead serious-and that he was also right.

He's not for ye, no matter what he says. All men can turn a pretty word fer a pretty girl!

Maggie wished Evan had never kissed her. She wished, desperately, that he hadn't confided in her. She even wished that anyone but Evan Cahill had saved her from the Slasher, just a month ago.

But he had kissed her-and she had let him. And it had been glorious. She hadn't thought she would ever want to be kissed by a man again, but she had been so very wrong. In his arms, her entire body had awoken, as had all the wild yearning in her heart. Being in his arms had felt safe, perfect and so right.

He had confided in her about his gambling, his debts, his estrangement from his family and the subsequent reconciliation, and the child the countess carried. The countess was having his child.

Maggie trembled. She didn't hate the countess; she feared her. Bartolla had called on her several weeks ago. At first, Maggie had hoped that she wished to order new gowns. Instead, the other woman had mocked Maggie for her feelings for Evan, and she had made it very clear that Maggie must stay away from her lover. Bartolla had been cruel, condescending and vicious. She had even threatened Maggie's children.

Maggie had been shocked by her rudeness and her threats. When she had first seen Evan and Bartolla together, they had seemed like a magical, fairy-tale couple. Now it was so clear that the countess was mean and hateful. She could not bear the idea of Evan being trapped in such a loveless marriage.

She wanted to help him in every possible way-her nature was caring. Initially, she had encouraged him to marry Bartolla and give his bastard the family he or she deserved. But Evan had looked into her eyes and shocked her by telling her that he did not even like the countess. He had declared that he simply couldn't marry Bartolla, but he would, of course, provide for her and the child.

Maggie realized she was crossing Sixty-first Street now. She had been relieved when he had told her that he wouldn't marry the countess. In fact, she wasn't certain when she had ever known such relief.

Yer such a foolish girl!

He should marry the countess and ye know it. He certainly won't marry you.

Josh was right. She was being terribly foolish, as if she had lost the wisdom of her many years. Maggie prided herself on her common sense, but where Evan Cahill was concerned, it had gone flying out the door. The only thing she knew for certain was that she would stand by him, no matter what, and that he would never be happy with an evil woman like Bartolla Benevente.

The Cahill mansion was ahead. Maggie was breathless. She hadn't seen the Cahills since Saturday night, when the house had been in chaos due to Francesca's disappearance. She happened to like Francesca deeply, and she had been as worried as anyone. The newspapers claimed that the wedding was off. Maggie hoped that was not the case, and Joel had assured her that Mr. Hart and Francesca remained as enamored of one another as ever. They were having, he had said, a bit of a spat.

Maggie slowly walked up the driveway, instantly remarking the Cahill coach in front of the house. Joel was with Francesca, working on this new case. Her son was making a handsome salary as Francesca's assistant, but most of all, he was no longer cutting purses. Francesca was a wonderful influence on him.

Maggie had just reached the house's front steps when the front door opened and Andrew Cahill came out, clad in an elegant suit and a dark bowler, swinging a very handsome ivory-handled walking stick. He smiled pleasantly at her. "Good day, Mrs. Kennedy." He added, "Francesca went out at the crack of dawn today."

Mr. Cahill was as kind as his daughter. Maggie flushed and returned the greeting, wondering what he would think if he knew of her feelings for his only son. As he got into the waiting carriage she turned away, hoping he would never learn of her romantic foolishness. She smiled at the doorman, Jonathon, as she walked into the front hall. As always, she was overwhelmed.

She would never get used to the grandeur and glamour of the rich. She was just a simple Irishwoman who sewed clothes for a living. Whenever she came uptown, she was overcome by the differences between her kind and their kind. She lived in a tiny, one-bedroom, windowless flat with four children; they lived in the lap of luxury in palatial homes filled with fancy furniture, fine paintings and marble floors. Her walls were rotting; theirs were covered in fabrics and wallpapers. Her floors were cracked and threadbare; their floors were marble or gleaming parquet, covered with rugs from all over the world.

Recently, she had begun to read the society pages. Not a day went by that Julia Van Wyck Cahill, Lord or Lady Montrose, Francesca, Evan or Mr. Cahill weren't mentioned, dining at some famous establishment or attending some elegant affair. Reading those pages almost made her feel as if she were a family member.

But she was not an insider, and she would never be one, Maggie thought. Facts were facts-she must simply remember them.

The doorman had barely closed the front door when Julia appeared at the other end of the hall, surprised but smiling. "Good day, Maggie. Is that Francesca's shirtwaist?"

Julia's stare seemed sharper than usual-as if there was suspicion just behind her welcoming smile. "Yes, it is. I thought she might wish it for the weekend."

"That is very kind of you," Julia said briskly, taking the garment bag. As always, she was the epitome of elegance and sophistication, in a fitted pale blue dress and aquamarines. "Bette, please hang this in Francesca's room," she told a passing maid. With the garment gone, she faced Maggie, her gaze intent. "Francesca isn't here."

Maggie felt herself flush. "I know. I saw Mr. Cahill as I came in." She added in a rush, "I would like to say that I am so relieved that nothing terrible happened to her on Saturday."

Julia softened. "I know you are. You are a good woman, Maggie."

"I am sure Francesca and Mr. Hart will make new plans soon," Maggie said quickly, her gaze straying past Julia. They hadn't discussed it, but she assumed Evan would soon leave the city for the rest of the summer, as the entire upper class did. The wedding had kept him in town-much to her relief. She knew that Evan often had breakfast at the Cahill mansion with his parents and she wondered if there was a way to ask for a word with him.

"Can I help you with anything else?" Julia's tone had tightened.

She knows, Maggie thought, her insides curdling. She somehow smiled. "No, I just wanted to make sure Francesca had her new shirtwaist for the holiday. She has taken Joel about today on her new investigation. Joel is the happiest when with Miss Cahill." How odd that comment sounded.

"That is my daughter-a crime-solver extraordinaire."

Maggie's gaze returned to Julia. Francesca's mother was angry. Before she could comment on what a gift Francesca had-she had solved so many ghastly crimes-she heard footsteps on the stairs. Her gaze met Evan's.

His eyes widened as he hurried down the stairs. "Maggie! Is everything all right?" he cried.

Her heart was thundering.

Yer smitten, Josh accused.

Yes, I am! she told him helplessly.

"Everything is fine," Maggie managed to say. He was the handsomest man she had ever laid eyes on-and the kindest. He adored her children and was always bringing gifts and treats. He would make a wonderful father.