Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 05] by Deadly Caress Page B

bruised my arm. It is very sore—and quite purple, I might add.”
    Francesca now recalled Rourke’s comment, as he had seen the bruise, perhaps when he had examined Sarah when she was ill.
    “What is it that you are afraid to tell me?” Sarah asked.
    Francesca hesitated, glancing at Bragg. He nodded at her. She said, “A woman was found murdered in Miss Neville’s studio, Sarah.”
    Sarah turned white. She quickly sat down on the closest object of furniture, the edge of a plush green sofa. “Oh, God. Miss Neville?”
    “No, it was an actress, Grace Conway.”
    Sarah was bewildered. “I don’t understand.”
    “Nor do we,” Francesca said with what she hoped was a reassuring smile.
    Sarah stared, and after a pause, asked directly, “Am I in danger?”
    Francesca hesitated.
    Bragg said, “I don’t know. But for safety’s sake, I am leaving two police officers here, one outside and one just inside the front door.”
    Sarah nodded, appearing flustered, breathless, and anxious all at once. “Was this actress’s murder an accident, perhaps?”
    “Perhaps,” Bragg said. “Shall we?” He gestured at the door.
    Sarah stood, and she and Francesca followed Bragg out. Francesca hadn’t expected Sarah to know about Miss Conway’s involvement with Evan and was relieved that she did not. And even though she knew that Sarah’s engagement would be ended, and soon, by her brother, to both his and Sarah’s relief, at that moment they were still officially affianced, and Sarah had to be told about Evan’s injuries. As they went down the hall, Francesca said, “I don’t want you to worry, but Monday afternoon Evan was in a bit of a brawl.”
    Sarah halted while Bragg swung open the door to her studio and went inside. “A brawl?”
    “Yes,” Francesca said, having no intention of telling her about Evan’s debts. “He was a bit smashed up, and he is in bed, but he will be fine in no time.”
    “Oh! Poor Evan! I shall have to call on him immediately, of course.” She stared at Francesca.
    “I am sure he should like that,” Francesca said, knowing it hardly mattered to him.
    “I will do so this afternoon, of course,” Sarah said firmly. Then her expression changed, becoming worried, and she looked past Francesca and at the open doorway of her studio. “I wonder if I will ever want to paint again,” she murmured, more to herself than Francesca.
    “Of course you shall!” Francesca cried, meaning it. “You are too brilliant to ever stop doing what consumes you, Sarah!”
    Sarah’s smile was wan. She shivered and did not move forward.
    Francesca did. She paused on the threshold of the studio, which was filled with midday light. Nothing had been touched. And the room remained a scene of carnage and wreckage, with paint splashed everywhere, canvases overturned, and one canvas mutilated. That canvas was a portrait of the stunning countess Bartolla Benevente, Sarah’s cousin.
    Francesca saw everything in a glance and looked straight at the wall. There, amidst splatters of red and black paint was a crude letter. It looked like this:
    Francesca stared. The letter could be a
B
, an
F
, an
E
, or perhaps even a
K
. It was not necessarily an
F
.
    “Francesca,” Sarah whispered.
    Francesca turned and saw that Sarah’s face was pinched with tension and fright. She left the studio, joining her in the hall. “What, dear?”
    “I have such a pounding headache,” Sarah whispered, clasping her hands over her ears.
    “Maybe you should go upstairs and lie down,” Francesca suggested.
    Sarah shook her head, dropping her hands to her sides. “I can’t. I am afraid I might fall asleep,” she said.
    Francesca could not understand what that comment meant.
    “I have been having the oddest nightmares! There is paint everywhere, and when I turn to run away, I run right into a man. And the moment I do, he grabs my arm, and then I wake up, screaming.” She stared at Francesca now.
    Francesca stared back, highly alerted now