It was getting rather late now, though. Perhaps she’d wait until morning. Dudley might not even make it through the night, although he seemed to be sleeping naturally now. Perhaps his wounds weren’t as serious as they appeared. Perhaps they wouldn’t fester and poison him either, although she considered that unlikely. But Dudley was young and healthy. Maybe he could survive even that. She didn’t think much of him as a man, but he hadn’t done anything worthy of death, either, since it now seemed unlikely he’d killed Edmund Blackwell.
After a while she grew bored with conjecture and resumed her housekeeping duties. So far she’d changed the sheets and given the bloody ones to the landlady, and she’d scrubbed the blood off the floor. The rest of the room still needed to be swept, and if she was really bored, she could scrub that, too. Heaven knew when it had last been done.
Sarah started sweeping at the other end of the room, working her way over to the bed. She swept slowly, trying not to stir up too much dust, but the room was small, and she was at the bed in a matter of minutes. Being careful not to disturb Dudley, she slipped the broom under the bed and tried to gather up as much dirt as possible without accidentally striking the bed frame and startling him. She’d just dragged a pile of dust bunnies and debris out when Dudley groaned.
“Water,” he croaked.
Sarah dropped the broom and quickly fetched him a glass of water. Blood loss created a mighty thirst, and if she quenched it, he might even be able to say a few words. She held the cup to his lips and let him drink as much as he wanted. At last he dropped back against the pillow, exhausted.
“Mr. Dudley, can you hear me?” she asked.
His eyes flickered and then opened. He stared at her with no sign of recognition. “Who…?”
“I’m Sarah Brandt,” she explained. “Letitia Blackwell’s midwife. We met at her home the other day.”
Dudley showed no sign of remembering. He seemed to be using all his energies trying to focus on her face.
“Mr. Dudley, do you know who attacked you?”
“Attacked?” he asked weakly, obviously puzzled.
“Someone broke in here and stabbed you while you were sleeping last night. Do you know who it was?”
He frowned, trying hard. “I don’t…”
“You were asleep,” she prodded him.
“I woke up,” he recalled after a moment. “The pain…”
“Did you see who did it?”
“The pain… woke me… dark…”
“Someone tried to kill you, Mr. Dudley. Who was it?” she demanded, wanting to shake him but knowing that would only make things worse.
“I don’t… too dark… couldn’t see…” His eyes closed in a grimace of pain. He needed another dose of morphine. “Hurts,” he murmured.
Sarah sighed with disappointment and began to prepare his dose. How ironic it would be, she mused, if he survived and became a morphine addict, too.
When Dudley was once again in a drug-induced sleep, Sarah remembered what she had been doing when he’d awakened. Picking up the broom, she had started to sweep the mess from under the bed into the dustpan when something shiny caught her eye. She reached down and picked it up, and that’s when she knew who the killer was.
“Officer Moran!” she called, summoning her guard. “You must find Mr. Malloy right away!”
FRANK NEEDED TO tell one more person that Peter Dudley was dead, but he’d been having a difficult time locating Amos Potter. He wouldn’t have been quite so determined if he’d gotten a better reaction from Maurice Symington. He’d fully expected Symington to act surprised at learning Dudley was dead, but he hadn’t expected the act to be quite so convincing. Symington was behaving normally in first trying to get Dudley in trouble for supposedly blackmailing Letitia and then trying to bribe Frank to name Dudley as the killer, and finally by trying to convince Frank to rule all three deaths suicide. Why hadn’t Frank been satisfied with calling Blackwell’s death a suicide in the first place? Calvin Brown would still be alive, and Dudley wouldn’t be dying. Frank could’ve saved himself a lot of trouble and the other two a lot of suffering if he’d just gone along with the killer’s plan in the first place.
And who would thank him even when he did find the killer? Assuming he could, that is. Nobody but Sarah Brandt, that’s who. Which was, Frank had to admit, quite enough, thank you very much. It had better be, too, because he was likely to make some powerful enemies if he wasn’t careful. Or even if he was. Whoever said honesty was the best policy had never been a policeman.
The hour was growing late, and the city was growing dark when Frank climbed the stairs to Potter’s flat once again. He was there earlier in the day, but Potter hadn’t been home. He was going to try once more, having left the man a note saying he’d be back, before giving up for the evening and finding himself some supper.
The smells of cooking filled the stairwell, making Frank’s stomach growl. He thought longingly of a meal eaten in Sarah Brandt’s pleasant kitchen. Thank heaven that was out of the question tonight. She had other obligations, and Frank knew it was time to stop seeing her anyway. No good could come of it, as his mother would have pointed out to him if he’d allowed her to speak of Sarah Brandt at all. But tonight he wouldn’t even need to make a decision about whether to go to her place or not.
Potter’s door opened seconds after Frank knocked. He’d obviously been waiting for the policeman to arrive. He still wore his suit coat, and as usual, he was fiddling nervously with his watch chain. “Come in, Mr. Malloy,” he said too jovially. “What can I do for you? Your note was very mysterious.”
“I wasn’t trying to be mysterious,” Frank said, taking the chair Potter indicated. “I just had some news for you that I wanted to give you in person.”
“Have you finally decided to close the investigation?” he asked hopefully. “Although it pains me to think a boy could actually kill his own father, I don’t really see any other solution to this unfortunate incident.”
“I’m afraid there’s been another murder, Mr. Potter,” Frank said, watching the other man’s face carefully.
And just as carefully, Potter betrayed no emotion except a mild curiosity. “I can’t imagine who-” he began, then caught himself. “Good heavens, it can’t be! Is Letitia all right?” he asked worriedly.
“She’s fine,” Malloy assured him, although he would have sworn Potter wasn’t really worried about her.
“Then who…?”
“Peter Dudley.”
Potter frowned. “Peter…? Oh, yes, that gentleman I met at Letitia’s the other day. He’s dead, you say? Whatever happened to him?” He didn’t seem too upset, but then why should he be? Dudley was nothing to him, except perhaps a rival for Letitia’s affections.
“Someone stabbed him.”
“Good heavens! I don’t know what the world is coming to. I never imagined I would know three men who died under unpleasant circumstances.”
“Why not?” Frank asked. “Once a killer gets started, it’s difficult to know when to stop.”
“You can’t imagine this Dudley’s death is connected to Edmund’s in any way,” Potter protested. “They didn’t even know one another. Why would the same person want to kill them both?”
“Why else would Dudley have been killed?” Frank asked in return. “He was just a simple bank clerk.”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” Potter sniffed. “Besides, we both know that Edmund’s killer is dead by his own hand. It’s only your stubborn refusal to admit it that has kept us from putting this whole awful business to rest.”