Frank saw no point in arguing the issue with Potter, who was determined to blame Calvin for the crime no matter what the evidence said. “Mrs. Blackwell was very upset to learn Dudley was dead,” he tried.
He struck a nerve there. Potter’s round, homely face reddened, but he said, “I believe they were good friends. And it’s always upsetting to hear about a violent death. I’m upset myself, and I hardly knew the man.”
He hadn’t looked upset until Frank mentioned Letitia’s reaction. Now he was fiddling with his watch chain again and looking as if he wanted to bolt. Probably he wanted to rush to comfort Letitia.
“Mrs. Blackwell was more than just good friends with Dudley,” Frank said, still probing for a reaction. “She and Dudley were planning to be married.”
“That’s preposterous!” Potter exclaimed, jumping to his feet. “Her husband is hardly cold in his grave! Besides, she’d never marry a man like that. He’s nothing but a bounder and a fortune hunter.”
“I don’t suppose she’ll marry him now that he’s dead, of course,” Frank agreed mildly, “but she certainly intended to before. She’d even informed her father of her plans.”
“Mr. Symington never would have allowed it,” Potter insisted.
“I’m not sure he could have prevented it,” Frank said. “Mrs. Blackwell is of age and no longer dependent on him.”
“But ... but ...” Potter stammered. “I know he ... He simply would have stopped it. Made her see reason or ... or whatever it took.”
“Such as killing Dudley?” Frank suggested.
Potter’s small eyes grew as wide as they possibly could. Was it possible he hadn’t considered this possibility? He sat down abruptly. “I ... I can’t believe ... But surely, no one would blame him if he did,” he added quickly, warming to the thought. “I mean, to protect his daughter from this man who had tried to ruin her life and almost gotten her killed before.”
“Do you think I should accuse Mr. Symington of killing Dudley?” Frank asked curiously.
Potter gaped at him. “Certainly not! A man in Mr. Symington’s position would never stoop to such a thing! I was merely remarking that no one could blame him for
wishing
such a blackguard as Dudley out of his daughter’s life for good and all.”
“Death is pretty permanent,” Frank agreed.
Potter was growing impatient with this conversation. “Is there some reason you came here tonight besides to inform me this Dudley person has been murdered?”
“You mean have I found out who killed Dr. Blackwell yet?” Frank asked.
“I already know who killed Edmund,” Potter insisted. “For the love of God, when will you stop torturing poor Letitia and allow her to grieve in peace?”
Frank rose wearily to his feet to take his leave. “Very soon, I hope,” he said. “Although now we won’t be sure for whom she’s actually grieving, will we?” he added meanly.
Potter frowned, but he had nothing more to say and made no move to detain him.
As Frank descended the stairs and emerged from the building into the darkened city, he tried to make sense of all his impressions. Amos Potter acted like a man guilty of something. Maybe it was just lusting after his neighbor’s wife, but Frank’s instincts said it was more than that. If only Potter hadn’t offered him a reward for finding Blackwell’s killer. Could he have been so confident of Frank’s incompetence to believe Frank would never trace the crime back to him? Or had he made the offer to
ensure
that Frank wouldn’t trace the crime back to him? It seemed a risky ploy. Or a masterful one. Frank had not allowed himself to consider Potter as the killer until now. Could he have been fooled so easily? Or was he letting his dislike of the man color his judgment?
What he needed was a square meal and some fresh air to clear his head. Maybe then he’d be able to put all the pieces together and figure out the truth of all of this.
O
FFICER MORAN HAD been gone a long time in his quest to find Malloy. Sarah didn’t know how long, because she hadn’t noticed the time when she’d sent him off on his errand, and in the meantime her lapel watch had stopped. She knew from the sounds of the city that the hour was growing late, though. Decent people were asleep, their windows dark. Those on the streets at this hour were assumed to be up to no good. A woman walking out now would automatically be assumed to be a prostitute. A man alone would be fair game for robbery or worse.
Sarah watched from the small window of Dudley’s room. She couldn’t see the street from here. The view was of the back of the opposite buildings and the small patch of ground in between where outhouses squatted and clotheslines stretched, crisscrossing the open space like a massive cat’s cradle. One by one, the lights of the other buildings blinked out, gradually obliterating even the poor view she had. The sounds of the house quieted, too, as the other tenants either went to bed or went out to prowl on this Saturday night.
Too bad she hadn’t thought to bring a book to read, although reading by the light of the single candle in Dudley’s room would have been difficult. About all she could hope was that she would somehow fall asleep sitting up in the straight chair as Dr. Woomer had done earlier.
Just when she was giving serious thought to waking the landlady to ask for bedding to make herself a pallet on the floor, Dudley groaned again. This time Sarah didn’t wait for him to ask for water. She took it to him and helped him drink his fill. His color looked a little better, but he was still dangerously weak.
“Mr. Dudley, can you hear me?” she asked. He was probably ready for some more morphine.
“Where ... am I?” he asked, blinking at her as if trying to focus on her face.
“You’re in your rooms in your lodging house. Do you remember what happened?”
“No, I ... I’m hurt,” he said in surprise.
“Someone stabbed you while you were asleep.”
“Someone
stabbed
me?” he asked in disbelief. “Who would want to do that?”
Sarah could think of several people who might want to dispose of him, in addition to the person who actually had tried to, and was surprised Dudley couldn’st, but she said, “Don’t think about it now. Is the pain very bad?”
He winced. “A little,” he admitted.
She fixed him another dose of morphine. Fortunately, he didn’t ask her what it was, so she didn’t have to lie. Considering his experiences with Letitia’s morphine addiction, he might not want to take it if he knew.
“There now, you’ll feel better in a few minutes. Just try to get some rest. Could you eat something?”
“No, I ... No.” He closed his eyes, and Sarah thought the drug had started to work and he was asleep, but after a while he said, “Letitia.”
Sarah thought he might be dreaming, but his eyes were open again, and he looked alarmed.
“What about Letitia?” she asked, wondering if he’d realized someone had wanted him dead because of her.
“Does she know? About me, I mean? She’ll be worried.”
Sarah couldn’t help wondering just how worried Letitia would really be, considering Malloy was going to tell her he was dead. “Mr. Malloy went to see her,” Sarah said. “I’m sure he’ll tell her that I’m taking care of you.”
That lie didn’t seem to comfort him. “She’ll be very upset. She isn’t strong, you know,” he confided. “And she’s so afraid.”
“What is she afraid of?” Sarah asked, wondering if she should encourage him to talk. As his nurse, she should let him rest. But if she didn’t let him talk now, he might not get another chance, and the morphine would be taking effect soon.
“She’s afraid of everything,” he said. “And everyone.”
“Her husband?” Sarah asked curiously. “Did he abuse her?”
Dudley shook his head impatiently. “He suspected she was taking morphine again. He wouldn’t permit it.”
“She told me he searched her rooms,” Sarah remembered, “so she couldn’t keep any in the house. That’s why she had to go to the opium den.”
“She was worried about the baby,” he said.
“She had a right to be. Her baby could have died,” Sarah said, feeling the outrage all over again.
“No, not that. Mr. Fong said the baby would be fine. She was afraid ... when the baby came ...” His voice trailed off, and he closed his eyes again. The morphine had begun its work.
Sarah stood there a moment, watching him to make sure he wouldn’t awaken again while she tried to think of what else Letitia might have been afraid. When the baby came, he’d said. What more could she have feared? Dying in childbirth? It was an understandable fear. Or maybe she was afraid that Blackwell would realize he wasn’t the baby’s father.
Sarah heard footsteps in the hallway. Someone was moving quietly toward Dudley’s room, but no one could move silently in this house because of the squeaky boards in the old flooring. It must be Malloy, at last, and she could show him what she’d found. She’d just set the bottle of morphine on the bureau as the door opened.
But her visitor wasn’t Frank Malloy.
Amos Potter stared back at her, even more surprised than she.
“What the ... ?” he began, and then he saw Dudley lying on the bed. “He’s not dead!” he cried. He turned on Sarah, furious. “Malloy lied! He’s still alive!”
“No thanks to you,” Sarah said. “I found your key, the one from your watch fob. You must have lost it in the struggle.” The one she’d seen him fiddling with time and again.
“Where is it? Give it to me!” He started looking around frantically, and Sarah instinctively felt her pocket where she’d put it for safekeeping.
Seeing the gesture, he lunged for her, but she was too quick for him, knocking over the chair as she dodged. He stumbled over it but managed to catch her arm.
“It’s too late!” she cried, struggling to break free. “Malloy already knows!”
“No, he doesn’st! He has no idea, or he never would’ve let me go tonight!” He caught her other wrist, and for a moment they grappled, Sarah scratching and clawing, Potter trying to reach the pocket of her skirt where she’d hidden the Phi Beta Kappa key.
Finally, it occurred to her to scream, so she did, as loudly as she could.
Potter started, but she’d only distracted him for a moment. He released one of her hands and grabbed for her pocket, but she drew back her free hand and boxed his ear. The pain, she knew from her medical training, was excruciating and could even cause deafness. Potter howled, flinching and releasing her other hand in reaction.
This time she lurched for the door, wondering vaguely why no one had yet come to her rescue. She’d taken only one step, however, when she came up short. Potter had grabbed her skirt. She heard the stitches at her waistband starting to pop. In another moment the fabric would give, but he might well overpower her before that. Then she saw the broom leaning against the wall where she’d left it. With one burst of strength, she threw herself at it. She felt her skirt giving at the waist and heard the rending of the fabric, and then her hands were on the broom.
Taking no time to think or to aim, she simply swung it as hard and as fast as she could. The wooden handle struck solid flesh, and Potter grunted, but he was on her again, too close for swinging. Almost without thinking, she drew the broom handle back and lunged toward Potter as he lunged toward her, meeting him with the handle aimed squarely at his midsection.
His gasp told her she had struck home. He went down in a heap, his face working furiously as he struggled, in vain, for breath. She only had a moment, she knew, so she gave him one more whack on the side of the head, just for good measure. If he was stunned, she’d have a bit of extra time.
As Potter lay poleaxed in a heap on the floor, Sarah snatched up her medical bag and dug down for a roll of bandages. In a matter of moments she’d tied Potter’s hands behind his back, and by the time he finally succeeded in drawing a full breath, she was binding his ankles just as securely.
“You ... tried ... to kill ... me!” he said breathlessly.
“That’s funny coming from someone who’s killed two men and tried to kill a third,” Sarah said, using her considerable skill at bandaging to make sure Amos Potter wouldn’t be able to work himself free before Malloy turned up. “I only knocked the wind out of you. There’s a place right here,” she said, giving him a playful punch that made him whimper. “It’s called the solar plexus. It drives the breath right out of you. You think you’re dying, but you aren’t really hurt at all.”
“I didn’t kill ... two men ...” he gasped.
“You’re wasting your time, Mr. Potter,” Sarah told him cheerfully. “It’s plain as day. You killed Dr. Blackwell for heaven only knows what reason, probably something to do with his wife, and then you tried to convince Mr. Malloy that young Calvin had done it and killed himself out of remorse. Except you botched the suicide note—”
“But Malloy didn’t find the note!” he exclaimed.
Sarah smiled. “Malloy said only the killer would know about the note,” she told him triumphantly.
Potter moaned, but whether from pain or despair, Sarah couldn’t tell.
“And then you tried to kill poor Dudley because you didn’t want Letitia marrying him after you’d gone to so much trouble to make sure she was free,” Sarah concluded.
“You’re wrong,” Potter warned her. “About everything. You’ll never prove a thing.”
Sarah didn’t bother to reply. She got to her feet and tried to examine the damage to her skirt. “I’m going to have to send you my dressmaker’s bill, Mr. Potter,” she said as she tucked the damaged garment up as best she could. “You’ve seriously damaged my gown.”
This time he didn’t reply, although his glare was rather eloquent.
She righted the chair and sat down to wait for Malloy. She knew they wouldn’t have to prove Potter had committed the murders. By the time Malloy was finished with him, he would gratefully confess to everything. She almost felt sorry for him until she remembered poor Calvin Brown, who had died so needlessly for another man’s stupid obsession.