“Surely you are joking,” Martha said. “You are going to hang and burn a dead man?”
Edward glanced at her but ignored the question. “Stephen Cooper’s maidservant has pleaded the belly. Dorothy Mann has confirmed that she is with child. She will burn in the fall, after the child is born.”
“Did the Lord Mayor admit his error to Esther?” I asked.
“He did not think it seemly for her to be in court. But she has been released from the Castle.”
“He’s a fountain of justice, he is,” murmured Martha. I shot her a look, but in truth I could not have agreed more.
“Lady Bridget,” Edward said, “may I have a word with you in private?” I nodded to Martha, and she slipped out of the room. “It has come to my attention that a member of the King’s garrison who was wounded in the fighting has been speaking of you and members of your household in most unsettling terms.”
“I—I do not know what you mean,” I stammered, trying to control the sinking feeling in my stomach.
“His name is Tom Hawkins. Isn’t Hawkins your maidservant’s name? He mentioned her as well. He says she is a murderess.”
Chapter 24
“There must be some kind of mistake,” I said. “Where is this man?”
“He is in the garrison’s hospital at Peasholme Green. He’s been swearing the vilest oaths against you and your servant. The surgeons are convinced he suffers from delirium caused by his wounds. They could be right, but in light of your recent adventures, I thought I should speak to you.”
“Martha has no kin here in the city, so he can’t mean her.” At that moment, I wished I had Martha’s ability to lie convincingly—I felt sure Edward could see the truth. “It is possible he overheard our names at the Black Swan, and in his delirium confused us with someone he knows, perhaps someone from before he came to York.”
“It is possible,” he said, but I did not think he believed it. “If you wish to see him, you should not wait. He will not live much longer.”
“The wounds are that serious?”
“A nasty cut on his leg. It should not have been fatal, but for some reason he waited several days before seeking treatment. Now it is badly infected.” I wondered if Martha would want to see her brother one last time before he died. I knew I should at least give her the choice.
“Thank you, Edward. Perhaps I will visit him. Even though he is a stranger, I may be able to put his mind at ease in his final hours.” I didn’t imagine for a moment that he believed so unconvincing a lie, but he left without challenging me. I called for Martha.
“Edward says that they’ve found Tom.”
“Is he alive?” she asked. I could not tell what answer she hoped for, but I could only imagine her anxiety. If he was alive, her new life in York would be in jeopardy; if he was dead, she would have lost her nearest kin.
“For now. Edward said he is in one of the garrison’s hospitals. He must have been the one who attacked me after the christening. Will wounded him, and now he is dying of the infection.” Martha’s eyes filled with tears, and I took her hand.
“How did Mr. Hodgson know to come to us?” she asked, wiping her cheeks.
“Tom’s been cursing us both by name.” Martha’s eyes widened with fear. “I think you’re safe,” I said. “Nobody takes such nonsensical accusations seriously. The doctors say it is the infection.”
“What should we do?”
“Edward suggested a visit,” I said cautiously.
“I want to see him before he dies,” she whispered.
* * *
The walk to St. Anthony’s Hall took longer than usual, because we took a roundabout route. Neither Martha nor I had any desire to pass by Penrose’s shop. I did not know when I would return to that neighborhood, but it would not be soon. There was no way to avoid the Black Swan, however—it lay directly across the street from the hospital entrance. From the outside, one would never have guessed that a murder had taken place there just a few days before. I wondered if the room where Penrose died had already been put back in use by the alehouse whores. The gibbet still stood in the street, but Richard’s body had been cut down, thank God. I averted my eyes as best I could until we reached the gate to St. Anthony’s.
“What is your business here?” barked the guard.
“We’re here to visit one of the wounded soldiers,” I said. “To give him comfort in his final hours.”
The guard looked us over, decided we posed no threat, and opened the gate. We climbed a set of narrow stairs to the main hall. Before the war, poor children had been taught to knit here, in the hope that they would not become a burden on the city. Now beds filled the hall, each one holding one of the garrison’s sick or wounded. When we entered, a young man in a blood-covered smock came over to greet us. I could smell the liquor on his breath long before he opened his mouth.