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“Or what comes at him from the side?” Aaron suggested.

Brockholst allowed himself a grim smile. “Colden still believes he won the Pastano case.”

“The Portuguese man who stabbed his landlady? I thought you gave that one to him rather too easily.”

Brockholst made a face of disgust. “It never occurred to Colden to ask why we never put up a fight—and why all of our testimony was about Pastano’s mental state. I’ve petitioned the legislature to pardon him on grounds of insanity.”

“That should unnerve Colden nicely,” commented Aaron. For all his maddening habits, it was indisputable that no one knew how to work the more subtle mechanisms of the law better than Brockholst.

Hamilton frowned at them both, clearly not liking the tone of the conversation. Hamilton liked cleverness only when it was his own; for everyone else, he adopted a high moral tone. “That was all very well for Pastano. He was found with blood on his hands. But here—it would do our client a disservice to win by a trick. He deserves nothing less than to have his name cleared of any blot—not to mention the girl, whose soul cries out for justice.”

“You sound like a handbill,” observed Brockholst dispassionately. “Did you see her sheeted form gibbering by the well?”

Aaron moved between the men under the guise of refilling Brockholst’s glass. “Our duty is clear. We must make certain our young carpenter was where he claims that evening. Someone must speak to John McComb—and inquire of the other residents of the street in case they might recollect Levi’s comings and goings.”

Brockholst snorted. “Would you also ask at the tavern to discover what he imbibed and in what quantities?”

“If it might have a bearing on his actions that night, yes,” said Aaron. For a man of his acumen, there were times when Brockholst could be remarkably obtuse. “I would attend to it myself, but I have business that calls me to Philadelphia. . . .”

“I’ll go.” Really, it was too easy. Hamilton rose to the suggestion like a fish to the lure.

“You might speak to the family as well,” Aaron suggested, enjoying himself immensely. “Did Mrs. Ring see young Levi leave with the girl that night? The other boarders in the house—can any of them lend credence to the claim that Levi meant to marry her? The family insists upon it . . . but, then, they would.”

“They have the whole town believing it.” Hamilton was so lost in the problem at hand, he was entirely oblivious to Aaron’s purpose. He spoke as though they were colleagues, consulting. It had been the same with the Manhattan Company. Appeal to the man, flatter his judgment, and he was yours. “Angelica and Eliza say it is the talk of the tea tables. Miss de Hart assured them on the best authority that Levi Weeks was already married to Miss Julianna Sands and, wishing to free himself of the entanglement, flung her into a well.”

“Of course they would,” said Brockholst with disgust. “It reads like a novel by Mr. Richardson. The virtuous girl seduced and betrayed. . . . We’ve all heard that tale before. It’s the sort of thing girls pass around among themselves and giggle.”

Aaron preferred the novels of Mme d’Arblay to those of Mr. Richardson, but he decided to allow that to pass. “Then we must find a different tale to tell them. A piece, printed in one of the papers, suggesting to the public that they suspend their judgment. . . .”

“I’ll write it,” said Hamilton immediately.

As much as Aaron desired to keep Hamilton busy, the last thing they needed was one of Hamilton’s impenetrable screeds, a thousand words where ten were needed, all of them sound and fury, and laden with unnecessary clauses. Besides, Aaron didn’t trust Hamilton to deliver the right message, which was that the girl, prone to melancholy, had taken her own life. Entertaining all possibilities was very well—and Aaron was very happy to let Hamilton waste his time entertaining them—but Aaron had a case to win.

“My dear fellow, we have already overtaxed you! We mustn’t batten on your generosity of spirit—or take you away from your valuable work defending us from the French.”

Ah, he’d hit a nerve there.

“Besides, we have our litigation in Albany to consider. But we mustn’t discuss that here, with our opposition in earshot.” Taking Hamilton’s arm, Aaron led him to the door, casting a humorous look over his shoulder at Brockholst, their opponent in the commercial case of Le Guen v. Gouverneur and Kemble. “Alexis will see you out. I look forward to hearing what you discover on behalf of our young friend. You’re wise to begin before we need to head north.”

Aaron’s manservant, Alexis, was waiting with Hamilton’s hat, gloves, and cloak. Aaron bid the other man a genial farewell, and waited until the light of Alexis’s candle had disappeared down the stairs before returning to Brockholst.

“Will you stay a moment? I have some other matters to put to you.”

Brockholst looked past him at the doorway. “That coxcomb puts me in ill humor.”

“One tolerates what one must—when one must.” Aaron poured a small measure of brandy into a glass; only the best brandy and the best glass, both from France.

“He’ll ruin our case.”

“Will he? It seems unlikely he would discover anything which would unsettle the presumption of suicide.”

“Unless young Weeks is guilty,” said Brockholst bluntly.

“Are you afraid our exuberant Alexander will discover something to our client’s discredit? I doubt it. Ezra Weeks is a careful man.”

“The trouble with turning over rocks is that one might not like what one finds under them.”

“Whatever we find, we’ll handle with gloves—and bury it again, if we must,” Aaron said soothingly.