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Elizabeth Weeks looked at her swollen hands. The fingers had puffed so large that her rings were lost in the folds. “No. . . . Not to me. I had always thought—he seemed more interested in the other one. Hope. He brought her to us once.” She showed a little more animation at the memory; Alexander could see a hint of the woman she must have been before this pregnancy sapped her strength. “She drank tea with us. Ezra—he had hopes Levi would look higher, but Miss Sands—Miss Hope—seemed a decent, well-mannered girl.”

There couldn’t be more than a few years between Hope Sands and Elizabeth Weeks—a few years and four pregnancies. They were all so young, thought Alexander ruefully. Young as he and Eliza had once been, a thousand years ago.

“Was Levi courting Miss Hope Sands?” If they could make a strong case it was Hope, not Elma, who had attracted Levi’s interest, there went half of Colden’s case, right there.

“I had thought—Levi—he’s a kind boy, but not always—not the most firm-natured of souls. Ezra worries he’s easily led.” Elizabeth Weeks seemed to be having trouble catching her breath. “He needs a strong-natured wife—someone with sense—who can guide him.”

Ezra strode in, his gaze fixing immediately on his wife. He didn’t like what he saw. “Sally will be in with the tea. What’s this about guiding him?”

“I was just saying—I had thought Hope Sands—the right sort of strong-minded girl—for Levi.”

“He could do better,” said Weeks, but his concern was clearly for his wife, not his brother. “You’re not well.”

“My head hurts,” she said apologetically. “I can’t seem to think.”

“This was too much for you.”

“We’ll just read the statement and have Mrs. Weeks sign it,” said Harison quickly. “About candlelight, or a little after, John McComb and his wife came in; Levi Weeks was then in the room, and remained with the company until after the house clock struck eight and then went away; to the best of your knowledge and belief, Mr. and Mrs. McComb left the house about twenty or twenty-five minutes after eight; after your husband lighted Mr. and Mrs. McComb out, before he had time to sit down, Levi Weeks came in, and remained with you, conversing on the business to be performed the next day—appeared cheerful, ate a hearty supper, and went off to his lodgings—”

“It must have been about ten o’clock,” Elizabeth Weeks said faintly.

“As you believe, about ten o’clock.” Harison added a note. “. . . saw no particular difference in his conduct or behavior. . . . Is that all correct, Mrs. Weeks?”

“Yes.” Elizabeth Weeks wasn’t paying attention to Harison. She struggled to sit up, all her interest focused on the door, through which a high-pitched voice was shouting, “Pull me! Pull me faster!”

Levi Weeks came into the room with a small boy attached to his leg and a toddler girl clinging to his neck. “Look, I’ve got a shackle around my ankle.” He laughed, making a game of dragging his nephew along behind him.

His smile faded as he saw Alexander and Harison. He stopped short, leaving his nephew to howl, “Pull me! Pull me!”

“Mama!” The little girl wiggled to be put down. She made a dash toward the bed, and was firmly caught by her father.

“Don’t climb on your mother,” he said.

“I don’t mind it,” said Elizabeth Weeks, holding out her swollen hands to her daughter. “I’ve got your dolly.”

Levi Weeks was staring horrified from Alexander to Ezra. “I didn’t mean— About the shackle—”

“That will be the only sort of shackle you need bear. Don’t worry. We have it all well in hand,” Alexander said grandly, if not entirely truthfully. He was rewarded by Ezra Weeks’s fierce nod of agreement. “We’ll leave you now. I have shackles of my own home from school.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Weeks,” said Harison, and bowed gravely over her swollen hand. In a lower voice, he added to Alexander as they walked out of the house, “It seems hard to think that nice boy could have shoved that girl into the Manhattan Well.”

“We can only hope a jury will feel the same way,” Alexander said wryly. “Walk with me a way?”

“How far a way?” asked Harison warily. He had taken less exercise since Fanny had died.

“To the Manhattan Well. I want to see how long it takes to walk from here.” If John McComb left the Weeks house at twenty-five past and Levi were back no more than ten minutes after that, then he would need to have gotten to the well, strangled his paramour, and made it back to his brother’s kitchen table in the space of under half an hour. The operation would require efficiency, dispatch, and sheer ruthlessness—and even then, it might not be possible.

Harison considered the matter from a comfortably stationary position. “At least fifteen minutes, I would think. Maybe more—if it were dark or the weather were ill. And no, I’m not pacing it out with you now, even if the day is uncommon mild. Didn’t you say you had promised to go home to your shackles?”

“I also promised Ezra Weeks I’d see his brother without one.” Alexander had promised too many people too many things. “I leave tomorrow for Albany to argue for Le Guen before the Court of Errors.”

“Tomorrow? Merciful heavens, man! You should certainly go home to your family! I can hire someone to pace the length to the well and back.”

“That might be best. If an impartial party can show that it was impossible . . .” Then Alexander could go off to Albany with a good conscience.

“I take it Burr and Livingston will be in Albany with you?”

“On either side of the question.” Alexander and Burr had been retained by the Huguenot merchant Le Guen against the firm of Gouverneur and Kemble, represented by Brockholst Livingston. The litigation had been fought out, with increasing acrimony, over the course of four years and multiple causes of action. Alexander was looking forward to unleashing his spleen and collecting his fee. “At least it keeps them from their intrigues here.”