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Monday before Christmas. The day after Elma Sands disappeared. Depending on the time of day, it might be relevant. Or it might not. “What kind of track was it?”

“A one-horse sleigh. I noted it because it ran so close by the well. Mind you, I said to my wife, that sleigh drove so close by the wall it’s a wonder it didn’t turn over.”

“Where did the sleigh track go?”

“Up toward the balloon house. I thought somebody had missed their way because there’s no road there—dangerous sort of driving.”

Especially in a sleigh with no lights or bells. If it was the sleigh with no lights or bells. They’d have had no need to drive up to the balloon house, unless Levi had needed to go up that way to turn the sleigh around—or the horse had got spooked and got away from him.

Cadwallader wasn’t entirely sure this had any bearing on his case, but he did his best to hide his disappointment. “I thank you, sir. And your name is?”

“William Lewis.” After a pause, the man added, “I noted there was a board off the well. Left a gap, it did. Maybe as much as a foot across. Careless, I thought it.”

A large man, part of the happily inebriated group in the corner, unfolded himself with some difficulty. “I think I saw your sleigh. Running without lights or bells? It nearly ran me down.”

“The Sunday before Christmas?”

“I’d been called out to a christening at Dr. Pilmore’s church—”

“Christ Church on Ann Street?” commented a man at another table. “I tried to hear one of his sermons once, but there wasn’t even room to stand at the back! He’s a powerful preacher, that one.”

“And a lengthy one,” said the man who’d been to the christening, raising a general laugh from his friends, who appeared to have had enough cherry bounce to find just about anything funny. “It was late when we made our way out. I took up two friends in my sleigh, and we’d just made it up the Bowery, as far as the middle stone, and then down to Broadway, when a sleigh came on at a full gallop—no bells to give warning, running full tilt right down the middle of the road.”

“Is there room for two sleighs to pass there?” asked the man who hadn’t been able to hear Dr. Pilmore preach.

“Hardly! It took some pretty fancy driving, I tell you,” boasted the driver. “They didn’t even slow, not even when we huzzahed at them. And it was a dark horse too. We didn’t see a thing until they were nearly upon us. I thought we were going to go over for sure.”

“Did you see who was in the sleigh?” Cadwallader asked eagerly.

“I was too busy trying not to land in the ditch. There were two or three people in it, but that’s all I can say. You can ask my friends if you like—they weren’t so busy with the reins.”

“I’d be much obliged if they’d call on me at 47 Wall Street. Anyone with any information about a sleigh on that night can call on me at 47 Wall Street.”

“I’ll put the word about. We all want to do what we can for that girl. It was all anyone was talking about here for days.” Byrne paused for a moment and then added, slowly, “Ezra Weeks has a horse for sale. He put up a notice here in the coffee shop.”

“When did he put it up for sale?”

“Not so long ago.” Byrne’s eyes met his. “I hear it’s a dark horse.”

Cadwallader thanked him again and stumbled out, feeling drunk though he’d touched only coffee and not the rum he’d been offered. At that, he didn’t even remember drinking his coffee, although the sour taste in the back of his mouth and the grit between his teeth told him he had. He walked home in a daze and had to read Jack the Giant-Killer three times before David was satisfied.

He needed to see that horse.

What with one thing and another it wasn’t until the following afternoon that he was able to make his way to upper Greenwich Street, having first managed to put Maria in a temper, misplace several important documents, and burn a hole in the back of his frock coat standing too near the fire.

It wasn’t until he was halfway up Greenwich Street that Cadwallader realized the folly of his actions. He couldn’t pretend to be thinking of buying the horse; Ezra Weeks knew exactly who and what he was. And to ask to see the horse outright would tip his hand and give them time to prepare their answers and hide any evidence of the sleigh’s having been taken out without bells that night.

Cadwallader slowed, contemplating the lowering prospect of returning home empty-handed, the hour’s wasted effort, the sense of having failed again. He was weighing the advantages and disadvantages, wondering which way to go, when a woman hurried up to him, dragging a small boy behind her.

“Mr. Colden?” Her breath showed in great puffs in the cold air.

“Yes?” He didn’t think he knew her. She looked like she might be one of Maria’s widows. Her shawl and apron were clean but neatly patched, and the boy’s coat was too short in the wrists.

“I saw you from my window and came down as fast as I could.” She drew in a deep breath. “My name’s Margaret Freeman. My husband told me you were asking about a sleigh without bells. He was at the Old Coffee House yesterday. Stop tugging at me, Henry!”

Henry gave Cadwallader a resentful look.

“You saw the sleigh?” Cadwallader looked at her with more interest.