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“Told you I could go it in under fifteen minutes,” said John Williams smugly, jumping down from the sleigh and handing the reins to his colleague.

It was technically at fifteen minutes, not under, but Cadwallader wasn’t going to deny him his triumph.

In the crowd, money was changing hands. High-spirited young lads would bet on anything, thought Cadwallader indulgently. When he was a boy at school in England, he had once bet a quarter’s allowance on who could hop first on one foot three times around the classroom. It had seemed a perfectly reasonable venture at the time.

Was that Hamilton’s nephew there, clapping his friend on the arm? Cadwallader hoped not. Not that he had any hope of keeping this secret—he wasn’t sure why he had thought he could—but he had felt more comfortable with the idea that he could gather his evidence quietly while they were all occupied elsewhere.

General Hamilton had returned to the city a week ago now—Cadwallader knew because Maria had taken tea with Mrs. Hamilton—but as far as anyone could tell had been utterly preoccupied with his work for the army, a state of affairs that suited Cadwallader perfectly.

Not that it mattered what he or any of the lawyers for the defense did or discovered; Levi Weeks had done it and Cadwallader could prove it.

Cadwallader forced his attention back to Williams, who was justifiably waiting for praise. “And not out of a trot?”

“I might have given her her head a bit on that straight stretch . . . but no. Not out of a trot. Not for more’n a moment, anyway.” Williams gave the horse an affectionate scratch behind the ears. “She’s a good ’un, she is.”

Cadwallader lowered his voice so the gathered onlookers couldn’t hear. “Could Ezra Weeks’s horse do the same?”

Sylvester thought on it for a moment. “He stood in my stable for sale this past month—I think he could.”

Cadwallader felt a glow of satisfaction. They had him. The jury had to see how suspicious it was how quickly Ezra Weeks had taken steps to extract the horse from his own stable. It was only surprising Weeks hadn’t also found a way to quietly remove the sleigh.

Cadwallader pressed a coin first into Williams’s hand, then Sylvester’s. “My thanks to you both. You’ve been of more assistance than you can know.”

“Shall we give you a ride home, sir?”

“Why not?” said Cadwallader giddily. He felt like a Roman emperor being borne through the streets in a triumph, only somewhat more comprehensively clothed.

They’d done it. They’d proved, conclusively, that even on a bad road, the trip could be undertaken between the time Levi was known to have left the Ring boardinghouse and the time he supposedly returned to the Weeks kitchen.

Of course, the defense was sure to argue that it had been night; one could drive faster by day; the horse was sturdier; whatever they could say to discredit the results, but he, thought Cadwallader proudly, was prepared for them.

There’d been a moon that night, making it easier to see. Any delay from the dark would be more than discounted by the comparative lack of traffic on the road. He’d even made sure to have a second man in the sleigh to more closely approximate the weight the horse would have been pulling that night.

He still hadn’t any idea who the second man in the sleigh might be. William Anderson, Levi’s apprentice? Demas Meed, Ezra Weeks’s apprentice, who had charge of the sleigh? Ezra himself? No, Ezra’s time was accounted for by the McCombs, and McComb was a man of stature, not the sort who might be easily bribed or shaken.

Pleasantly occupied in these musings, Cadwallader bade farewell to Sylvester Buskirk and John Williams and bounded up the steps to his own door, bursting to tell Maria his triumph. Happily unloading his cloak, gloves, and hat on a waiting servant, he burst into the parlor, only to be stopped short by the sight of his brother-in-law, perfectly turned out in the latest sort of frock coat and a pair of very well-tailored breeches, building houses out of books with David. Cadwallader recognized Blackstone’s Commentaries, now turned building block.

“Ah, Cadwallader.” Josiah rose effortlessly to his feet. The edifice of legal thought collapsed and David set up a wail of disappointment.

“I’ll take him out,” said Maria. There was a set to her mouth that made Cadwallader very nervous.

Indeed, there was something in the way that Josiah looked at him that made Cadwallader’s mouth go dry and his palms go damp. He was very aware that he was covered in the dust and grime of three sleigh trials and ought perhaps to have washed his hands and face before presenting himself in the parlor. Had he remembered to scrape his boots at the door? Cadwallader wasn’t quite sure.

He wished Josiah didn’t always make him feel such a hulking oaf. It hadn’t been so bad when he had been in his twenties, just home from his studies in England, but he was past thirty now, and might have reasonably expected to pick up some of the polish and poise his brother-in-law carried so effortlessly.

Of course, he couldn’t help his face. The square face and crooked nose that had looked so distinguished on his grandfather, the famous colonial governor, only made Cadwallader look more like an unsuccessful pugilist than a distinguished member of the bar.

Cadwallader had never quite understood why Maria had agreed to marry him. He was beginning to fear that Maria didn’t either.

Josiah shook out a paper that was lying on Maria’s tea table. “Have you seen today’s Commercial Advertiser?”

“Not yet.” Cadwallader felt a growing sense of unease. Josiah didn’t usually call to discuss the day’s news. He was also wearing an expression that fell somewhere between pity and exasperation.

Wordlessly, Josiah handed the paper to Cadwallader.

PASTANO PARDONED

A dozen images darted through Cadwallader’s mind. Pastano, on the stand, pouring forth a flood of rapid Portuguese, Rabbi Seixas patiently translating. The corpse of Mary Ann De Castro, cruelly stabbed again and again. Brockholst Livingston, looking down the length of that impressive Roman nose, forbearing to offer any defense—because Pastano was guilty, because they all knew he was guilty, no one could deny he was guilty.