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“As far as I can gather, she was only known to have spoken of taking it the once,” said Cadwallader. “And it was really by nature of a jest.”

“A jest?”

“She was a high-spirited girl. I can find a dozen people who will attest to that. The defense is only seizing on the idea of suicide because they have nothing else to offer. But we have people who swear they heard cries of murder from the well at somewhere between eight and nine on that night. No one planning to make away with herself cries murder.”

“One would assume not.”

“The case couldn’t be more clear,” said Cadwallader firmly. He resisted the urge to sneak a glance at Maria to see if she was impressed. “Another boarder saw Levi Weeks and Elma Sands engaged in illicit relations as early as September. The whole family attests to his attentions to Elma. During her illness early in December he personally tended to her—he wouldn’t allow even her own cousin to take his place by her side.”

“But she wasn’t with child?”

“No.” That would have made the case against Levi stronger. “But he did promise her marriage. She told her cousin Hope Sands that they were to leave to be married at eight on that Sunday night. A little after eight, Levi returned to the boardinghouse and collected her. That night, a sleigh was seen running without lights or bells and”—Cadwallader finished triumphantly—“a neighbor can testify that she saw the sleigh leaving Ezra Weeks’s yard just about eight, returning not long after.”

“Just be sure you have the evidence to prove what you claim,” Josiah warned, setting down his cup as he rose from his chair.

“If I have to, I’ll interview every man in the city,” declared Cadwallader recklessly, as he showed his brother-in-law back out into the frosty day.

When he returned to his own hearth, Maria was standing by the tea table, her mouth pinched into a thin line, staring at him over her new silver teapot.

“Every man in the city,” she said. There was a fine, sharp edge to her voice.

“And women too.” Cadwallader was not sure how he’d upset her, only that he had. That seemed to happen a great deal these days.

“Elma Sands’s illness—what do you think it was?”

It was nice that Maria was taking an interest in the case. It had been so long since they had shared anything. “Who can tell with these disorders of the stomach?” Cadwallader said expansively. “The doctor said it came on suddenly. He wasn’t called until several days later, which makes it harder for him to tell. But it’s not really relevant, except insomuch as it explains the laudanum.”

Maria stared at him as though she had just seen something unpleasant crawling out of his cravat. Cadwallader reflexively smoothed down his hair. “You told Josiah she was seen in an indelicate situation with Levi Weeks in September. In December she had an illness that involved ‘cramping and such.’”

“Yes?” Cadwallader had no idea what she was getting at.

Maria closed her eyes tightly. “We’ve suffered five disappointments, Cadwallader. Five. We’ve had five disappointments and you don’t even recognize the signs?”

“But—she wasn’t with child. The doctors examined her insides.”

Maria breathed in deeply through her nose, staring at the fine plasterwork of the ceiling. “Just because she wasn’t with child at the time doesn’t mean she hadn’t lost a child. I’m not with child, am I? And I’ve lost and lost and lost.”

“Maria—” Cadwallader reached out a tentative hand to her. “We’ll have another.”

Maria flinched away, her skirts swirling with her. “Will we? You say that, but you’re not the one who has suffered acute disorder of the stomach. Five times!”

In the face of her grief and rage, Cadwallader had no idea what to say, so he ventured the first thing that came to mind. “You think Elma Sands lost Levi Weeks’s child?”

Maria slammed the door so emphatically behind her that the teacups rattled in their fashionably shallow saucers.

Cadwallader sank down into the chair vacated by his brother-in-law and absentmindedly helped himself to the rest of his tea, now stone-cold and exceedingly bitter.

If he went after Maria she’d only pretend nothing had happened; she didn’t like to display excessive emotion. He didn’t know that he could bear her mouthing polite nothings to him with a face like a marble mask.

Just because she wasn’t with child doesn’t mean she hadn’t lost a child.

He’d never considered the possibility that Elma Sands might have lost Levi Weeks’s child, that her illness—her cramps of the stomach—might have been anything other than the sort of disorder anyone might suffer.

You don’t even recognize the signs, Maria had accused him. And he ought to have. Now that she’d said it, it seemed so plain. Catherine Ring’s refusal to send for the doctor until the danger was past. Levi Weeks’s attentiveness during Elma’s illness—his refusal to allow anyone else, even her cousin Hope, to nurse her.

Had he hoped she would die then and free him from his embarrassments? Had he given her something to induce her to lose the child?

Cadwallader realized that he’d been holding the teapot over the cup for several seconds and nothing was coming out, although he appeared to have managed to dribble the last dregs down his leg. He scrubbed absently at the stain on his fawn-colored breeches, thinking hard.