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“It would have been hard not to. Mr. Colden began his trial just outside our door. My boys rushed out to follow the sleigh. But no, I didn’t see Elma in a sleigh that night.” A shadow crossed Watkins’s face. “I was there when they found her. It’s a sight that will haunt me to my dying day.”

“How did you come to be there?”

“Elias Ring told me the muff Elma had been wearing that night had been found in a well. He wanted someone to go with him. So I went.” Watkins’s face was gray. He recalled himself with an effort. “Here, it’s foolish to be standing in the shop with a dry throat when I might offer you coffee in comfort.”

Watkins led Alexander through the door that separated the shop from the house’s living quarters, into a comfortable front room containing somewhat more the usual amount of ironware. Candles stood on iron holders, an iron-and-tin coffee biggin sat on the table, and an iron stove warmed the room. A heavily pregnant woman not in her first youth was pouring boiling water into the coffee biggin.

“Let me, my dear,” said Watkins, and took the kettle from his wife.

“Ha,” said Mrs. Watkins, “showing off your good manners for your distinguished visitor? Sir,” she added, dropping a clumsy curtsy to Alexander.

“Thank you for receiving me,” said Alexander. “I’m afraid I’m here to talk to you about the sad matter of Elma Sands.”

“We’ve heard you’re to save Levi from the gallows,” said Mrs. Watkins, who apparently had no thought that didn’t make its way to her lips. She jerked her head toward the wall. “You’ve made no friends over there.”

“In the Ring house, you mean?” That was no news. When Alexander had attempted to interview Catherine Ring, she had accorded him the respect due his station, but made it quite clear she viewed him as being of the devil’s party.

“They’re not bad neighbors,” said Watkins vaguely.

His wife didn’t seem to share that view. “People constantly coming and going, that Mr. Croucher oozing over here at dinnertime trying to sell me stockings and goodness only knows what fripperies, and that Elma—”

Alexander raised his brows, looking from one to the other. “That Elma?”

“She wasn’t the companion I’d have chosen for my girls, that’s all,” said Mrs. Watkins, and busied herself with the coffee biggin.

Alexander nodded his thanks as she handed him a cup of extremely strong coffee, and made a note to remember to purchase Eliza her biggin before departing.

“Elma was an associate of Fanny’s,” said Watkins, choosing his words carefully. “She had a way about her—Fanny was mad to fold her kerchief the way she did and copy the way she dressed her hair.”

“Elma was trouble,” said his wife flatly, handing Watkins a cup. “Remember that time she told Catherine Ring she’d been here with us when she hadn’t? And Catherine blaming us for Elma catching a chill.”

“She wasn’t a bad girl. The little ones loved her. She always had time for them, even when Fanny didn’t. She’d play with their toys with them and listen to their stories.” Mr. Watkins looked down at his coffee cup. “She used to tell me she wished she had a father like they did.”

“You just liked her because she flattered you,” Mrs. Watkins accused her husband.

“No—I think she meant it. She needed a father, that poor girl.”

Alexander could feel the coffee energizing him, sharpening his wits. “You say she told Mrs. Ring that she was here with you when she wasn’t?”

Watkins looked troubled. “She did come and stay over here now and again. They’ve a lot of coming and going at that house; boarders there for a few weeks and then gone.”

Mrs. Watkins snorted. “Catherine Ring would rent out her own bed if it would make her a penny.”

Her husband sent her a quelling glance. “Elma used to say there were nights when she hardly knew where she was to sleep or whether there’d be a bed for her.”

“As if we have that many beds here with six of our own and your apprentices!” Mrs. Watkins let out a long breath. “There was a time or two that Elma stayed for supper and stayed on after—I’d hear her and Fanny up whispering to all hours and goodness only knows what they were talking about, the two of them! But there was a night she said she was here that she wasn’t.”

“Maybe Catherine Ring misunderstood her,” said Watkins.

“I think Catherine Ring understood her very well,” his wife retorted. “After what she got up to in September—”

She broke off, biting down hard on her lip.

“More coffee?” she asked, lifting the biggin.

Alexander wasn’t to be distracted. “What did Elma get up to in September?”

The ironmonger and his wife exchanged a long look.