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Mr. Watkins said slowly, “As you may have seen, our house shares a wall with the Ring house. The wall is only a plank partition, plastered and lathed on both sides.”

“My husband made it himself—and might have made it thicker,” Mrs. Watkins said pointedly. It was clearly an old argument. “You can’t sneeze in here without them over there hearing it. We’ve no privacy at all.”

“And nor have they,” admitted Mr. Watkins. “I hardly like to say it. . . . It may have been nothing at all. But I imagined one night I heard the shaking of a bed and considerable noise there, in the second story, where Elma’s bed stood.”

“Imagined, ha! If you imagined it, I imagined it too.” Mrs. Watkins turned back to Alexander. “He said to me, Joseph did, she’ll be ruined next. Elma, that is.”

It was just in keeping with this thoroughly awful day that his investigation would yield information damning for Levi Weeks, thought Alexander grimly. Previously, only Richard Croucher had been willing to attest to relations of a sexual nature between Elma and the accused. Perhaps Burr and Livingston had the right of it; perhaps he should have insisted the girl committed suicide and looked no further. Perhaps he should never have involved himself in the case at all.

“And you have no doubts as to the nature of the noise?” asked Alexander.

“There was no mistaking it,” said Mrs. Watkins firmly. “I was of two minds about letting Fanny associate with her after that, but we knew it wouldn’t go on after Catherine came back from the country—and Elma did have a winning way about her,” Mrs. Watson allowed grudgingly. “But once Catherine Ring told me Elma was saying she was here when she wasn’t, I knew it was starting up all over again—and we would have said something—but we didn’t want trouble—it’s never good to have trouble with your neighbors—and who knew it would come to this?”

Who, indeed. Alexander asked himself that on a daily basis about the army, about his legal practice, about his expenses, about the state of the country. How had it come to this? He forced himself to return his attention to the Watkinses. If this information was true, then it was time he had a long talk with Levi Weeks, who had claimed that he had visited Elma “only for conversation.” If he had lied about that, what else might he be lying about?

“You are quite certain you heard Elma Sands in a compromising position with Levi Weeks?”

A curious stillness seized both the ironmonger and his wife. Watkins froze with his coffee cup half to his lips; Mrs. Watkins’s lips opened as though to speak, but no sound came out. She looked to her husband.

“We heard Elma Sands in a compromising position, yes,” said Watkins slowly. “But . . .”

Mrs. Watkins gave her head a brisk shake. “Go on. Tell him. What’s the use of hiding it now? It’s bound to come out anyway.”

Watkins hesitated, looking a decade older than his years.

Alexander drew himself up, embodying all the majesty of the law. “If you have some information that has a bearing on the murder of Elma Sands, it is your bounden duty to share it so that justice might be served.”

Watkins set down his coffee cup. “It wasn’t Levi Weeks I heard through that wall with Elma. It was Elias Ring.”

Chapter Thirteen

During [Elma’s] indisposition [Levi] paid her the strictest attention, and spent several nights in the room, saying he did not like to leave her with Hope—my sister—fearing she might get to sleep and neglect her; and in the night he wanted to go for a physician, but I discouraged him, thinking she would get better by morning.

—From the testimony of Catherine Ring at the trial of Levi Weeks

New York City

March 1, 1800

“Have thee seen Elias?” Caty hissed, catching Hope just as Hope had almost made it to the door.

“No,” Hope lied.

She had seen him leave an hour earlier, heading in the direction of the tavern by the corner of Greenwich and Barclay. Her sister’s husband had become a frequent patron there. Hope wasn’t sure if it was for the numbing properties of their rum or to get away from the tension emanating from Caty like one of Mr. Franklin’s experiments with lightning.

“Elias’s great friend Mr. Croucher has brought his intended to see his room—and her serving maid to clean it for him.” Caty’s voice vibrated with indignation. She straightened abruptly at the sight of someone over Hope’s shoulder. “Mrs. Stackhaver. Was the room to thy liking?”

It was evident Mrs. Stackhaver was a faithful purchaser of Mr. Croucher’s wares; Hope recognized the lace fichu, too thin and fine for March, and the silk that made up the widow’s turban. Mr. Croucher sauntered behind his betrothed, looking well pleased with himself. They made a striking couple, both brilliant in brocade, utterly out of place in the simple environs of the boardinghouse.

“We need water and rags,” said Mrs. Stackhaver imperiously. Beneath her carefully cultivated tones, Hope could hear a strong trace of a rural Dutch accent. “I’ll set my girl to cleaning.”

“Mr. Croucher’s room,” said Caty tightly, “is cleaned as often as anyone else’s.”

“Which is not enough,” sniffed Mrs. Stackhaver. “Margaret!”

A girl appeared behind her, all big eyes and thin wrists, her brown hair modestly braided beneath her cap. She looked hardly older than Rachel. “Ma’am?”

“Mrs.—” Mrs. Stackhaver looked blankly at Caty. Mr. Croucher leaned over and whispered into her ear. “Mrs. Ring will bring you what you need to render that room habitable.”