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“And Minerva and her all-seeing owl,” said Hamilton smugly. “You see it too, don’t you? I believe he did go by the well that night. I believe Richard Croucher saw Elias Ring murder Elma Sands.”

If this was so—if Croucher would reveal as much on the stand—Hamilton would be unendurable.

It might not be true. Hamilton always spoke as though his conclusions were the only conclusions and all other possibilities delusions. But if it was . . . then there must be some way yet to reclaim this for Aaron’s own benefit.

They had only a month until the elections.

“What was this Mr. Croucher doing out there in the middle of nowhere after dark that he witnessed Miss Sands by the well?”

“He says”—Hamilton consulted another much-abused scrap of paper—“that he attended a birthday party at the home of a Mrs. Ann Ashmore—or possibly a Mrs. Ann Brown—and his way home led him through Lispenard’s Meadow.”

This caught Brockholst’s attention. “You spoke to him?”

“Naturally. He tried to sell me stockings for Eliza.”

Brockholst’s brows drew together. “Never mind the stockings. You didn’t mention your suspicions, I trust.”

“No.” Hamilton much preferred giving instructions to receiving them; Aaron could tell he was offended by Brockholst’s abrupt tone.

“Does Colden know anything of this—of Elma Sands’s relations with Elias Ring?”

Hamilton hadn’t expected his news to be received in this way. “Not that I know of. Watkins said he hadn’t told anyone else. As for Mrs. Forrest—I don’t believe Colden spoke with her either. That’s not to say he won’t.”

“He won’t. He has the bit between his teeth about Levi abducting a girl in a sleigh. Ha!” Brockholst looked expectantly at his colleagues. “The bit between his teeth? Never mind. The important thing is that Colden remain in ignorance. If we can surprise him at trial . . .”

“Isn’t the important thing that we bring the murderer of Elma Sands to justice?” declared Hamilton grandly.

What he meant, Aaron knew, was that he was picturing himself revealing the murderer, to the accolades of an adoring public.

“That,” said Aaron, “is Cadwallader Colden’s affair. However—one could make inquiries. Discreetly.”

“Very discreetly,” warned Brockholst.

“I was going to speak to Ann Ashmore—or Brown,” said Hamilton. “To determine whether Mr. Croucher might have left at such a time that he would have passed by the well at the crucial moment.”

Aaron exchanged a look with Brockholst. For once, they were largely in agreement. If Hamilton was correct in this, they would have to ensure he not take the credit for it—or apprise Mr. Colden of this new theory of the case.

“Allow me,” Aaron said. “I believe I know the house—and it can be done in such a way as to leave Mr. Colden entirely in ignorance.”

Chapter Sixteen

The Sunday before the young woman was missing, I saw a young man sounding the Manhattan Well with a pole. I went up to him and asked him what he was about. He said he made the carpenter’s work, and that he wanted to know the depth of the water. He measured it in different places and found it five foot five inches, five eight inches, and six foot.

—From the testimony of Matthew Mustee at the trial of Levi Weeks

New York City

March 21, 1800

Cadwallader Colden couldn’t believe his good fortune.

“You’re certain it was the Sunday before the young woman went missing?” he asked the man in front of him.

The man heaved a barrel down off the back of his wagon. It bore the legend “FINEST BRANDY.” “Couldn’t have been any other day, since it’s Sundays I have free of my toil.”

“And you saw a young man at the well.” Cadwallader dodged out of the way of another barrel, which, no longer braced by its fellow, showed a disturbing inclination to seek its own exit.

The man fielded the barrel with the expertise of long experience, setting it safely on the ground outside the tavern. “With a pole.”