Page 50

“And he was sounding the depths, you say?”

The man paused, leaning on one of the barrels. “He said he’d done the carpenter’s work, and wanted to know the depth of the water. He made it between five feet five inches and six foot. Deep enough, he said.”

Deep enough. The words had an uncanny ring to them.

“And this man—do you think you might recognize him if you saw him again?”

“I’d recognize his jacket, for sure. Red as a robin’s breast.”

Clothing could be changed. “But his face—his voice—do you think you could pick him out in a courtroom?”

“Depends how many is in the courtroom,” quipped the carter, but when Cadwallader didn’t laugh, he thought about it and said, “Might do.”

“It would be a great service,” said Cadwallader seriously.

More service than this man knew. It chilled Cadwallader to the marrow to think of Levi Weeks testing the depth of the well, prying off the board, luring Elma with promise of marriage.

A crime of passion one could understand, if not condone. Actions taken in the heat of blood and then regretted. But this . . . It was monstrous, foul. No wonder people claimed the ghost of Elma Sands haunted the well, crying for justice. If ever justice was owed, it was here.

Levi Weeks might seem all that was amiable. But this was a man who took the time to sound the depth of the well before he dragged his lover, pleading for mercy, across the frosty ground and flung her into the unforgiving waters.

It shocked even Cadwallader.

He’d always supposed that the driving force came from Ezra Weeks, the stronger-willed of the brothers. But what if it was the other way around? What if it was Levi himself who had decided to rid himself of his unwanted encumbrance, and his brother, after the fact, who closed ranks around him?

A man could smile and smile and be a villain.

“I take it the young man was of assistance?”

Cadwallader turned to the man beside him, whose presence he’d nearly forgotten. “Mr. Croucher, I cannot thank you enough. Your aid has been invaluable.”

The Rings’ lodger shrugged modestly. “I was in Mrs. Wellham’s grocery and heard him say he’d seen a man by the well. I’d thought it might be of use.”

“Of use indeed,” said Cadwallader warmly, as they fell into step together down Greenwich Street, back toward the boardinghouse. “If you could discover for me who might have been in the sleigh with Levi Weeks that night, I’ll have all I need to send the murderer to the gallows.”

“Ah, if only I could. If only I’d passed by the well at the right time that night, I’d be able to tell you all—or better, have stopped it before there was anything to tell.” Mr. Croucher sighed heavily. “It haunts me, Mr. Colden. If I’d known—if I’d been there—”

A sentiment that Cadwallader felt fully, that sense of always being one step behind, failing those one most wished to serve.

“All we can do now is bring her justice,” Cadwallader said soberly, “and hope it serves as a warning to other men who might seek to rid themselves of unwanted lovers in such a way.”

“There was that Malone,” mused Mr. Croucher, expertly navigating his way around a protruding pump. “I knew her, poor lady.”

“You knew Rose Malone?” Cadwallader had never met her in life, only in death. They had found her stuffed into a cistern, curled up like a baby. The doctors might disagree about what killed Elma, but they’d been certain about Rose Malone: she had been strangled.

“I have customers throughout the city. She bought stockings from me for her wedding, poor lady. When I heard the news, I felt I’d had some part in it, sending her to her death silk-shod. It was the husband who did it, they said.”

“The papers say a great number of things.”

“Did he ever come to trial?”

“No.” Cadwallader had been so sure her husband had done it, but William Malone had a dozen friends who could testify he’d been with them at a lodge meeting that night and not one of them would say otherwise.

Pastano—released. Rose Malone—her murder unavenged. Cadwallader’s failures haunted him. He’d failed Mary Ann De Castro and Rose Malone.

But not Elma Sands. He’d bring her killer to justice, whatever it took.

“Ah, well,” said Mr. Croucher. “They say the mills of the gods grind exceeding slow.”