Abigail hesitated, then said carefully, “There is a man—a friend”—not a completely accurate statement, but it was the best she could manage on the spur of the moment—“who got into a quarrel with Mrs. Fishwire, more than once, I understand. He is . . . a connection of the family of Mr. Pentyre’s mother, who were involved in a dispute over property. I cannot give you his name—”

Coldstone made an impatient gesture.

“—because he has been so unwise as to speak out against the King’s Governor in the past . . . not an uncommon topic of conversation, in this colony. Because of the situation of his poor wife”—Would he care for this argument? She didn’t think so—“I fear lest he be harassed, merely on suspicion of this crime. Have you had the opportunity to ask Mr. Pentyre if he is willing to speak with me, so that I may ask him of this?”

“Of this?” He raised one eyebrow. “Or to further your personal theory that he might be the murderer himself?”

“Lieutenant!” Mr. Fluckner strode back up the wooden steps to street level again, swinging his silver-headed cane. “Lieutenant, I have twice indicated to you that we are ready to depart! Need I remind you—”

“Forgive me.” Lieutenant Coldstone turned quickly toward the red-faced merchant. “I came ashore to accomplish two duties, and am guilty of neglecting the one in pursuit of the other.”

Fluckner glanced at Abigail, his thick lips wry, as if gauging both her politics and her morals from the cost of her plain green wool cloak, the muslin cap visible beneath her hood. He said, “M’am,” but didn’t sound enthusiastic about it, and touched the brim of his hat.

“Mr. Fluckner, Mrs. Adams,” Coldstone introduced them, as the daughter came up, followed by the mother’s querulous voice.

“They’re not going to come rushing out of the town to shoot us on sight, you know, Papa,” the girl protested, as she reached her father’s side. “All they’re asking for is their rights as citizens.” She stared with fiery fifteen-year-old defiance at Coldstone, and Fluckner said sharply, “Hush, girl. The only rights they’re interested in is the right to take property from those who’ve worked for it. Begging your pardon, Mrs. Adams,” he added, turning back to Abigail. “We’ll miss the tide if we linger.” By the smoldering suspicion in his eyes—presumably at the name of Adams—he was clearly considering the possibility that she was delaying their departure until the protest meeting was finished and a concerted attack could be arranged.

“I fear Mr. Fluckner is quite correct.” Coldstone turned back to her. “If you can cross tomorrow at this time,” he said, “I can arrange an introduction. Would that satisfy you?”

“Thank you. I am very sensible of your assistance.”

“Enough to share with me the results of the interview?”

She smiled. “Even that.”