“Not unless Mademoiselle Droux is singularly desperate or singularly blind,” put in Revere. “Abed is a well-looking man—and God only knows what women see in any man—but beau comme Adonais? Never.” He shook his head. “And yet—he’s never been the same, since word came to him of Davy’s death. In the time between their getting word that he’d been pressed into the Navy, and word of his death—over a year, that was—he was . . . I feared he’d go out of his senses. I think it was that, put a wedge between himself and Penelope. He’d take out his rage on her, then go try to drink himself unconscious, and all the while keeping up his position in the church, and running his business.” He fell silent, and a muscle in his temple stood out, with the clench of his jaw.

In time he said, “He was one of the constables of the Cornhill Ward, during the summer of ’72. He would have heard the details of the other murders. And,” he added with a sigh, “he was in town the night of the twenty-fourth, for all his prentice-boy said he was in Cambridge. I know, because I saw him, drinking at the Green Dragon.”

“At what time?”

“About seven. Long after the gates had been closed.” Revere poured her out tea. “It does seem like two criminals, doesn’t it? One mad—and maybe dead by this time—and the other . . . pretending to be him, for his own ends.”

“And Lieutenant Coldstone is certain—for what reason I don’t know—that that second criminal is John.” She folded her hands around the teacup, grateful for its warmth. “Not you, not Sam, not any of the actual leaders of the Sons of Liberty . . . specifically John. And in all of this, Rebecca has still made no appearance, nor has her body been found. I think—” She turned her face aside, and found herself suddenly having to work to keep her voice level. “I think it would actually be rather difficult to conceal a body in a town this crowded, for this length of time.”

“Easier in winter than in summer,” said Revere gently, and Abigail nodded.

“There is that. Now tell me—” She took a deep breath, and brought her gaze back to his. “Now tell me about Jenny Barry.”

“Jenny Barry.” Revere handed her a two-penny pottery sugar bowl—he who made the most exquisite silver ones in the colony—and sat for a time, collecting his thoughts.