Sam canted a suggestive eyebrow, which made Abigail want to snap at him that Rebecca’s friendship with the young printer wasn’t any of Sam’s business.

Rebecca had endured enough glances of that kind from her husband’s supporters—that assumption that any woman who lived by herself was a slut in her heart—without getting them from the Sons of Liberty as well.

“She was hurt,” said Abigail tightly. “I found blood on her pillow. I think the killer must have struck her on the head. She managed to get out of here, but if he saw her—if he knew she saw him—”

“Hrm.” Sam frowned. “It was dark as Erebus, remember, and raining oceans. She could have given him the slip, easily enough. She knew the neighborhood and he didn’t—”

“And what makes you think he didn’t?” retorted Abigail. “Any one of your North End toughs who thinks it’s a good joke to tie a burning stick to a dog’s tail—any one of the sailors from the docks who’d rather fight with the Watch than eat his dinner—”

“Now, a little rioting on Pope’s Day isn’t the same as this”—Sam nodded back toward the kitchen—“and you know it. Mrs. Malvern has to have gotten away because if she didn’t, one of the neighbors would have found her body as soon as it grew light. They’d have brought word of it to me or to Paul or to the Watch . . . and none of those things happened. By the same token, if Mrs. Malvern was hurt as badly as you fear, and fell, at daybreak she’d have been found by a neighbor. Orion Hazlitt—”

The stairwell door opened: Revere and Dr. Warren emerged. Warren went to collect their coats from the chair beside the desk—Of course, Abigail noted wrathfully, the puddle of rainwater beneath the window has been mopped away with everything else. Revere moved to close up a hinged niche in the paneling that Abigail had not seen before, close to the fireplace in the room’s darkest corner. A secret niche—empty now, but Abigail could see how a paper or two, dropped by someone standing before it, could easily whisk through the kitchen door.

Rebecca’s hidey-hole for unwritten poems—and incriminating lists.

“When you first came in here,” said Sam quietly, “you didn’t take anything, did you? Other than the list that you brought me?”

Exasperated, Abigail replied, “John has always told me that if you want a hope of solving a crime, never remove or alter anything from its scene until you’ve had a chance to examine everything there.”