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have already told them what I know.”
    “I believe the Coroner intends that you will testify before the assembled jury downstairs, this time under oath. They will interview many people who knew the deceased, and I am presuming he will interrogate you last, so I imagine you will be here for several more days. I would strongly advise you to refuse to testify before the Coroner’s jury so that you do not incriminate yourself.”
    “Incriminate myself? Am I a suspect? But I have not been charged with any crime. I am innocent!” she exclaimed.
    “Regardless of your guilt or innocence, I am afraid that what you say now may have grave consequences later. Your testimony will be transcribed for the record.” He saw her confusion as the firelight flickered across her features revealing her dark lashes, now thickening with tears.
    “It is all so terrible. I have told them everything. The last time I saw Dr. Burdell was before dinner, on Friday. He had his carriage brought around. I asked him where he was going, but he did not tell me. I stayed here in my room all evening by the fire, with my daughters, sewing. The three of us went to sleep in my bedroom, around eleven o’clock. We decided to sleep together in my room because it was my daughter’s last night at home.”
    “Did you hear any commotion, or any noises during the night?”
    “I am generally a sound sleeper and I didn’t wake at all. I heard nothing. In the morning, the errand boy found him—he was dead!” She broke into sobs. She knocked a sewing basket from her chair onto the floor, spilling lace and ribbons. The room smelled faintly of perfume. Clinton handed her his handkerchief.
    “I have been telling them the same thing over and over,” she continued. “I do not know who killed Dr. Burdell or where he went that evening. He was gone for many hours. His carriage driver, Samuel, certainly would know.”
    “You told that to the Coroner and the Police Chief?”
    She took a breath, trembling. It took her several seconds to compose herself and then she said, “They molested me, you know.”
    “Who?”
    “The Coroner, and his deputies. They made me undress before them, removing everything, including my stockings,” she said, her hands twisting anxiously at her handkerchief. “The men ran their fingers up and down my torso, looking for marks and bruises, but there was nothing. I was so ashamed and I cried out, ‘Don’t exposeme so!’” she said, sobbing anew. “Sir, you must help me. I fear for my daughters—they are so young. I am so frightened for them, you must help us.”
    He watched and listened intently as she spoke. She had a shawl around her shoulders, gripping it tightly. Her eyes darted around the room, as if searching for familiar ballast. He heard the terror in her voice at the separation from her daughters, who were being kept away from her, sequestered in another room.
    “Madame, I must ask you about something important—about the marriage certificate.” Clinton spoke quickly, because he sensed that time was short. “I will be blunt. You told the Police Chief that you and Dr. Burdell were married, but no one else was aware of it. Now the Coroner is trying to establish if the certificate is a fake, which might indicate your motive toward the crime, so you would gain his property as a widow.”
    She gasped, as if the idea stung her. “Harvey and I met in Saratoga last summer, and shortly thereafter, he proposed. I came to live in this house and we were married privately,” she insisted. “Dr. Burdell preferred that we keep the marriage a secret, until the spring, when we were to go to Europe. He needed to complete some business, and to straighten out his affairs. It was his choice to keep it a secret and I complied.” Clinton strained to listen, for her voice was whispery and faint.
    “I will see that you get legal representation. But first, here is my advice,” he said. “For now, you must remain silent. Do not speak to anyone