Grey’s first thought upon seeing the body was that the constable was a master of understatement. His second was a sense of profound relief; the body was in fact fairly flat-chested, but was much too tall to be Nessie. The hair was darker than the Scottish whore’s, too—nearly black—and while it was thick and wavy, it was nothing like Nessie’s wild curly mane.

The face was essentially gone; obliterated in a frenzy of blows from something like the back of a spade or a fireplace poker. Suppressing his distaste—Quarry had been right about the smell—Grey circled slowly about the table on which the corpse had been laid.

“Think it’s the same?” Quarry asked, watching him. “The dress, I mean. You’ve an eye for such things.”

“I am fairly sure that it is. The lace . . .” He nodded at the wide trim on the gown, which matched the edging of the kerchief. The kerchief itself straggled loose across the table, torn and soaked in blood, but still pinned precariously to the gown. “It’s Valenciennes. I noticed it particularly at the brothel, because it’s very like that on my cousin’s wedding gown—there are swathes of it all over my mother’s house. Expensive stuff, though.”

“Not common, then.” Quarry fingered the tattered rag of the kerchief.

“Not at all.”

Quarry nodded, turning to Magruder.

“I think we shall be wanting a word with a madam named Maggie—house in Meacham Street, you know it? Rather a pity, that,” he added, turning back to Grey with a sigh. “Did like that blonde with the big tits.”

Grey nodded, only half-hearing. The gown itself was so crusted with blood and dirt that the color was almost indistinguishable; only the draggled folds of the skirt still showed emerald green. The smell was very strong in the confined quarters—Quarry had been right, she did reek like a . . .

He bent closer, hands on the table, sniffing deeply. Civet. He’d swear he smelt civet—and something else as well. The corpse was wearing perfume, though the scent was nearly obscured by the earthier reeks of blood and ordure.

She wears a very expensive scent. Civet, vetiver, and orange, if I am not mistaken. He could hear Richard Caswell’s voice in his head, dry as grave flowers. She has dark hair. Nearly black. Your cousin is fair, I believe?”

Excitement and dread tightened his belly as he leaned over the dead woman. It had to be; this was Trevelyan’s mysterious lover. But what had happened to her? Had her husband—if she had one—discovered the affair and taken his revenge? Or had Trevelyan . . .

He sniffed again, eager for confirmation.