If he or Quarry could extract anything resembling a confession from his suspects, they might be offered official clemency in the form of a commuted sentence—if the stolen records were restored. He was sure that between them, Harry Quarry and the mysterious Mr. Bowles could arrange for a sentence of transportation rather than hanging, and he hoped it would fall out so.
He was very much afraid, though, that the stolen requisitions were presently in France, having been taken there by Jack Byrd. And in that case . . .
In spite of the convoluted nature of his thoughts, he had not abandoned his alertness, and the sound of running footsteps on the roadway behind him made him turn sharply, both hands on his weapons.
His pursuer was not one of the pickpockets, though, but rather his valet, Tom Byrd.
“Me lord,” the boy gasped, coming to a halt beside him. He bent over, hands on his knees, panting like a dog to recover breath. “I was lookin’ for—saw you—and ran—what—you been—a-doing to your suit?”
“Never mind that,” Grey said shortly. “Has something happened?”
Byrd nodded, gulping air. His face was still bright red and streaming sweat, but he could at least form words.
“Constable Magruder. He sent—says come as quick as may be. He’s found a woman. A dead woman—in a green velvet dress.”
Stray bodies would normally be taken to the nearest coroner—but mindful of the possible importance of his discovery and the need for discretion, Constable Magruder had helpfully had the body brought first to the regiment’s quarters near Cadogan Square, where it had been placed in the hay shed—to the horror of Corporal Hicks, who was in charge of the horses. Harry Quarry, summoned from his tea to deal with this new circumstance, told Grey as much upon his arrival in the courtyard.
“What happened to your suit?” Quarry asked, casting an interested eye over the assorted stains. He rubbed a finger beneath his nose. “Phew.”
“Never mind that,” Grey said tersely. “Do you know the woman?”
“Don’t think her own mother would know her,” Quarry said, turning to lead the way into the stables. “Pretty sure I’ve seen the dress, at Maggie’s place. Certainly isn’t Maggie, though—no tits at all.”
A sudden fear turned Grey’s bowels to water. Christ, could it be Nessie?
“When you say her mother wouldn’t know her—had she . . . been in the water long?”
Quarry cast him a puzzled look.
“She wasn’t in the water at all. Had her face beaten in.”
He felt bile rise at the back of his throat. Had the little whore gone nosing about, in hopes of helping him further, and been murdered for her interference? If she had died on his account, and in such a way . . . Uncorking the bottle of wine, he took a deep swallow, and another, then handed it to Quarry.
“Good idea. She’s niffy as a Frenchman’s arse; been dead a day or two.” Harry tilted up the bottle and drank, looking somewhat happier afterward. “Nice stuff, that.”
Grey saw Tom Byrd cast a look of longing at the bottle, but Quarry kept firm hold of it as he led the way through the brick-paved stables.
Magruder was waiting for them outside the shed, with one of his constables.
“My lord.” Magruder inclined his head, looking curiously at Grey. “What happened to—”
“Where did you find her?” Grey interrupted.
“In Saint James’s Park,” the constable replied. “In the bushes by the path.”
“Where?” Grey said incredulously. Saint James’s was the preserve of merchants and aristocrats, where the young, the rich, and the fashionable strolled to see and be seen. Magruder shrugged, slightly defensive.
“People out for an early walk found her—or rather, their dog did.” He stepped back, ushering the soldiers ahead of him through the door to the tack room. “There was considerable blood.”
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.
Where did women wear perfume? Behind the ears—no, not a chance; the corpse had only one ear and the other was in no condition . . . Between the breasts, perhaps; he’d seen his mother tuck a scented cloth down into the top of her stays before a party.
He ducked his head to inhale more deeply, and saw the small, blackened hole in the center of the bodice, inconspicuous amidst the general carnage.
“I will be damned,” he said, looking up at the phalanx of bemused faces hovering over him. “She’s been shot.”
“Do you want to know summat else, me lord?” The whisper came at his elbow. Tom Byrd, by now somewhat inured to nasty sights, had edged his way close, and was looking at the corpse’s smashed face in fascination.
“What’s that, Tom?”
The boy’s finger floated tentatively across the table, pointing at what Grey had taken for a smudge of dirt behind the jaw.
“She’s got whiskers.”