Matthias obviously wanted to ask why, but he only nodded and slipped down the stairs to obey.

Not long later, Matthias led me, Grenville, and the surgeon through the eerily deserted passages that led past the servants’ hall, the kitchen where Anton had accosted me earlier, and the scullery. Candles burned in holders and in sconces, lighting no one.

The wine cellar was illuminated by a few lanterns hung on the walls in anticipation of our arrival. The crate was where I’d left it, between tall racks that were half full of bottles. Some of the finest port and small casks of brandy reposed here, and I’d shoved a box of old bones among them.

Matthias, on my order, dragged it out. Grenville gestured to a table on the other side of the room, and Matthias lugged the crate to it.

“You can imagine what transpired when I had Matthias open this not an hour ago so I could look inside,” Grenville said as Matthias maneuvered the crate to the top of the table. “He pried loose the lid, and a grinning skull looked up at us. I believe our collective shout reached the top of the house.”

“You weren’t that loud, sir,” Matthias said. He took up an iron bar for opening crates of wine. “I imagine your voice only reached the kitchen.” He busily loosened the lid and set it aside.

The surgeon had said nothing at all as Grenville and Matthias had chattered nervously. He’d remained in the shadows, several paces behind us. Now he came forward and reached into the box himself.

As Thompson had in the rooms under the magistrate’s house, the surgeon competently laid out the skeleton. He did so more quickly than Thompson, never having to pause to decide what went where.

In less than ten minutes, he’d reconstructed the body of the woman, stretched out across Grenville’s table, the brown bones small and pitiable.

The surgeon remained silent as he bent to study the body. When he needed more light, he snapped his fingers at Matthias and pointed to a lantern, which Matthias brought without question.

The surgeon took the candle out of the lantern, and leaned with it over the bones, cupping his hand to keep the wax from dripping.

The three of us watching didn’t speak at all. I couldn’t take my eyes from the surgeon as he nearly pressed his nose to the body, examining every single bone, every joint, every dried bit of skin that clung here and there.

“Female,” he said at long last. “As you said. Young. Never bore a child. From a middle-class family, possibly a wealthy one. A healthy young woman, robust. This …” He pointed to the crack in her skull “… no doubt killed her. No other signs of injury. She was struck hard, once, with a thin, blunt object. Poker, maybe. Or maybe an iron bar of some kind. Died almost instantly. Whoever struck the blow either was very lucky or knew precisely how to do it.”

“The injury could not have been from a fall?” I asked. “Or something falling on her? An accident?”

The surgeon shook his head. “Her face would have been more crushed, with more splintering of bones. She was struck.” He leaned closer to her. “I put her age about nineteen, certainly no more than early twenties. Where did you say she was found?”

“Wapping docks,” I said. “Caught under a piling. Found ten years ago.”

“Mm.” The surgeon touched the woman’s arm bone, rubbing his finger along it. “If she was in the water from her time of death, I’d guess she’d been there no less than a few years. Flesh deteriorates quickly and fish consume it in a surprisingly short time. She is nothing but bones—five years might be the outside mark, if she were thrown into the water right away. I can be no more accurate.”

Grenville blinked. “Good God—it’s accurate enough. How on earth can you know all that?”

The surgeon met his gaze, his eyes cold and remote. “That she was healthy, her bones strong, her body straight, suggest to me she was not of the working class. She has a family wealthy enough to feed her and care for her, and she did not have to do manual labor. State of her teeth tell me how old she was. I speculate she is not an aristocrat or gentry, because a great to-do would have been made of her disappearance. This suggests her family is not significant enough to have every detail about them printed in the papers.”

I removed the necklace and strip of cloth Thompson had given me from my pocket. Donata had pronounced the cloth fine and the necklace delicately wrought gold, which supported the surgeon’s theory that her family had had money.

Grenville took the necklace with interest. “A fine piece. Thompson is certain it belongs with the young woman?”

“It was around her neck,” I replied. “Fused as one piece, he said. He had to cut it from her. Could Gautier help us with that, do you think?”

“I will ask him,” Grenville said. He looked ready to dash away and find the man on the instant, but he steadied himself. “Anything else you can tell us about this poor girl?” he asked the surgeon. “Not that you haven’t related a veritable stream of information already.”

“She had a broken arm at one point.” The surgeon pointed to a bone in her forearm that looked perfectly fine to me. “Possibly shortly before her death, though not immediately before. It was set well, mended cleanly.”

Grenville let out a breath. “I suppose we could question every surgeon in the country to determine which one set the arm of a girl, say fifteen years ago? A bit daunting.”

“No need,” the surgeon said. “Only one in London helps breaks heal this cleanly. He must be an old man now, but if he is still alive, he might remember. Jonas Coombs. Tottenham Court Road.”

I pursed my lips, impressed. “If Thompson had been able to consult you years ago, he might have found the woman’s identity and solved her murder immediately.”

For the first time since I’d met him, I saw something like humor flicker over the surgeon’s face. “I was detained.”

“Never mind—it’s a help now,” Grenville said. “I will inquire as to the whereabouts of Jonas Coombs of Tottenham Court Road. And put Gautier on the trail of this necklace. Mr. Thompson will have his mystery solved in no time.”

I was not so optimistic, but then again, I’d had no hope we would come by so much knowledge so quickly.

“Thank you,” I said to the surgeon. “I’ll see you are compensated for your time.”

“No need.” The surgeon’s amusement had swiftly faded. “My price is silence, Captain. See that you keep it.”

Chapter Seven

We saw the surgeon upstairs, the house remaining empty and quiet from kitchen to front door.

The same coach and coachman waited. The surgeon nodded a good-bye to me and Grenville and got himself into the carriage, which rattled off into the darkness and fog.

“Well,” Grenville said as Matthias shut the door. “That was worth missing Lady Longwood’s soiree for. He’s an interesting man.”

“A dangerous one, I’d wager,” I said. “Even Denis seems a bit cautious about him. Now, shall you rush late to your soiree or ask Gautier about the necklace?”

“Your sense of humor is remarkable, Lacey. Come along.”

We ascended to the upper part of the house, Matthias disappearing down the back stairs, presumably to tell the servants they could emerge from hiding.

Gautier was in Grenville’s dressing room, attending to a coat. The coat hung on a rack that put it at Gautier’s height as he went over it with a pale-bristled brush.

“Sir,” Gautier said as Grenville led me in. His look of disapproval at the frock coat Grenville now slid from his shoulders would have been comical at another time.

Grenville handed the valet the necklace without preliminary. “Could you find out who made that?”

Gautier, his interest caught, held up the chain to the light of the elegant triple-candle sconce behind him.

It was a simple gold necklace with an oval locket, the sort ladies wore as remembrances. Inside would be a miniature or lock of hair of a loved one—mother, sister, father, husband—but as I had observed, this locket was empty.