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T he air was cool. Chilly even. A hint of mildew clung to it. Most likely because the room lacked windows and was hard to air out.

Lying on a narrow table, Polly Griffin took a deep breath and released it slowly.

There was no need to fret. No reason for her pulse to race.

She was in capable hands. All would be well.

The surgeon whose help she’d sought came highly recommended.

Her usual physician, a man who’d helped cure her ailments numerous times in the past, had sent her here.

Doing so surely meant he believed in the treatment she would receive.

According to what she’d been told since she’d arrived, the procedure would be quick. Not entirely painless, but simple enough that she would be able to get back to work tomorrow. This assurance pleased her immensely for if there was one thing she’d no wish to do, it was to disappoint her employer.

Lady Ottersburg was a lovely woman who treated all her servants well.

Unlike other members of the peerage, the viscountess engaged her servants in conversation, even going so far as to take an interest in their families.

The lady always remembered which footman had a sickly parent or if a maid was about to become an aunt.

It was most impressive and helped instill a sense of worth in everyone who worked at Ottersburg House.

Polly considered it a distinct honor to serve there.

Even if she feared her dream of becoming the viscountess’s personal lady’s maid would never be realized.

Such promotions were rare. More so when Rose, who currently filled the position, had not yet turned thirty and was far more qualified than Polly, who’d only been employed to attend the downstairs.

Her day started early. By five o’clock she was in the parlor, opening the curtains to let in the morning light. The grate would be cleaned and the fire re-laid, after which she’d set about sweeping the rugs and wiping down every surface with a damp cloth before she moved on to the next room.

Lady Ottersburg often claimed her home to be the cleanest she’d ever set foot in.

High praise that made Polly proud of her job.

It also filled her with a desire to prove herself capable and worthy of the lady’s regard.

To not disappoint her. As Polly feared she might if it became known that she’d gotten herself with child out of wedlock.

She’d have to leave Ottersburg House before she started to show, to prevent her sin from rubbing off on the family.

Worse, to avoid the awkward conversations and pitiful looks that would likely precede her inevitable departure.

Mama would never forgive her or the diminished financial support such an outcome would lead to.

She herself would have to live with the guilt of knowing she’d ruined numerous lives in a foolish moment of weakness.

This was for the best. A quick procedure to help her take control of her future.

She turned her head and allowed her gaze to sweep the lime-washed walls of the room she was in until she found the surgeon who stood nearby. He wore a kind expression that seemed to convey immense understanding for the predicament in which she found herself.

“I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” he said, his voice soft. Gentle and soothing. “It’s important I make sure all of my tools are at the ready before we begin.”

Polly nodded as best as she could. “Of course.”

He glanced at her and the pleasant smile curving his lips put her further at ease. All would be well. No need to be anxious.

She wriggled her fingers and the rope that would hold her still while the surgeon worked chafed her wrists. Additional restraints had been used on her legs and ankles. A necessity, she’d been informed, since the slightest movement on her part could prove disastrous.

“Drink this.” A cup was pressed to her lips while a helpful hand lifted her head.

A shiver of apprehension curled around Polly’s breast. “What is it?”

“Just a bit of laudanum to help you relax.”

“It smells different than usual.”

A calm look full of understanding filled her vision. “Because of the wine and herbs I added to mask the bitterness. It makes the flavor more agreeable.”

A thoughtful notion, Polly decided. She’d always hated the way the stuff tasted. But if it was mixed with other ingredients, it might not be so bad.

She parted her lips and the liquid entered her mouth, surprising her with a hint of berries, ginger, possibly sage, and something she failed to identity.

It was sweet too and not entirely unpleasant.

Truth be told, she wouldn’t have guessed it contained any laudanum at all had the surgeon not mentioned it.

“That’s it.” The cup was tilted a bit more to help her drink. “You’ll feel the effect of it soon.”

Polly lowered her head until she was staring up at the ceiling.

Fine cracks lined the plaster, like a web of veins shooting out in every direction.

She blinked, then blinked again when her vision blurred.

It was as if a haze had descended over her eyes.

A woozy sensation spread through her limbs, reminding her of that time years ago when she and her cousin had pilfered Uncle Theo’s bottle of brandy.

It had to be… Had to be…

She tried to think, but her brain was empty. Vacant. And then she was falling backward. Into herself. As the world around her vanished.

* * *

The fog creeping over the Thames had started to retreat by the time Chief Constable Peter Kendrick arrived at the docks.

He peered out of the carriage window at the smudged silhouettes of buildings emerging through the gloom.

Dawn had broken nearly an hour ago, but heavy cloud coverage cloaked the streets, reducing visibility.

The carriage slowed and while he waited for it to pull to a halt, Peter allowed himself a moment to reflect on the turn his life had taken in recent weeks.

That damned case involving Adrian Croft had been an upheaval.

Peter had been sacked. A young and competent Runner named Jackson, who presently sat on the bench beside him, had taken his place for a time.

As a private citizen, Peter had worked with Jackson, who’d ignored Peter’s dismissal.

Together, despite opposing forces, they’d managed to root out corruption within the legal system.

The results of those cases had seen Peter reinstated, though the impact of what had occurred continued to linger elsewhere.

A judge was still under investigation for the part he’d played in convicting Adrian Croft, a wealthy upper-class citizen with a questionable reputation, of murder.

Viscount Carver, who’d been one of the Prince Regent’s most trusted advisors, had fled the country.

Peter’s former boss, Sir Nigel, had been stripped of his duties.

Mr. Croft himself had received a full pardon, though it cost him the blackmail files that had made so many people pray for his death.

Happily, the new chief magistrate, Mr. Hastings, had encouraged Peter’s return to Bow Street. A request Peter had gladly accepted even if it meant answering to a man he’d recently issued orders to.

Jackson, however, had instantly asked to resume his former duties as Runner so Peter could regain his title of chief constable. The younger man had joked that he’d rather someone else took the blame when a case went unsolved. Although Peter hated to admit it, this was far too often the case.

The carriage rocked, axels creaking, as it came to a standstill. Dressed in a greatcoat in case of rain, Peter thrust the door open and stepped down onto the uneven cobblestones. Jackson followed him out.

“Ready?” Peter asked.

Jackson responded with a firm nod. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”

They strode toward the spot where a small group of men gathered.

Two of them were holding lanterns, which helped illuminate the area.

The pungent smell of rotting seaweed clawed its way up Peter’s nose.

He reached inside a pocket and pulled out the silver case that housed his cheroots.

It took no more than five seconds before he inhaled the smooth taste of Indian tobacco.

His next exhale filled the air with a veil of smoke.

A bell rang somewhere in the distance. Peter stepped forward with purpose, his attention going briefly to the obscure shape that lay at the edge of the dock before honing in on the man who stood nearest.

“Good morning.” Peter stuck out his hand and the man, a scruffy fellow with dark wisps of hair poking out from beneath his cap, shook it.

“I’m Chief Constable Peter Kendrick and this is my colleague, Mr. Jackson.

We’ve come in response to the message delivered to Bow Street a short while ago. A body was mentioned.”

“Aye.” The man shoved both hands in his trouser pockets, hunching his shoulders against the damp air while jutting his chin toward the shape on the ground. “We covered ’er up. Out o’ respect.”

“It’s a woman then,” Jackson observed.

“Aye. Young one, by the looks o’ it. Shame really.”

Peter took a long drag from his cheroot, tilted his head, and sent the smoke skyward before saying, “We’ll need all your names for our records.”

No one argued. The man he’d been speaking to straightened a little. “I’m Jones. First name, Randolph. This ’ere’s Benjamin Clarence, David Lee, Finn Stevenson, and Ian Ackroyd.”

Jackson jotted down the information while Peter crossed to the body.

It had been concealed beneath a large piece of canvas, possibly sackcloth, considering the coarse appearance.

Peter dropped to a crouch and drew back the edge to reveal the woman.

Mr. Jones was correct. She was indeed young. Most likely in her early twenties.

“I need more light,” Peter said, scanning her pasty skin. Her eyes were closed, as though in slumber, her dark hair slicked back due to wetness – a few strands partially pasted to her right cheek.

Footsteps approached and a soft glow spilled over Peter’s left shoulder, flooding the woman’s face. It was clear now, judging from her appearance, that she’d been in the water a while. At least a couple of days, Peter reckoned.

He glanced up at Jackson, who’d brought the lantern over, then shifted his gaze to the men still gathered behind him. “Which one of you found her?”

There was a long pause before Jones chose to speak up. “Clarence and me. We was preparing the boat we use to ferry goods across the river when we saw her floatin’ nearby.”

“A possible case of self-murder then,” Jackson murmured while Peter returned his attention to the dead woman.

The Runner wasn’t wrong to suppose such a thing.

These types of deaths happened from time to time, especially on the river where those who wanted a way out of life would jump from one of the bridges.

Victims of foul play were rarely found in the Thames, most likely because those guilty of murder were wise enough to weigh the bodies down. Make sure they were never discovered.

Peter pulled the sackcloth back farther. The body appeared to be intact, so Jackson could be right. Were it not for a tiny detail that snared Peter’s attention. He lifted the woman’s right wrist, turned it slightly, and waved Jackson closer with the light.

Sure enough, the skin in one spot looked raw, with a purplish bruise directly beneath. Like something or someone had gripped her.

Of course, it could be nothing – no more than an accident of the woman’s own doing. Peter had no intention of making assumptions. But he’d been at this job long enough to know that this finding could be proof of foul play.

As such, it warranted further investigation.