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Thornton’s scowl fell off as he came around the table and viewed the victim. His softening gaze gave Hugh hope.

“Do you know her?”

“I believe I do,” Thornton replied. “If I am correct, her name is Miss Harwood. Penelope Harwood. Her older brother boxes at Gentleman Jack’s.”

“When did you meet Miss Harwood?” Audrey asked. Ladies were not permitted at the boxing club, so it could not have been there.

Thornton pursed his lips. “A month or two ago. I was at a party. Demimonde.” He glanced furtively at Hugh.

He nodded, understanding this party would have been off color for the lords and ladies of the ton.

“You made her acquaintance there?” Audrey asked.

“No, we did not meet. I heard her name. It caught my attention as I box with Morris, her brother.”

“Can you recall who she was there with?” Hugh asked, thinking of Tobias, although he would not mention his name to Thornton just yet.

His friend shook his head. “She arrived with some men and another young woman, but I don’t know who they were.”

Not Tobias then, as Thornton knew him and would certainly be forthright with the information if Tobias had been one of them.

“Morris Harwood is the eldest son of Baron Harwood,” Thornton provided. “The baron, Sir Christopher, is deathly ill, or so I hear.” He unbuttoned his cuffs, preparing to roll up his shirtsleeves. “Where was Miss Harwood found? And how did you come to be involved?”

Quickly, Hugh explained about Sir Gabriel’s summons the previous night and how the body had been discovered in a horse stall within Victor Messinger’s carriage house.

“Messinger claimed not to know her,” Hugh added.

Thornton reached for Miss Harwood’s shoulders. “I’ll roll her to her side if you will undo the buttons on her bodice.” He stopped and addressed Audrey, “Did you wish to remain while I look at her wounds?”

Hugh bit his tongue against suggesting she wait for them upstairs. She would only fume, and he’d already inflamed her enough as it was.

“I will stay,” she said evenly. “Let me know if I can be of assistance.”

“You can. Uncork one of the bottles of whisky on the shelf behind you.”

“A little hair of the dog?” Hugh asked as Thornton moved the completely rigid corpse onto its side.

“No need. Handling a dead body is an entirely sobering event.”

Hugh eyed the back of the woman’s dress. A considerable amount of blood had stiffened the fabric there, and after releasing the few buttons and opening the placket, he saw livid bruising, as well as more dried blood. Hugh had seen plenty of bodies during his time at Bow Street and knew that as the hours passed after death, a corpse’s blood came to rest at the lowest points of the body. Lividity mottling the skin would look like bruising.

There was, however, a notably darker bruise encircling a puncture wound in the woman’s upper back. He drew Thornton’s attention to it.

“Yes, I see,” the doctor murmured as he leaned forward to peer at the round, rather neat, perforation just under her left shoulder blade.

Settling Miss Harwood onto her back again, they shifted the bodice of the dress low enough to reveal the lady’s blood-drenched stays and chemise. Audrey brought the opened bottle of whisky, and Thornton splashed the spirits onto his handkerchief. Gently, he wiped dried blood from Miss Harwood’s chest. The top of her chemise was low enough to reveal a puncture wound just above her left breast.

“A second wound, or did something impale her?” Audrey asked, watching from Thornton’s side of the table.

“I believe she was impaled with a long, thin blade or rod, round in shape,” Thornton answered. “The weapon entered from the back and came through her breast.”

“How do you know?” Audrey asked.

“An entry wound is smaller and bruised, while an exit wound is larger and jagged with torn flesh,” he explained.

Hugh winced. The injury would have been quite painful, he imagined, though perhaps her heart had been pierced, making her suffering short-lived. Thornton agreed with that theory.

The three of them peered at Miss Harwood in silence. She had been an attractive young woman, with refined features and long, dark hair, loosed now from any pins. The gas lantern light, paired with the daylight streaming in through the cellar windows, highlighted some reddish-gold strands of her hair. As well as something that didn’t belong.