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necks
     for me to record the intricate workings inside—the bones, muscles, and nerves; the
     esophagus, windpipe, and vocal cords—but we had never viewed a corpse subjected to
     such a gruesome injury. The only observation I could contribute was that from the
     appearance of the cut, the killer had only needed to make one slice with his knife.
     I knew from watching Sir Anthony make his dissections that it would have taken a significant
     amount of force to make such a clean, precise cut.
    I suppressed a shudder and reached out to smooth back a strand of hair that had matted
     to the blood on her neck. “Wet rag,” I said, holding out my hand. I waited for Mr.
     Gage to dunk one of the cloths I had brought in the bucket and give it to me.
    I carefully dabbed at the wound to wash away some of the tacky blood hiding it, feeling
     oddly detached from myself. I had never touched a corpse before, and Lady Godwin’s
     body seemed so fragile beneath my fingers. The water ran in pink streams down her
     neck to the table below. The depth of the gash and the manner in which the skin peeled
     back from the wound made me flinch.
    “What?” Mr. Gage asked. “What is it?”
    I shook my head and swallowed, struggling to regain my composure. “Ah, it’s just an
     ugly wound. This one slash alone killed her. Any other wounds she may have suffered
     are just superfluous.”
    His eyes slid back up to examine the bruise on her face, and then lifted to meet mine
     over Lady Godwin’s head.
    “I can’t tell whether she was struck before or after her neck was slit,” I told him.
     “But I imagine there would be some sign of struggle if she had been hit before.”
    I reached for her right hand and turned it over to look for any cuts, lacerations,
     or chipped nails. The left hand was more difficult to manage, for I had to reach across
     her blood-soaked bodice. The body had already begun to stiffen, and the elbow would
     not bend easily.
    Our eyes met once again across the corpse, and I could see the same confusion I felt
     reflected in Mr. Gage’s eyes. It did not appear that Lady Godwin fought her murderer,
     which meant she probably knew the person. And even more disturbing, the attacker may
     have struck her after killing her. The bruise was too new for the blow to have been
     delivered earlier than that day. I didn’t recall seeing a contusion there at dinner.
    My stomach slowly roiled, and I was forced to step back from the body for a moment.
     “Did . . . did the body get dropped while it was being transported from the garden?”
     I asked, hoping maybe one of the men had lost his grip.
    Mr. Gage shook his head. His brow was furrowed in concern. “Clearly, someone harbored
     a great deal of hatred toward the viscountess.”
    I felt that was somewhat of an understatement. Why would someone murder Lady Godwin
     and then strike her, as if killing her was not enough? It was appalling. And I was
     having a very difficult time dealing with it all.
    I looked up at Gage, blinking back the wetness in my eyes that I knew had as much
     to do with my overloaded emotions as the stink of blood and death.
    He had the courtesy, or perhaps the intelligence, not to ask me about it. “I never
     realized a neck wound could bleed so much,” he stated, waving his hand over her bloody
     torso.
    I took in the state of Lady Godwin’s bodice, my eyes sliding downward to her skirts,
     and frowned. Neck wounds certainly bled a great deal, but there was no way that this
     quantity of blood would have trickled down to her abdomen. I thought back to the sight
     of Lady Godwin laid across the garden bench and the pools of blood collecting in the
     flounces of her skirt.
    “There’s something else.”
    He leaned in again as I smoothed my hands down her torso, smearing more blood across
     the gold fabric. The seam joining her bodice to her skirt had been carefully ripped
     open and then rearranged and tied back in place with the sash. I remembered