“I know it wasn’t much farther,” I said, frowning. I’d made a habit of timing the length it took me to reach the beginning of the village road—exactly half a mile from the house—and I knew how long I’d been riding at approximately the same speed. Six miles in any direction was not so easy to find, and I made enough missteps—mistaking one field of poppies or flax or wheat for another—that the others began to doubt I would be of any use to them. In the end, I managed to recognize from afar the twisted limbs of the tree that stood over the body.

My horse reared as we approached, sensing, I suppose, my own tension as much as it did the smell of blood that hung in the air. We all slowed, then stopped, no one moving for several minutes. I could not bring myself to look again at the hideous sight.

“I can’t believe it,” Colin said, dismounting, his voice gruff. “I never expected to see something like this again.”

“Again?” Inspector Gaudet stood next to him.

“It’s as brutal as the murders in Whitechapel,” he said. The collective terror that had descended on all of London when Jack the Ripper stalked women in the East End was something no English man or woman would soon forget. Chills crawled up my arms at the mere thought of his horrible handiwork. “Emily, did you hear anything at all when you found her? Sounds that suggested someone was close by?”

“Only the crack of a branch,” I said, hesitating. “But I can’t say I was aware of much beyond her.”

“She hasn’t been dead long.” The physician was kneeling beside her. “You’re lucky not to have arrived any earlier than you did, Lady Emily.”