Marianne often disappeared for long stretches at a time. I had once tried to inquire where she went on her sojourns, but she only fixed me with a cold stare and told me it was none of my business. I assumed Marianne found a protector during these absences, temporarily at least. In the past, she'd always returned within a month, proclaiming her general disgust at men and asking whether she could share my supper.

"Well, then, sir," Pomeroy went on. "Can you come along with me and look at a corpse from the river? It might very well be hers."

I stopped in shock. "What? Good God."

"Pulled out of the Thames not half hour ago by a waterman," Pomeroy said. "She looked like your actress, so I thought I'd fetch you to make sure."

My blood went cold. Marianne and I had our differences, but I certainly didn’t wish so terrible a death on her. "There's nothing to tell you who she is?"

"Not a thing, so the Thames River gent says. She's not been dead long. A few hours or more, I should say. Officer of the Thames River patrol sent for the magistrate, who sent for me."

So explaining, Pomeroy led me out of Grimpen Lane and Russel Street and down to the Strand. My walking stick rang on the cobbles as I strove to match Pomeroy's long stride and tried to stem my rising worry.

I doubted Marianne would try to do away with herself; she had a brisk attitude toward life, no matter that it had not dealt her very high cards. She was not a brilliant actress, but the gentlemen of her audience liked her bright hair, pointed face, and round blue eyes.

But accidents happened, and people fell into the river and drowned all too often. I wondered, if the dead woman proved to be Marianne, how on earth I would break the news to Grenville.

We walked east on the Strand and entered Fleet Street through one of the pedestrian arches of Temple Bar. The road curved with the river that flowed a few streets away, though the high buildings hid any aspect of it.