Thompson asked me, "Pomeroy said the woman might be an acquaintance of yours."

"Perhaps." I steeled myself for the possibility. "May I see her?"

"Over here." Thompson pointed a finger in his shabby glove to the thin gathering of men and lanterns.

I stepped past the waterman who smelled of mud and unwashed clothes into the circle of light. They had laid the woman out on a strip of canvas. Her gown, a light pink muslin, was pasted to her limbs, the sodden cloth outlining her thighs and curve of waist, her round breasts. Her face was gray, bloated with water. A wet fall of golden hair, coated with mud, covered the stones beside her.

She had been small and slim, with a girlish prettiness. Her hands were tiny in shredded gloves, and her feet were still laced into beaded slippers. Although her coloring and build were similar, she was not Marianne Simmons.

I exhaled in some relief. "I do not know her. She isn’t Miss Simmons."

"Hmph," Pomeroy said. "Thought it was her. Ah well."

Thompson said nothing, looking neither disappointed nor elated.

I went down on one knee, supporting my weight on my walking stick. "She had no reticule, or other bag?"

"Not a thing, Captain," Thompson replied. "Although a reticule might have been washed down river. No cards, nothing on her clothes. I imagine she was a courtesan."

I lifted the hem of her skirt and examined the fabric. "Fine work. This is a lady's dress."

"Might have stolen it," Pomeroy suggested.