Murder's never a pretty sight . . .
Yeah, yeah, the usual. A crime. A corpse. A killer. Heard it. Except this stuff happens to be Ponsonby, scion of a venerable Edinburgh medical clan, and the manner of his death speaks of unspeakable things. Why is the body displayed like a slice of beef? How come his hands are digitally challenged? And if it's not the corpse, what is that awful smell?
