Nero's Fiddle (10 page)

“Grab your coat; we’ve got another one,” Connor said.

Using his index finger, Fraser pushed his glasses back up his nose as he looked up from an open file. “Another one, what?”

“Burned body, not much left, was found this afternoon.”

“Spontaneous human combustion?” He looked up, the furrow in his forehead deepened. “The phenomenon is extremely rare, it would be highly unusual to find another case just weeks after the first.”

Connor gave a shrug. “I leave that bit for you to figure out, or take it up with Him.” He pointed upstairs.

Fraser kept the frown in place. “The Superintendent?”

Connor plucked the bowler hat from the top of the stand and threw the object at his inspector. “Higher up the chain than him. You know who I mean, the one who does the smiting with fire.”

Fraser caught the hat and popped it on his head, a small smile on his face. “Well, let us go see the latest victim of divine justice.”

The Enforcer’s dark blue vehicle waited at the bottom of the steps. Thick black plumes of smoke rose from the funnel at the rear. The still London air gave the fumes no room to escape so it clung to the vehicle and forced tendrils back through the windows, no matter how tightly they were wound shut. Fraser gave a cough and wished command would stump up with the funds for a mechanical vehicle instead of a steam powered one before they poisoned somebody.

The little blue box bounced its way past Hyde Park and into Bayswater and rattled over the cobbles so hard Fraser feared for his teeth. Out the window, he watched mechanical horses glide past on felted feet. He spotted a new battery-powered horseless carriage with high suspension that let its occupants pour champagne without spilling a drop. Sometimes he wished he pursued a career in the private sector, where the higher salary would have afforded him a taste of such luxuries. But his mind tugged at him to hunt down criminals, and his body preferred to find release in darkened allies, even if his chosen path might cause him to die of smoke inhalation.

The engine gave a burp and halted. Fraser descended to the footpath and gave a shake, letting loose limbs tensed from the constant jarring. He breathed the cold air, waiting for his brain to revive after the noxious fumes in the cramped space lulled him half to sleep.

“I hate those things,” Connor muttered from his side. “Makes a man miss his horse.”

“Quite.”

The house sat in a respectable middle class area. On tippy toe, one could glimpse Hyde Park, which gave the area added charm. Fraser took the stairs at a slow pace, thoughts and ideas churning in his mind.

A small crowd gathered on the footpath, huddled together for warmth as they murmured and whispered, watching the Enforcers. Fraser spotted the reporter standing off to one side, his gaze keener than anyone else’s with his attention fixed on the building. Fraser ignored him and followed the trail of blue uniforms.

They paused in the building’s hallway and Connor held out a small metal tin. Fraser swiped a finger through the thick white paste, and smeared it over his top lip. Menthol zapped up his nasal passages, sliced into his brain, and dispersed the last of the coal smoke. Prepared, he pushed open the panelled door and stepped into the parlour.

The sweet, cloying odour battled with the menthol and tried to overwhelm his olfactory sense. He took several shallow breaths and let his body find equilibrium with the smell, so he could do his part of the job. Retching out a window was not a productive use of his time.

The hallway looked fresh scrubbed. The mat under their feet showed signs of wear, but was beaten and clean. A few sprigs of winter sweet stood in a tall vase, giving off their spicy aroma which mingled with the other, pervading scent. The parlour showed a long life and gentle retirement. Stretched linen in a frame held the beginnings of needlepoint. Brightly coloured silks spilled from a basket on the floor, waiting to be picked and used. Pictures and paintings hung from the top rail, each depicting some sort of ocean theme, from fishing to naval. Fraser made a note to ask the husband’s profession.

Two brown wing chairs sat on either side of the fireplace. One chair was empty, at the other resided two feet in thick green felt slippers. Their soles were flat to the ground, skinny calves rose above once shapely ankles, and stopped mid shin. Charred flesh and white bone was a stark relief against the blackened leather of the chair. Light shimmered on the sticky ooze coating the surface. A hand rested on the arm, fingers curled around the end, as though the owner gripped the chair for support while about to rise, but never made it to a standing position. Purple flannelette fibres clung to the exposed wrist bones and were all that remained of what the person once wore.

The thick drawn edge of a body sitting in the chair was filled by tiny pieces of bone stuck in a soup-like sludge of ash. The grim outline revealed the head once rested in the crook of where the chair back met the high arm. Now only a few strands of grey hair lay over the edge. Nothing but the pair of feet and a hand remained.

“There’s no head,” Connor muttered. “I hate it when they don’t have heads.”

Fraser examined the area surrounding the deceased; the soot trail spiralled up the corner of the room. The black cloud spread outward and faded to grey at the centre of the ceiling. “You didn’t like the last one who still possessed his head.”

The large Enforcer stared at a painting on the wall, the azure ocean which lapped at the small boat now smeared a menacing storm grey. “That’s because there’s supposed to be something connecting the head to the feet.”

Fraser bit back a huff of laughter. “So your problem is not so much the lack of head, as the lack of anything in between. That would explain why you kept throwing up on me while we investigated the Grinder.”

Their eyes met and there was a pause in conversation as they both remembered the street girls who ended up as mincemeat one hot summer. Their butchered limbs stuffed down sewer drains, the flesh carved from bone. They saw enough to fuel thousands of nightmares and each man sought his own oblivion to lighten the burden he carried. Violent death marked each of them in its own invisible way. No one escaped.

Connor shook his head at the cremated remains. “I hope this combustion thing isn’t catchy. It’ll drive up church attendance if people think God is back in the swing of smiting sinners.”

Fraser stood back from his inspection and clapped his hands. “Right, while we wait for Doc to arrive, fill me in on the pertinent details.”

“Penelope Stock. Sixty four years old. Her daughter found her.” As if on cue, a high pitched hysterical scream from further down the hallway punctuated Connor’s statement. “The boys have their hands full trying to settle her down.”

Fraser cast around and pointed a finger at a nearby uniform. “Tell one of them to give her a few drops of laudanum. That should reduce the screaming so we can get some work done.”

A nod and the lad disappeared on his errand.

He focused his attention back on Connor. “I assume the daughter confirmed identity, despite the missing head. We don’t have some poor unknown here?”

“Mole on the inside of her ankle.” Connor pointed with his pencil at the detached limb.

Fraser swung around and crouched by the chair. His eyes narrowed at the small dark smudge above the ankle bone in the rough shape of a flower head. Two short black hairs protruded, like stamens. “Always handy when they have distinctive birth marks.” Rising, he gestured to the paintings around the room. “Was her husband a seafarer?”

“Navy. Died about ten years ago. Penny here worked her way up in service of the old duchess, kept her busy while he was at sea. Daughter says she started off as a chamber maid and rose to be the housekeeper.”

Fraser’s head snapped up. “Which old duchess?”

Connor flicked back a page in the notebook. “The Duchess of Kent.”

Two separate pieces of information collided in Fraser’s head and exploded in a shower of sparks. He breathed out a long sigh. “Nigel Fenmore, our first man to die by this divine touch, was the Duchess of Kent’s personal physician.”

Connor scratched an eyebrow. “Odd coincidence.”

He shook his head. “I don’t like coincidences, especially not ones involving strange ways to die. Or unusual ways to kill somebody. Two elderly people die in extremely rare circumstances and both are connected to our queen’s mother.” His body froze as his mind chased threads. Like a kitten at play, he sought to grasp the end of something tangible. “I think there is something larger afoot here.”

“Yeah, but look at the old bird.” Connor’s large hand gestured to the slim remains of the woman. “This is some freak of nature; you can’t kill someone with divine fire.”

Fraser’s eyes lit up, possibilities and connections rocketing through his brain. “Can’t you? Do you know that for sure? There is more in this world than what we can explain.”

“You’ve got that look,” Connor muttered. “I hate it when you get that look.”

They catalogued the scene and made notes on the evidence of Mrs Stock’s life in their notebooks. The photographic technician arrived first and took his exposures. Just as he packed away his equipment, excited chatter heralded the arrival of the doctor.

Doc stood on the threshold, hat in his hands. “Well I never. Another? God is very busy this holiday.”

Mayfair, Wednesday 8
^th
January, 1862

ara sat in her study, the ancient books on her desk. She stroked a finger over the fat notebook that belonged to her father. The one Nate asked Jackson to steal. That encounter set her on this path. She knew what he was and that he harboured a creature that dwelt in the dark. Nate made choices that cost some lives and saved others. To find peace, Cara needed to find a way to put her own mark on the aftermath. To take Nate’s decisions into her life. Every day she went to the Rookery and played with the group of children. She decided to teach them to read, to open their minds to the world beyond London through books. If she could encourage one girl to spread her wings and fly, she would add something of value to what Nate started.

Voices announced Nate’s return to London as he walked through the house issuing orders. Cara rose from her desk and left her study. With a firm decision in her heart, she could now face her husband.

He stopped on seeing her, his hands clasped behind his back. “I have missed you.”

A tiny smile tugged at her lips. It melted her heart when he momentarily lost his cool composure and the small boy peeked out. “I have missed you too.”

He arched one dark eyebrow. “You seem… content.”

“What you did was before I met you and cannot be changed. I understand part of why you took down Brandt.” She thought of wee Rachel with one arm and could remove Brandt’s spleen through his throat for what he did. “But promise me now nothing like that will ever happen again without me knowing beforehand. I want, demand, to be involved.”

He nodded. “Full disclosure, remember? But I cannot change events that have already played out.”

She had learned much on each of her visits to the Rookery, like how the annual death toll of fifteen hundred dropped to under a thousand since the change of regime and continued to decline. She found comfort by focusing on the positive outcomes. “I met Liam; apart from the divine accent, I think he’s very gallant.” She fanned herself with one hand as she remembered her guide.