Nero's Fiddle (2 page)

One of the Enforcers nodded and rushed for the door, glad of the excuse to escape the ghastly scene and the smell forcing its fingers down his throat.

“It’s not right,” Connor said under his breath, trying in vain to only breathe out and not in. As a tactic, it didn’t work for him, and eventually his lungs forced him to draw several deep breaths to make up for the previous oxygen deficit.

“It is a highly unusual death.” Fraser’s attention remained on the deceased. The serene expression on the dead man’s face unnerved him most, as though he never felt his body melting to ash and fat under the blankets. He blew out a long sigh, his mind trying to make sense of the evidence and determine if this was a case of foul play, or perhaps the result of a stray spark from the unguarded fire or a cigarette.

His visual survey of the room failed to find any evidence that Mr Fenmore was a smoker, no pipes or tobacco sitting on a table or in a drawer. A richly enamelled guard depicting game birds encased the hearth and ensured the fire stayed contained. Although a candle sat by the bed, the item was new and the pale wick appeared to never have been lit.

No obvious means of accidental fire.

“We have encountered murderers who have attempted to destroy the evidence of their crimes in flames, but this is the first death I have seen in a bedchamber where nothing else appears damaged.” He removed his bowler hat and ran his fingers through his sandy curls. Christmas time and so many people died alone, many by their own hand. The influx of deaths kept the Enforcers busy. The men would rather spend time with their families, whereas Fraser’s Christmas would be celebrated by moments of stolen oblivion with a bottle and a bobtail.

“Our other cases were easier. Most people don’t stuff themselves in a drum, pour oil over their bodies and then toss in a match. But this?” Connor gestured around the room. “How did the body burn to nothing and not torch the entire building? And what’s with that horrid sludgy grime coating everything. I wouldn’t want to be the next tenant in these rooms; you can scrub the walls, but you’ll never get the stench out of the timber.”

A brief smile flickered over Fraser’s face. Only Connor would concentrate on the clean-up. He was a rarity among men; the large sergeant delighted in tidying his home and often relieved his wife of housekeeping duties. “Perhaps this death is natural in origin, and our services will not be required beyond today.”

The sergeant shot him a look and a shudder ran through his bulk. “There’s nothing natural about this.”

Fraser’s memory banks sparked and he recalled stories seen in medical and crime journals. “Have you heard of spontaneous human combustion?”

Connor frowned. “Nope.”

“I have read of such rare cases, but never seen one.” Over and over his mind traced the body outlined on the mattress. “Some would call it the fiery vengeance of God.”

The sergeant shifted on his feet, eager to leave the room, but forced to stay by Fraser’s presence. “Please tell me we don’t have to bring Him in for questioning?”

Fraser smiled. “No, apparently this is a natural phenomenon. We can only speculate, along with the neighbours, as to what sin this poor soul committed to warrant such a fate.”

Voices on the stairwell announced the arrival of the Enforcers’ doctor and the technician hauling his photographic equipment. Doc stopped at the doorway and stomped his feet to shift lingering snow and then shrugged off his heavy overcoat. He thrust the coat at the Enforcer loitering in the adjoining room. “Make yourself useful and hang on to that, lad.”

Pausing on the threshold, the physician rubbed his hands together with glee. His eyes widened on seeing the charred outline burned into the sodden mattress. He looked like a child with an early Christmas present and Fraser had removed the wrapping. “Oh I say, what have you got for me? Could it really be spontaneous human combustion?”

“Nigel Fenmore. Neighbour found him this morning,” Fraser said.

Doc frowned. “Fenmore?” His gaze roamed the room and rested on the book on the bedside. “I had a tutor at medical school called Fenmore.” He shook his head and walked toward the bed. “Let’s get this done. Was he a drunkard?”

There was a common held belief that only drunkards suffered from spontaneous human combustion. Whereas the reality was drunkards were most likely to kill themselves by falling into the fireplace. In their stupor, they would be unable to rise and so burn to death.

“Only drank in moderation,” Connor answered from the all-knowing notebook.

“Well, then, let us see. There hasn’t been a genuine case in England since the seventeenth century. The ones I’ve seen are all alcohol-ridden sots who fell asleep next to an open flame or dropped a cigarette onto their bedding.” Doc moved to the side of the bed and stared at the charred outline.

Fraser helped the technician set up the tripod and camera and they took a series of exposures from either side of the bed and one of the strange tide mark around the walls. Before long, he gave Doc a wave to indicate he had finished and the doctor moved forward.

He dropped his metal case and pulled on the top two handles. A tray popped up. He picked up magnifying goggles and settled them on his head. He turned a lever on the side and various lenses rotated over his eyes before he determined the correct magnification. Then he selected a metal lunch box and a pair of tweezers.

“Hold this for me, Hamish.” He held out the open tin to Fraser.

The uniforms settled in for a long night as the doctor sifted through the sludge, lifted fragments with the delicate prongs, and placed them in the small box. He exclaimed over each bone fragment and gave his assessment of where in the body it originated. After two hours, the Enforcers’ medic declared his search finished. He used a trowel to collect the remaining human sludge and deposited it in another box.

Fraser gave a sigh, his night not over yet. He would need to complete the paperwork to record the movement of the small tins to their new residence under the city. The morgue.

Lowestoft, Sunday 15
^th
December, 1861

hristmas approached and found Cara and Nate living in the Lyons country estate to the north of Lowestoft. The brooding house straddled two different landscapes. On one side, steep cliffs towered nearly a hundred feet above a churning ocean. On the other, the estate levelled out to hundreds of acres of flat fields, grazed by sheep, cattle, and horses.

The house was built in a dark gothic fashion decades before anyone else considered gothic fashionable. Not that anyone fashionable would build in such an eerie manner with towers and turrets, a widow’s walk, and downpipes crawling with strange creatures. Under their feet ran a network of tunnels, leading to a system of caves that wound their way to the private cove at the base of the cliff. The secluded beach and access were ideal for smuggling.

When Nate arrived out of the blue one morning and introduced Cara as his wife, the housekeeper fainted dead away. The house had lain bereft of feminine input for many long years. On her first night in the decrepit building, Cara suggested torching the place as a belated Guy Fawkes bonfire.

On exploring the rambling house, she found the structure was sound it just needed its ghosts laid to rest. Nate’s ancestor chose to build the monolith in a near-black stone, making the house look like a haunted mausoleum superstitious locals burned centuries ago. Lilies growing around the circular driveway completed the picture of mourning.

Cara declared a dark-panelled parlour with wide French doors overlooking the rear garden would serve as their breakfast room. She refused to be shoved in the formal dining room, with no windows and numerous severed animal heads as decoration. Today, she attacked her breakfast while Nate scanned the morning business papers.

“Was Helene happy here?” she asked mid-bite of toast, her ever curious mind wondering about the history of the sad, and mad, countess.

The corner of the newspaper twitched. “I believe so. She spent twenty years here and I remember her laughter from when I was a child. Although it faded to silence as I grew older.”

Cara glanced around the room. Despite the maid’s best efforts, spiders clung to the corners. Fed a constant diet of insects, they grew to a size that almost enabled them to duel with feather dusters. “Did she stay here? The house feels like her.”

The newspaper dropped to reveal the quirk of a lip. “No. There is a cottage by the lake. I can show you if you want.” He reached out a hand for the coffee cup.

“Yes, please.” Cara picked up the porcelain creamer. “By the way, I’ve asked her to come spend Christmas with us.”

Nate snorted hot coffee over the morning newspaper and coughed. He tossed the stained reading material to the tablecloth.

Cara poured cream and cast a glance at her spluttering husband. “Maybe we should have divorced. I seem to have a knack for breaking through your poker face.”

The footman detached himself from the wallpaper and rushed forward to dab at the coffee splatters on the linen cloth, but Nate waved the servant away. “There’s nothing wrong with my poker face, woman, it’s the live mortars you lob at me over toast that cause problems for my composure.”

Cara added sugar to her coffee and stirred. “Well, she declined anyway.”

Nate leaned back in his chair; the steel blue gaze penetrated to the concern eating away at his wife, the one she tried to conceal from their bond. “Jackson will visit her over Christmas and make sure she’s not alone.”

A sigh ran through her body, knowing that if anything happened, Helene would not meet her oncoming fate solo. “Good. I eventually figured out he is her little canary. Honestly, that man is like a crème brûlée.”

Having regained his equanimity, Nate raised an eyebrow. “Care to elaborate on your analogy?”

She picked up a silver spoon, and tapped her boiled egg until the shell cracked. “Smack that hard exterior and underneath he’s all warm and gooey.”

“I am not.” A gruff voice sounded from the doorway. The large and scarred bodyguard blocked the view beyond. “Ready when you are, gov.” He nodded at Nate.

“Are so,” Cara said. Turning in her chair, she threw her arms wide and gave him an equally wide smile. “I have a spare hug, want one?”

Jackson uttered an oath and threw up his hands. “I don’t know what you see in that woman. I’ll be outside.” He cast a wary glance at Cara, in case she rose and pursued him, and then hurried out into the hallway.

Nate waited until Jackson disappeared and gave a deep laugh. “Stop tormenting him. If you keep poking him with a stick don’t be surprised if he bites one day.” Rising, he gave his wayward wife a trail of kisses on the exposed nape of her neck.

“He’s all bark.” She tilted her head to give his lips better access and laid down the gossip sheet, which no longer held her attention. The main headline speculated about the sudden and unexpected emergence of haemophilia in the royal line, threatening the life of the young prince. Cara’s focus drifted to Nate’s discarded paper, where the headline proclaimed
Duke of Albany, Prince Leopold’s life in the balance. Again.
She tapped a fingernail on the line of text under her hand, new threads forming in her mind.