Nero's Fiddle (21 page)

By Monday morning she was like a kid with a second Christmas morning, all pent up excitement. Nate cut off her caffeine supply and told the kitchen not to brew any more until she returned and settled down. Keen to get moving and with feet unable to still even without her normal coffee fix, she made Brick trudge the entire way from Mayfair through the gathering snow.

“You grumble about physical activity as much as Jackson,” she said to her minder once they reached the rare book dealer.

“A stroll now and then is good for a man, but you’re ruining the lines of my suit with all this bustling about. I think I should swap with Jackson, flicking through fabric swatches would be much more my style and he can chase you around the back alleys.”

They pushed inside and Brick detoured off to browse gothic novels. Malachi conversed with another customer and Cara ran a light finger over spines as she waited. Her attention kept wandering to the unknown man; a faint hum buzzed over her skin and made the hairs on her arms raise under her wool coat.

He stood with his back to her at the high counter. A black velvet cloak enveloped a tall and lean figure. He appeared to be a shadow poured from above. The lilt of conversation rose and fell but she couldn’t recognise any words and her brain couldn’t decide what language they used, she only knew it wasn’t English but seemed much older. Then the man turned, his hood pulled low over his face. He paused when he reached her, as though on the brink of saying something when Brick stepped forward from between the rows. The stranger shook his head and continued on his way. He didn’t touch Cara as he passed but a trail of damp air washed over her as though a wave broke on shore and doused a fine mist over her body. She shuddered and watched him disappear through the thick old door.

She rubbed her arms to dispel the chill and approached the high desk. The store owner wore a deep frown that only lifted when his opaque eyes rested on her form.

“Problem?” she asked, indicating with her head the closed door, the bell giving a last jingle.

“That one has many strange requests, most I am unable to satisfy.” He sighed.

She gave him a wide smile. “Did you have success with my issue?” She wondered at his mental faculties and hoped they worked far more efficiently than Helene’s dodgy mechanics.

“There were two leaves removed, or four pages of text. I have rendered them for you as they would have been. If you like I can repair the book?” He reached under the desk and withdrew two sheets of thick handmade paper.

Cara picked up the pages, thick fibres grabbed the ink and gave the words an added dimension of depth. With hungry eyes, she scanned the ornate calligraphy and uttered a moan.

White eyebrows snapped up and his head cocked to one side. “You are not happy with my penmanship?”

“No.” She reached out and patted his arm. “It’s beautiful. It’s just that it’s all in Latin.”

“Of course, Suetonius wrote in Latin or occasionally Greek.” He gave the benign grandparent smile.

By sheer strength of will she resisted the urge to burst into tears and wail how much she hated Latin. She sucked in her bottom lip, well aware she was about to have a tantrum, not unlike what happened as a child when her father insisted she attend her history and language classes.

This is God’s revenge for all those times I climbed out the window.

“My Latin is a little rusty.” She gave a weak smile, relieved to have the missing pages restored but aware that nights of translation lay ahead before she could offer anything of substance to Inspector Fraser. Unless she could enlist Amy, who loved ancient languages.

“Then I may be of further assistance.” He slid another page across the counter. “I took the liberty of translating the text for you.”

“You tease,” she said, earning a deep chuckle from the elderly rapscallion. She reached out a hand for the English version of Suetonius’ commentary about the ancient artifact.

He kept hold of the sheet. “I ask one favour.”

Here comes the kicker. “Oh?”

“I am old and my eyesight fails me. Would you perhaps visit me when you are in London? If you could read the passages I am transcribing, I could help with your Latin in return.”

Cara gave a soft laugh. “I would like that; I believe Latin is a skill life has decreed I must learn.” It truly would not be a hardship for her. Peace washed through her soul in the old store surrounded by thousands of books. This was her church and her place of worship. The tingle at the base of her spine warned her that days were coming when she would need this sanctuary.

“We have a common interest in these dusty old volumes. I may be able to locate others that will aid your research.” He passed the English text to her.

She leaned over the desk and dropped her tone to a stage whisper. “You’re not flirting with me, are you?”

“Oh, yes.” The grin never left his face. “I’m not dead yet, you know. What do you say, my dear, want to find out about the vast experience that comes with my age?” He gave her a wink.

Cara kissed his cheek. “See if you can make me blush next time I visit.” She tucked the pages into her satchel and headed up the aisle.

Brick stood by the door, trying hard to contain his laughter at the octogenarian who fancied his chances with the wife of the villainous viscount.

London, Saturday 1
^st
February, 1862

s usual, Connor’s heavy tread acted as a type of early detection alarm and announced his approach long before his body manoeuvred through the office door. Fraser looked up as the larger man danced from foot to foot. The collection of gadgets on his bandolier jangled back and forth and produced a musical accompaniment.

“Grab your coat. I’ve got packed lunches. We’re heading off on a day trip.” He rubbed his hands together at the thought of escaping grim London for the next several hours.

Fraser frowned. “Day trip?”

“You’re wanted in Billericay.” Connor rearranged his utility belt and checked his pockets for notebook and pencil.

“That’s outside of London and beyond our jurisdiction.” His mind raced and snatched at facts; the small town lay nearly thirty miles east of central London. What call would they have for a city Enforcer? The small towns maintained their own constabulary. Usually a couple of well-liked local lads kept petty crime under control.

“Special case, it’s all been cleared with him upstairs. It might be beyond our reach but they have a death beyond their ability.”

The cold shiver swam down Fraser’s spine. His brain sparked into overdrive. “Which is?”

Connor swallowed and his Adam’s apple bobbed above his stiff blue collar. “Woman, lived alone, burned with not much left of her.”

Fraser swore under his breath and stood so fast he banged the desk with his thigh and his mug of tea slopped over the side. He pulled out a handkerchief to mop up the stain spreading on a case file. “Another one?”

Connor nodded. “Doc is waiting downstairs, thought it made sense to grab him as well. He’s rather excited about the field trip. Had me carting stuff back and forth loading up the carriage. I’m in charge of the scene when we get there.”

Which explained the man’s impatience to get going, the London sergeant would have the opportunity to direct his country counterparts and be the very large fish swimming in a tiny pond.

It was a tight fit in the Enforcer’s steam carriage with four men and assorted equipment. It looked more like Doc intended to set up a field hospital than attend the death of one woman. From reports, he barely needed a snuff box for the remains, not the several cartons stacked on the seats with their sharp corners pressing into Fraser’s back.

On the slow trip out he wondered if they might not make it at all. Smoke from the small coal-fired engine kept swirled through gaps around the door and windows. He coughed into a handkerchief.

Doc slapped him on the back. “It won’t kill you, Hamish, just line your lungs against the cold.”

The photographic technician kept his nose buried in a novel and never uttered a word. Connor stuck his head out the window, watching the passing countryside and traffic like a keen dog out on a hunt. After thirty minutes of him lunging out the small space, Fraser halted the carriage and dispatched him to sit up front with the driver, freeing up much needed space inside. The man’s enthusiasm was far too much to bear this early in the morning.

Or this sober.

The cobbled roads of London gave way to the earthen laneways of the country and they kept lumbering along their route. Eventually, they came to a shuddering halt in a quaint village of cob cottages with thatch roofs. Fraser stretched his arms up over his head, his body acting as though he had spent days in the cramped space, not two hours. He drew a deep breath of winter air and noted the temperature outside London was far warmer. The city lived under an arctic cloud that sent freezing air down to chill the citizens.

A man approached, his great coat plain but serviceable and a pork pie hat pulled low on his ears. Years of sun damage etched deep lines in his face and they nearly obscured his eyes. “Thomas Fowler.” He held out a work-roughed hand to Fraser.

He shook the offered paw and waited for further explanation.

“I’m the local law,” Thomas said. “In between working the mill.”

“Ah. Well, thank you for securing the scene.” He smiled, appreciating the effort. Always best to keep the locals on their side, particularly if they wanted a hot lunch from the local pub.

“I’ve never seen the likes before. Went and saw Lord Redfern. He read in the paper you had two cases in London, so his lordship said to bring it to you.” The man removed his cap to scratch his head, as though thinking made it itch.

London might be a bustling cosmopolitan city but out in the countryside ties of fiefdom remained. Villages still held deep allegiance to their local lord and sought his governance and advice on all aspects of their lives.

The nineteenth century has yet to reach some parts of England.

“We will do everything we can to assist,” Fraser murmured, taking in the small dwelling. “And will make a full report to Lord Redfern.” Showing deference to their lord would keep the locals happy and the lines of communication open.

The simple cottage before him reflected a life simply led within its mud daub walls. The small garden slumbered through the remains of winter, unaware of approaching spring. The snow melted but green tips had yet to appear on any of the plants. Twisted twig fingers grasped at trouser legs as the men brushed past and crowded on the small threshold.

“I’ll leave you to it then. Got to get back to work. Holler at George if you need anything.” He gestured to a strapping lad standing beside the picket gate. “He’ll keep the gawkers moving.”

Fraser nodded his thanks. As he walked up the lime chip path, he muttered under his breath, repeating the scant details Connor relayed on the journey. “Claudette Foreman, our youngest victim yet at just sixty one years old.”

He stepped into the small hall and he scanned the space before settling on the remains of the unfortunate woman. Connor remained silent and stared at a pastoral scene hanging on the wall.