Nero's Fiddle (22 page)

Doc bumped into Fraser as he came to an abrupt halt when he caught the gruesome sight on the stairwell. “Good God. It’s as though she were struck down while fleeing from God himself.”

“Quite,” Fraser murmured. Movement caught the corner of his eye as the doctor crossed himself and muttered a prayer for the poor woman’s soul.

He moved closer and stopped at the bottom of the narrow stairs. Only Claudette’s right hand remained, the fingers curled around a balustrade. The grip was so tight he suspected they would have to either cut the wooden railing or break the fingers to remove the limb. A silver ring glinted on her thumb, the shine untarnished by the enveloping scum. He tried to make out the design but failed from his position at the bottom of the stairs; he would have to wait until Doc finished his examination.

Nothing else escaped the conflagration. With each death, the fire consumed more of the victim. At this rate, if there were a number four, he doubted they would retrieve anything at all.

“Ain’t right.” Connor coughed into his hand. “This wasn’t peaceful. That first one was still asleep and the second one never rose from her chair.”

Fraser agreed; although the body was once again reduced to ash, the stark outline of this one suggested she fled her fate. Limbs outstretched, she raced up the stairs, to what? Was there something above she thought would save her? A bathtub perhaps? Why not run out the door and into the lingering snow? Claudette only made it halfway up before the flames consumed her. So many questions crammed into his brain, each demanding his full attention. Did she fall when the fire ate her legs and grip the railing to drag her torso away?

Pushing the rush of thoughts aside, he moved with slow, deliberate strides through the rest of the lower floor. There were only two rooms, a kitchen and a small parlour. Although items showed the wear of hard use, everything was neat and tidy. Gleaming copper pots stood in neat stacks on the kitchen shelf. The doilies on the back of the sofa were darned and mended but washed and pressed.

“It started in the parlour,” he said over his shoulder.

Connor ghosted his inspection. “How do you know?”

Fraser raised one finger and pointed up. Connor’s gaze followed the finger and his eyes widened on seeing the scorch mark in the white-washed ceiling. The angry black streak originated over the armchair and fled out the parlour door and across the hall before congealing above the mess on the stairs.

“Oh god.” He swallowed several times. “She ran and it followed her.”

“So much for the theory of a peaceful natural death. It appears Claudette fought tooth and nail against the flames consuming her body.”

“Why up the stairs, why didn’t she run outside?” Connor gestured to the front door. Through the open doorway they could see the small pond at the side of the path.

“An interesting question.” Fraser focused on the top of the stairs. What was up there? Where was she going, when she took flight?

Returning to the foot of the stairs, he issued instructions to the few men assembled. He sent Connor back to their steam carriage for the photographic equipment and a tall wooden ladder.

With brute strength and a few guide ropes, they managed to dangle the camera operator over the side of the stairs, hovering above the unfortunate. From his precarious swing, he opened the aperture. Everyone stayed frozen like statues, not wanting so much as a breath of wind to nudge his position and ruin the exposure.

Time moved at a snail’s pace as photographs were taken and the plates carefully stowed for the trip back to Enforcers’ Headquarters. Then they relinquished the scene to Doc. Working with small brush and shovel and a pair of tweezers, the medic removed all the fragments and ash into small containers. Boxes far too small to contain a long life well lived. One of the men sawed off the railing and then hand and balustrade were detached and laid in their own container.

After three hours, Fraser was able to skirt the charred timbers, careful lest the stairs give way under his weight. He made his way up the narrow steps.

He paused on the small landing. With the doors and windows open, the sharp acrid smell dispersed and he drew a lungful of almost clean air. Body immobile, he allowed his mind to roam the space first. The second story held only one room that extended back over the parlour below. A bed with a handmade quilt in tones of red and green peeked through the open door.

On a wooden shelf sat a deep blue vase, the glaze smeared with soot and bracts of pussy willow dusted with black. He visually swept the floor back and forth, and fixated on a point only a hand’s width in front of his feet.

A thin veil of soot covered the bare floorboards, except for two shapes at the top of the stair.

Someone stood here. That’s why she ran this way. To stop the killer, or perhaps to plead for her life?

“What ya got?” Connor yelled from below.

“Footprints in the ash. Somebody stood here and watched her burn.”

An oath drifted up the stairs.

A disturbance in the soot showed where the person turned and strode back through the bedroom and the open window. He went out the back instead of walking through the remains of his victim.

“Fetch the photographic equipment and operator, I want to capture this before the dust stirs and moves.”

What sort of killer watched a woman burn to death? And why? Did she know him, was that why she ran up the stairs hoping to stop the celestial fire eating her body?

He muttered to himself, rattling off facts, trying to spark connections in his brain.

“This victim doesn’t fit, Connor.”

Connor glanced at the grimy smear on the ceiling, the outline singed into the wood of the stairs. “Looks the same to me.”

“No.” He shook his head. “Ignore the unpleasant method engaged and look at the larger facts. The other two worked for the old duchess, Claudette was a village midwife. She had no contact with life in London or the nobles. These deaths aren’t random, but deliberate. What connection does our killer see that we are missing?”

The sergeant scratched the back of his neck, dreaming up motives outside his area of expertise. “Unless there is no connection, and he’s just randomly killing people.”

“No, they are connected. Otherwise why go to so much trouble to make them look natural?” He had to find the connection. Now he knew the deaths were not the result of fire wielded by a divine hand, but by a far more terrestrial one.

Motive was everything; uncover that, and he would hunt down their pyromaniac.

London, Tuesday 4
^th
February 1862

ate prowled the edges of the bedroom like a caged lion. Cara watched him pace across the expensive silken rug as she finished dressing.

“What has gotten into you? I haven’t seen you this pent up since Victoria threw you in the Tower.”

“I don’t like it.” He halted, his icy blue eyes focused on his wife. “I don’t like him here, in my house.”

“You forgot to add, breathing my air.” She inserted the last clip in her short locks, to keep the longer pieces from falling into her face. She refused to let her hair grow out. She wouldn’t do anything so conventional when she could horrify the
ton
by sporting a pixie cut. “I doubt Fraser feels any better about the situation, he is entering the lion’s den.”

“Keep Brick with you.” His gaze burned.

“Yes, my lord.” She fluttered her lashes, recognising he walked a line between wanting to protect her and giving her freedom. “Anything else?” She didn’t understand the competitiveness between males and wondered if on this occasion he would pee in the corner of the parlour to mark his territory.

“Yes,” he growled.

A delicious shiver washed over Cara and she parted her lips on a sigh. Nate stalked toward her and undid all her careful work in dressing.

Nate left to spend the day at the dock. The cold weather caused problems with the mechanism they used to operate the arms and unload the airships. It was more than Fraser preying on his mind, he needed to settle on a course of action that would affect both their futures. She hoped he didn’t respond to the writ and appear in parliament; she doubted being forced to listen to fatuous politicians all day would improve his mood.

Nor did she want to host pointless afternoon teas for gossiping wives. Unless she could invite Helene and her crossbow―that would liven things up.

“I need to have an adult conversation with that man before he does something silly, like take up politics because he thinks I want him to go
that
legitimate,” Cara muttered as other voices echoed in the marble entranceway. She settled on her favourite sofa as the parlour door opened.

With a scowl entrenched on his face, Brick showed the uniformed Enforcer and the dapper Inspector into the room. Connor was large, Brick larger still. Cara had no doubt he could handle the sergeant if need be, although he was developing a reluctance to wrinkle his new clothing. Or chip a nail. The ghost of Beau Brummel settled inside the hulking frame and made itself at home.

“Thank you for coming here, Hamish, I’m not overly fond of your office.” She wouldn’t step foot across his threshold again. Last time they had words he caused her to flee into the path of a maniacal killer.

“I understand,” he murmured with his warm smile and inviting hazel eyes. His attention drifted around the parlour and beyond the open door.

“Nate is out.”
And thankfully didn’t pee anywhere.
She pulled a lilac chiffon scarf tighter around her neck. Nate, with his propensity for biting, left a clear mark for Hamish.

The smile never faltered as he passed his bowler hat to Connor and took out pencil and pad.

She indicated for him to sit on the opposite chaise. Perched on the end, she poured tea into delicate gold-rimmed cups. “I see the papers are full of the third death and speculation about the poor soul’s life.”

The reporters were gleeful in their views on another death by divine fire. Gossips dug hard to recollect any moral infractions the poor woman may have committed in her lifetime. No dirty laundry was safe as lives were laid bare to ascertain what line was crossed and required God to intervene.