Nero's Fiddle (25 page)

With the dapper bodyguard at her side, Cara climbed into the carriage. The mechanical horses pulled her to Belgravia while the cold outside tried to sink into her bones. She pulled the fur-edged throw over her knees and watched condensation form on the window. The felted shoes on the mechanical horses were replaced with spiked snow ones for pushing their way through the streets. They either pulled the carriage over snow or, where it melted due to high traffic, muddy sludge.

When they reached their destination she gave a sigh, pushed aside the blanket and then stepped out into the frigid temperature. Looking up, she spied another pigeon that had given up on life in a weed-ridden box. The birds above the windows became skeletal eyebrows for the decaying house.

Brick held the door open and she crossed the threshold. The atmosphere in the dark entranceway was no warmer than outside. She hoped Helene was warm wherever she hid today. She made a mental note to talk to Jackson about heating the creaking structure, so they could at least free Helene from the stifling heat of her bedroom and allow her to roam the house in comfort.

Muffled scraping sounds came from under the stairs. Cara brushed aside the tails of her coat and crouched on the balls of her feet. Some creature had gnawed a large jagged hole in the timber. The broken newel post had moved from where she dropped it on a previous visit, the large acorn piece of wood dragged closer to the hole. It lay covered in marks and scratches like a well-loved chew toy.

“Minnow?” she called into the darkened cave, silently hoping it was the little dog. Otherwise it was an enormous rat.
I hate rats. Please don’t be a rat.

A small yip answered her.

“Come on boy. What have you got?” Knowing the dog’s primary food motivation she dipped a hand into her pocket and pulled out the strip of jerky. A trick learned from watching Jackson, who always kept treats about his person for the pug, despite his pretence that he was a stranger in the decrepit house. Cara knew he acted as Helene’s canary, keeping her up to date on all the gossip.

She held the piece of dried meat at the entrance to the lair and waved it back and forth, all the while whispering to the dog and promising to remove whatever he was wearing today. Or perhaps Brick could offer the pug fashion advice? A wee waistcoat and cravat would suit him far better than any evening dress.

Sharp nails rapped on the floor boards and the black nose in the squished up face appeared followed by the stout body. Today, somehow, Minnow had managed to escape Helene’s bedroom without his usual formal attire or taffeta dress. The dog held something clenched in his jaws.

“I’ll do you a trade.” Cara held a hand under the animal’s head. “Drop whatever that is and you can have the dried beef.”

Minnow cocked his head to the side as though considering the proposition. With a cough, he dropped the slobbered object into her outstretched palm and took the treat. The curly tail wagged back and forth and he retreated to his hole like a dragon returning to his lair with a piece of gold.

She peered at the pink glob from one eye, the other screwed up. Her gut knew what lay in her hand, she just didn’t want to recognise it or think too hard about what she held.

“Where will we find Helene today?” She listened to the old house, waiting for a creak or indication of a direction to follow. A bang came from along the hall.

Leaving Brick to impersonate a Grecian statue in a corner, she followed the noise. Light glinted on one of the metal prongs attached to the object she carried as she passed by a candle in a wall sconce. She shouldered the library door open, still holding Minnow’s chew toy at arm’s length.

“I found it,” she called to Helene as she stepped into the welcoming oasis, the breath of fresh air amidst the foetid stench emanating from the rest of the house. It didn’t matter how tight the madness held the countess, she still cared for her books. Helene lavished care and affection on her thousands of children, all tightly stacked in neat rows.

Helene gave a squeal and leapt up from her seat by the fire. She rushed to Cara and brushed her fingers over the extended palm.

Cara dropped her lashes, not wanting to see the open wound in her friend’s face. A sigh pulled free from her lungs as the other woman turned, muttering and cooing over the artificial nose. She extracted a handkerchief from within the folds of her skirt and wiped Minnow drool from the hard surface. A click came as she realigned the metal clips with the short prongs embedded in the bone of her face.

Turning back, she almost appeared normal, apart from the teeth marks in one side of the nose. And you had to ignore the wild, haunted look in her eyes that constantly drifted off to follow spectres her mind conjured.

“It’s good to see you up and about, Helene.” Concern for the woman’s deteriorating health niggled at her, with only the elderly butler in residence to call for help if needed. Her mind skipped the veil of sanity more frequently and Cara often found herself coaxing the other woman back. How long before her mind chose to stay on the other side? She would not let the doctors throw her friend in Bedlam, wrapped in a strait-jacket and left to dash her head against a brick wall. Perhaps the time had come to talk to Nate about the available options to care for Helene when her mind finally slid away from them.

“I sleep now. Thank you for silencing Henry.” She patted Cara’s arm. “Screaming in the night tears my soul apart, but silence helps it mend.”

A lump formed in Cara’s throat. Her own nightmares were greatly reduced with Nate to soothe her screaming. Only rarely did the monsters sneak up on her now, they were too afraid to battle the villainous viscount for control of her slumbering mind. She was glad to give Helene a similar sense of peace.

“I need to talk to you about a book.” She took Helene’s hands and guided her back to the fireside.

“Books, books, so much knowledge and power contained in words.” The milky film descended over her eyes as her mind chased shadows conjured by the disease eating her brain.

“It’s about
Suetonius’ Secrets
. Do you remember? You gave it to me for my birthday.” Cara kept her voice low and gentle.

Some days, talking to Helene was like working with a skittish horse and sudden movement or a harsh tone might spook her and send her running. Like a wraith, she haunted the house, wandering the dark halls with her torn clothing tangling around her legs. Too many times Cara visited but could not find any trace of her friend. She suspected the old building contained hidden bolt holes. Either that, or more than Helene’s
mind
could slip the veil to the other side; could she journey there herself?

The phantom wisp brought her focus back to Cara. “Suetonius. Naughty man, he kept so many secrets to himself and wrote about so few.” She raised a finger to her lips as though she held back a secret about the long dead Roman.

Cara tried to lever the crazy train back onto the rails. “Yes, but this secret he did write about, but then someone stole his words.”

Helene’s eyes widened and she fixed a look on Cara. “Really? I knew it. I suspect Henry is behind this, whispering in somebody’s ear. That’s what he does you know, starts trouble, never happy with what he has and always wanting more. He is trying to reach our world you know, he would grasp us in his hands.” She tapped a finger to her chin.

Cara tried to ignore the comment about Henry. Firstly, she wasn’t up to questioning a painting about its involvement. Secondly, she just didn’t want to contemplate a painting trying to take over, she had enough problems already. “Suetonius wrote about Nero’s Fiddle, but someone took the text from the book. Malachi said the volume was intact when he copied it. So it happened after that. Do you remember who had the book after him? Did anybody else ask you to see it?” Cara held her breath; relying on Helene’s memory was a dodgy proposition, rather like standing in the dark at the top of a steep stairway and waiting on a bolt of lightning to illuminate the way down.

A smile broke across her face. “Oh, yes.” She clapped her hands together as memories flooded into her mind and enlivened her eyes. “The prince heard I held
Suetonius’ Secrets
and asked to borrow it.”

“The prince? As in Albert?”

Helene patted her hand. “Yes, dear, Albert. He is very interested in the occult you know. We often share a brandy and discuss such matters.” A frown creased her brows. “He hasn’t been to visit for some time, quite remiss of him.”

Frustration welled in her chest. A dead end. Literally, unless she cracked out an Ouija board.

“You are on the hunt again.”

A hand on her arm brought Cara back from Tower Green and the night she watched Prince Albert’s life force drawn skyward by Hatshepsut’s Collar.

“Yes, I thought there might be a clue in whoever cut the pages out but I can’t ask Albert, he is—” Cara struggled for the right word, unsure if the consort’s death had registered with Helene, “—indisposed.”

“Ah, that will be why he hasn’t visited for nearly a month.”

A month?
Cara’s mind hurtled down another track. Albert died nearly four months ago. Was Helene losing her sense of time, or was an incorporeal Albert paying visits to Belgravia? Did her gypsy blood really enable her to pierce the shadow of death and converse with the deceased? Could Helene tell the difference anyway between flesh and blood visitors or ghostly ones? Shaking her head, she reeled her brain to focus on the immediate task. “I need to try and track down who might possess Nero’s Fiddle.”

A deep frown crossed her face and Helene sighed before speaking again. “Ask Nate to take you to visit the Curator.”

“The curator? Like at the museum? Was the artifact held on public display somewhere?” Talking to this woman was like getting lost in a maze. Every turn led somewhere unexpected and sometimes you were trapped for hours trying to retrace your steps. She wondered if crazy was contagious, because she definitely felt it rubbing off on her.

The smile faded and her eyes focused on a point high up the wall. “A museum of sorts, much like yours. He started your father on his path and later they became rivals. Objects of power will always attract collectors, and the Curator always knows who holds them.” Her words drifted in and out as she scanned the room, as though her mind had to pull each one from the aether surrounding them.

Cara frowned.
A rival?
She never delved into why her father collected the things; she only knew he valued them more than he valued her. Thinking too much about his engrossing hobby caused her heart to constrict and shatter at the depth of his betrayal.

“Careful though, lest he add you to his collection. You are special.” She tapped a finger on Cara’s chest, over the faint scar. Helene’s words were another turn in the maze to puzzle over later.

The only thing special about me is how many people seem to want to put holes in me.

“Do you think this Curator will know who has Nero’s Fiddle?”

“Fiddle?” The veil descended, the sharp intellect retreated to be replaced by childlike wonder. “Oh, I do like music, it has been so long since I danced.” She picked up her skirts and spun round and around. In a melodious tone she sung a folk song, fast and furious like her turns.

And that’s all the information I’m getting today.

With the other woman lost in her own world, Cara slipped through the door.

London, Wednesday 5
^th
February, 1862

ara stared into the flames dancing in the bedroom fireplace as her mind chased flickers and shadows cast by Nero’s Fiddle.
Fire, so beautiful and so deadly. The heat caresses but the flame consumes.