Nero's Fiddle (5 page)

With a sigh, he pushed the mug to one side. He dreamed of a world where tea came hot and on demand. Perhaps in some sort of insulated cup so it didn’t matter if it lay unattended for a short period, the drink wouldn’t turn treacherous and tepid.
Utopia
.

Flipping open the file cover, Fraser stared at the black and white photograph of Nigel Fenmore. Or, more accurately, the space Nigel Fenmore’s body once occupied, staining the mattress in a black outline. The demise of the elderly gentleman unsettled him. Burning was such a slow and grim way to die and nobody even noticed, not even the victim. If it weren’t for the foul odour sinking to the floor below, the death might have gone undiscovered for several weeks. He wondered if his end would be similar, alone and with no one to remark upon his passing. Perhaps he should make a greater effort to talk to his neighbours.

He closed the file and tossed it back with its companions, causing the delicate structure to lurch to one side. Christmas approached fast and full dark settled over London hours ago. He rose from his chair and grabbed his overcoat. This winter seemed colder than anyone could remember, or perhaps the queen’s intense mourning for Prince Albert cast a pall over the country.

Closing his office door, he decided to head down to hear Doc’s report before he found his way back to his cold and empty house. The upper levels of the Enforcers Headquarters were an anthill of activity, with people scurrying back and forth. Even this close to Christmas they didn’t slow down; in fact, the approaching holiday saw a marked upswing in crime, as a certain segment did their gift shopping in the homes of others.

The press of uniformed men thinned as Fraser took the stairs below street level. He passed the cell level and the rowdy inmates shouting their innocence. Once he dropped to the second level into the ground, he found himself alone. Very few ventured this far, where death took up residence.

As he pushed through the heavy steel doors, he noticed that for once the morgue did not feel chill, as the winter temperature outside plummeted due to the heavy layer of snow blanketing the city. Underground and above ground conditions met and mirrored one another. They were both frigid.

“Hiho, Doc. Much on?” He halted on seeing the limbs arrayed on the table.

Doc leaned his knuckles on the cool stone, his attention absorbed by the small collection in the middle of his autopsy table. “Nigel Fenmore was a physician, you know, and a tutor at medical school. He once served the Duchess of Kent and ushered our queen into the world. Now look at him.” Doc fell silent, his attention held by the head, foot, and hand. With the red and white striped cap removed, the head revealed a bald pate. A few long white hairs clung to the outer perimeter of the skull. Nigel had combed each strand over with care before donning his night cap. His eyes were closed in eternal sleep and his face held a peaceful expression.

Fraser stepped closer. “No family has claimed him yet, but we’ll wait until after Christmas in case someone shows, if you can spare the room.”

Doc let out a deep sigh and raised his gaze. “I am filling up fast with those who wish to permanently escape the good cheer, but at least my fellow surgeon does not occupy much space. I will find a quiet corner for Doctor Fenmore.”

The suicide rate jumped mid-December and did not settle again until after New Year’s Eve. It revealed the dark side to the festive period. Fraser and Doc would be kept busy cataloguing the deaths of those who felt most alone during the holiday season. Loneliness was an unrelenting pressure, too much for some to bear when surrounded by happy families.

The cleaned bone of the ankle caught Fraser’s attention. “Is it a genuine case of spontaneous human combustion?”

Doc slid his hand under the arch of the foot and thrust it at Fraser. “Look at the edge. If someone attempted to dismember the body, we would see straight cuts or striation marks in the bone. This is rough and ragged, as though it were chewed off.”

Fraser took the limb and turned it in his hands. The exposed bone ended in a jagged line and splinters where the fire had eaten through and severed the connection to the body.

Doc moved to his workbench and fetched a small steel box. After returning to the table, he picked up the head and placed it within, along with the curled fist. Fraser added the foot to the strange, sad package.

Doc closed the lid and rested his fingers on the metal surface. “As far as I can ascertain, there is no foul play involved. From my examination of the room, the fire appears to have originated in his torso. There is no evidence of any accelerant. The body had not been moved, so he burned in situ. So to answer your question, yes. A highly unusual but dare I say
natural
death.”

An icy finger traced a path down Fraser’s spine.
Horrible way to go.

“Thank you, Doc. That’s one less case to worry about. I’ll see you in the morning.”

The little doctor gave a wave then picked up the box to place the guest in one of the numerous chilled steel drawers.

Fraser headed back upstairs and slipped through the main doors, into the evening. A man huddled under the eaves of Enforcers’ headquarters, his hat pulled low over his ears and his scarf pulled high. The inspector paused on the top step to loop his woollen scarf around his neck, and noticed a man move in the shadow.

“Inspector Fraser,” the man called out, dropping the warm covering from his nose and mouth so he could speak. “Do you have a moment?”

Fraser’s body ached and every cell longed to lie down and surrender to oblivion. His mind needed to erase the day before the cycle began all over again in less than eight hours. “You may have a moment.”

The man stepped into the light and extracted a notepad from his jacket. He fumbled to hold a pencil between mittened fingers. “Roger Thurston, reporter with the Daily Times, I wanted to speak to you about the horrible death of Nigel Fenmore. Is it true his body was cremated in his own bed?”

“Correct. Mr Fenmore was reduced to ash.” Fraser started a mental countdown. The reporter would only have another sixty seconds of his time.

The reporter’s eyes narrowed; the vulture sensed a fresh kill to delight his readers. “How is that possible without burning down the entire building? Do you have any leads as to who committed such a heinous crime?”

“There is no crime, the deceased succumbed to a natural phenomenon known as spontaneous human combustion. Very rare, but there is no foul play unless you wish to implicate God. Now if you will excuse me, this has been a rather long day.”

He stepped down to the pavement and set a brisk pace along the road, not wanting to be followed. Large flakes of snow swirled around his face and he pulled the striped scarf higher, protecting the end of his nose. As he approached the bustle of Covent Garden, women called to him from the shadows and narrow alleyways he passed. Some used his name. His body gave a tug when he heard a familiar voice.

“You look all done in, Hamish. Why don’t you let me revive your spirits?” A throaty laugh accompanied the words.

He paused on the cobbles. His blood heated thinking of the soft reception waiting beyond the reach of the streetlights.
How long has it been?
He could not remember, but tonight his mind needed relief and his physical appetites would wait until another day.

“Not tonight, Lilith,” he called. “I’m afraid I am far too tired and I would be a disappointment to you.”

“You’d never disappoint me, lovey,” the woman replied with a deep chuckle. “Someone needs to take care of you with Faith gone. Perhaps tomorrow night I’ll help perk you up.”

He waved and kept his feet moving. His mind drifted with the snow and his thoughts dated back and forth chasing specks of light. Plumes of deep purple smoke rose into the sky from the massive apparatuses digging the tunnels for the new subterranean train tracks. Men and machines laboured night and day, unceasing as they crushed rock to circle the inner city from below.

He skirted one scar in the earth where a digger bellowed and belched smoke. Men fed coal into one end and removed carts of dirt from the other. Temporary railings stopped pedestrians from falling into the black pit. He wondered at the ingenuity that came up with the idea of transporting citizens below the ground. The newspapers speculated it would be an expensive fad; who, they asked, would want to be trapped under the earth in a train?

With no awareness of passing time, he soon stood on the rough paving of his little row. He lived close to the St Giles Rookery, a desolate area others avoided. For him, he liked being close to the birthplace of so much work for the Enforcers. Although the Rookeries were distinctly quieter and cleaner since a certain viscount stamped his mark on that territory.

He pushed through the door of his small terrace. Fraser once toyed with taking rooms, but wanted the privacy of knowing no one resided above or below him. The solid little houses kept noise at bay between the residents. He closed the door on the world and made his way through the pitch black to the front room. His fingers sought the switch to the one extravagance he installed in the house. The spinning turbine on the roof powered electric lights in parlour, bedroom, and kitchen.

He ran his hands over a tired face and through his hair. The dull ache took up residence in his brain and bones. One day, he would escape it all and re-join Faith.

The maid had reset the fire; after striking a match, he tossed the flame into the pile of tinder. He watched as the tiny flicker devoured the paper and grew, taking over more of the grate as he fed it larger and larger pieces of wood.

Is this how a flame devours a body? Too fast for a man to react, and extinguished before the room bursts into flames? Or does it lick at flesh slowly, with leisure, like a well-paid courtesan?

He removed his winter layers and laid them over the back of the sofa. The bowler hat rested on top of the pile. In three slow, tired strides, he crossed the room and pulled open a tall wooden cabinet. He retrieved a bottle of whiskey from within, and a short tumbler. He dropped the glass onto the mantle and worked the cork from the bottle, and then poured a generous finger of amber liquor. Replacing the bottle, his free hand went into his jacket pocket and extracted a small purple glass vial. He undid the dropper and sucked up a tiny portion of liquid. It took all of his concentration to steady his hand and count the drops he squeezed into the whiskey.

He swirled the laudanum into the drink and settled into the armchair in front of the fire.

In quiet moments like these, the absence of Faith gnawed the most. He didn’t miss her. ‘Miss’ was too small a word for the yawning chasm her loss opened up within him. If people knew of their relationship, they never understood it. The gently bred inspector and the common prostitute. But she was far more than the companion of his body and heart, she saw into his soul. The blackened mass in his chest covered by rot and decay never deterred her. Piece by piece, she chipped away at the layers he spawned to protect himself from dealing in death on a daily basis. She brought a sliver of warmth and joy into his world and something wholly unfamiliar to him―hope and longing. And then in the summer of 1860, the Grinder snatched her away and the darkness claimed him.

There were days he believed he would never surface from the dark. Faith had been his only lifeline and without her, he was untethered. Only work and the pursuit of Lyons gave him a rock to cling to, a touchstone to centre him when the swirling vortex threatened to pull him under. He would achieve his life’s purpose and then surrender to the waves.

He tossed back the glass and waited for the familiar haze to cloud his mind and wipe away the stress of the day. Gentle fingers massaged his consciousness and beckoned for him to follow the wisps, to escape to another world where the cold fingers of death could not touch him. To linger in a world where Faith still breathed and her laughter licked his skin as her naked form slid over him.

Lowestoft, 22
^th
December.

he delicious aromas of bacon and coffee tickled Cara’s senses and woke her from sleep. She cracked one eye open and, in the sliver of light breaking through the curtains, found Nate standing by the bed. A silver tray in his hands contained the source of the delectable smell making her stomach rumble.