by A. W. Exley
A smile crinkled the corners of his face like screwed up tissue paper. “I remember every word.”
Hope sat up and begged for attention. “Could you tell me?”
He tapped the side of his head. “I’m not as spry as I used to be, give me a few days and I’ll write it all down for you. Come back Monday.”
She laid a hand over his. “You are a marvel.”
He patted her hand and smiled like a benevolent grandparent. “Come back Monday and I will have the missing text for you.”
She jumped up the counter to kiss his dry cheek. “Thank you.”
“One thing, Lady Lyons. Nero’s Fiddle is a dangerous artifact, fuelled by revenge and death. Do be cautious in your handling of it.”
She squeezed his hand. “I have learned not to underestimate these objects. I promise I will be careful.”
She knew she was in trouble the moment she stepped over the threshold of the Mayfair mansion. One of the henchmen stood in the middle of the entrance, blocking her way. He pointed at Nate’s closed study door. “Gov wants a word with you.”
She pushed in without knocking and closed the door behind her.
Nate looked up at the intrusion, a frown on his face. “What the hell were you thinking?” He rose and paced beside his desk, taking several short quick steps before he turned and wrapped his hands around the back of his chair, holding himself in place. The coiled snake about to strike at a sudden move.
Ah. He found out about my little caper.
Cara rocked back on her heels and placed her hands behind her back. Damn man still had to learn she could take care of her own business. “Burke needed to be taught a lesson so I dealt with it.”
Nate looked up and stilled. “I was going to deal with it when the time was right.”
She balled her hands into fists. “Amy wasn’t the only woman he used as a punching bag. His lesson needed to be delivered by a woman.”
He rounded the desk and stalked toward her in long strides. He stopped before her and raised one arm with a jerk.
Suppressed instinct made Cara close her eyes and turn her head, even as a part of her knew a blow would never fall. Not from him. “Careful,” she whispered.
Nate blew out a long breath. “God, Cara. You know I would cut off my own hand before I ever raised it against you.”
“I know.” She opened her eyes to meet his blue gaze. “But my demons sleep lightly. I don’t want to disturb them.”
“You’re come so far,” he whispered, his hand still poised mid-air. “You no longer flinch when someone touches you.”
“You ground me, make me safe.” She took his hand and guided it to her cheek as the burst of fear ebbed.
He drew his thumb over her skin. “I just wanted to make sure you are unhurt.” He dropped his hands to her shoulders and down her arms to draw her hands to the front of her body. He ran a finger over the back of her red knuckles. One eyebrow arched at the bruise forming on her skin.
“Brick bound my hands and gave me a roll of pennies but Burke’s jaw was damn solid.” Hits were somehow softer when they sparred.
He held his breath for a beat and then let it out. “If he had laid so much as a finger on you―”
She snorted. “Please, Brick would have torn his arms off. Isn’t that why I have him?”
A slow smile spread over his face. “I can’t stop you, but I prefer to know someone capable has your back. You made the newspaper by the way.”
Releasing her hands, he moved to the desk and picked up the morning paper lying on the corner. He held it up so she could read the headline.
Prominent High Street banker becomes work of decoupage.
“Oh look, they even got a picture.” She scanned the article that detailed the strange assault. How the unfortunate Sir John Burke was found beaten, naked, and covered in paper decorations. The accompanying photo showed him wrapped like a Christmas present.
“Are you taking up scrap booking?” Nate asked.
“He hit Amy for her so-called vacuous hobbies, so I thought it would send the appropriate message. We stripped him, covered him in scraps and left him outside his office so he wouldn’t freeze. I did the roses, Brick added the bunny motif. He thought it gave the whole thing a touch of whimsy.”
Nate dropped the paper, laughter replacing the worry on his face. “This is why you are my number two; you understand the value of tailoring a message to the situation. But next time, please talk to me.”
Monday, 27th January 1862.
Nervous energy burned through Cara’s veins as she tried to make it through the long days to Monday. Never good with inactivity, she tried to quell her unease by reading up on Nero, and when that didn’t work, she dragged Brick to the Pit for sparring practice. Brick stood like his namesake while she practised punches and kicks. Only the teeniest quiver of his lip betrayed that he found her efforts amusing as hell.
Nate offered a different sort of oblivion and only with sweat-slicked limbs could she drop into an exhausted sleep in his arms, the nightmares kept at bay by his presence.
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 occasiona
lly 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 1st 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.
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.