by A. W. Exley
“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 4th 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 di
rty laundry was safe as lives were laid bare to ascertain what line was crossed and required God to intervene.
Their personal priest at the top of the drive gathered acolytes who all urged the Lyons household to repent. Although Cara thought they just wanted ringside seats in case God did turn up to do some smiting.
“Yes, we have kept certain particulars out of the press. Like the fact this poor unfortunate tried to flee from her fate.” He set the pad down on the arm of the chair, as though he were in no hurry to turn the visit into an interview.
“She ran?” Cara imagined a terror-stricken woman trying to outrun the flames licking at her body. A shudder ran through her hands and made the tea slop against the side of the porcelain.
He nodded and took the offered cup. “I doubt she ran from the archangel Gabriel, probably a far more terrestrial killer.” He dumped in three teaspoons of sugar before idly stirring the silver handle. His manner was casual, his shoulders relaxed, but his keen gaze never once wavered from her face. “I found your photograph intriguing.”
She played with the handle of her cup, running a finger over the curve. “Your suspicion was correct. There is an artifact called Nero’s Fiddle, an item of death used to kill a person’s enemies.”
He gave a non-committal noise and took a sip from his cup. A sigh of pleasure escaped his lips. “I so rarely get to enjoy a fine cup of tea. In my line of work they are often abandoned and grow cold. Please continue, Lady Lyons.”
“Suetonius said Nero became so enraged at those who spoke out against his authority as emperor he sought out a mage. He had the man work dark magic over his lyre.” She read Malachi’s beautiful script and remembered the story attached to the fiery item. “Consumed by revenge, Nero had soldiers steal a hair from the head of each of his enemies and used the strands to string the instrument. He invited them to a feast and pulled out his lyre to play music while they ate. But the song he played was one full of anger and vengeance that caused his victims to smoulder and burn. With the last note, their bodies were rendered to nothing but ash.”
“Is that how Rome burned down?” Connor asked, speaking up from his position opposite Brick. The two men faced each other, casting glances to measure their opponent but listening to the history lesson. Brick already knew the full story, Cara had read it out to him on their way home while he steered her around other pedestrians.
“If you believe these myths, then yes.” She extended a plate of shortbread to Hamish and he took one.
He dunked it in his tea and stared at the biscuit like he held a piece of treasure before nibbling the soaked edge.
He intrigued her, so genteel and inviting on the surface, yet he harboured a ruthless streak underneath. He was the polar opposite of Nate, who projected a cold exterior to the world but she saw the honour and molten heat held in tight control.
What fuels Hamish’s anger? What set him on this path against Nate?
She made a mental note to do her own digging about Inspector Fraser and his history. She would find his motivator and then figure out a way for him and Nate to co-exist without one destroying the other. Regaining focus, she continued her story of the Roman emperor. “The burning bodies ignited other material which set off the great fire. And so we have the legend of Nero fiddling while Rome burned to the ground around him.”
Fraser’s keen mind jumped on the relevant fact that could be the clue to their current killer. “You say he took a hair from each victim?”
“A hair from the target is used as a string in the lyre. As the holder plays, the hair will smoulder and slowly burn. When the hair is completely obliterated, the victim will also be consumed.” She took a sip from her cup, waiting for his next question. “The hair acts as a sort of trigger, telling the divine fire who to target.”
“That may be how we find him. He would have needed an opportunity to obtain a hair from each victim.” He scribbled notes on his pad, while still clutching his biscuit. Then he popped the entire morsel in his mouth so he could turn the page.
“Not unlike searching for a needle in a haystack,” Cara said. “Three single hairs from three victims over a large area. Who knows when he may have taken them?”
His hazel eyes lit up as his mind sought to tread the same path as the killer. “These deaths are not random, our killer has a very particular reason in mind. Once we discern why these three individuals were targeted, we will know who he is.”
There was one thing about the fledgling arrangement that she needed to set straight. “Nero’s Fiddle must be found, it cannot be allowed to fall into anyone else’s hands. It is an item of death that yearns to be used. From my research, it induces a sort of mania in the holder, the more it is used, the deeper it burrows into the mind.”
The hazel depths of his eyes hardened and Cara could smell Fraser’s cogs doing overtime.
“May I assume given your new role, that you will be pursue the artifact while I locate the killer?”
Of course he would know. She nodded. “Her Majesty will want the object contained. Fear is spreading through the community. Almost every street corner holds a person calling for London to repent lest we are struck down as one by fiery wrath.” Scared people lost their good judgement and did stupid things. The artifact needed to be found and the killer stopped, and spring needed to show up. “I’ll work forward from Suetonius and see if I can trace the last owner.”
“I do hope you know what you are doing,” he murmured, tucking his notebook away in his jacket pocket.
“With Victoria? I do what I am commanded to do.” Cara set down her empty tea cup.
He shook his head and waved his hand around to indicate the room. “I mean here. With Lyons.”
She stiffened. “I’m an adult; I make my own decisions about people.”
“Has he told you about St Giles? The men murdered, wives left with no husbands, children with no fathers.” The smile never faltered, just like when he told her Nate was a cold-blooded killer of young women.
This is a man who would smile as he watched you burn. “Tell me, was more blood spilled that night than what those men had on their hands? I understand the death toll has dropped considerably in the Rookery and it is much safer now for women and children. Did you number the innocents killed by your so-called victims or how many they merely maimed?” A gappy-toothed smile sprang to the forefront of her mind.
The smile turned into a sneer. “Is that how he justifies it to you, as a humanitarian act? So many men slaughtered on his command. I don’t even know the true number, do you?”
The barracuda broke through the handsome exterior but he didn’t rattle her. “Did the Enforcers investigate the murders of Angelique and Sarah Jackson?” Cara kept her composure, least she send a distress message to Nate. That would be all this interview needed, an enraged husband charging to her rescue. The two men circled each other, looking for an opening or a weakness to exploit. She’d be damned if she would provide the match to light that particular powder keg. “Did you know little Sarah was only eighteen months old when Saul Brandt ordered her throat slit?”
A twitch at his jaw. His fingers froze on his knee. “Their deaths were not considered significant enough to warrant a full investigation.”
“Not considered significant? So you weighed the life of a mother and child and deemed them less worthy than the men who killed them.” She discovered a deeper understanding of Nate’s actions from the time she spent with the children of the Rookery. Far more than avenging the murdered family of a friend, he sought to make the lives better for hundreds of families. And earned himself thousands of loyal men in the process. She took a deep breath and fixed her sights on Fraser. What would the dapper man in front of her do to protect his own?
“You publicly went against your Superintendent to catch the Grinder. Many nobles thought he performed a needed duty, thinning the number of street girls. Tell me, Hamish, what was different about the murder of those prostitutes compared to Sarah and Angelique?” Her mouth moved faster than
her brain and she didn’t know what made her say the next few words. “Did you find release with one?”
The cup clattered to the table and Fraser jumped to his feet. “I think the time has come for me to leave.”
Ah, hit a nerve. Must be on the right track. Cara followed him out to the entranceway, curious about the high profile case. He nearly ruined his career to catch the killer. The Enforcer hierarchy and ton were quite happy to see the trash swept off the streets and down the gutters. Fraser defied them all to bring the killer to justice. He turned into a one-man crusade to find the man responsible. Gut instinct flashed a cue card for her brain. It was personal. He knew one of the girls. No, more than knew―loved.
He took her hand and bowed, and then released her to don his coat. “I must warn you of one thing, Lady Lyons.”
“Oh? What is that?”
His fingers played with the brim of his bowler. “One day the viscount will falter and stumble. I intend to be there to ensure he falls. I would hate to see you crushed in the process.”
She thought of Nate’s contingency plan and held out a hand to stop the inspector from leaving. “Tell me, Hamish, how many men wear the blue of the Enforcers?”
“There are just over five hundred men now, keeping the streets of London safe.” He puffed out his chest and straightened his back as told her of their size.
She made a noise in her throat. “And how many men in St Giles Rookery?”
He frowned. “I believe there are several thousand.”
She chewed her lip in thought. “If I were in your position, I would add some extra numbers to my side, before I made any move against Nate.”
His eyes widened and Cara wasn’t sure if she threw the man a much needed warning or if she just poured fuel on his campaign. Either way, he wished her a good day, and then stepped down to the drive, trailed by Connor.
Back in his office, Fraser pulled out the chair and sunk into the hard wooden frame. He placed his hands palm down on his desk and surveyed the chaos of files, reports, and photographs.