by A. W. Exley
Nessy straightened and turned to face her friend. The worried look settled between her brows. “Can you ever forgive me? The things I said—”
Nan hushed her and reached up and removed the broken comb from her hair. “There is nothing to forgive. I know the words were thrown in pain. We are two halves, you and I.”
Nessy extracted the other half of tortoiseshell from her pocket. They held the two pieces together to make a whole. “Friends forever, no matter what,” she whispered and then hugged her friend.
“There is more to my tale.” She smoothed her skirts over her stomach. Her gaze darted from Nan to Gideon. “I am with child.”
Nan’s eyes widened and focused on Nessy’s midriff. Only the tiniest bump visible under the cotton of her dress. A hand drifted down her own body. She remembered the first time she felt Bella stir and flutter under her skin. A sensation she would never again cherish.
“Bella will adore having company in the nursery,” Gideon said. He placed his hand on Nessy’s shoulder. “Congratulations, Nessy. We are blessed to add to our family. You are, of course, back for good?”
Nan looked at her husband, her daughter and then her best friend. Tears shimmered in her eyes. Gideon could divorce her and marry another woman to bear his heir. She had tried to urge him to think of the future. He refused. It was the one topic that provoked a violent argument between them. She could not have children but they would welcome Nessy’s offspring.
“Yes, of course Nessy is back with us. And Bella will adore a little brother or sister,” Nan said.
Nessy kissed Gideon’s cheek. “I hope it’s a boy. I want my son to grow up to be the sort of man you are. I want you to teach him how to ride and shoot and torture worms with a fishing hook.”
A son. A tiny sliver of hope entered Nan’s soul. The child could save the estate. Everyone knew how close the three of them were, it would take no effort to let people think Gideon had fathered Nessy’s child. He could adopt a boy and make him his heir.
They would be safe.
London, Monday 10th February, 1862
xhaustion settled over Fraser’s frame and pushed his head toward the desk. Warm hands dropped to his shoulders and massaged his tired muscles.
“You work too hard, Hamish,” the woman behind him murmured as she worked.
“I cannot stop,” he said. “There are always monsters to hunt and slay.” One particular monster took more of his energy and focus than any other. He laid his traps and herded his prey. Close, so close now.
“Exactly. They will always be there, waiting in the shadows. The monsters will win if you work yourself into an early grave, or sink so low you become what you hunt.” She lifted her hands, depriving him of her touch.
He imagined her hands on full hips, ready to berate him for spending too long at headquarters again. A smile on dark red lips would entice him further into the dark with her promise of pleasure. His body ached and he raised a hand to pull her to him.
“Faith,” he whispered as he reached for her.
Only to find himself alone.
He inhaled and frowned. The faintest trace of lilacs lingered in the air. He only saw Faith when he took the laudanum, his imagination must have supplied her scent. He shook his head to clear the fuddle.
Did I slip and take it with my tea, or fall asleep at the desk?
He sat in his chair for so long, staring at his blackboard, he couldn’t remember if he was working late or starting early. He ran a hand over his chin and scratched the emerging stubble. He needed to go home and shave, if only he could bear the thought of the cold and empty house.
The dull grey clouds blanketing the city parted company and allowed a shaft of sun to break through. Morning light bounced off the metallic turbines on the roofs opposite and shot bright slivers over his walls, highlighting the names on his board. Rising from his chair, he stretched tired muscles held too long in one position. Scrawled names and dates covered the board dominating one wall and his mind followed one line lit up by a sunbeam.
Three deaths in a most violent manner and the prospect of a phantom killer on the loose spooked the population. Winter clung to London, every day they sunk deeper in the cold dank grip. The underclass was convinced God had turned his eye to England’s capital and that he hovered above, seeking out his next victim to smite. Paperwork grew, cells were overcrowded and tempers flared. He wished the super would disperse the sinners to the churches, the priests had far fewer forms to fill out.
Three names and three occupations; a physician, a lady’s maid, and a country midwife. Some thread bound these particular lives and drew them all together. An idea niggled in his brain, a constant scratch like a dog at the door wanting inside. He patted his jacket pocket but found it empty. The purple glass bottle absent, left behind in his small parlour. He felt a glimmer of relief; he did not suck the poppy at work. Not yet. Then a huff of air escaped his tired lungs. His mind needed to fly, to dip and soar to find the path they needed to follow. And he needed to shave.
The neat pile of typed notes drew his attention; the secretary finished the last hand-scrawled page the night before. They spent hours talking to those who knew the three victims, covering decades of history trying to find the commonality. The lives of the first two intersected all the time, the physician attended the duchess at least once a month over a forty year period. He and Penelope knew one another and the acquaintance grew as the woman rose through the ranks of attendants from housemaid to the most trusted position of lady’s maid. Mundane illnesses and intimate social events threw the two together on a routine basis. Fraser knew they followed the wrong path concentrating on Nigel and Penelope. The answer lay in the extraordinary, not in the everyday.
Claudette Foreman was the fly in his ointment. A country midwife with no known association to the other two, at least none visible on the surface. The itch told him it was there, he just needed to keep digging the find the truth.
The silver ring rested on top of the file. Watery sunlight filtered through the window and played over the crest. A bird with outstretched wings and something covering its feet. Water? Grass? The pattern was so worn by years of long use he couldn’t make out the etched detail.
Dropping back to his chair, he dragged over the large and dusty peerage tome. A burgundy strip of ribbon marked his place and he flicked the book open. Crests, titles, and estates stretching back to the Doomsday Book swam in his vision. His gut told him the ring was his linkage. Why would a country midwife have a signet ring? Years of experience taught him anything out of place, however small, usually bore a larger significance. Or did his mental dog have him barking up the wrong tree?
Connor pushed his way into the office and dropped the morning paper on his desk. “Damn fish wives at it again, they should find some other piece of gristle to chew.” He gestured to the headline, where the reporter announced a growing movement for an investigation into the allegations surrounding Victoria’s parentage. Medical experts weighed in on the fate of the little prince and commented there was no sign of haemophilia in the House of Hanover, proving the Duke of Kent could not have fathered the queen. Some priests even weighed in, saying God’s disapproval of the current reign was the cause of the coldest winter in hundreds of years.
“At least they are taking a break from declaring God is seeking vengeance on random English citizens. Although the French are delighting in spreading that tale,” Fraser said as he flicked a sideways glance to the paper and then returned to stare at another prancing animal on a field of fleur de lys. The hand outstretched to the mug of tea never made contact due to the gunpowder that exploded in his brain as a vague thought coalesced and ricocheted around his head.
“Good God.” He leapt on the paper and he devoured the lead news story.
“Not you too.” Connor crossed his arms and leaned on the window frame. “Didn’t think you’d believe such drivel about the queen.”
“Victoria’s legitimacy is the key!” He smacked the paper and gestur
ed to his blackboard; the lines untangled themselves and began to make sense. “What if there was a very old secret, one that has been unearthed and brought into the light of day? What would somebody do to protect that secret from being revealed or confirmed? Perhaps tidy away a few loose strands before they talked?”
A deep crease formed in Connor’s forehead. “You’ll have to catch me up. You think Queen Victoria is having the old servants snuffed out to keep the reporters quiet?”
Fraser’s hands took on a life of their own and drew patterns in the air before picking up the newspaper. “Rumours have circulated for decades that the Duke of Kent was not Victoria’s true father and that her mother dallied with John Conroy. Nobody ever gave such stories any credence, until little Leopold was born and diagnosed with haemophilia.”
The newspaper danced across Connor’s field of vision as Fraser held it aloft. The frown still sat on the sergeant’s face. “But that’s all it is. Gossip.”
Fraser’s eyes lit up as his brain ploughed a new field. “People gossip, but a hereditary disease that follows a predetermined medical pathway is much harder to refute than vague rumours. Haemophilia plagues the prince, but it is a disease not known to afflict the Duke of Kent or anyone of the Hanover line. Rumour is, the evidence is so compelling that parliament will soon order an enquiry.”
Connor let out a soft whistle. “If the queen is offing people who know something about her parentage, do you really want to piss her off?”
Fraser punched his sergeant in the arm, a rare smile on his face. “I’m well used to annoying the aristocracy. Send a message to Lady Lyons, see if she can trace the artifact to anyone connected with the royal family.”
The frown still occupied space between Connor’s brows. “What about the midwife though, Foreman? How would she be involved?”
“How indeed.” Fraser picked up the signet ring. “This is the final clue, I have only to find out who it came from and why. Thank you for the tea, Connor, it will recharge my brain.”
Taking a large slurp of hot, sweet tea he dropped into his chair.
“You need to go home and shave. You look awful,” Connor said. “Before your mind disappears chasing rabbits, I have another little piece of news for you.”
Fraser’s head shot up. “Oh?”
“Your man in the rookeries is getting close.” Connor picked up the overcoat on the floor and hung it on the rack behind the door.
“How close?” Fraser dared not breathe; this could be the break he pinned his hopes on.
“Saul Brandt’s daughter is not happy about her dad being offed.” Next Connor tidied a pile of reports on the chair and placed them on an empty shelf. “When she’s in her cups, she does an awful lot of angry talking.”
Fraser let out a whistle. “He is close. Tell him to stay quiet and keep his ears open and let me know when she is angry enough to come forward.”
Connor gave a salute. “He knows. You don’t ask questions in that place unless you really like fish and want to end up in the Thames.” Impromptu housekeeping done, he headed out the door.
Pushing aside the Rookery murders, Fraser turned to the book before him.
It took another two hours and the assistance of a magnifying glass to find the matching crest.
“It’s a phoenix,” he muttered. His finger rested on the small text as he identified the relevant house and then he let out a whistle. “The Earl of Morton.” He stared at the little ring, the legendary bird rising from the flames licking at its feet. “I don’t like coincidences, especially not those that touch the Lady Lyons and her family.”
Ideas and theories spun in his brain as he moved from his office down the stairs to where the street-level Enforcers worked. He sought out Connor in the crowded and noisy floor. Pickpockets and bobtails sat on wooden benches along the walls, waiting to be released after a night in the cells. He danced out of the way of two large Enforcers who manhandled a struggling ruffian to the underground prison.
Connor sat at a large desk, staring at the keys on a typewriter as he tapped out a prostitute’s name, one painfully slow letter after another.
“Another trip to the country, my friend. This time to Leicester.” He held up the little ring.
“You found where it came from?”
Fraser couldn’t keep the grin from his face. “Oh yes. And I think Lady Lyons will want to be present for this particular conversation. I shall ask her to join us there tomorrow.”
London, Tuesday 11th February, 1862
he knock on the bedroom door came just before dawn. Cara pulled herself awake as Nate rose and spoke to the man outside. He returned to bed with a strip of paper and flicked on the small bedside light.
“For you, from Fraser. Also, apparently there is an issue we need to deal with at Cleopatra’s Needle.”
Cara sat up and took the slip. “Urgent issue at Cleopatra’s Needle, bring blanket,” she read out. They exchanged looks and Nate shrugged. She read the second part of the message. “Interview at Leicester Wednesday, require your presence.”
“Why is he going to Leicester?” Nate asked as he pulled on trousers and looked around for a shirt.
Cara’s sleep fuddled brain tried to connect the two sentences but gave up without caffeine. “Something to do with Nero’s Fiddle, I assume. Let’s go sort out the first issue.”
Dawn struggled to illuminate the cloudy sky as Cara and Nate stood on the Victoria Embankment and stared up at the imposing monument. The obelisk was a gift to England from the ruler of Egypt in thanks for Nelson’s victory at the Battle of the Nile. It took decades for engineers to figure out how to move it to London. Eventually, two airships undertook the perilous journey with the stone in a specially constructed and reinforced cargo net strung between the two vessels.
An Enforcer stood with his back to the monument. He nodded as they approached. “There’s a party of visiting dignitaries due to view the Needle this morning, please have him gone within the next hour.”
Cara’s gaze dropped to the base, and the very naked, very drunk, pirate chained at the bottom. To be fair he wasn’t completely naked, someone had covered him in pine sap and a dusting of feathers. Shivers ran over his body and shook his plumes, and his lips had turned blue. The semi-circle of scars on his side, from his shark encounter, were picked out in bright white against his chilled skin.
“Why are you chained to Cleopatra’s Needle?” Cara asked. She dropped the blanket over his shoulders, while she wondered if his piercings had frozen and tried to keep herself from looking. “And why are you covered in feathers and sap?”
“Because I lost a bet and that pencil dick bastard Jackson has no sense of humour.”
“I think it’s pretty damn funny,” Nate said, as he walked around the stone to see what held Loki in place.
He had his arms stretched out behind him and held together with a large chain and padlock. Rattling came from behind the stone as Nate set to work picking the lock holding Loki prisoner.
Cara shook her head. “You’re going to freeze out here. What bet did you lose?” She was grateful for the blanket or she would have stared openly.
“One involving a fair English rose and God knows how, but he plucked her first. I can only assume the woman was overwhelmed with pity for him. He was supposed to just feather me. But no doubt driven by jealousy of my mighty shaft, he chained me out here thinking the snow would knock a few spare inches off. Lucky I am so well-endowed it takes more than a little snow to affect me.” He gave her a wink.
A clunk came from behind the monolith and the chain holding Loki’s wrists fell slack. Nate walked around the base holding one end and a padlock. “Let’s get you into the carriage and I’ll unlock the handcuffs where it’s warmer.”
They helped him up and ensured the blanket stayed in place as they made their way back to the carriage. Only a few hardy souls were out this early and the escapade went unnoticed by all except the late watch Enforcer, who reported the incident. He still stood guard to
one side and gave a nod as they moved away, to continue his rounds.
“What do you think, my peach, now you have seen all of me?” Loki said as Cara stepped up into the carriage. “I do believe the great erection behind us suffers by comparison.”
She kept her expression sober, unlike the pirate. “I think it’s been a rather cold night.”
Loki clutched the blanket to his breast. “Ouch. Keep in mind this is me in the cold, imagine what I’m like when you take me inside and I warm up.” He gave a roughish grin.
They settled in, Brick jumped up top and the carriage moved off.
“Don’t try to deflect the conversation. What woman are you talking about?” She tried to remember the bar maids at the local pub, the most likely objects of attention, unless they were sporting with one of the housemaids.
He rested his head back against the blue velvet and fixed a dark stare on her. “You don’t know, do you?”
Her fingers tightened on Nate’s leg. “It’s too early and too cold for games. Don’t know what?”
Loki’s eyelids dropped and a smile pulled on his full lips. “It’s your friend Amy.”
“What?” Loki’s words about plucking roses slammed back into her brain. “What exactly has Jackson been up to in Lowestoft?” She frowned.
He shrugged. “Domestic relationships are not my forte.” He pointed a finger at Loki. “But you can get your feathered arse on that airship, it’s time you headed out.”
“All good to go, just as soon as she is christened.” Loki opened his eyes and rearranged the blanket around his body before looking across to Cara. “The lovely Amy is an untouched flower no more. Jackson has her holed up in the cottage shagging her senseless.”
Cara choked on the air trying to fill her lungs. Nate rubbed her back and she thanked God he could breathe for her, because her mouth opened and shut but wouldn’t admit anything to her airways. Finally she managed to suck air in and expel words. “Oh, no. Amy is still fragile after events with Burke.” Her hand clenched on Nate’s leg. “I need to return to Lowestoft.” What on earth was happening at the estate?