Nero's Fiddle (17 page)

“Where to?” Connor asked.

“Bayswater and Penelope Stock’s daughter. I want the overview of her career in service to the old duchess. No family has claimed Mr Fenmore, so we will have to rely on other sources to piece together his life.” Fraser pulled his scarf tight and tucked the ends into his jacket. “Damn it.”

“What is it now?” the sergeant asked.

“I forgot to drink my tea,” he said over his shoulder.

Connor laughed and followed Fraser to the waiting steam carriage. He spoke with the driver before he climbed inside. The carriage swung back and forth on its springs as he manoeuvred his bulk to one of the seats.

They chugged by Mayfair and Hyde Park. It seemed each corner sprouted a person waving a placard to repent or bear the wrath of God, and people braved the cold and snow to pray for their immortal souls. The church coffers soared and attendance numbers swelled.

Their vehicle passed another black scar on the landscape where the earth opened up for entrance to the new underground. Workers swarmed the site. An airship hovered low, an enormous chain attached to take away a skip laden with soil and rock.

“Do you think anyone will use this new underground train?” Connor asked, his nose pressed to the glass to watch the swaying load of earth hoisted high.

“It can’t be any worse than this contraption,” Fraser said, coughing on the incoming fumes.

They headed to Bayswater and the middle class row of terrace houses. The victim’s daughter showed them through to the little parlour. Fresh orange striped wallpaper brightened up the gloomy room. Fraser glanced at the redecorating. Connor look relieved, although he avoided the new chair in one corner of the room, opting instead to stand by the window.

The woman caught their exchanged looks. “The black wouldn’t scrub off the walls. We had to tear the old paper off and put up new.” A sob choked off her words and then she grabbed a hanky from her apron and blew her nose.

“How terrible for you,” Fraser murmured. “I wanted to ask a few questions about your mother’s distinguished service with the duchess.”

“Why?” She shoved the hanky back in the apron’s pocket.

“Excuse me?”

“I have nosy reporters wanting the gory details and all the time the neighbours are gossiping behind their curtains that she must have done something really evil for God to do this. It was a horrible tragedy, Mam was a good woman. Why do you need to ask more questions and keep feeding the gossips?”

Fraser donned his calm smile while inwardly he cursed reporters with nothing better to do but rack over a family’s sorrow. “We want to understand her life better. Plus we need to ascertain if she ever encountered Nigel Fenmore.”

“That’s the man that died the same way, isn’t it?” She cocked her head to one side, as though trying to see his purpose.

“Yes. Another terrible tragedy for his family.” Not that any had come forward, perhaps too concerned they would be struck with the same fate by association.

The woman’s eyes widened as her brain made some connection. “Do you think my mam caught something from him? You don’t think this burning is contagious do you?” She tapped her chest. “Will I catch it?” Her voice went up an octave as panic set in and she scanned the room, perhaps for a water source in case of any flames.

“No, no, of course not.” He held up his hands to placate the woman. “We just want to be thorough. Two such terrible deaths, we need to do all we can to reassure you.”

“Well.” She walked to the table, picked up her tea cup and then took a noisy slurp. “She started as a chamber maid back in 1815―”

The woman droned on into the afternoon, recounting her mother’s work in the royal household. Time would have passed quicker if she narrated amusing anecdotes about the Duke of Kent and his wife, shame she didn’t know any.

They escaped after forty five years, or so it seemed. The interview took three hours but the bereaved woman had no gift for storytelling. Fraser took brief notes of key events. He jotted down when Penelope changed roles and who she may have encountered. Fenmore attended the duchess on a regular basis and the little maid would have seen him a number of times over more than four decades in service.

He stood on the pavement and heaved a great sigh. “Forty five years to dig through. What does our killer know, Connor? What secret might have passed between them that someone deemed it worth taking their lives?”

Back in his office, Fraser contemplated the dead end. If someone deliberately targeted the two victims of spontaneous human combustion he could not discern the underlying cause. He needed something more substantial; he was the bloodhound without a scent chasing his tail instead.

He stood in front of the filing cabinets and his hand sought one in particular. He pulled a metal drawer open and stared at the stuffed files competing for space. His eye went to a familiar one. The sharp edges of the cardboard roughened and dog-eared by the hours he spent running his finger tip around the file.

Deep in thought, he wandered over to his desk and dropped the bundle of papers, newspaper articles and photographs. On the front a cream label stood out against the dark grey background. In a neat precise hand a name identified this particular open case.

Nathaniel Trent. Viscount Lyons.

He flicked open the cover. On top sat the latest gossip sheet clipping, detailing the shocking news of the viscount’s secret marriage to Cara Devon. The reporter viewed the entry in the marriage registry, revealing the two had been wed for over three years. The
ton
erupted in a furore for missing that juicy snippet. The eligible bachelor suddenly whipped off the market.

He laid aside the article and turned to a particular section.

An incident report noted that date and location. 1858, St Giles Rookery. Over twenty dead and who knew the real number murdered that night. He leafed through the few notes and photographs he managed to gather that day.

Chaos reigned for a few short hours in the Rookery until the new order exerted its control. A tiny window of opportunity that let the Enforcers in. They saw the bodies and managed to take photographs of a few. None made it out of the tight knit community. Family claimed the fallen, some were stolen off the back of the Enforcers’ vehicles, his uniforms powerless in the face of the grieving mob. They counted twenty dead by looking at bodies, blood stains and the absence of well-known faces. Whispers on the street said closer to thirty fell. Nobody would talk. Nobody saw anything. It was as though the grim reaper himself wielded his scythe under the cover of invisibility.

Saul Brandt, the leader of the St Giles Rookery, was stabbed in the chest in the middle of a crowded pub. Saul stood at the bar, drink in his hand conversing with his men and the next moment lay in a pool of his own blood on the floor. Not a single witness. Every last one was either staring at his beer or looking in the opposite direction at the precise time the fatal wound was delivered and missed the entire incident.

Fraser didn’t have to witness the murder to know whose hand drove the blade into his rival’s heart.

He let out a sigh. He planted his seed, it simply needed time to grow and bear fruit. “You will fall. I shall see to it.”

London, Sunday 19
^th
January, 1862

ara fell into a routine living with Nate that always involved a large breakfast, just in case she got kidnapped, stabbed, or otherwise detained during the day. Plans were discussed over coffee and bacon. The English could keep their kippers; once she visited America and discovered the joys of bacon for breakfast she wasn’t going back to small fish.

“We’re still plotting the route to Australia and New Zealand, and the supplies needed.” Nate said, sorting through the dispatches that arrived overnight. “We don’t think they will have to land anywhere, but we’re planning a stopover just in case.”

He tossed several papers to one side and several more straight into the bin. “We should have Loki in the air soon with an airship full of people wanting to escape England for more temperate climes.”

She watched the never ending snow piling up outside. “Can’t say as I blame them. Rather tempted myself to journey to somewhere tropical.”

Nate looked up from the letter in his hands, a smile quirked his lips. “Tahiti for a second honeymoon? Very few clothes required, you wouldn’t have to pack much.” He folded the letter and slipped it into his pocket.

She rose for her morning kiss. “Let’s deal with Fraser’s mysterious deaths, then we can discuss heading somewhere warmer and my lack of clothing. I’m off to see Helene this morning and find out if she knows what happened to
Suetonius’ Secrets.
”

Snow fell outside and Cara took the carriage and mechanical horses to Belgravia. Each day, winter deepened and the Thames froze. People speculated if the ice would thicken enough to hold people, stalls, and animals. There hadn’t been a frost fair since 1814, when elephants walked across the Thames. Bookies were taking bets that 1862 would see another festival held on the river. The mechanical workshops were open late into the night as the craftsmen laboured to make enormous metal creatures to rival, and surpass, elephants. This frost fair would see gryphons, unicorns, and dragons glide over the ice as soon as it reached sufficient thickness.

Cara stepped from the warmth of the carriage and stood on the footpath. Looking up, she wondered what she would find behind the house’s façade today. Split paint and cracks ran down the door as though trying to escape what lay beyond. She glanced upward at the dust and soot coated windows. Clinging to the sills, abandoned boxes contained the remains of long dead plants and one held a desiccated pigeon that looked like it died on the job.

Snow settled on ledges and water dripped to freeze mid-fall, but even the pristine teardrops became tarnished by contact with the house. Soot puffing from steam conveyances and chimneys left a grimy dark layer over everything. The entire structure gave off an air of decay and abandonment.

Bet this house is related to my one in Soho.

She pushed the door open and stepped into the gloomy hall. Dust motes floated in front of her face and she batted them away. Brick cast a curious glance around and took up position by the main door. His back rigid, he didn’t risk lounging against the wall and being contaminated like the snow outside.

“Hello!” she yelled, and waited for any sign of life, ears pricked to catch the faintest noise to give her search direction. A shuffling from the hall drew her attention and the elderly butler appeared and squinted at her.

His rheumy eyes passed over Brick and failed to register the hulking man as anything other than a statue. He gave a hrumpf of vague recognition at Cara, waved his hand in a dismissive manner and then shuffled back down the hallway.

“Warm reception,” Brick quipped from his corner.

“He’s always like that. I swear he’s an automaton on a set route.” She stared at the ceiling, checking the plaster for any sign of leaks from the old roof. “Stay here, it only gets worse depending on what sort of day Helene is having.”

A bark came from upstairs. On the trail of the pug, Cara placed a hand on the end newel post and a piece of the ornate barley twist broke away in her hand.