Nero's Fiddle (16 page)

“Fighting affects economies around the world. Famine is biting already in Lancashire, the war has restricted baled cotton imports. Horrid business to watch children starve.”

She tightened her grip on his arm. “Which explains all the missives Nate receives about the Poor Law reforms and relief for the textile industry. I think legitimate business causes him more headaches than smuggling.”

They continued discussing the effects of the war as they crossed over Park Lane and into Hyde Park and struck out for the river. Only a few souls braved the frigid conditions to escape the confines of their homes. Children screamed and played, throwing snowballs at one another, oblivious to the dropping temperature. They found the Serpentine frozen and ducks and children alike skidded across the surface.

A pair of horse riders appeared at the end of the lane and passed close to where they sat. A man rode a placid looking horse, whereas the woman sat upon a high spirited stallion, in perfect balance with the animal. Her hands restrained him without being harsh as he listened to his mistress’s commands. A tremor of impatience ran over the horse’s flesh as he stood still.

The rider’s habit revealed every contour of her body. Warmth sacrificed for fashion. Only one woman in England rode so well and wore such tight habits. Catherine Walters. Some said she was without equal in all of Europe for her skill in handling a stallion.

I wonder if she is as skilled in handling men. Might be why she is so popular.

The two women made eye contact and recognition passed between them. Skittles beckoned a finger to Brick and tossed her reins to her companion. He stood at the horse’s shoulder and held out a hand, to help her down. She picked up the loop at the back of her skirt to make walking easier and passed it over her wrist. Her companion tossed Brick an ermine lined cloak and he draped it over the courtesan’s shoulders.

“Cara,” she said, as she kissed her cheek. “You have been on my mind, how fortunate to find you in the park.”

“Skittles.” Cara couldn’t do it. She couldn’t hold her tongue, she had to know the truth behind a famous piece of gossip. “You must satisfy my curiosity about something.”

A dark eyebrow arched. “Oh? What is that?”

She contemplated the tight melton cloth habit under the cloak. “Is it true you have your seamstress sew you into your habit?”

The courtesan gave a chuckle and tucked her hand into Cara’s. “For someone in my position, it always pays to keep the men speculating.”

Cara laughed. “Well, you certainly do that.”

Arm in arm, they started along the path. Skittles’ companion took the reins of the stallion. Brick dawdled behind, at a sufficient distance to allow the women to talk in private.

“What brings you out on foot in such chilling weather?” Skittles asked.

“The cold clears my mind. I find myself plagued with thoughts about society and its expectations.” A squirrel found a forgotten acorn in the snow and scuttled across their path. Cara watched him dash up the trunk of an old oak tree.

“Something we don’t worry about in the demi-monde, it really is quite liberating.” Skittles swatted at a drift of snow with her long sidesaddle cane, using it like a golf club. “What in particular is worrying you?”

Cara paused, wondered how much to burden the courtesan with. “Noble men are expected, even encouraged, to seek lovers among you. But does it happen in the reverse? Do noble women seek pleasure outside the vows of marriage?”

Skittles let out a whistle between her teeth and startled a sparrow above their heads. “Please don’t tell me you are unhappy with Nathaniel? You will devastate my sisters.”

She gave a huff of laughter. “There is only one man who will ever possess my heart and body. I’m thinking of another.”

They walked in a silence Cara could not fill. Skittles pulled her to a stop. “Do you know what quality men value the most from us?”

She had some inkling of what drew the men like moths to the flame. “Your wit?”

“No, our silence. They confide in us with their deepest and darkest fears, knowing we will hold them safe.”

“The newspapers are stirring up the ancient story about the queen mother again. Do you think the duchess took her secretary as a lover?” Cara pulled on the public example of infidelity while she considered a far more private situation.

Skittles gave a shrug. “There was a substantial age difference between the duke and duchess, perhaps they were mismatched in more ways than one.” She cast a glance at Cara. “I doubt that is the issue preying on your mind, though. Something closer to home, perhaps?”

Cara took a deep breath. There was a niggle in her mind that she dared not say aloud. She never said it to herself, could she tell the courtesan? “You really are good. I’m considering telling you something I can’t even say to Nate.”

Her companion laughed. “Think of me as your confessor. Sharing it will lessen the burden for you and I vow to take your confidence to my grave.” She crossed her heart.

Cara dove in before courage deserted her. “I know nothing of my parents as a couple. I don’t know if they were happy or if it was an arranged marriage. In my darkest moments I wonder, what if my mother took a lover and Lucas was not my father?” The words sounded surreal, she couldn’t believe she allowed them free from her swirling brain. Ludicrous to think a noble woman would pass off another man’s child as her husband’s. But it was exactly what the gossips said about the Duchess of Kent.

“If he were not your father, would it make it easier to hate him, or forgive him for selling you?” Skittles asked.

A sharp gasp rose and fell from Cara’s chest. How could a father sell his daughter? But if she were the child of another man did his actions become easier to understand? Did it ease her burden? “As a child I thought it was my fault, that I was not a good enough daughter and that I somehow failed. As an adult, I know he alone was responsible for my fate, whatever his justification.”

Skittles squeezed her arm. “Seek the answers if the truth will ease your mind. Did your mother keep a diary?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know, not that I have ever seen.” Or did the house hold one last secret?

London, Friday 17
^th
January, 1862

raser looked up as his office door bumped, shuddered, and then gave. Connor pushed through, sliding his shoulder over the wood to hold the door open as he backed into the crowded office. One beefy paw held a mug of tea, the other a stack of letters and reports. A heavy black boot kicked the door shut as he ambled farther into the chaos. He held his breath as he sidled by the chalkboard so he didn’t brush against the notations and end up with crucial linkage stuck to his cuffs.

The mug dropped into the middle of the desk and the spicy fragrance of bergamot wafted toward Fraser’s nose. His fingers curled around the heated metal and he dragged the liquid closer. A fresh brewed Earl Grey with just a dollop of milk.
Perfection.

There was only one drink that calmed his nerves faster than tea―whisky with a few drops from the small bottle in his jacket pocket. There were long days when his hand shook and he nearly succumbed to taking laudanum while at his desk. His will prevailed and so far he managed to trudge through each minute until he reached home and could take his oblivion in peace. But each week the craving grew stronger. Yesterday his fingers caressed the vial and the poppy extract called to him like a siren.

He removed his glasses and squeezed the bridge of his nose before donning the spectacles once more. His gaze went to the deposited pile of papers and one envelope drew his attention, large yet slim, the heavy cardboard a pale blue colour. The front bore his name embellished with feminine swirls and flourishes. The black wax on the black bore the Lyons crest. He glanced to Connor before casting around his desk for a paperknife. His fingers groped under a haphazard tower of folders.

“Ah.” Something cold and narrow butted against his grasp and he drew it from the stack.

With the plain silver grip in his hand, he slashed through the wax seal, cutting Lyons’ symbol in two. A smile twisted one side of his mouth at the action and then he drew out the contents. A photograph fluttered to the desk. Even in stark black and white the flames consuming the man leapt from the image. The melting flesh and bone evident as the fire ate the extended limbs.

On the back a simple message from his newest assistant.

The effect. Still hunting for the cause.

He blew out a long whistle. “My suspicion may be correct. Lady Lyons is on the trail of an artifact that produces divine fire.”

He placed a fingertip on the image and swung it around to face Connor. The sergeant picked up the photograph to peer at the man being devoured by flame.

“What will you tell the Superintendent?”

“Nothing until I know for sure what path we are pursuing. The fire may be divine, but there will be a terrestrial hand directing its course.” He rose from his desk and stalked to the enormous board covering one wall. Picking up the duster, he wiped half the space clean and took up a piece of chalk. “If these deaths are intentional, we need to look what connected Nigel Fenmore and Penelope Stock. A retired physician and a trusted maid to our queen’s mother.”

He scribbled on the board, their names, dates of birth and death, locations the bodies were found, and, connecting the two,
Victoria, Duchess of Kent
.

“The queen’s mum died last year.” Connor crossed his arms, trying to keep up with the mad writing. “And those two were old, really old. You’ve got to hope they weren’t sneaking around having an affair or something.”

“God doesn’t smite adulterers, too many targets.” Fraser stood back as far as the cramped quarters permitted. The chalk dangled in his fingers. “Murder always has a reason, Connor. We just have to dig deep enough to find it.” No pattern emerged from the scant details so he tossed the chalk back onto its small ledge. “We need more information.”

The sergeant rubbed the back of his head. “How far back do you want to go?”

“Back to the beginning. I want to know when these two first crossed each other’s paths, and we work forward from there.” Fraser clapped his hands together and glanced around the office, wondering where his top coat ended up. The coat rack in the corner sat forlorn, its outstretched arms empty.

Connor stepped over to the spare chair and lifted up a large box, underneath lay the crumbled coat. He gave the box in his hands a rattle and something heavy rolled side to side and collided with something equally dense. “What’s in here?”

Fraser slid his arms into the coat and pulled the collar around his neck. “Two heads.”

Connor dropped the box back on to the chair and gave it a scowl.

“Evidence from the McGinty case. It’s the two skulls we found in his wardrobe. I need to drop it down to Doc to see if he can match them to any unclaimed body parts currently in residence.”

“Why would you want two heads in your office?” Connor followed his inspector out the door.

“Two heads are better than one.” Fraser slapped his sergeant on the arm as he disappeared out the door and down the stairs. Once past the main doors they stood under the slim eave, eyeing up the weather before heading into the biting cold.