London, Friday 17th January, 1862
Fraser 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 back 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 began scribbling 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 path and we work forward from there." Fraser clapped his hands together and cast 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.
"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.
Fraser headed to the Enforcers' steam carriage. "I forgot to drink my tea," he said over his shoulder.
Connor laughed and followed Fraser to the waiting conveyance. 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 past 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 land 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?" The hanky was shoved 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 fingertip 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 began leafing 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."