Free Nero's Fiddle by A W. Exley

and his Super wanted his opinion on what to wear for his reunion mess dinner.
    All I want is a cup of tea and a biscuit. A ripple through his body reminded him of other, more primal needs and he remembered Lilith calling his name from the darkened alley. Perhaps slightly more than a cup of tea.
    Sergeant Connor’s heavy boots shook the landing and caused ripples on the fluid in the cup moments before his body squeezed into the crowded office. Papers, reports, and photographs fought for space and attention. A large board covered one wall and held scribblings of names, places, and dates connected with arrows and question marks as Fraser worked visually on a number of cases.
    “Grab your coat; we’ve got another one,” Connor said.
    Using his index finger, Fraser pushed his glasses back up his nose as he looked up from an open file. “Another one, what?”
    “Burned body, not much left, was found this afternoon.”
    “Spontaneous human combustion?” He looked up, the furrow in his forehead deepened. “The phenomenon is extremely rare, it would be highly unusual to find another case just weeks after the first.”
    Connor gave a shrug. “I leave that bit for you to figure out, or take it up with Him.” He pointed upstairs.
    Fraser kept the frown in place. “The Superintendent?”
    Connor plucked the bowler hat from the top of the stand and threw the object at his inspector. “Higher up the chain than him. You know who I mean, the one who does the smiting with fire.”
    Fraser caught the hat and popped it on his head, a small smile on his face. “Well, let us go see the latest victim of divine justice.”
    The Enforcer’s dark blue vehicle waited at the bottom of the steps. Thick black plumes of smoke rose from the funnel at the rear. The still London air gave the fumes no room to escape so it clung to the vehicle and forced tendrils back through the windows, no matter how tightly they were wound shut. Fraser gave a cough and wished command would stump up with the funds for a mechanical vehicle instead of a steam powered one before they poisoned somebody.
    The little blue box bounced its way past Hyde Park and into Bayswater and rattled over the cobbles so hard Fraser feared for his teeth. Out the window, he watched mechanical horses glide past on felted feet. He spotted a new battery-powered horseless carriage with high suspension that let its occupants pour champagne without spilling a drop. Sometimes he wished he pursued a career in the private sector, where the higher salary would have afforded him a taste of such luxuries. But his mind tugged at him to hunt down criminals, and his body preferred to find release in darkened allies, even if his chosen path might cause him to die of smoke inhalation.
    The engine gave a burp and halted. Fraser descended to the footpath and gave a shake, letting loose limbs tensed from the constant jarring. He breathed the cold air, waiting for his brain to revive after the noxious fumes in the cramped space lulled him half to sleep.
    “I hate those things,” Connor muttered from his side. “Makes a man miss his horse.”
    “Quite.”
    The house sat in a respectable middle class area. On tippy toe, one could glimpse Hyde Park, which gave the area added charm. Fraser took the stairs at a slow pace, thoughts and ideas churning in his mind.
    A small crowd gathered on the footpath, huddled together for warmth as they murmured and whispered, watching the Enforcers. Fraser spotted the reporter standing off to one side, his gaze keener than anyone else’s with his attention fixed on the building. Fraser ignored him and followed the trail of blue uniforms.
    They paused in the building’s hallway and Connor held out a small metal tin. Fraser swiped a finger through the thick white paste, and smeared it over his top lip. Menthol zapped up his nasal passages, sliced into his brain, and dispersed the last of the coal smoke. Prepared, he pushed open the panelled door and stepped into the