Free Nero's Fiddle by A W. Exley Page B

the missing head. We don’t have some poor unknown here?”
    “Mole on the inside of her ankle.” Connor pointed with his pencil at the detached limb.
    Fraser swung around and crouched by the chair. His eyes narrowed at the small dark smudge above the ankle bone in the rough shape of a flower head. Two short black hairs protruded, like stamens. “Always handy when they have distinctive birth marks.” Rising, he gestured to the paintings around the room. “Was her husband a seafarer?”
    “Navy. Died about ten years ago. Penny here worked her way up in service of the old duchess, kept her busy while he was at sea. Daughter says she started off as a chamber maid and rose to be the housekeeper.”
    Fraser’s head snapped up. “Which old duchess?”
    Connor flicked back a page in the notebook. “The Duchess of Kent.”
    Two separate pieces of information collided in Fraser’s head and exploded in a shower of sparks. He breathed out a long sigh. “Nigel Fenmore, our first man to die by this divine touch, was the Duchess of Kent’s personal physician.”
    Connor scratched an eyebrow. “Odd coincidence.”
    He shook his head. “I don’t like coincidences, especially not ones involving strange ways to die. Or unusual ways to kill somebody. Two elderly people die in extremely rare circumstances and both are connected to our queen’s mother.” His body froze as his mind chased threads. Like a kitten at play, he sought to grasp the end of something tangible. “I think there is something larger afoot here.”
    “Yeah, but look at the old bird.” Connor’s large hand gestured to the slim remains of the woman. “This is some freak of nature; you can’t kill someone with divine fire.”
    Fraser’s eyes lit up, possibilities and connections rocketing through his brain. “Can’t you? Do you know that for sure? There is more in this world than what we can explain.”
    “You’ve got that look,” Connor muttered. “I hate it when you get that look.”
    They catalogued the scene and made notes on the evidence of Mrs Stock’s life in their notebooks. The photographic technician arrived first and took his exposures. Just as he packed away his equipment, excited chatter heralded the arrival of the doctor.
    Doc stood on the threshold, hat in his hands. “Well I never. Another? God is very busy this holiday.”



Mayfair, Wednesday 8 th January, 1862
    ara sat in her study, the ancient books on her desk. She stroked a finger over the fat notebook that belonged to her father. The one Nate asked Jackson to steal. That encounter set her on this path. She knew what he was and that he harboured a creature that dwelt in the dark. Nate made choices that cost some lives and saved others. To find peace, Cara needed to find a way to put her own mark on the aftermath. To take Nate’s decisions into her life. Every day she went to the Rookery and played with the group of children. She decided to teach them to read, to open their minds to the world beyond London through books. If she could encourage one girl to spread her wings and fly, she would add something of value to what Nate started.
    Voices announced Nate’s return to London as he walked through the house issuing orders. Cara rose from her desk and left her study. With a firm decision in her heart, she could now face her husband.
    He stopped on seeing her, his hands clasped behind his back. “I have missed you.”
    A tiny smile tugged at her lips. It melted her heart when he momentarily lost his cool composure and the small boy peeked out. “I have missed you too.”
    He arched one dark eyebrow. “You seem… content.”
    “What you did was before I met you and cannot be changed. I understand part of why you took down Brandt.” She thought of wee Rachel with one arm and could remove Brandt’s spleen through his throat for what he did. “But promise me now nothing like that will ever happen again without me knowing beforehand. I want, demand, to be involved.”
    He