Nero's Fiddle

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© 2014
A.W. Exley
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ISBN: 978-1-62007-790-0 (ebook)
ISBN: 978-1-62007-791-7 (paperback)
ISBN: 978-1-62007-792-4 (hardcover)

1. Start Reading
   
2. A Taste of
   Moseh's Staff (Artifact Hunters #4)
   , by A.W. Exley
   
3. About the Author
   
4. More Books from Curiosity Quills Press
   
5. Full Table of Contents
   

To Mike, who got out but didn’t forget his little sister.

Thank you for everything. I’m also blaming you for the speeding tickets…

London, Tuesday 10
^th
December, 1861

now lay thick on the ground, chestnuts roasted by the fire, and Inspector Hamish Fraser stared at the remains of one poor sod who would never drink his eggnog. Any unusual death in the London area required the presence of an Enforcer, and Fraser long ago became accustomed to taking the Christmas shifts. He let other men have precious hours at home with their families as the holiday approached.

“Name?” he asked over his shoulder as his eyes scanned the scene, trying to discern natural from artificial in the death before him. Soot stained the ceiling, a near black patch hung over the bed and radiated out in a star pattern, fading to a pale grey before it touched the walls. A grimy tide line encircled the patterned wallpaper as though thick, viscous smoke had filled the room to neck level before draining away into the winter night.

“Nigel Fenmore, aged seventy-two, lives alone,” Sergeant Connor read off the notebook dwarfed by his meaty hand. “Neighbour downstairs complained about the smell, popped her head through the door to check on the old fella and then she started screaming at the street boys.”

Fraser drew a careful breath into his lungs. Before entering the room, they all smeared a menthol cream under their noses. A sharp, yet sweet aroma permeated the bedroom, a smell no one wanted to become overly familiar with―that of slow-roasted human flesh.

“Any family?” His gaze took in the mantelpiece, bare except for a cleaned skull residing on one end. The pale bone now sported black spots and stains, empty eye sockets the only witness to events that unfolded in the room. The nightstand lacked any personal objects and held only a candle and a stack of books. On top sat an open medical text book, a pencil held in between the pages. Scratchings in the margins showed Nigel added his own commentary to the text of the book. A sole gas lamp hung against one wall and struggled to illuminate the room.

Since the house was bereft of the new electric lights, the Enforcers brought in hand-held lanterns. The handles were cranked to generate a charge to run the bulb. Several were dotted around the room; under different circumstances, they would have been a pretty sight. The yellow light chased away the shadows hiding against the soot-ridden walls.

Connor’s notebook held his attention, so he didn’t have to look at anything else. Unstoppable in the heat of battle, he had no stomach for violent ends served up cold, or crispy like the current case. “No family. Apparently he dedicated himself to his job and never married. No by-blow children or distant relatives that the neighbours know about. They say he mainly kept to himself. Rheumatism kept him inside a lot, so they didn’t worry when they hadn’t seen him for a couple of days.”

The bedroom contained scant furniture; a double bed with a blackened steel frame stood opposite the door and dominated a small space made even smaller by the Inspector and three Enforcers crammed inside. Next to the bed sat a foot; the flesh of the ankle was charred and an edge of white bone protruded. The more unnerving sight, the one making the room hum with adrenaline, was what their eyes couldn’t see.

The thing their brains shouted was absent.

The coverlet laid flat over the mattress, no lumps or bumps to show a body slumbered underneath.

Connor peered at the limb on the floor and used the tiny notebook as a shield in case the foot leapt at him. “Is that all?”

Fraser gestured to the other side of the bed. “There’s a hand on the other side, fallen to the floor. It is also charred through at the bone and detached from the body.”

“Not much to go on, then,” Connor said.

A barely suppressed snort came from one of the other Enforcers at the unintended pun.

Fraser heaved a sigh. He didn’t have it in him to reprimand the men; humour was their way of dealing with gruesome deaths and besides, Christmas was nearly upon them. He settled with glaring at the men in the dark blue uniforms. They presented an unusual sight in the bedroom, with black leather harnesses around their upper bodies and waists supporting a multitude of gadgets; from glow sticks and magnifying goggles to handcuffs and electric truncheons. The street pounders were used to chasing down criminals and using their size to pin targets to the cobbles. They were useless standing around impersonating occasional tables in a room with roasted body parts.

“Do you think someone cut him up and torched the body?” Connor asked. He shifted from foot to foot, but held his position at his inspector’s back.

Fraser shook his head. “The room is not burned, only singed with smoke damage. It takes quite a conflagration to cremate a body. And I am no expert, but the foot does not look severed. Nor does the head.”

“I’m trying not to look too closely at that,” the sergeant said, raising the notebook so it blotted out the object in question.

Fraser moved closer. The head rested on the pillow, eyes closed in slumber and a red and white striped nightcap with a decorative pompom slumped to one side. The horizontal white lines were now soiled and stained grey. The neck ended in charred flesh and protruding bone, like the foot and hand.

“Let’s fold down the bedding and confirm our suspicion. You two, move out of the way.” Fraser gestured for the other Enforcers to stand back, to give them a modicum more room for the grim task. The men edged closer to the walls, but held themselves away from the wallpaper coated in human soot.

Connor heaved a sigh and tucked his notebook into his tunic pocket. He stepped to the other side of the bed. Each man took hold of the top corner of the soiled quilt. Gaily coloured squares sewn together by hand were now soaked in the fumes, fats, and liquids that leaked from the body underneath. Connor stuck his pinkies out like he held a porcelain teacup but probably just didn’t want to touch the quilt.

“Ready?” Fraser asked, and with a nod they lifted the coverlet, peeled it down the mattress and then let it fall in folds over the end of the bed. With the cover disturbed, the sharp odour escaped and magnified, spiralling up to fill the room and cutting through the menthol cream adorning moustaches and upper lips.

Oaths filled the room, followed by the sound of gagging. One of the Enforcers rushed to the window and purged the contents of his stomach onto the skeletal roses below.

Underneath the bedding lay a mess of black ooze, ash, and tiny fragments in the rough outline of a body. Phantom limbs stretched to where the foot and hand once resided. A dark mark the only evidence of the neck that once supported the detached head.

“What a way to go,” Connor muttered, holding a hand over his mouth and breathing through his fingers.

Fraser contemplated the pile of detritus; all that remained of a once vibrant human life. He had scraped something similar from his hearth before resetting the fire. The only remaining parts were those left uncovered by the blanket. It appeared as though the fire burned under the quilt and never escaped its confines. “Fetch Doc. If we attempt to move the mattress we will disturb what is left and I believe he will want to see this in situ. And grab the photographer too, so we can document the position of the remains.”