The Ripper Affair (Bannon and Clare) (13 page)

“Indeed,” she murmured. “Was he a fair hand with sorcery, then?”
Since you obviously did not dare refuse payment.

He shrugged, made as if to spit aside, and visibly reconsidered in the face of her quality. “I’m no magicker. Fellow from two streets over, name of Kendall.” He visibly enjoyed telling the story of the body on the doorstep, though it became clear he had
not
been the one to find it, only coming across it while the first on the scene–a rather unfortunately-named chandler–had been running to fetch assistance.

She managed to elicit the sorcerer Kendall’s address and soothed the stablemaster as well as she was able with her head pounding badly enough to cloud her vision. He took her welling eyes as a sign that she was affected by the poor unfortunate’s fate, and waxed rhapsodic about the quantity of blood, and how the belly had been opened just as a fish’s. How the horses still shied coming out, and how his trade had been disrupted by the crowds come to see, of which she was presumably a late member. She appeared to hang on his every word and finally made a subtle gesture, whereupon Mikal stepped forward with a few pence for the man’s pains.

The stable had returned to its former quiet, but Emma could taste the high brassy tang of horse-fear.

She could also taste the sourness of her own, as well. Her stays cut most abominably, and her dress was soaked under her arms and at the small of her back.

Mikal turned as the stableman shuffled back into his dark domain, his broad back vanishing like a spirit’s. “Prima?”

“This Kendall. Two streets away. It might be profitable to visit him.”

“Indeed. You’re… pale.”

No doubt
. Her mantle, drawn close, could not ease the shudders seeking to grip her. She denied them outright, her jewellery warming comfortingly. “I suspect I shall be much more so before this affair is over. I have a rather curious thought.”

“Which is?”

“First, that the body found here was thrown from a carriage. And second…”

“Second?” He visibly braced himself, for he knew she would put the more pleasant–or less dangerous–of two tasks first, if only to gather herself for the last.

“I believe it’s time to visit Thin Meg.”

W
hitehell Street had become a rather brooding organism, having been taken over by the Metropoleans. Robertson Peal’s vision of a castle of Order and Detection had spread like a mushroom colony, and his knights were now “Bobbies”, an affectionate diminutive of the man who made Bow Street famous. The Yard now consisted of several buildings, with the official entrance–through what used to be a back street–granting the entire sprawl its name. It was perhaps a measure of Londinium’s intransigence that it was named for the back street instead of Whitehell; Justice, as it were, always approached its prey from the hind end.

Or was often approached from such by those wishing to enact it.

The detective inspector’s office, shared with another
inspector, was a curious place. He was of the few Yard occupants fortunate enough to have a window, but all that could be seen was shifting yellow fog and the base of a street lamp, for the room was half underground. Feet passed by, their owners hurrying or ambling as they pleased, or as they felt the eyes of the Yard upon them. There were windows above as well, blank eyes that often as not held flickering gaslight on dim evenings as the knights of bootleather and order kept the great beast of Law fed with paper and deduction.

In this cave, the shelves were crammed with redrope files, as a solicitor’s office might be, but there were also… other things. A scrap of calico, bloodstained from the look of it; a cracked globe of crystal with a tiny point of light in its depths; a curved knife in a tooled leather sheath–its provenance was uncertain, and Clare longed to study it further, but other items cried for his attention as well. A red velvet pillow held a heavy, tarnished brass ring; next to it a small brass dish held a parson’s collar buttons; and they were kept companion by a small silver candle-snuffer. There was a wealth of inference to be drawn.

“You have a sentimental nature, sir.” Clare turned from the shelves to find the inspector standing behind his desk, his mouth slightly ajar as if thunderstruck. He relished the expression. “Mementos from your cases, I take it.”

However, the inspector’s next words put matters in a different light entirely. “Clare,” the man replied, in a wondering tone. “
Archibald
Clare. I
knew
the name was
familiar. If you look to the right and down, sir, you shall find your monograph.”

“Is that so?” He glanced down, and there was a familiar blue-marbled cover. “Ah. Well.” It looked well thumbed, too, and he felt the pinch of Pride. Another instance of Feeling seeking to lead him astray. “I am… yes, quite touched. Who would have thought?”

“I
have
actually read it.” Aberline now sounded a trifle defensive. “I perform the recommended Exercizes at dawn and dusk, unless I am in dire emergency. They have been of inestimable value, sir. Had I known it was you, I would not have treated you so coolly. Miss Bannon’s acquaintances, while… effective… are also usually somewhat troublesome.”

“I have discovered as much,” Clare allowed.
Myself among them
. He glanced at Philip Pico, who leaned against the wall near the door–just where Valentinelli might have placed himself, though without such an insouciant sneer. “She is a singular lady, Miss Bannon. I am glad you have found my poor scribblings of some use. This is, however, not why you brought me here. I gather that even Miss Bannon’s threats of the Crown’s displeasure would not induce you to bring a stranger into this hallowed sanctum–because you do sleep often at that desk, sir, there is a mark just where your forehead or cheek would rest upon the blotter–without some other pressing reason to do so?”

“Just as I imagined you.” Aberline’s face lit with a grin that showed the youth he had been perhaps a good ten years ago. Sharp as a blade, Clare fancied, and with a hot,
easily touched pride kept under a mask of diffidence. “I say, sir, you are remarkable.”

“I am merely a mentath.” Clare straightened his cuffs. A sudden thought drew him up short. “You were aware these murders were committed by the same hand long before now.”

The man sank into his chair, indicating the other one with a wave. “Yes. Lestraid and I–he shares this office, but right now he’s chasing some damn fool in Devon–had an inkling of trouble to come when the Tebrem creature was found. There are… I say, do sit. And you too, sir.”

“Why?” Philip Pico wanted to know. “I’m just a sodding nursery maid.”

“A nursery maid wouldn’t have half your long face, and wouldn’t be eyeing the exits, and wouldn’t be sweating at the thought of the Yard.” Aberline cast a small, satisfied glance Clare’s way, and the mentath found himself agreeably surprised by the inspector’s capability at deduction. “You’re of St Georgeth’s, or Jermyn Street, but you’re too old for the play there. And that blasted sorceress obviously entrusted this gentleman–who she seems rather attached to, since I’ve never seen her take such an interest in keeping someone’s skin whole–to you, so you must be at least halfway dangerous.” Aberline nodded, smartly. “You’ve naught to fear from me, little lad. I know better than to set foot where
my lady
chooses to engage a service.”

There it was again: the tantalising hint of a History between Miss Bannon and this man.

It was merely a distraction at this juncture; Clare returned
his attention to the matter at hand with an almost physical effort. “As soon as Tebrem was found, you say?”

“Do come and sit down, old chap.” Aberline’s mouth had compressed itself into a tight line again. He had an inkstain on his right middle finger, Clare noticed, and a thin line of Whitchapel grime had worked its way under his wedding ring.

He was suddenly certain the man had been up very late last night.

Quite possibly, he had not been to bed at all. The deduction caused a sinking feeling in Clare’s stomach, which he told sternly to cease being idiotic. His normally excellent digestion choosing this particular time to misbehave was a most unwelcome development.

Clare lowered himself into the appointed chair, a monstrous leather thing with sprung stuffing crouching behind a hunched ottoman which bore the marks of another’s boots–perhaps the missing inspector, chasing fools in Devon?

He arranged himself, steepling his fingers before his face, and nodded fractionally. “Proceed, sir.”

“Are you familiar with
lustmorden
?”

Clare frowned.
What a curious portmanteau of a word. German?
He thought of his friend Sigmund, who would no doubt be brightly interested in this, as he was in anything that involved Miss Bannon. Dear old Sig was growing visibly older; Clare had not availed himself of the man’s company in months. Now, Clare had the uncomfortable sensation of wondering precisely why. Of course, Sig was
still tinkering with that bloody mechanical spider of his. “I am uncertain. Do explain.”

“There are several cases. The Beast of Dusseldorf, for example, or the Florentine Monster. A man so maddened by uncontrolled—” Aberline shifted uncomfortably. His cheeks pinkened slightly. “Or
uncontrollable
desire, committing murders, each with a distinguishing mark springing from the obsession.”

Clare’s eyelids dropped to half-mast. “I see. A remarkable theory. Could it not be that some criminals simply desire to murder? That it is in their nature?”

“Of course. But these monsters, when caught–I say, Mr Clare, I am not distressing you by speaking so?”

If only you knew.
“By no means.”

“And it will not distress you if I have… unorthodox methods of detecting?”

“My own are rather strange, sir.” Clare blinked. “Do go on.”

“Very well.” Yet Aberline still seemed uncomfortable. “The obsession dictates the murder. I shall now tell you what I have ascertained, Mr Clare. The murderer has practised his deadly art. He will be extremely difficult to catch. He is possessed of a coach or some other conveyance, and he has some aim in mind.” He drew a deep breath. “And he is nowhere near finished.”

Clare nodded, slowly. “I see. You are certain he has a conveyance? A personal chariot of some sort to travel from one nightmarish deed to the next?”

“I am.”

“How are you so certain?”

“I…” Aberline coughed, looking even more uncomfortable. “I cannot say.”

“
Quite
interesting.” Clare nodded again. “Tell me what you
can
say, then.”

“The very idea of
lustmorden
is so repulsive, it is difficult to even convince our superiors of its existence. To them, Murder is a product of Insanity and Criminal Character alone, and no room is granted for… for lack of a better word, no room is granted for sheer evil.” Aberline coughed slightly. “I am of the opinion that those who rise in the world’s estimation do not often make the best detective inspectors, but they do make excellent commissioners and mayors and lord justices.” A cloud passed over his features, but he waved a hand, dismissing it.

This had all the character of a speech polished over long, sleepless nights, and Clare settled himself to the peculiar state of absorbed attention he often practised when Miss Bannon could be induced to speak at length on a subject she found interesting.

It was the interest–or the outright obsession–of an intelligent subject that often led to the most fruitful lines of enquiry and deduction, even if the subject was blind to them as a consequence of said obsession.

Oh, so Miss Bannon is a subject now? She is not present; do not think upon her.
He brought his attention back to the matter at hand, and nodded, since Aberline had given him an enquiring glance.

“Proceed,” he said, and a prickle of… irritation?… furrowed his brow.

If it had been Miss Bannon speaking, she would not have needed the glance to ascertain his attention.

“You have rather a listening air, sir, and it is most welcome. Do tell me if I—”

Let us move on, and quickly, too.
“These murders–
lustmorden
is a very evocative name indeed–are of a variety and species your superiors, if we can call them that, are not equipped to effectively halt. By virtue of your almost daily experience of the effects and settings of Vice and Crime, you have acquired a body of knowledge which grants you certain… feelings, if you will, for the causes and prevention of both. Which leads you to conflict within the Yard, for though you have many other fine qualities, you do not have the necessary oil to smooth bureaucratic waters.”

The silence greeting his observation might have been uncomfortable if Aberline had not been smiling broadly.

“Quite so,” he finally said. “Quite so. Lestraid is much better at it, and without him, I confess, I am somewhat at the mercy of my own temperament. It does not help that my methods are… In some cases, I have been accused of being little better than a criminal myself.”

Ah. Now there is a frank admission
. The mementos on the shelves were either tokens of cases where Aberline had known the criminal and mucked himself in order to bring him or her to justice… or tokens of victims he had been unable to avenge, even by behaving in a not-so-noble fashion.

Or both. So little separated a bootleather knight from a criminal.

You have grown philosophical, Clare
.

He turned to another avenue of thought. The man’s mien was so sober and exacting, it was difficult to conceive of him as one willing to turn the law so that the spirit instead of the letter was fulfilled.

Which meant Clare must look more closely at him. Appearances deceived, and such a valuable clew into a man’s character was not to be taken lightly. Especially when Clare himself was…
was he?

Yes. He was distracted. It boded rather ill.

Aberline shrugged. “The fact that I have some small ætheric talent–not enough to charm,” he added hurriedly, “no, not enough to be apprenticed, to be sure! And yet I am viewed with a certain trepidation by every hemisphere of the Yard.”

“Sorcerous or not,” Clare clarified, “bootleather or bonnet.”

“Indeed.” Aberline looked gratified to be so comprehended. He settled himself more deeply in his chair, and his gaze focused on the shelves of mementoes and files, leatherbound books and bundles of paper. “Yet I digress.
Lustmorden
all share certain characteristics, which Lestraid and I have isolated by poring through bloodcurdling accounts of deeds unfit for print. These murders share such characteristics—”

“Which include?” Clare prodded.

“Savagery, for one. But that is not enough. A certain
method–the progression is quite clear. The murderer begins with experimentation, though one may see the, ahem, you could call it the marks of his obsession—”

“His?”

“Oh, a woman may drink, and a woman may poison, and there may even be the rare woman like Miss Bannon, who is more a viper in frail flesh than a proper
female
. But a woman does not commit
lustmorden
. It is simply unthinkable.”

Clare’s silence was taken for agreement, and Aberline continued. He had quite warmed to his theme.

“For one thing, the violence of the attacks is anathema to a woman. For another, the driving force is… well, the name says it quite clearly. The driving force is the prerogative of the male.”